The recent induction into the Cooperstown Hall of Fame of Braves legends Greg Maddux and Tom Glavine deserves some commemoration by yours truly. Glavine kind of ruins it though because I can’t find anything particularly weird on him.
Allow yourself to be bathed in the glow of Braves weirdness via a special multimedia extravaganza featuring ’90s things that I have painstakingly prepared for your benefit by clicking the following link.
Obligatory bad poem:
There once was a pitcher named Greg Maddux
After the Cubs, he decided that being bad sucks
He went for a trot
Almost got caught
Til he juked the catcher with his mad tricks
And without the glorious musical accompaniment:
When the San Francisco 49ers were playing at the Seattle Seahawks this past Sunday, they were most certainly playing for the right to lose to the Denver Broncos in the Superbowl. Actually, I didn’t mean “lose.” I meant “get thoroughly destroyed.” I should know. I was there.
In another tightly contested NFC Championship game, heavy crowd-pleasing favorite and generally uninspiring underdog locked heads in a surprisingly tightly contested clash. Decided by a fluke, yet determined by our might, this was our time. If we could go do battle with Goliath on his field (“field”)… if we could go do battle and give it our all… if we could go do battle, give it our all, and match our fearsome opponents blow-by-blow… if we could not just do all that, but do all that and emerge victors, we could do it again against anybody any day any time any place.
All battles really would truly come down to that glorious cliché that the winner is the one who wants it the most. Who wouldn’t want “it” more than the underdog nobody believed in? No one. Suddenly firepower meant nothing in the presence of a beating heart. A beating heart communicating with a brain lost in wonder, transforming neural connections way past their Gd-given boundaries of reasoning and sense.
School assembly in the cafeteria to celebrate our collective victory called upon all of us to work ourselves into a state of unfettered awkward fervor doing the war dance of our mighty warrior heroes. Yes, we small Berserker children emulated the faithful vanguards of our glorious city by performing our homeland’s ethnic ritual whose name roughly translates to “the Dirty Bird.”
And then it all goes away. One of our men on the frontline unjustly (or justly?) fell the night before war. Alas, the following events would have transpired just the same. One of the greatest quarterbacks of all time on one of the greatest teams of all time, the Denver Broncos, would absolutely demolish our hopes and dreams, never even allowing us a glimpse of that golden glory.
And so, history clearly rears its head, turns in a full circle while indiscriminately thrashing around its scaly, gnarled tail, and tramples all over innocent little daisies in the search for delicious tiny osprey eggs. And some guy named Rod streaks through the defense, scorching the land, and my heart.
If Peyton helicopters, Gd save us all.
(The picture is a link to a video)
One of the most magical moments in Braves history. Consider that this coincided with an extended time period in which the Braves were just awful. It used to upset me knowing the Braves couldn’t rally around the ridiculous clutchness of this hit and win the game, even though this occurred before I was born. Who am I kidding? It still bothers me slightly. Amazing nonetheless.
Rick Camp passed away earlier this year and appeared to be not such a good guy later in life, but that’s not what this post is about. It’s about that moment of glory, the magic, the sheer ridiculousness. Even the preternaturally prophetic call. And how about that timing? Could there be any better representation of the American spirit for the 4th of July than a display in the upward social mobility that is a .074 lifetime hitting pitcher underdog with nothing to lose suddenly transformed into power hitting hero?
And so, in homage, I present to you a bad limerick:
Bottom 18, the end was nigh
Rick Camp, the pitcher, ripped a deep fly
A twist silly like putty
As the 4th became the 5th of July
In this objectively dulcet song, Cat Stevens offers a hypothetical dialogue between father and son. This should be a great song. But it’s not, because of one very small part. The suspect lyrics in question occur early on with the father speaking to the son:
You’re still young/That’s your fault
What?? How is that the son’s fault? How is the father blaming his own child’s youth on the child?! First of all, how is that something to point fingers about? “Haha, son, you’re so young. Your problem, not mine!” Secondly, even if it were anyone’s fault, it is clearly that of the father of the mother. I’m fairly certain the son had no control over the matter. Wait…did he steal a secret restorative potion from Ponce de Leon’s secret ancestors’ secret stash?!? Because I would totally watch that movie. Thirdly, how did it not occur to Stevens to say “That’s not your fault,” as the lyric??? It fits in so easily! And it actually sounds like something a compassionate father might say to his son.
In this feel good, saccharine tune, Daniel Powter pleads for you to turn your frown upside-down; a noble pursuit. However, toward the end the song starts to run out of steam. I theorize that Powter knew he had one-hit wonder gold halfway through his song, and thought it would be ok to half-ass one of his lines he just couldn’t get to fit. The mess in question is the last line in the following:
Sometimes the system goes on the blink
And the whole thing turns out wrong
You might not make it back and you know
That you could be well oh that strong
And I’m not wrong
Just as before, there are multiple facets that anger me about this. The last line completely disrupts the flow of the song. Powter tries to inculcate his audience with an uplifting melody and ‘you’re better than this’ inspirational proddings. Most of the lines in his song are metaphors that almost don’t make any sense (what does “kick up the leaves and the magic is lost” even mean?) all the while being in 2nd person. This line is neither of those things. It arguably breaks the fourth wall.
The music and lyrics come off as heartfelt, so why does Powter feel the need to insist on the truth of his wisdom? Is he one of those people who always has to be right and make sure you know he is? Was there reason to doubt the singer up to that point? And if there was, why would plainly saying “I’m not wrong,” change that? The line is so lazy; it could literally go in 99% of every song ever made because we can assume that any singer (or the narrator of the song) believes in what is being sung. Lastly, even though he rhymes the word ‘wrong’ with ‘strong,’ he still rhymes ‘wrong’ with ‘wrong.’ Come on!
Finally, I just want to point out that “Bad Day” and the more recent “Good Time” by Owl City and Carly Rae Jepsen were both uber popular. The songs are polar opposites. Mainstream music, you’re so silly.
It is a habit of mine to listen to pop music when I’m in my car. Contrary to what you are likely to believe, I am not a sophisticated man. I could say that I need to listen to this drivel while driving because otherwise I would get distracted by the complexities and nuances of actual music, and being the incredibly safe, precise, smooth, and handsome driver I am, well… this would be bad.
But that wouldn’t be true. I am just not a very auditory person and I am not above the baseness that is the big entertainment-industrial complex. Or something.
It was during one of my regular every day automobile jaunts that a particular popular song attuned itself into my ears. It seemed generic and unnecessarily noisy. And then I heard that universal beeping warning that heralds the presence of any large vehicle moving in reverse. You know the one. Upon further reflection, there was no actual truck, bulldozer, or bus backing up. However, I later realized that whenever this song returned to my hexed car speakers, my ears would once again pick up this profane intonation. I later found out the song is called “Heart Attack” and is sung by Demi Lovato.
Now maybe I am just crazy or mayhap this was just that moment where I just realized I’m too old for this crap, like when Randy Marsh tried listening to his son’s music (except replace the fart sounds with buses-backing-up sounds). Curiously, the offending sound does not emerge until more than two minutes into the song.
I present to you evidence A. [Apparently I can't use timestamps here; play the video at about 2:18.]
That’s actually all the evidence.
Further research has yielded no similar accounts.
Orb, winner of the 139th Kentucky Derby, jockey Joel Rosario, and trainer Shug McGaughey have been thoroughly enjoying and reveling in their victory of exciting fashion this past week and have since begun preparations for the Preakness Stakes. After coming from behind down the stretch to beat the field on a mucky, sloppy track, these receptacles of fortune’s grace are turning their respective attentions toward the future. But of course, not too far ahead. Upon questioning, Rosario insists they are taking it “one race at a time.” McGaughey chimes in, “of course it would be amazing to win the Triple C, but you can’t do that without winning the first two. No one’s done it in 35 years. No reason to expect we will be the ones to change that.”
Perhaps Rosario and McGaughey are just modest men in complete understanding of their situation. This esteemed journalist believes, however, they are merely employing what is commonly known as the reverse jinx. Verily, McGaughey’s claim that in nearly twoscore years past, there hasn’t been but a one Triple Crown champion is a lie. Boldfaced, perhaps? I’ll let you decide. Just last year, 2012, Miguel Cabrera became the first since 1978 to win the famed and fabled Crown. Curiously, Miguel Cabrera nearly missed out on MVP (most valuable pony) honors to what appears to have been a young up-and-coming fish. Regardless, Miguel Cabrera has shown that
When pressed further, Rosario and McGaughey dismissed me, somewhat unceremoniously and definitely unnecessarily, I might say. This reporter was able to inquire to Orb on his thoughts regarding whether or not his jockey and trainer were too harsh on me, saying, “Neigh.”
It is my duty to serve you, dear reader, with this public service post. It is my burden to bear (though some might conclude I have irrationally placed it upon myself), but one I’m sure I will find profound fulfillment in nonetheless.
Speaking of bears:
Note that it is the originally submissive bear that goes on the offensive in this video. I’m like 90% sure the first two bears are best buds, with the submissive/aggressive bear fully understanding his place in the universe. May we all achieve this profound state of being one day.
I feel sympathetic for the moose on the losing end of this one. He never had a chance given the tactical advantage that is the higher ground of his counterpart. Then again, it is survival of the fittest, or in this case, survival of the smartest. Take that creatures of lesser intellect! Hahaha. Muahahaha. Muahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
…erm, sorry about that. Shall we carry on?
That sound you here is actually that of a small child in the backseat practicing his violin.
I like to imagine this is what gangsta tussles looks like, with each lioness serving as a member of either of the lions’ posse. Either that or a boxing/mma match with multiple referees.
To me this appears more like an excessive touchdown celebration… minus the biting. I’m glad these guys don’t have the self-consciousness that greater cognitive abilities and global perspectives plague humans with. I shudder to think what it would do for their self-esteems if they realized how they looked in real life.
Similar to why some athletes take ballet lessons, I just figured out why penguins have a penchant for learning the practice of dance.
The most dangerous fight. I guess that analogy doesn’t really hold. Nor does it make an awesome pun… But the only real question is, who best describes animals in their natural habitat, Richard Attenborough or Vin Scully?
Appropriate thematic song for your aural pleasure: