Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Women's ball makes me feel uncomfortable
Written April 5, 2008
I like to think of myself as more respectful of women than the likes of Keith Hernandez. That dyed-mustache wearing jackass once saw a female trainer tending to a mildly injured ballplayer in the New York Mets’ dugout and declared that women shouldn’t be allowed in Major League Baseball dugouts. He later sort of apologized: “I’m just kidding — you know I love you gals.”
But the pain I feel while watching women’s college basketball is making me feel like a real misogynist. I’m watching a Sweet Sixteen game between No. 4-seed Louisville and No. 1-seed North Carolina with a slight headache a horrible taste in my mouth on a Saturday morning. Every time I look up at my muted TV I see female basketball players throwing the ball off the rim, tossing cross court passes out of bounds and generally falling all over the place.
Two friends of mine are sitting on a couch adjacent to my internetting chair, and they are both less interested in the contest and less appalled by the action. Here are my friend Adam’s thoughts: “You know what would suck worse than playing college basketball and not making it to the NBA? If you were a woman and you didn’t make it to the WNBA. Because they get all huge. If you’re a dude at least you got huge.”
Louisville is winning 37-21 with 5:48 remaining in the half, and the UL coach just called a timeout because half his players were lying in a pile on the court after one of the young women threw the ball to the wrong team. This awkward combination of obvious athletic ability and a much too difficult task is causing me much anxiety, until number 30 for UNC tosses in a layup while getting fouled.
AND ONE! AND ONE!
She makes the free throw, and I miss what happens on the other end, but based on my pal Joey’s sudden fit of laughter the game is back to its junior-varsity ways. “Did you just see that?” Joey laughs. “That was the worst. She went up for a little layup thing and never let go of the ball.”
North Carolina starts playing some intense defense, which is freaking me out but helping them get back in the game. The Tarheels are within 10 with a minute remaining in the half, and after a Louisville three-point attempt hits the backboard and not the rim UNC drives for a fast-break layup attempt. The shot hits the bottom of the backboard but number 32 was fouled and makes one-of-two free throws for a nine-point deficit. Halftime: Louisville 46, North Carolina 37.
I can’t hear what the halftime commentators are saying about the last 20 minutes of ball, but I can’t help but feel a little bit like Keith Hernandez when I reach for the remote control and change the channel to a recorded episode of Seinfeld.
I feel guilty for disliking women’s basketball. I respect those women as athletes, students, hard workers and for being taller, stronger and faster than me. Maybe if I wasn’t so dehydrated or I had taken my anxiety medication this morning things would be different. But at this moment I prefer watching Kramer trade Newman a broken radar detector for a motorcycle helmet that will eventually save his life when Crazy Joe Devola kicks him in the head.
I like to think of myself as more respectful of women than the likes of Keith Hernandez. That dyed-mustache wearing jackass once saw a female trainer tending to a mildly injured ballplayer in the New York Mets’ dugout and declared that women shouldn’t be allowed in Major League Baseball dugouts. He later sort of apologized: “I’m just kidding — you know I love you gals.”
But the pain I feel while watching women’s college basketball is making me feel like a real misogynist. I’m watching a Sweet Sixteen game between No. 4-seed Louisville and No. 1-seed North Carolina with a slight headache a horrible taste in my mouth on a Saturday morning. Every time I look up at my muted TV I see female basketball players throwing the ball off the rim, tossing cross court passes out of bounds and generally falling all over the place.
Two friends of mine are sitting on a couch adjacent to my internetting chair, and they are both less interested in the contest and less appalled by the action. Here are my friend Adam’s thoughts: “You know what would suck worse than playing college basketball and not making it to the NBA? If you were a woman and you didn’t make it to the WNBA. Because they get all huge. If you’re a dude at least you got huge.”
Louisville is winning 37-21 with 5:48 remaining in the half, and the UL coach just called a timeout because half his players were lying in a pile on the court after one of the young women threw the ball to the wrong team. This awkward combination of obvious athletic ability and a much too difficult task is causing me much anxiety, until number 30 for UNC tosses in a layup while getting fouled.
AND ONE! AND ONE!
She makes the free throw, and I miss what happens on the other end, but based on my pal Joey’s sudden fit of laughter the game is back to its junior-varsity ways. “Did you just see that?” Joey laughs. “That was the worst. She went up for a little layup thing and never let go of the ball.”
North Carolina starts playing some intense defense, which is freaking me out but helping them get back in the game. The Tarheels are within 10 with a minute remaining in the half, and after a Louisville three-point attempt hits the backboard and not the rim UNC drives for a fast-break layup attempt. The shot hits the bottom of the backboard but number 32 was fouled and makes one-of-two free throws for a nine-point deficit. Halftime: Louisville 46, North Carolina 37.
I can’t hear what the halftime commentators are saying about the last 20 minutes of ball, but I can’t help but feel a little bit like Keith Hernandez when I reach for the remote control and change the channel to a recorded episode of Seinfeld.
I feel guilty for disliking women’s basketball. I respect those women as athletes, students, hard workers and for being taller, stronger and faster than me. Maybe if I wasn’t so dehydrated or I had taken my anxiety medication this morning things would be different. But at this moment I prefer watching Kramer trade Newman a broken radar detector for a motorcycle helmet that will eventually save his life when Crazy Joe Devola kicks him in the head.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Amanda Beard has nice boobs... allegedly.
The caption underneath this photo of 25-year-old, blue-eyed swimmer Amanda Beard on ESPN's Web site reads:"Amanda Beard's Playboy debut may harm her status as a role model to young girls."
This is called editorializing, a no-no in the unbiased media business. Later, the nameless Associated Press reporter states the following:
"Inside, she takes off her clothes in eight pictures certain to create a stir among rivals and young girls who consider her a role model."
Do young girls lack the ability to consider a woman a role model if and when she poses topless for a magazine? Is it a universal fact that once the public sees a woman's boobs that she is less respectable and virtuous?
The rest of the story provides Beard's reasoning and beliefs behind posing for Playboy, and it comes off as a defense against the nameless reporter's insinuation: that what she did is classless and of poor taste.
Amanda Beard has participated in the Olympics three times, winning two gold medals, four silvers and one bronze. She won an NCAA National Championship in 2001 while attending the University of Arizona. She's a spokeswoman for Defenders of Wildlife, a nonprofit organization dedicated to keeping humans from accelerating rates of extinction and altering and destroying habitats.
Beard comes across as hardly apologetic in this story, and that's a good thing. If a group of Puritans shows up at my door to balk at me for planting flowers while my wife mows the lawn they'll be in for similarly disinterested dialogue.
"You have to remember, I'm still just a swimmer," Beard says in the story. "I am living a great lifestyle and I'm making good money, but I'm not a basketball player. These deals are not $40 million deals."
This statement brings the issue closer to its real point(s). The mere fact that Amanda Beard can earn a fat paycheck for showing her boobies is a reflection of many other social issues more important than neo-Puritanism, such as capitalism, sexism, female athleticism, objectification, beauty, art, and countless others - none of which necessitates the opinion of some stupid AP writer.
So, Mr. or Ms. Associated Press writer, take your opinion, preconceptions, judgments and photo captions over to your sexist editor's desk, spray them down with some Kathy Ireland perfume, and eat them.
http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/swimming/news/story?id=2896989
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Ladies get in line... behind Kevin
(Written March 13, 2007)
My roommate Kevin keeps coming home with new fashion pants and telling me how great a deal he got on them. I immediately demand that he drive me to whatever fine retail outlet distributes the American-designed, Colombian-assembled jeans so I can look like a fashionable young professional like him. Kevin usually laughs a satisfied laugh.
Last week, after bursting into my room in brand new Levi's from Macy's, I again confronted him. He still hadn't hooked me up with his Gap sales associate friend who was supposed to come through with a pair of dark blue boot cut low risers. He couldn't finish his hello before I demanded he explain his second pair of new pants in a month.
"Dude," he said. "You don't even know."
He unbuttoned his pants.
"This might be gay, but I don't even care," he said, unzipping the slim straight 514's and dropping them midway down his thighs to display a sleek black pair of boxer-briefs.
"These," he said, turning slightly to his left to show me a more complete view of his ass, "are fucking awesome."
My roommate Kevin keeps coming home with new fashion pants and telling me how great a deal he got on them. I immediately demand that he drive me to whatever fine retail outlet distributes the American-designed, Colombian-assembled jeans so I can look like a fashionable young professional like him. Kevin usually laughs a satisfied laugh.
Last week, after bursting into my room in brand new Levi's from Macy's, I again confronted him. He still hadn't hooked me up with his Gap sales associate friend who was supposed to come through with a pair of dark blue boot cut low risers. He couldn't finish his hello before I demanded he explain his second pair of new pants in a month.
"Dude," he said. "You don't even know."
He unbuttoned his pants.
"This might be gay, but I don't even care," he said, unzipping the slim straight 514's and dropping them midway down his thighs to display a sleek black pair of boxer-briefs.
"These," he said, turning slightly to his left to show me a more complete view of his ass, "are fucking awesome."
I had to agree. Saturday I drove to Macy's by myself and purchased the exact pants and underwear. Sunday I drove around town minus the uncomfortable bunchiness that is boxer shorts twisted into a pair of fashion pants. My self-confidence escalated knowing that underneath my clothes I was supported by plush brushed back elastic and a double pouch fly.
I returned to my humble bmx house bedroom around 11 p.m., dressed down to the black boxer briefs and strolled into Kevin's room. He looked up from his lap top computer and laughed as I walked toward his full-length mirror to admire the ninja-like appearance of my junk.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
How the Bengals indiscriminately ruined the holidays for everybody in Cincinnati.
(Written Tuesday, January 2, 2007)
It was like watching a disabled child reach for a stick of candy from a street vendor only to trip off the curb, fall into a muddy puddle, then get run over by a truck.
The Cincinnati Bengals football team presented the finale of this heart-wrenching, conspicuously feeble and sad performance for two weeks only during this holiday season, leaving most of the greater Cincinnati area at a loss for words, hope, self-worth and Who-Dey football for another eight months.
The Bengals had been the laughingstock of the National Football League for more than a decade before Marvin Lewis and the exciting Cincinnati offense resurrected the organization roughly four years ago. Times have been good since then, and Bengal fans have re-embraced this team as if it never embarrassed the city with a nationally-recognized loser-persona called "The Bungals."
Today, shouts of "Who Dey!" and Bengals garb dominate the city streets during fall Sundays as professional football unites Cincinnati's populous. From the city to the suburbs, the west side to the east side, the rich to the poor, the stupid to the smart, Cincinnati has been temporarily engulfed with pride and confidence. Parents and children wear matching Carson Palmer Jerseys. Families delegate different player jerseys to each member. Mom: Palmer; Dad: Chad Johnson; Oldest girl: T.J. Housmenzadeh; Boy: Justin Smith; Baby: Rudi Johnson.
The adoration and appreciation not only cross class, racial and gender lines. The mostly barren wall of a gay bar in Northside reads: Who Dey! (What was I doing at a gay bar? … Maybe you should be the journalist.)
With such universal support from such a desperate demographic, you would think the Bengals could take themselves seriously. Eight different players were arrested this year, and we accepted that. Chad Johnson changed his name to "Ocho Cinco," incidentally questioning our official language. We laughed it off. Chris Henry reminded us of ourselves at his age, throwing up out the window of moving vehicles. We shook our finger at him, trying desperately to conceal our laughter.
And what did it get us? A dramatic, seemingly game-tying drive melted away by a bad snap in the Denver snow. A missed 38-yard field goal the following week that eventually would have sent the scatterbrained, underachieving team to the playoffs.
Against Denver, most players did their part to lose. Against Pittsburgh (Oh God how we hate Pittsburgh and its ketchup-loving, stupid-accented, mill-working fans!) the organization seemed to slowly suck the life out of Cincinnati fans with no regard to our sex, age, class or holiday plans.
When the Bengals went 8-8 in 2003, we noticed the disabled child's interest in the shimmering stick of candy. We hoped he would go after it. When the team repeated the 8-8 record in 2004, the street vendor offered the candy to the eager, enthusiastic child. The child reached out during 2005, as far as he could, nearly grabbing the candy with an 11-5 record. That poor, poor child. How close he was to the elegant, tasty dream!
This season was a reminder that the world ain't fair, and that accidents still happen to those who don't deserve it. Perhaps clock-management was to blame for the strangely approached kick on Sunday. Maybe Shayne Graham applied too much chapstick before attempting the season-saving boot. Whatever the case, despite repeated opportunities to rescue the seemingly helpless child from that metaphoric mud puddle, the Bengals forced us to watch one of our weakest violently embarrassed and brutally killed. None of us could stop it from happening.
As one of my more-poetic friends put it, "We're all just a bunch of fucking losers."
Welcome to 2007 Cincinnati. Have a great year.
The Cincinnati Bengals football team presented the finale of this heart-wrenching, conspicuously feeble and sad performance for two weeks only during this holiday season, leaving most of the greater Cincinnati area at a loss for words, hope, self-worth and Who-Dey football for another eight months.
The Bengals had been the laughingstock of the National Football League for more than a decade before Marvin Lewis and the exciting Cincinnati offense resurrected the organization roughly four years ago. Times have been good since then, and Bengal fans have re-embraced this team as if it never embarrassed the city with a nationally-recognized loser-persona called "The Bungals."
Today, shouts of "Who Dey!" and Bengals garb dominate the city streets during fall Sundays as professional football unites Cincinnati's populous. From the city to the suburbs, the west side to the east side, the rich to the poor, the stupid to the smart, Cincinnati has been temporarily engulfed with pride and confidence. Parents and children wear matching Carson Palmer Jerseys. Families delegate different player jerseys to each member. Mom: Palmer; Dad: Chad Johnson; Oldest girl: T.J. Housmenzadeh; Boy: Justin Smith; Baby: Rudi Johnson.
The adoration and appreciation not only cross class, racial and gender lines. The mostly barren wall of a gay bar in Northside reads: Who Dey! (What was I doing at a gay bar? … Maybe you should be the journalist.)
With such universal support from such a desperate demographic, you would think the Bengals could take themselves seriously. Eight different players were arrested this year, and we accepted that. Chad Johnson changed his name to "Ocho Cinco," incidentally questioning our official language. We laughed it off. Chris Henry reminded us of ourselves at his age, throwing up out the window of moving vehicles. We shook our finger at him, trying desperately to conceal our laughter.
And what did it get us? A dramatic, seemingly game-tying drive melted away by a bad snap in the Denver snow. A missed 38-yard field goal the following week that eventually would have sent the scatterbrained, underachieving team to the playoffs.
Against Denver, most players did their part to lose. Against Pittsburgh (Oh God how we hate Pittsburgh and its ketchup-loving, stupid-accented, mill-working fans!) the organization seemed to slowly suck the life out of Cincinnati fans with no regard to our sex, age, class or holiday plans.
When the Bengals went 8-8 in 2003, we noticed the disabled child's interest in the shimmering stick of candy. We hoped he would go after it. When the team repeated the 8-8 record in 2004, the street vendor offered the candy to the eager, enthusiastic child. The child reached out during 2005, as far as he could, nearly grabbing the candy with an 11-5 record. That poor, poor child. How close he was to the elegant, tasty dream!
This season was a reminder that the world ain't fair, and that accidents still happen to those who don't deserve it. Perhaps clock-management was to blame for the strangely approached kick on Sunday. Maybe Shayne Graham applied too much chapstick before attempting the season-saving boot. Whatever the case, despite repeated opportunities to rescue the seemingly helpless child from that metaphoric mud puddle, the Bengals forced us to watch one of our weakest violently embarrassed and brutally killed. None of us could stop it from happening.
As one of my more-poetic friends put it, "We're all just a bunch of fucking losers."
Welcome to 2007 Cincinnati. Have a great year.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
A Place For Reporting
How Myspace can aid the reporting process.
(part of my University of Oregon Professional Master's Terminal Project)
When I began the reporting process for my final project, I was in the rare position of already owning a degree of expertise on the subject. As a former bmx rider reporting on the state of Cincinnati’s bmx world, I felt confident in my ability to get the story right and to have some of fun with it. There was only one small problem: I had been out of the loop for a while, and things had changed quite a bit since I was a punk-rock listening, 360-twisting bmxer.
Since possibly everyone I know could read this story after its publication, I felt a great deal of anxiety writing about so many people who I already somewhat knew. I decided to give every bmx-involved person who I knew a chance to guide me in the right direction. I wrote a short query explaining my project, goals and thoughts on the subject, and I asked what others thought the story should be. I sent this query to every Cincinnati bmx rider’s Myspace account.
For those who don’t know, Myspace.com is the most popular social networking site on the Internet, reportedly representing 80 percent of traffic on such sites. As of October 2006, there were more than 130.8 million accounts and 106 million estimated users. A typical Myspace profile offers the user’s age, interests, photos, blog and links to each of their Myspace friends’ pages (most users have anywhere from dozens to hundreds of “friends”). There is plenty of information to gather, even if you must sift through seizure-inducing layouts and really bad music to find it.
I found surprisingly little enthusiasm from the Myspacers to entertain my query with a response. I received two or three thoughtful responses (out of about 20) and a handful of “Oh, sorry about that. I’ll get around to it,” from others over the phone. All was not wasted during this process, however. With access to the profiles of nearly every source for my story, I learned tidbits of information by surfing (some call it stalking) around. Next, I reverted to a more “traditional” form of information gathering called the “telephone.”
During my first interview, with a Cincinnati rider who frequently photographed his colleagues for magazines, I got the low-down on the current scene and gathered all the phone numbers I needed. I interviewed seven or eight local riders, past and present, and felt fairly confident in my understanding of the situation. I began writing the story.
I researched the sport’s growth (almost entirely using the Internet and my Google advance-search prowess) from an underground culture to a mainstream, money-making entity. The most important issue at hand was the connection between increasing revenues and the rise in degree of difficulty. I supplemented the local story with what I found regarding trends in the sport’s development – both the stylistic evolution and the impact of made-for-TV contests. Google searches were imperative in finding such information about past contests as results, prize money and television airtime. I found an ESPN press release from 1996 regarding the name change from “Extreme Games” to “X-Games” and also the cell phone numbers of two ESPN public relations officials.
Once I reverted to the profiling of local riders, I found problems keeping track of the minor, similar details of so many riders. As I proofread my first couple drafts, I put every statistic, date, bike company and questionable name spelling in bold. Most of these issues could be checked with a quick visit to a company’s website or a similar authority on the subject. But many of these details could only be verified by the individual sources, so I regularly made lists of pieces of information that I either needed because I missed them in the original interview or because I wanted to verify them. I sent out Myspace messages to the riders with short, declarative sentences explaining what I believed was true about them. “Si o no?”
Through Myspace, it was easy for the riders to quickly respond with verification or a correction. The messages were well-organized in my inbox, and I didn’t have to keep track of 10 email addresses. Additionally, the Myspace inbox lists the status of every message you send to another user - either “sent,” “received” or “read.” If I checked the status of a super-important question I had sent, and a rider had “read” the message and not responded, I knew that I had to either look elsewhere for the detail, or chase the person down on the phone. This method of fact-checking, especially considering the numerous sponsorships and dates involved, was especially efficient.
Myspace is a weird world, and the information you’ll find there will most likely not be credible enough to repeat. But the medium, in all its voyeuristic glory, is a bounteous source for journalists who want to familiarize themselves with younger subjects before hitting the reporting trail. It potentially allows the source to become familiar with the reporter, building trust and perhaps lessoning the formality of the interviewing process. It’s also a useful means for keeping in touch with sources in longer stories to ensure that no major changes occur while you’re busy polishing your precious narrative arc.
One last warning before you professional journalists out there venture into the strange land of Myspace: Young people can’t spell worth a crap. Be prepared.
(part of my University of Oregon Professional Master's Terminal Project)
When I began the reporting process for my final project, I was in the rare position of already owning a degree of expertise on the subject. As a former bmx rider reporting on the state of Cincinnati’s bmx world, I felt confident in my ability to get the story right and to have some of fun with it. There was only one small problem: I had been out of the loop for a while, and things had changed quite a bit since I was a punk-rock listening, 360-twisting bmxer.
Since possibly everyone I know could read this story after its publication, I felt a great deal of anxiety writing about so many people who I already somewhat knew. I decided to give every bmx-involved person who I knew a chance to guide me in the right direction. I wrote a short query explaining my project, goals and thoughts on the subject, and I asked what others thought the story should be. I sent this query to every Cincinnati bmx rider’s Myspace account.
For those who don’t know, Myspace.com is the most popular social networking site on the Internet, reportedly representing 80 percent of traffic on such sites. As of October 2006, there were more than 130.8 million accounts and 106 million estimated users. A typical Myspace profile offers the user’s age, interests, photos, blog and links to each of their Myspace friends’ pages (most users have anywhere from dozens to hundreds of “friends”). There is plenty of information to gather, even if you must sift through seizure-inducing layouts and really bad music to find it.
I found surprisingly little enthusiasm from the Myspacers to entertain my query with a response. I received two or three thoughtful responses (out of about 20) and a handful of “Oh, sorry about that. I’ll get around to it,” from others over the phone. All was not wasted during this process, however. With access to the profiles of nearly every source for my story, I learned tidbits of information by surfing (some call it stalking) around. Next, I reverted to a more “traditional” form of information gathering called the “telephone.”
During my first interview, with a Cincinnati rider who frequently photographed his colleagues for magazines, I got the low-down on the current scene and gathered all the phone numbers I needed. I interviewed seven or eight local riders, past and present, and felt fairly confident in my understanding of the situation. I began writing the story.
I researched the sport’s growth (almost entirely using the Internet and my Google advance-search prowess) from an underground culture to a mainstream, money-making entity. The most important issue at hand was the connection between increasing revenues and the rise in degree of difficulty. I supplemented the local story with what I found regarding trends in the sport’s development – both the stylistic evolution and the impact of made-for-TV contests. Google searches were imperative in finding such information about past contests as results, prize money and television airtime. I found an ESPN press release from 1996 regarding the name change from “Extreme Games” to “X-Games” and also the cell phone numbers of two ESPN public relations officials.
Once I reverted to the profiling of local riders, I found problems keeping track of the minor, similar details of so many riders. As I proofread my first couple drafts, I put every statistic, date, bike company and questionable name spelling in bold. Most of these issues could be checked with a quick visit to a company’s website or a similar authority on the subject. But many of these details could only be verified by the individual sources, so I regularly made lists of pieces of information that I either needed because I missed them in the original interview or because I wanted to verify them. I sent out Myspace messages to the riders with short, declarative sentences explaining what I believed was true about them. “Si o no?”
Through Myspace, it was easy for the riders to quickly respond with verification or a correction. The messages were well-organized in my inbox, and I didn’t have to keep track of 10 email addresses. Additionally, the Myspace inbox lists the status of every message you send to another user - either “sent,” “received” or “read.” If I checked the status of a super-important question I had sent, and a rider had “read” the message and not responded, I knew that I had to either look elsewhere for the detail, or chase the person down on the phone. This method of fact-checking, especially considering the numerous sponsorships and dates involved, was especially efficient.
Myspace is a weird world, and the information you’ll find there will most likely not be credible enough to repeat. But the medium, in all its voyeuristic glory, is a bounteous source for journalists who want to familiarize themselves with younger subjects before hitting the reporting trail. It potentially allows the source to become familiar with the reporter, building trust and perhaps lessoning the formality of the interviewing process. It’s also a useful means for keeping in touch with sources in longer stories to ensure that no major changes occur while you’re busy polishing your precious narrative arc.
One last warning before you professional journalists out there venture into the strange land of Myspace: Young people can’t spell worth a crap. Be prepared.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Peep my published work samples:
More Than Smoke and Mirrors
A look at Eugene's magic scene.
January 19, 2006
Cage Fighter
The two lives of Renato Aquino.
April 6, 2006
UC Alum Writes 487 conservative 'Truths'
Cincinnati suburbanite judges, ridicules.
May 24, 2004
Step Right Up and Kill a President!
Assassins blends history and humor.
September 29, 2005
It's Halloweeeeen!
Eugene gets down ... with scare town.
October 27, 2005
Extreme Makeover: Bar Edition
Local bars keep it real with renovation.
March 2, 2006
Pretty Mellow
Tristan Prettyman's peaceful acoustic sound catches on nationwide.
November 11, 2005
Mmmm, Candy ...
Hypatia Lake sounds like Radiohead locked in a candy factory with no candy.
March 23, 2006
High School Party
A bad chorus cannot rescue us from such triviality as rental life without love.
January 26, 2006
A look at Eugene's magic scene.
January 19, 2006
Cage Fighter
The two lives of Renato Aquino.
April 6, 2006
UC Alum Writes 487 conservative 'Truths'
Cincinnati suburbanite judges, ridicules.
May 24, 2004
Step Right Up and Kill a President!
Assassins blends history and humor.
September 29, 2005
It's Halloweeeeen!
Eugene gets down ... with scare town.
October 27, 2005
Extreme Makeover: Bar Edition
Local bars keep it real with renovation.
March 2, 2006
Pretty Mellow
Tristan Prettyman's peaceful acoustic sound catches on nationwide.
November 11, 2005
Mmmm, Candy ...
Hypatia Lake sounds like Radiohead locked in a candy factory with no candy.
March 23, 2006
High School Party
A bad chorus cannot rescue us from such triviality as rental life without love.
January 26, 2006
Saturday, December 02, 2006
I'm in Missouri, show me the way out
It is nearly impossible to pee in a bottle and not get piss on yourself. I'm parked on the side of the road in a black neighborhood just outside of Kansas City. The 7-11 gas station doesn't offer a public restroom to its patrons, and the empty plastic liter bottle behind my seat is too tempting for me to get back on the crowded freeway with a full bladder. Pissing into a plastic bottle while sitting in a car involves pressing one's member against the top of the bottle and sort of peeing upward while anxiously watching the pee-level in case there's not enough room for all you have to offer.
Once finished, thankful the bottle was big enough, you quickly pull your pants back up, hoping not to have been spotted by an unsuspecting passerby. If you didn't already piss on either your hand, your leg, the side of the bottle or the inside of the car, you realize that there was more pee ready to come out, but, due to the unnatural upward trajectory, it couldn't be released until you put your pants back on.
It took three hours — only one with piss in my pants — to get through 30 miles of Kansas City. I drove another hour before the freezing rain and psycho truckers shooed me off the road into a little town called Concordia. I wanted to get home in three days, but my triumphant return to my parents' home in southeastern Indiana will have to wait one more. I've spent three full days driving a 1988 Volkswagen Fox, alone, from Portland, Ore., to western Missouri. Here are the highlights, written in the overly-dramatic, horseshit tone of James Frey — the Oprah-tricking, story-fabricating, best-selling author of "A Million Little Pieces" and "My Friend Leonard," the latter of which I listened to on CD for much of this trip:
DAY 1
I wake up at Arty's apartment. I'm tired. I'm anxious. I'm excited to be leaving Oregon. Excited for all the opportunities that lie ahead. I don't have a job. It doesn't really matter.
I get in my car. I drive to the bank. Starbucks is across the street. I drive to Starbucks. I buy a cup of coffee. I get on the freeway.
I drive across northern Oregon, along a freeway parallel to the Columbia River, just across from the state of Washington. I don't believe my Volkswagen will make it all the way to Ohio, but I don't have a choice. I'm finished with school and it's time for Christmas. So I'm driving home.
The eastern Oregon mountains are icy, so I drive slowly. The car's heater doesn't blow toward my feet for some reason and my feet are cold. I rub them with my hands, give them energy and warm them up separately.
But they are still cold.
So cold.
So very cold.
I reach the Idaho border and the sun begins to fall. I know that I have a taillight out and a side-marker out, but I keep driving. I don't give a fuck about my taillight or any goddam cop who pulls me over. I've been through worse before. I don't give a fuck about my tail light. I don't give a fuck.
I drive through more snow and ice in Idaho. The engine screams and the speedometer bounces between 110 and 120 miles an hour. The speedometer is wrong. I don't really know how fast I'm going, but I'm going fast.
I make it to Ogden, Utah, after 13 hours of driving. I am happy. I am safe. The car didn't explode during the first day. It's about the most I could have hoped for.
DAY 2
I wake up at 6 a.m., take a quick shower and am on the road by 6:30. It is cold in the mountains, and the Wyoming roads are threatening and dangerous. The car slides in any direction at any time even though I'm going 40 miles an hour. A checkpoint instructs all trucks to use chains and 18-wheelers line the freeway for a quarter mile before a steep, steep hill. I follow the other cars but they go faster than me. They aren't sliding. They aren't 18 years old.
My brake-warning light flutters like it has for the past two weeks. The tires are average, and the headlights shine downward so that I have to use the brights under normal circumstances. I don't mind driving with the brights on until I need brights when I'm already using them. I basically have no brights. Fuck 'em.
It's two hours later and I think I'm past the scariest of the mountains. Wyoming is a long state and I'm driving straight east, but I'm hoping for no more scary mountains. No more mountains.
No.
No.
No.
I destroy Wyoming. I buy coffee or cola every time I stop for a bathroom break, food and gas whenever necessary. I'm killing Wyoming. I hate Wyoming. Fucking cowboys and mountains and rocks and cold air. Fuck all of them.
I drive south toward Denver. I think I can make it through Denver and far enough east to enter Kansas tonight, as long as the weather stays calm. Ten minutes later it's fucking snowing and I'm stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic outside Fort Collins, Colo.
I want to get past Denver tonight.
I need to get past Denver tonight.
Tonight.
The roads are icy but I keep driving. I take a toll road and pay $2 three times. I'm east of Denver, on my way out of town, so I stop at McDonald's for some food to eat during the dark drive east. I walk into McDonald's. There's a strange, friendly old man at the counter. I order a cup of coffee, chicken club combo and ask for Mountain Dew to drink. The man shakes his head.
He speaks: "We don't have that."
I speak: "Mellow Yellow?"
He speaks: "Nope."
I speak: "Anything yellow?"
He speaks: "Maybe in the bathroom."
I laugh. I speak: "Dr. Pepper, Mr. Pibb, whatever."
I ask for cream for the coffee. The man hands me a small plastic jug of milk usually given away with kids' meals. It has Ronald McDonald on the label.
I speak: "McDonald Milk?"
He speaks: "Old McDonald had a farm."
I smile. I pour the milk.
He speaks: "You didn't laugh at my joke."
I laugh, put the lid on. I leave. I drive 15 miles into Kansas and check in at a Comfort Inn. The swimming pool and spa are open for another hour but I don't use them.
DAY 3
I leave the Comfort Inn at 6:30 a.m. It is 17 degrees in Goodland, Kan. Seventeen degrees is fucking cold. The heat doesn't blow toward my feet and my toes hurt after half an hour. I stop and buy six pair of socks, one of which is wool. I wear every pair of them and jam my oversized feet into the ends of a pair of slippers. It doesn't work. My toes still hurt after 30 minutes.
I call my mom and whine. I think about buying a pair of boots. What do people who work outside or walk in snow wear on their feet? I stop at a gas station to ask someone where I can buy boots. A woman works behind the counter.
I speak: "Fifteen on pump 4, please. Do you know where I could buy some boots? My feet are cold."
She pauses, speaks: "We have some of these … these hand warmers that might help."
She shows me to the pocket-size chemically-activated hand warmers, each in separate, inactivated packages. I buy four of them, put them in my shoes. My feet aren't cold for the rest of the day.
I'm making good time across Kansas, listening to a story that is generally unbelievable by an author who I do not respect. It passes the time well. I drive for hours, lost in the nonfiction beneath the fiction, although it has all been passed off as nonfiction. I'm convinced that most of this story, if not all of it, is not true. I despise the author because he is much like me. Much richer, much faker, but we share many of the same privileges and talents that have made him who he is. I still despise him. He is a fake and a coward and a privileged white man who ignores his privilege and exaggerates his few insecurities and inconsequential brushes with the law. He is a phony and a coward.
But it passes the time.
I'm 15 miles from Kansas City. I am stopped in traffic. It is snowing, the roads are bad, but not that bad. The freeway is crowded. It's 3 p.m. I continue to inch forward, all the way past the Missouri border.
I am stopped point-two miles into Missouri (a mile-marking sign reads 0/ .2). The car's oil light flashes. I have to pee. The car's oil light flashes again. Again. Again. I have to pee and the car's oil light is flashing. I don't know what I'm going to do. I have to pee. I can't hold it. The car's oil light is flashing. I have a small amount of oil in the trunk. I pull onto the shoulder. I put the small amount of oil in the engine. It is cold and wet and dark and crowded. I drive back into my lane. The oil light is still on and I still have to pee. This continues for another hour. I am two miles past the Missouri border.
I decide that I must put oil in the car and I must pee and I need gas so I get off the freeway at 21st Street. No one else is getting off the freeway at 21st Street.
I'm turning left and there are no businesses within sight. I drive pass school buses, down hills and up hills. Down snowy hills, up snowy hills. I find a 7-11 gas station and pull up to a pump. I'm wearing a baseball cap and hooded sweatshirt. The wind is blowing and it's cold cold cold. I pull the hood over the back of my head. A young man strolls out of the store, making some sort of loud noise. I acknowledge him, but just for a moment. I want to look busy and unconcerned.
I pop the hood, walk inside, ask for a bathroom. The cashier speaks: "Not for customers."
I buy a quart of oil for $3.79, nearly twice what it should cost, and pre-pay $15 worth of gas. I leave the store. I put the nozzle in the car and check the oil. The level seems fine. I put a little bit of oil in the engine and close the hood, pump the rest of the gas and replace the cap. I drive toward the freeway, stop in a shady neighborhood, piss in a bottle, get piss in my pants, drive back onto the freeway.
It's 5 p.m., I'm 6 miles east of Kansas City, and I'm fucking pissed. I wanted to get home by midnight, and there's traffic and goddamn winter storms ahead.
I call my mom, whine. She encourages me to stop somewhere in Missouri, sleep, make the rest of the drive tomorrow. I resist, at first, then drive into a whirling rainstorm that's magnified by semi-trucks passing my small car on the two-lane freeway. When they do so, it's impossible to see. It's like driving through the middle of a 10-foot wave.
It will be good to be home.
Home.
Home.
Once finished, thankful the bottle was big enough, you quickly pull your pants back up, hoping not to have been spotted by an unsuspecting passerby. If you didn't already piss on either your hand, your leg, the side of the bottle or the inside of the car, you realize that there was more pee ready to come out, but, due to the unnatural upward trajectory, it couldn't be released until you put your pants back on.
It took three hours — only one with piss in my pants — to get through 30 miles of Kansas City. I drove another hour before the freezing rain and psycho truckers shooed me off the road into a little town called Concordia. I wanted to get home in three days, but my triumphant return to my parents' home in southeastern Indiana will have to wait one more. I've spent three full days driving a 1988 Volkswagen Fox, alone, from Portland, Ore., to western Missouri. Here are the highlights, written in the overly-dramatic, horseshit tone of James Frey — the Oprah-tricking, story-fabricating, best-selling author of "A Million Little Pieces" and "My Friend Leonard," the latter of which I listened to on CD for much of this trip:
DAY 1
I wake up at Arty's apartment. I'm tired. I'm anxious. I'm excited to be leaving Oregon. Excited for all the opportunities that lie ahead. I don't have a job. It doesn't really matter.
I get in my car. I drive to the bank. Starbucks is across the street. I drive to Starbucks. I buy a cup of coffee. I get on the freeway.
I drive across northern Oregon, along a freeway parallel to the Columbia River, just across from the state of Washington. I don't believe my Volkswagen will make it all the way to Ohio, but I don't have a choice. I'm finished with school and it's time for Christmas. So I'm driving home.
The eastern Oregon mountains are icy, so I drive slowly. The car's heater doesn't blow toward my feet for some reason and my feet are cold. I rub them with my hands, give them energy and warm them up separately.
But they are still cold.
So cold.
So very cold.
I reach the Idaho border and the sun begins to fall. I know that I have a taillight out and a side-marker out, but I keep driving. I don't give a fuck about my taillight or any goddam cop who pulls me over. I've been through worse before. I don't give a fuck about my tail light. I don't give a fuck.
I drive through more snow and ice in Idaho. The engine screams and the speedometer bounces between 110 and 120 miles an hour. The speedometer is wrong. I don't really know how fast I'm going, but I'm going fast.
I make it to Ogden, Utah, after 13 hours of driving. I am happy. I am safe. The car didn't explode during the first day. It's about the most I could have hoped for.
DAY 2
I wake up at 6 a.m., take a quick shower and am on the road by 6:30. It is cold in the mountains, and the Wyoming roads are threatening and dangerous. The car slides in any direction at any time even though I'm going 40 miles an hour. A checkpoint instructs all trucks to use chains and 18-wheelers line the freeway for a quarter mile before a steep, steep hill. I follow the other cars but they go faster than me. They aren't sliding. They aren't 18 years old.
My brake-warning light flutters like it has for the past two weeks. The tires are average, and the headlights shine downward so that I have to use the brights under normal circumstances. I don't mind driving with the brights on until I need brights when I'm already using them. I basically have no brights. Fuck 'em.
It's two hours later and I think I'm past the scariest of the mountains. Wyoming is a long state and I'm driving straight east, but I'm hoping for no more scary mountains. No more mountains.
No.
No.
No.
I destroy Wyoming. I buy coffee or cola every time I stop for a bathroom break, food and gas whenever necessary. I'm killing Wyoming. I hate Wyoming. Fucking cowboys and mountains and rocks and cold air. Fuck all of them.
I drive south toward Denver. I think I can make it through Denver and far enough east to enter Kansas tonight, as long as the weather stays calm. Ten minutes later it's fucking snowing and I'm stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic outside Fort Collins, Colo.
I want to get past Denver tonight.
I need to get past Denver tonight.
Tonight.
The roads are icy but I keep driving. I take a toll road and pay $2 three times. I'm east of Denver, on my way out of town, so I stop at McDonald's for some food to eat during the dark drive east. I walk into McDonald's. There's a strange, friendly old man at the counter. I order a cup of coffee, chicken club combo and ask for Mountain Dew to drink. The man shakes his head.
He speaks: "We don't have that."
I speak: "Mellow Yellow?"
He speaks: "Nope."
I speak: "Anything yellow?"
He speaks: "Maybe in the bathroom."
I laugh. I speak: "Dr. Pepper, Mr. Pibb, whatever."
I ask for cream for the coffee. The man hands me a small plastic jug of milk usually given away with kids' meals. It has Ronald McDonald on the label.
I speak: "McDonald Milk?"
He speaks: "Old McDonald had a farm."
I smile. I pour the milk.
He speaks: "You didn't laugh at my joke."
I laugh, put the lid on. I leave. I drive 15 miles into Kansas and check in at a Comfort Inn. The swimming pool and spa are open for another hour but I don't use them.
DAY 3
I leave the Comfort Inn at 6:30 a.m. It is 17 degrees in Goodland, Kan. Seventeen degrees is fucking cold. The heat doesn't blow toward my feet and my toes hurt after half an hour. I stop and buy six pair of socks, one of which is wool. I wear every pair of them and jam my oversized feet into the ends of a pair of slippers. It doesn't work. My toes still hurt after 30 minutes.
I call my mom and whine. I think about buying a pair of boots. What do people who work outside or walk in snow wear on their feet? I stop at a gas station to ask someone where I can buy boots. A woman works behind the counter.
I speak: "Fifteen on pump 4, please. Do you know where I could buy some boots? My feet are cold."
She pauses, speaks: "We have some of these … these hand warmers that might help."
She shows me to the pocket-size chemically-activated hand warmers, each in separate, inactivated packages. I buy four of them, put them in my shoes. My feet aren't cold for the rest of the day.
I'm making good time across Kansas, listening to a story that is generally unbelievable by an author who I do not respect. It passes the time well. I drive for hours, lost in the nonfiction beneath the fiction, although it has all been passed off as nonfiction. I'm convinced that most of this story, if not all of it, is not true. I despise the author because he is much like me. Much richer, much faker, but we share many of the same privileges and talents that have made him who he is. I still despise him. He is a fake and a coward and a privileged white man who ignores his privilege and exaggerates his few insecurities and inconsequential brushes with the law. He is a phony and a coward.
But it passes the time.
I'm 15 miles from Kansas City. I am stopped in traffic. It is snowing, the roads are bad, but not that bad. The freeway is crowded. It's 3 p.m. I continue to inch forward, all the way past the Missouri border.
I am stopped point-two miles into Missouri (a mile-marking sign reads 0/ .2). The car's oil light flashes. I have to pee. The car's oil light flashes again. Again. Again. I have to pee and the car's oil light is flashing. I don't know what I'm going to do. I have to pee. I can't hold it. The car's oil light is flashing. I have a small amount of oil in the trunk. I pull onto the shoulder. I put the small amount of oil in the engine. It is cold and wet and dark and crowded. I drive back into my lane. The oil light is still on and I still have to pee. This continues for another hour. I am two miles past the Missouri border.
I decide that I must put oil in the car and I must pee and I need gas so I get off the freeway at 21st Street. No one else is getting off the freeway at 21st Street.
I'm turning left and there are no businesses within sight. I drive pass school buses, down hills and up hills. Down snowy hills, up snowy hills. I find a 7-11 gas station and pull up to a pump. I'm wearing a baseball cap and hooded sweatshirt. The wind is blowing and it's cold cold cold. I pull the hood over the back of my head. A young man strolls out of the store, making some sort of loud noise. I acknowledge him, but just for a moment. I want to look busy and unconcerned.
I pop the hood, walk inside, ask for a bathroom. The cashier speaks: "Not for customers."
I buy a quart of oil for $3.79, nearly twice what it should cost, and pre-pay $15 worth of gas. I leave the store. I put the nozzle in the car and check the oil. The level seems fine. I put a little bit of oil in the engine and close the hood, pump the rest of the gas and replace the cap. I drive toward the freeway, stop in a shady neighborhood, piss in a bottle, get piss in my pants, drive back onto the freeway.
It's 5 p.m., I'm 6 miles east of Kansas City, and I'm fucking pissed. I wanted to get home by midnight, and there's traffic and goddamn winter storms ahead.
I call my mom, whine. She encourages me to stop somewhere in Missouri, sleep, make the rest of the drive tomorrow. I resist, at first, then drive into a whirling rainstorm that's magnified by semi-trucks passing my small car on the two-lane freeway. When they do so, it's impossible to see. It's like driving through the middle of a 10-foot wave.
It will be good to be home.
Home.
Home.
