751’s Red Flag July 6, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Baseball, Common Sense.add a comment
With the All-Star game coming up next week in San Francisco, every ounce of the media’s attention is focused on the biggest attraction that ballpark has to offer: larger than life world-class asshole Barry Bonds, who stands within five swings of the bat from eclipsing the most legendary record in American sports. Oh yeah, there’s a really good chance he cheated to do it.
While Bonds is the poster child for the dark age known as the Steroid Era in Major League Baseball, it’s important to remember that he’s never actually been convicted of anything. Jason Grimsley, Jason Giambi, Rafael Palmeiro and Mark McGwire have all been caught or have given explanations so weak they might as well have been written with a syringe. Every power hitter during this troubling time is under suspicion forever, but the pitchers get off scott free.
Roger Clemens was done in 1996. The Red Sox aren’t idiots, and they didn’t think he had anything left. Then all of a sudden, he gets on the bad side of 35 and becomes the most dominant pitcher of his era, winning his 350th game this week. No one blinks. What sort of hypocrisy is this, especially since Clemens has the one trait shared by Bonds and the aforementioned cheaters:
He has a huge fucking head.
Look at him in his pics from Texas and his early days at Fenway. He was totally ridiculous on the mound, but he also looked like a regular guy. Suddenly, he’s in pinstripes in the Bronx and…well let’s put it this way: Steven Segal could fit his entire head inside Clemens’ head. He could probably get all the way inside and practice Tai Chi, and it would be spacious.
Case in point, I sat on the first base side when Brady Anderson put on 50 pounds of muscle in two months. Huge head. But we were drinking the Golden Age of Baseball Kool-Aid back then, and we continued to buy in until the Jonestown that was the senate hearings. That’s what steroids do; as huge as you get, your head grows more than anything. Kirstie Alley gained 30 stone 7 over the course of an afternoon, but her head looks the same (she also has a pedestrian 40 time). The only thing that adds significantly to your head comes from Balco.
So when in doubt, the gigantic head is the red flag. That’s why when we look back at the late nineties, we need to remember the great players, not just the HGH monsters that are the current standard bearers. Greg Maddux? Genius pitcher; tiny head. Ken Griffey, Jr? Amazing swing; same hat he wore in 1992. Curt Schilling? Compare his rookie year in Baltimore with the bloody sock game, paying close attention to the gravitational pull of that sandbag on top of his shoulders…that’s all I’m saying…
Shane’s Destination June 22, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Chicago, It, Los Angeles, Movies.add a comment
Loners. Vanguards. Gunfighters. Shane. Shane was horrible, by far the worst Western I’d ever seen in my life. Purists would call me a lunatic, but I never trust a purist. ‘Purist’ is a positive spin on ‘true believer’, a category of person I refuse to ever trust. You can’t talk to a true believer, not to any effect, that is; you can yell at them and hope some or any of it sinks in but as they speak they search for holes in their own argument and as you speak they prepare their next barrage. They’re not listening to anything you say because they don’t see the need. Their mind has been made up, and every conversation is a chance to drag another non-believer into the light.
Tangent, whatever.
Back to westerns. I can’t call myself a real fan simply because real fans happen to like terrible movies. The best ones I’ve seen are ones that break the mold in some way. The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and Outlaw Josey Wales were basically anti-war movies. Unforgiven was Clint Eastwood’s ultimate backlash at the hand that fed his career; the loner, the vanguard, the gunfighter, broken down for what it was – not legendary or respectable, but tragic. Thanks Byron, you poetic asshole, for turning the myths into the same depressed meaningless mess as everyone else. What, does Superman take detours into Mexican border towns to score cheap Lexapro? Why can’t anyone be bulletproof anymore? Let the man throw the Cadillac!
The main characteristic of the Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter is that he goes from town to town, no real destination and no real starting point, ramblin’ like so many seventies rock bands glorified. You pick up, you go, you sit down for a second and tear the place apart, and then leave with only a trail of dust the people you knew left in the wake. You blew through town and as soon as everyone noticed, gone like Keyser Soze.
The movies always follow the town, watching the rider disappear into the sunset as the credits creep up, the huge Technicolor! globe taking over for the sun. But you never know what happens to the Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter, and you only sort of care. It’s widely assumed that he just does what he did again, with a new town, new women, and new nemeses.
I’ll tell you what happens, he gets forty yards away and doubles back, usually from some higher vantage point, looking into the town he saved from certain destruction. But the masses who pled for him to stay have already gotten over it. They’ve gone back to the saloons and general stores and whatever buildings they have in old western towns. Butchers, tons of butchers. And an amicable coffin maker. They’re over it. The Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter knows that had he stayed, the jubilation would have subsided and business as usual would have set in just the same. The world is saved and the story is told, the details of which will get fuzzier and more grandiose until someone’s kid eventually calls the crazy old people out on their hyperbole. When it all comes into question, it becomes harder and harder to believe any of it. It’s like it never happened.
No homes, only temporary places to crash. People who’s idiosyncrasies and drinks of choice become harder and harder to recall. Returning will be as a visitor, but have I ever been anything but? Or am I the permanent visitor? That’ll probably change at some point.
Then again, it didn’t for Shane.
Steve Perry, take us out… June 11, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Media, Movies, TV, Terrorism.add a comment
I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet that at least 50% of the people who have Don’t Stop Believin’ stuck in their head this morning will be weighing in on The Sopranos finale. A similarly large number probably cursed the name of Comcast, thinking their signal died the second the series ended in the spectacular cosa nostra crescendo everyone was betting on happening. The quick and easy explanation is the David Chase was flipping off the pundits and talking heads who debated whether Tony Soprano went down in a blaze of glory or vanished forever in witness protection. You’ve heard everyone else’s two cents, why not hear mine.
The last episode was about fear.
You’ve got A.J.’s awakening to the ills of the world and a sudden urge to do something about it. This wasn’t out of rage, but out of paranoia. His anger at Bobby Bacala’s funeral at the mundane conversation wasn’t in the Michael Moore “You Should Be Outraged!” vein. It was more “things are horrible and you’re just trying to distract yourself.” Tony and Carmela consulted A.J.’s psychitrist out of fear for their son’s safety. They expressed similar concern, although less so, over the impending marriage of Meadow. Sure, two lawyers getting married doesn’t seem like cause for concern, but every parent is worried about their kids. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t care. And then you have Tony visiting a senile Uncle Junior, afraid he was going to be taken advantage of by his conniving sister.
Mostly, you have a scenario where Tony will be afraid for the rest of his life. Every time that bell in the diner opened, he, like everyone watching, was terrified it was going to be a hitman seeking revenge for Phil Leotardo, or maybe Furio, or the Russian who escaped in the woods, or the Feds with enough evidence to put him away. “The Life [He] Had Chosen” was no longer simply the way things were. It was uncomfortable. And maybe that was the ultimate evolution of Tony Soprano. The matter-of-fact mafioso now had to look over his shoulder like everyone else. And he’ll do it for the rest of his life. And maybe that’s our future who wonder when we don’t have to worry about terrorism anymore. The War On Terrorism cannot be won because Terrorism doesn’t have a nation, flag, or shelflife. Neither does fear. Even though Tony vanquished Phil Leotardo, there’s always going to be another one. There, we’ve got some cultural significance.
Great show, great finale. With The Sopranos gone and Deadwood about to rap up (don’t know when), HBO has only The Wire, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Entourage (a series at a serious crossroads) to carry the torch. They’ve thrown a thousand new shows up, every single one of them previewed before the Sopranos and one, John From Cincinnati, premiering right afterwards. While HBO execs were obviously thinking that JFC (not too soon for an abbreviation, is it?) would benefit from viewers too catatonic to change the channel after the Sopranos faded to black, I argue it had the opposite effect. I was willing to give it a shot, but was too shell-shocked to give a damn. All I caught was Luke Perry on a beach sounding like the teacher on The Peanuts: waa-waa-waa-waa…right, you can’t really read that. Whatever, you know what I’m talking about.
A few random things:
-Saw Ocean’s Thirteen and enjoyed it. It wasn’t anywhere close to the first one, but after the huge steaming pile of flop that was the second (or twelfth), I don’t think anyone was expecting it to. A lot of people were ready to hate it because it was just basically a camera turned on a bunch of A-List celebrities having a good time, kind of like an US Weekly with a caper soundtrack. Going in ready to hate it isn’t the right move, it’s a good time.
-I think Transformers is going to either break the $100million opening weekend or it’s going to collapse like River Phoenix at the Viper Room. Either is a distinct possibility. It would be hilarious to watch it gross like $30million and having the producers go, “Wait…WAIT…this is what you wanted! Why in the hell didn’t you see this?” It’s a movie based on toys from the 80s. Hot Wheels: Tokyo Drift isn’t going to catch Spiderman either.
-Moving is insanely expensive. It’s about $1,200 to rent a Uhaul. That doesn’t include the convicted sex offender I’d try to pay to move it. I shouldn’t say that, not all movers are convicted sex offenders. Some plead no contest.
-Don’t stop….belieeeeevin’… Son of a bitch, where’s The Final Countdown when you need it? And how much different would the ending have been if Europe was blasting on the jukebox? Or Rock Me Amadeus? Okay, so 80s stuff is sort of coming back, but that music all blows ass, let’s be honest. I can appreciate Party All The Time for what it is; concrete evidence that cocaine can make anything happen. Too bad we can’t FTD a few kilos to Axl and Slash, with forged notes from each other. Let’s bring that one back.
-I’ve got 8 1/2 hours on a plane tomorrow. I’m pretty sure I could get to Spain on that.
Kobe Bryant and Occam’s Razor May 31, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Basketball, Los Angeles, Media.add a comment
The term ‘Conspiracy Theory’ carries a hell of a stigma. The first image conjured is usually that of the Kennedy Assassination, the rumors of alien landings at Roswell, and a remarkably horrible movie starring a pre-Himmler Mel Gibson. That history forces all logical theories under the umbrella of the insane. Well here’s one that’s not: Kobe Bryant meant exactly what he said when he requested a trade from the Lakers.
![]()
“Why would he do that?” gasp the talking heads on the ESPN channel fleet. “He’s the most marketable star in the second largest market in the country!” Okay, so we’ve eliminated one possibility: exposure.
![]()
It rarely makes sense to listen to someone’s explanation because most people lie, especially when it involves their career or money, but what the hell. Kobe’s demand for a trade came as part of a yelling match with the David Carradine of raising one’s voice, Stephen A. Smith. He claimed to be angry that he wasn’t getting any help from the front office, that they weren’t committed to surrounding him with championship caliber talent. That makes sense, considering that Kobe has been surrounded by young players such as Andrew Bynum and Kwame Brown. But then you recall Kobe’s part in running Shaquille O’Neal out of town. So that’s out; Kobe doesn’t want to share the spotlight.
It could be that Bryant’s having trouble with Head Coach Phil Jackson again. Jackson killed him in his book, calling Kobe “uncoachable.” Who can blame him there? There isn’t a point to drawing up a triangle offense with five players involved if one of them refuses to pass the ball. But Kobe has thrived under Jackson, and they’ve seemed to have buried the hatchet as the Zen Master still roams the bench at the Staples Center.
Wait…it’s got to be money. Hang on,…Kobe netted $17 million this season. Scratch that.
Well, those are the reasons that The Artist Formerly Known As Number Eight would want to leave the Lakers. What did I miss?
The Lottery…the NBA Draft Lottery.
The Celtics, Hawks, and Sixers all had a shot to land Kevin Durant or Greg Oden in the lottery, but the coveted top picks were swiped by Portland and Seattle of the Pacific Northwest. With the exception of LeBron James, all of the league’s stars are buried west of the Eastern Time Zone. The aforementioned Shaq is the beginning and end of the star power out East, and his time is quickly drawing to a close. Sure, Paul Pierce and Gilbert Arenas are big time players, but you don’t see either of them doing Sprite ads anytime soon. No one transcends the sport out there.
And the league is dying because of it.
![]()
Boston and New York used to be die-hard hotbeds. Between the Boston Garden and the hallowed MSG, some of the most devoted fans called the East home. People whine about an East Coast bias in sports, look at the results of the major cities on the Atlantic Coast this season:
Washington: 41-41
Philadelphia: 35-47
New York: 33-49
Atlanta: 30-52
Boston: 24-58
Of those teams, only Washington made the playoffs, and they were dead men walking with Arenas out.
The NHL moved Wayne Gretzky to Los Angeles to build the league out West. The NBA was banking on an Oden or Durant (or both) to bring save the league back East. And while they could be great players, Corey Brewer, Jeff Green, and Joakim Noah aren’t going to do that. Kobe Bryant, on the other hand…
Everyone was looking for a sequel to the famed “Frozen Envelope” draft that landed Patrick Ewing in America’s number one market. I wouldn’t be surprised in David Stern had a hand in getting one of the league’s best players out of American’s runner-up.
Even though he’s in a gigantic market, Bryant is quickly losing star-ground to fellow westerners Steve Nash and Dirk Nowitzki. That will only increase with the addition of Oden and Durant to Pacific Standard Time. In a coast devoid of star power, however, imagine how bright Kobe’s could shine.
I guess the truth really is in the first place you look.
Chasing It May 28, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Baseball, It.add a comment
You can’t fake It. If It’s not there, odds are pretty good it never will be. It’s not something that anyone can manufacture, either. It is an elusive bastard.
This morning, it was plastered all over the bastion of journalistic integrity that is Sportscenter (Walter Cronkite wishes he thought of “Booyah!”) that the New York Yankees are on the brink of canning General Manager Brian Cashman.
The man who collects allstars like a rich cougar collects poolboys, the guy who’s responsible for raiding other ballclubs of their best players, shaving them like show dogs and dragging them to the Bronx, is about to be the fallguy for the failings of the fourth place Yankees.
The thing is, the only people fighting this firing are the ones saying it’s manager Joe Torre who deserves to be held accountable. They want blood, they don’t care whose it is. Over a team that has been in the playoffs each of the last eleven years. So they haven’t won a World Series in seven years. Ask a Cub fan about patience.
The answer is obvious to anyone who can see beyond all of the dollar signs and corporate sponsorships. I am no Yankee fan, quite the contrary. It was looking up the standings at the Bombers from the vantage point of the Orioles that I understood exactly what’s wrong with the most valuable franchise in sports. There was a clear shift in philosophy, a shift that coincided almost exactly with the team signing away beloved Orioles ace Mike Mussina.
In the pre-Mussina days, the big names were not the guys who scared you as an enemy of the pinstripes. They were the guys like Paul O’Neill, who would bat .250 the whole season, but all of his hits would come at the worst possible time. Your team could be up on the Yanks by three in the eighth inning, but you knew a run was right around the corner. A bloop single by Posada, a standup double by O’Neill, an eight pitch walk to Jeter, and boom, Tino Martinez hits one out. Suddenly you’re on the wrong side of the result, and here comes the unhittable Mariano Rivera. Game over. These teams had an energy, a contagious camaraderie that made them the dynasty they were. Fiercely clutch, the only way to beat the Yankees was to survive the inevitable run. Few did.
And they totally forgot that.
Gone were the role players, the setup men, the glue guys who made those teams such a bitch to play against. In came Chuck Knoblauch, who crumbled so severely under the pressure that he lost his ability to make a routine throw to first base. In came Jason Giambi, who went from Giant Killer to just another guy. Even Alex Rodriguez, the most gifted ballplayer of this generation, found himself on the sports page only when he wasn’t getting it done. With rising expectations, the Yankee front office decided they needed to secure victory by bringing in talented mercenaries, guys who hardly cared about the guy next to them in the batting order. Why should they. They only just met.
No matter how much money the nation of Steinbrenner hurls onto the field, he can’t buy It. He can’t even find a group of guys that would be guaranteed to have It. It just happens, and that requires a bit of patience. You need selflessness, which is hard to get with eight figure salaries.
You could argue that this applies to anything. Are teams better than individuals? Usually. People have eccentrities and neuroses and daddy issues. A group doesn’t. Successful businesses get this. Mismanaged ones try to fake it, with company retreats and open bars. Because you can’t guarantee It by working harder or spending more or doing anything, a lot of people are ready to believe that It is basically a product of luck and nothing more. Cashman won’t be around to find out if that’s true or not, so I’ll give the ending away for his sake.
It isn’t.
Common Sense Man: Cardinals, Trust Falls, and Ludicrous Lawsuits May 24, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Baseball, Common Sense.1 comment so far
I think I’m pretty good about being an American. It’s not hard to get a C+ in that at all. You just need to pay your taxes, stand for the National Anthem, and not board-check Margie, the little old lady with cataracts the size of DirecTV dishes, when she tries to merge into your lane on Lakeshore drive. We might want to. After all, the daffy woman’s left turn signal has been on since the Carter administration. But we don’t. We show restraint. And a lot of that comes from the psychotically basic of civilized duties: trust.
Considering how many people I know that can’t drive a golf cart in a straight line and have been busted for DUI, it’s an absolute miracle that the driving system works. You stay in your lane, we’ll stay in hours. We’ll observe speed limits (at least the signs, while we gun past them). It’s really amazing. Wow, we really trust the shit out of each other, don’t we? In today’s Patriot Act and identity theft America, how do we trust each other? Because we trust ourselves to do our part. I’m trusting Margie not to t-bone me because she’s trusting me to do the same.
But, if there’s a car crash, it has to be someone’s fault.
Accidents happen all of the time, way less than they probably should. The more stuff auto manufacturers cram into cars to distract us, the more likely we are to be…distracted. I’ve fished for a CD in the foot-area of the passenger seat while on the highway. If little ol’ Margie didn’t see me in her larger than average blind spot, I would have been dust. Accidents are accidents, sometimes bad things just happen. If you’re boozing, bad things are slightly more likely to happen.
![]()
The reason I’m talking about this is that I just read that the father of Josh Hancock, the St. Louis Cardinals pitcher who died in a fatal car crash, is suing the bar his son was visiting for over-serving him. Over-serving. Josh wanted booze and the bar served him. And they’re getting sued. For not protecting young Josh against himself and his own horrible judgement. Let’s break this down.
I know people who it is goddamn impossible to tell if they’re wasted. I know some people who become more eloquent after a six or seven beer buzz. The fact that it is ever, EVER on the bartender for serving someone who made the horrible decision to get behind the wheel of a car while blacked out is totally insane. Also, a little indisputable fact, no one who gets in an alcohol related accident or popped for a DUI does so on their first go round. This was probably closer to the 30th time for the late Josh Hancock.
What in the holy hell is wrong with us? People are suing McDonald’s for making them fat; it’s the worst food on the planet. Yes, the millet the peasant workers were eating in Seven Samurai is of a higher nutritional quality. People suing cigarette companies for making products that kill them. The guy who sued the lawnmower company after picking it up and using it on a vertical hedge. The commercials that show an H2 diving under the sea and turning into a Bond car have a tiny disclaimer that reads “Simulation, do not attempt.” What happened to trusting people not to be idiots? How can we plan to protect people who have no common sense? Wouldn’t Darwinism have kicked in back when this kid was eating paste in the 1st grade? What’s so wrong with that? It drives me out of my goddamn mind that we need to modify our rules to cater to people who can’t be Trusted to look out for themselves and each other. God forbid someone feel bad about being called stupid, even if they’re destined to pull a Death Proof on an unsuspecting family of four who Trusted them to not do exactly that.
Hancock’s father is upset and is looking for someone to blame other than his son who made a bad decision and died for it. He violated the trust of everyone else on the road by not being in full capacity to drive. There’s that T word again, a cornerstone of being an American citizen. Another one is responsibility, and in this case, it all lies with Josh Hancock.
See You In Arizona Bay May 18, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Chicago, Immigration, Los Angeles.add a comment
CHICAGO – I should probably explain myself.
I had decided I wasn’t going to go even before I’d gotten the letter admitting me to law school. A ferocious reshuffling of priorities in the first few months of 2005 left me considering the possibility that if I became a lawyer, I’d never get the chance to write a movie. It was always one of those things that was on its permanent backburner, behind the other backburners, in another kitchen, really. But I knew that I’d been thinking about writing and performing comedy since I left college and the sketch group that brought me back from the dead, and that it wasn’t likely to stop once I picked up the books and headed to court. I wrote a sketch during the LSAT, for the love of christ (for the record, of the 22 questions I missed on the LSAT, 19 of them were on the section where the sketch was born. And yes, it killed), how was I ever going to give up on this? As relationships fell apart and people I knew as mentors literally died around me, I decided that living with regret was the worse possible thing in the world.
So I concluded that bailing on the bizarre, impractical Dream was impossible and decided to give It a shot. But the grind of waiting tables and praying to God, Allah, Krishna, and whoever else that someone saw my standup set that is the lifestyle of New York and Los Angeles wasn’t my scene. Long story short, I moved to Chicago and picked up with the Second City Conservatory, working with directors and ridiculously funny people and finding some way to pay the rent. I locked myself in with complete and utter tunnel-vision, totally ignoring any thoughts of what the next decade or year or month was going to be like. I did a bunch of shows on the various stages at SC and a few others around Chicago and had a great time. I could have stayed here forever.
But that wasn’t the next step. I ended up with an audition and a callback for a sketch show in Los Angeles, and before my last show at Second City was cold, I landed a job as a writer…in LA.

The bane of my existence, the place the great Bill Hicks called Arizona Bay…I’ll soon call it home. I was going to go through all that stuff that so many people have gone through before: the search for an agent, the traffic, football games at ten o’clock in the morning. Amidst all the other people trying to Live the Dream, I was going to blend in like egg nog ice cream, which I once ate under the false pretense that it was vanilla. So we’re underway.
Still in Chicago and I might get the call to move at any minute. I’m guessing June. I’ll document it in full…
A few random things:
-Immigration bill looks like it’s going to work out. I think it seems fair, I’ve already heard a few people angry that they’re fining the illegals $5k as part of their trek to citizenship. Well, they’ve been in this country for awhile and haven’t paid taxes. Also, there’s that whole thing about ‘illegal’ immigrant; they’re criminals according to our government. Al Capone’s empire came crumbling down because of tax evasion, five grand isn’t a thing. I would like to hear alternatives from anyone who disagrees with the bill or my assessment that it’s more than fair, not to start a fight, but because I’m open to listen. That’s how conversations work, despite what CNN and other media outlets want you to think.
-Jerry Falwell’s dead this week, and it’s about time. I’m tired of famous people becoming
saints after they die, especially people who are famous for being terrible human beings. Falwell said the United States deserved 9/11 because of all the athiests, gays, minorities and tits on TV. His sermons led people to agree with his sentiments that the Civil Rights movement was the worst thing that has ever happened to this country. Falwell was a terrorist, no better than a low-ranking Klansman who harrasses black families in suburban neighborhoods. Every time part of you wants to show some remorse for his recent passing, remember that if he had his way, black people would be calling him “massah”, gay people would be on fire, the 700 club would be the only show on TV, and if you are Jewish, Muslim, atheist, Buddhist or just not Christian enough, you’d be dead. I think he was a horrible guy, you’re entitled to your opinion (oh, he wouldn’t want that either).
Wilbon on Imus April 12, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Language, Racism.add a comment
Here’s an article by the great Mike Wilbon on the whole Don Imus thing. It’s a good one:
____________________________________________
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/10/AR2007041001891.html
Out of Imus’s Bigotry, a Zero Tolerance for Hate
By Michael Wilbon
Wednesday, April 11, 2007; Page E01
If calling the Rutgers women’s basketball players “nappy-headed hos” was the first deplorable and offensive utterance out of shock jock Don Imus’s mouth, there probably wouldn’t be a national firestorm over his reprehensible characterization. If this was some rare event, then there wouldn’t be organizations lining up to demand he be fired. If this was the first time, or second, or 10th, probably Imus wouldn’t have been suspended for two weeks from his syndicated radio show, which is simulcast on MSNBC.
But there’s nothing rare about Imus’s vile attacks. This is what he does as a matter of course. Imus and his studio cohorts have painted black people as convicts and muggers and worst of all, apes. Not only do they find it funny, they expect everybody else will as well.
Sid Rosenberg, whom Imus once fired, then rehired, said one morning in 2001 that Serena and Venus Williams would be better off posing in National Geographic than Playboy. He knew he was saying Serena and Venus are closer to wild animals than women.
Please don’t tell me it’s not fair to hold Imus accountable for that remark and others like it because it didn’t come out of his mouth. Imus hires the people who utter this filth and, in fact, wants them to go as far as possible because he believes it insulates him to a certain degree from the harshest criticism.
This is what Imus has done for years and years, and Viacom and NBC Universal pay him a king’s ransom to do it. Imus has been questioned about his tactics over the years, and he says repeatedly and dismissively, “Get over it.” He certainly isn’t the only morning shock jock doing this, but he’s the one whose behind is being scorched now and justifiably so.
Imus is the one who said in 1995 of Gwen Ifill, an accomplished, award-winning black journalist of incredible dignity and grace: “Isn’t the [New York] Times wonderful. . . . It lets the cleaning lady cover the White House.”
It’s Imus who called William C. Rhoden, the veteran Times sports columnist, “a quota hire.” Of course, the work, accomplishments or stature of their targets do not matter to Imus and his stooges. He makes fun of former attorney general Janet Reno’s Parkinson’s disease.
So “nappy-headed hos” wasn’t some weak moment of great exception on the Imus show. In 1997, during a “60 Minutes” profile, Mike Wallace confronted Imus and a former producer who quoted Imus as saying he’d hired a staffer to “do nigger jokes.” When I mentioned that earlier this week on ESPN’s Pardon the Interruption, Imus responded on his show that it simply did not happen — though I see it in a 2000 issue of the Columbia Journalism Review and had a producer access it through a transcript (also the audio version) on National Public Radio.
Wallace: “You’ve told Tom Anderson, the producer, in your car coming home that Bernard McGuirk is there to do nigger jokes.’”
Imus: “Well, I’ve . . . I never use that word.”
Wallace: “Tom?”
Tom Anderson: “I’m right here.”
Imus: “Did I use that word?
Anderson: “I recall you using that word.”
Imus: “Oh, okay, well then I used that word, but I mean . . . of course that was an off-the-record conversation . . .”
Wallace: “The hell it was.”
So, you’ll excuse me if I dismiss Imus’s apology as bogus. He’s apologized in the past, told veteran black journalist Clarence Page on the air he would “promise to cease all simian references to black . . . black athletes.” That was before Imus went back to the ape references, probably within a week.
Understandably, this has led to a whole lot of folks calling for Imus’s head. Personally, I’d rather see Imus have to confront anger, scorn and ridicule every single day. I’d rather see him have to deal with the accusation of being a bigot. I’d rather the criticism come at Imus from every angle, indefinitely, rather than have him slink away to private life.
You’ll have to excuse me for not believing a man can utter this brand of filth month after month, then proclaim testily he’s not a bigot. Firing, in some ways, would let him off the hook too easily. I’ll defend Imus’s right to free speech, while pointing out that those of us who find him and his goons contemptible have the exact same right to free speech. I’d rather see Imus squirm in the face of withering criticism than be fired and turn up six months later as some kind of martyr.
I’d rather see him snubbed by Cal Ripken, who refused to go on the air with Imus after his remarks about the Rutgers women. Ripken was supposed to appear on the Imus show yesterday to promote his new book.
Already a little squeamish about appearing on the show, Ripken’s decision to tell Imus no became an easy one after the latest spewing. “It was set up by the publisher, but I said no because I don’t want anybody to perceive that I condone those comments because I don’t,” Ripken said in a telephone conversation yesterday. “And if you go on that show, that’s exactly what the perception would be.”
Ripken said he does not want to be seen as someone wielding a moral compass. But I wonder now how many of these prominent journalists and politicians who use the platform Imus provides (and therefore give him cover) will have as much conviction as Ripken displayed.
Imus, not surprisingly, is trying to frame the discussion in a way that paints him as a good guy who did a stupid thing, which might be okay if he wasn’t such a serial offender. Yes, Imus routinely has riveting political discussions, as recently as last fall when he engaged Harold Ford, then running for the U.S. Senate, in conversations about running for office as a young black man in the South, in this case Tennessee. When Imus says he’s not unfamiliar with black people, he’s telling the truth. He’s not some idiot segregationist who seals himself off from black people, which is what makes these episodes even more disgusting.
If you believe the bosses at Viacom and NBC Universal have any guts, and I’m not sure I do, then you might believe the suspension represents a warning of zero tolerance from here on in and that Imus is one more incident from being dumped. And while I’m not agitating for Imus to be fired, I’d certainly raise a toast if it happens. Until then, what Imus has prompted is a necessary national conversation. The meeting with the Rutgers women is necessary — so is the vigil to stand over him and remind him that even if he doesn’t get it, many of us do.
Stock and Pillory on NBC February 13, 2007
Posted by rosolio in TV.add a comment
Dateline: To Catch A Predator is the best show on TV. There’s nothing better than watching these horrible people being humiliated. Serial killers aren’t as bad as these guys. The kids who survive molestation are never the same. Ever. And the worst part about it is that victims of molestation end up often doing the same thing to someone else. It’s the most vicious of cycles. This show is certainly making a dent in that cycle.
Thirty-eight internet predators in three days in Texas…and now everyone in the country knows their names and faces.
Advocates of the death penalty love to kick around the word “deterrent”. Dragging these pieces of shit out into the streets and shooting them would be letting them off too easy. Instead, these guys are exposed for what they are in front of their families, their friends, their employers, their neighbors: as pedophilic monsters…they’re done, sentenced to remain in a living hell. That’s a deterrent.
Plus, you’ve got people talking about this stuff which, based on the numbers they’re catching in their dredges, is a lot more rampant than everyone thought.
Hey, something heroic on TV. You get to watch these guys flail, lie, beg for their lives, and occasionally get zapped with a taser. Real deal TV justice. Top notch.
Everyone needs to watch this show. NBC, Tuesdays 8/7c.
Misinterpreted Names and Jimmy Fallon Syndrome February 9, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Epic.add a comment
I consider myself to be able to remain in at least the majority of control over myself at all times. Sort of like a Cirque du Soleil gymnast, who needs to balance himself horizontally in midair using only one arm while juggling flaming children with his feet. Exactly like that, only with my face. If something is funny, I can remain calm. Such is often the requirement of being onstage; there is nothing more obnoxious than someone laughing at their own jokes and few things worse than professionals cracking up. The Jimmy Fallon Syndrome (JFS) immediately vaults you from the land of professionalism to the dusty sub-basement of mediocrity. So I pride myself in being able to remain composed.
Sadly, there are anomylies from time to time. Cal Ripken’s streak had to end, Ken Jennings had to lose, and Samuel L. Jackson had to make “The Man” with Eugene Levy. Luckily, my waterloo came offstage, in the comfort of a workplace environment.
I’m also fairly tolerant of other cultures, especially when it comes to naming conventions. If someone wants to name their firstborn “SockDrawer”, I say more power to them. It is always a nice twist on the day to go to a restaurant and hear, “Hello, my name is Saladfork, and I’ll be your server.” I do try to ignore the corollary between these ‘unique’ names and their professions, but it is important to know that I’ve never met a CFO or stock broker named after any cleaning products, yet have definitely encountered a Giordano’s waitress with a nametag reading, “Lysolle”. You can’t judge. I do know that sometimes things are lost in translation; a lot can happen on the bumpy road to English. It is my exact tolerance of this that led to my downfall.
Sitting in a meeting, enjoying the witty banter that is usually associated with xml coding restrictions, one of the IT directors decided to list the new projects that the engineers were working on for us. It is important to note that none of the engineers were born in the United States). “So Deepak is working on something for the new LMS platform…and Shithead will be correcting the interface tools.”
Shithead.
Release the hounds.
My first reaction was complete and total surprise. You don’t often hear the word ’shithead’ in a professional environment. It’s one of those terms that is often frowned upon by the Upper-Ups. The second reaction I had was that perhaps this IT person has reached a level of comfort with us that she can a) make a joke about someone we work with and; b) expose her distain for someone we work with. It was on the level of saying, “The Lazy-eyed, cock-smoking ass-clown will be handling the xml certifications from now on and the 320-pound diesel dyke will handle versioning, you know, when she’s not buried in mammalian abalone.” Wow, it just got comfortable in this room.
Then…the third reaction hit…the most fatal. I came to the conclusion that there was someone in the office named Shithead, or named something pronounced similarly to Shithead. Like “Chi-thayed” or just “Siteed”. The tangential mind took over and I was doomed. I instantly thought of what it would be like growing up with the name Shithead. Christ, they called me Rotch at camp one year (as in Mike Rotch…My Crotch…wordsmiths). Forget the years of ridicule that poor Shithead would be subjected to by his peers. What about being a neighbor and going across the street for a cookout, and witnessing the matriarch of the household going, “Shithead! Put down that whiffle ball bat and wash up for dinner! I’m not going to ask you twice, Shithead!” You’d call Child Services. Or what if they used the traditional Dr. Spock tactic of ‘using the child’s full name when you’re pissed’, like “Michael Evan Rosolio, don’t touch anything in the museum” or “Shithead Smegma Jones, stop poking your sister!”
So, naturally, I started cracking up in the meeting. It was like I was front row at a Bill Hicks concert and a funeral at the same time, trying so hard not to laugh that muscles in my face I didn’t even know I had began to hurt like I just powercleaned a Mini Cooper. The only thing that saved me was that one of the IT directors had made a joke, and they were all having a little chuckle about code or something. So I released, confident that my thunderous laughter at the tragic expense of poor Shithead would be disguised with the rest of the chuckling going on in the room. The trouble was that the director’s joke wasn’t as funny as mine, so when the madness in the room died down, my own personal carnage continued to flow out. It’s was like trying to stop a river with a tongue depresser; I would have had to have been Moses to stop this one. The smiles on everyone’s faces soon turned to confusion, because their joke wasn’t funny enough for me to laugh that hard. I was saved, however, as the meeting ended only four agonizing minutes later. I confided in a colleague the source of my meltdown and he assured me that I had misheard the director say Shijev.”
The moral of the story is that there needs to be a director of common sense at Ellis Island. We need to protect the tired and sick of other nations who risk so much for a better life in this country from having a name that sounds exactly like an obscenity. I’m not saying we need to Anglicize everyone’s names, but if someone is standing at the registration desk with a name like Poopcastle or Asshat or Cloudydischarge, they need to give them a creative pronounciation to save them from inadvertant ridicule in their new homeland. I would expect the corresponding offices in other nations around the world to do the same for me.
After all, for all I know ‘Mike’ means ‘douchebag’ in Hindi.
