Wednesday, June 30, 2004
More Americans That Make America the Greatest and Most American America it Could Be
Mattie JT Stepanek
Debra Beasley Lafave
The Train Conductor
Otis Nixon
Henry Fonda
Santos L. Halper
That Chick Who Wrote the Bible
Enos Slaughter
Steve Brody
Ivan Allen VI
Israbestis Tott
Ally Sheedy
Otis Spunkmeyer
Either Set of Hanson Brothers
Claus von Stauffenberg
Cokie Roberts
Larry Tate
General Tso
Mr. Butch
Buckaroo Banzai
Willie B.
Horatio Cocles
The Miller Lite All-Stars (excluding Grits Gresham)
Motherfucking Charlemagne
Milton Micromatis
Flint Dille
The Sodomized Corpse of Morris the Cat
Dandelions
Mattie JT Stepanek
Debra Beasley Lafave
The Train Conductor
Otis Nixon
Henry Fonda
Santos L. Halper
That Chick Who Wrote the Bible
Enos Slaughter
Steve Brody
Ivan Allen VI
Israbestis Tott
Ally Sheedy
Otis Spunkmeyer
Either Set of Hanson Brothers
Claus von Stauffenberg
Cokie Roberts
Larry Tate
General Tso
Mr. Butch
Buckaroo Banzai
Willie B.
Horatio Cocles
The Miller Lite All-Stars (excluding Grits Gresham)
Motherfucking Charlemagne
Milton Micromatis
Flint Dille
The Sodomized Corpse of Morris the Cat
Dandelions
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Americans That Make Us Proud to Be People That Are From America
Abraham Lincoln
Benjamin Franklin
Martin Luther King, Jr
Hector “Macho” Camacho
Rip Van Winkle
James Otis
Lord Jeffrey Amherst
Blackie Onassis
Molly Pitcher
Sam Donaldson
Patty Duke
Paul Harvey
George Washingstone
Mother Goose
The Ghost of Ronald Reagan
Bob Marley
Samuel Otis
Ludlow Porch
Marmaduke
Conrad Bloom
Elihu Root
Jimmy Durante’s Nose
All Rappers
Otis Brumby
William Dawes
Tituba
Those Who Brush Their Teeth in the Men’s Room at Work
John Wesley Dobbs
Jeff Goldblum
Carrie Otis
“Big Cat” Ernie Ladd
The Man Who Invented Fun
The Mighty Thor
Mrs. Bennett
Famous Amos
Anybody Named Hank
Buster the Dachsund
Roxie Roker
Grandpa Jones
Shoney Bear
Abraham Lincoln
Benjamin Franklin
Martin Luther King, Jr
Hector “Macho” Camacho
Rip Van Winkle
James Otis
Lord Jeffrey Amherst
Blackie Onassis
Molly Pitcher
Sam Donaldson
Patty Duke
Paul Harvey
George Washingstone
Mother Goose
The Ghost of Ronald Reagan
Bob Marley
Samuel Otis
Ludlow Porch
Marmaduke
Conrad Bloom
Elihu Root
Jimmy Durante’s Nose
All Rappers
Otis Brumby
William Dawes
Tituba
Those Who Brush Their Teeth in the Men’s Room at Work
John Wesley Dobbs
Jeff Goldblum
Carrie Otis
“Big Cat” Ernie Ladd
The Man Who Invented Fun
The Mighty Thor
Mrs. Bennett
Famous Amos
Anybody Named Hank
Buster the Dachsund
Roxie Roker
Grandpa Jones
Shoney Bear
Friday, June 25, 2004
Each morning...
...as I make my way to the old grind, I pass a swimming hole. Recently, I've taken to starting my day a few minutes earlier -- taking breakfast by candle light in the eerie pre-dawn still. I am not a morning person, but this change in routine allows a scant few minutes to stop and observe a family of ducks as I trudge the beaten path.
Today I noticed something. The young ducklings, who just a couple weeks ago were nothing more than downey balls of puff, were now completely indistinguishable from their elders.
I looked down, wiped the wet grass clippings from my boots and shuddered as I thought, "Oh how they grow up fast."
...as I make my way to the old grind, I pass a swimming hole. Recently, I've taken to starting my day a few minutes earlier -- taking breakfast by candle light in the eerie pre-dawn still. I am not a morning person, but this change in routine allows a scant few minutes to stop and observe a family of ducks as I trudge the beaten path.
Today I noticed something. The young ducklings, who just a couple weeks ago were nothing more than downey balls of puff, were now completely indistinguishable from their elders.
I looked down, wiped the wet grass clippings from my boots and shuddered as I thought, "Oh how they grow up fast."
Thursday, June 24, 2004
A Man. A Legend. A True Friend.
This morning I received a curious email from someone called EJSpooky requesting my friendship in the realm of myspace.com. I clicked on the profile link to get a quick idea of who was attempting to instigate something as committed, lasting and real as a myspace friendship.
Well, it turns out that EJSpooky is in fact Eric Johnson, guitarist for the late rock and roll outfit Archers of Loaf. Weird. "The Loaf" were one of my very favorite bands from about 1993 until their demise in 1999. Naturally, I clicked the "Accept as your friend" button.
According to his profile, my friend, E.J. keeps himself busy working in a law office until he returns to lawschool. He's still making music, though mostly for his own pleasure and is inspired by DJ Shadow, but still has a soft spot for Dre and Snoop. He likes to drink, but doesn't go to bars often because "like the Postal Service says, 'it isn't a party if it happens every night.'" He also enjoys working out (but he's not trying to get buff), and is looking
for the perfect non-smoking lady to settle down with. Eric also let me take a look at some pictures of him and a big parrot as well as a few from his glory days as a full-time rocker. What a guy!
I can't wait to see how this friendship develops. It already feels special.
This morning I received a curious email from someone called EJSpooky requesting my friendship in the realm of myspace.com. I clicked on the profile link to get a quick idea of who was attempting to instigate something as committed, lasting and real as a myspace friendship.
Well, it turns out that EJSpooky is in fact Eric Johnson, guitarist for the late rock and roll outfit Archers of Loaf. Weird. "The Loaf" were one of my very favorite bands from about 1993 until their demise in 1999. Naturally, I clicked the "Accept as your friend" button.
According to his profile, my friend, E.J. keeps himself busy working in a law office until he returns to lawschool. He's still making music, though mostly for his own pleasure and is inspired by DJ Shadow, but still has a soft spot for Dre and Snoop. He likes to drink, but doesn't go to bars often because "like the Postal Service says, 'it isn't a party if it happens every night.'" He also enjoys working out (but he's not trying to get buff), and is looking
for the perfect non-smoking lady to settle down with. Eric also let me take a look at some pictures of him and a big parrot as well as a few from his glory days as a full-time rocker. What a guy!
I can't wait to see how this friendship develops. It already feels special.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
A Ghost is Boring?
So how's that new Wilco record? Should I run out after work and use the last of my Best Buy gift card on it?
So how's that new Wilco record? Should I run out after work and use the last of my Best Buy gift card on it?
Thursday, June 17, 2004
This is a Career
We run into people in the streets. They say Hey! Dude! We're in these streets!, and we say nothing, and run into them again. They roll up their sleeves, revealing grey anchors and images of black barbed wire. They say Yeah! These arms are wicked ours!, and point them at us, as we run into them. Now there's a fluffy dog. Their tight pants bulge with incredulity. The sunblasted blacktop shines with motor oil and immigration. We run into them again, in the streets, with nothing in our smiles. The train's only one car, there are no seats. They're going to be late for work. We help them up, off the streets, run into them one last time, help them back up, and take them to work. Briefly our fists touch. We make plans to go to Six Flags when the weather's nicer.
We run into people in the streets. They say Hey! Dude! We're in these streets!, and we say nothing, and run into them again. They roll up their sleeves, revealing grey anchors and images of black barbed wire. They say Yeah! These arms are wicked ours!, and point them at us, as we run into them. Now there's a fluffy dog. Their tight pants bulge with incredulity. The sunblasted blacktop shines with motor oil and immigration. We run into them again, in the streets, with nothing in our smiles. The train's only one car, there are no seats. They're going to be late for work. We help them up, off the streets, run into them one last time, help them back up, and take them to work. Briefly our fists touch. We make plans to go to Six Flags when the weather's nicer.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Hot Meat Hoedown
Too cheap to hold a real company picnic, my employer instead set up a tent and some tables in the parking lot and held a barbecue today. What a darling little affair it was. All our superiors, or our superiors’ superiors, donned little down-home effects, sporting straw hats and overalls with red handkerchiefs around the neck, and aprons with cowboys riding bucking broncos and twirling their lassos in the air. Oh, how the corporate tables had ever so briefly turned; instead of merely smiling politely while adjusting his tie in the bathroom mirror, Mike Tinsley was now calling me “pardner”, and handing me cornbread. Amazingly good cornbread, at that. The food was surprisingly good overall, actually; I didn’t eat any of the barbecue chicken, but the pulled pork was tasty, and not entirely unlike the true stuff you can get back home. Unfortunately my sugar embargo ended after only two days; I ate a couple of chocolate chip cookies, but I was only following orders. I mean, hey, can you blame me? Anyway, the food was good, and I got a free Crews-style handkerchief out of it, so all in all I'm pretty much living like a king.
Too cheap to hold a real company picnic, my employer instead set up a tent and some tables in the parking lot and held a barbecue today. What a darling little affair it was. All our superiors, or our superiors’ superiors, donned little down-home effects, sporting straw hats and overalls with red handkerchiefs around the neck, and aprons with cowboys riding bucking broncos and twirling their lassos in the air. Oh, how the corporate tables had ever so briefly turned; instead of merely smiling politely while adjusting his tie in the bathroom mirror, Mike Tinsley was now calling me “pardner”, and handing me cornbread. Amazingly good cornbread, at that. The food was surprisingly good overall, actually; I didn’t eat any of the barbecue chicken, but the pulled pork was tasty, and not entirely unlike the true stuff you can get back home. Unfortunately my sugar embargo ended after only two days; I ate a couple of chocolate chip cookies, but I was only following orders. I mean, hey, can you blame me? Anyway, the food was good, and I got a free Crews-style handkerchief out of it, so all in all I'm pretty much living like a king.
An Unnecessary and Belated Look at Human Amusements at Hourly Rates: The Best of Guided by Voices
This GBV best-of sucks. Where’s “Postal Blowfish”? “Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory”? Jesus – fucking “Don’t Stop Now”? That may be one of his five or six best songs ever. Hell, that and pretty much every other song from Under the Bushes are better than two of the three they pulled from that record. Seriously – “Cut-Out Witch”?!? That song’s a turd, a stinky turd. It’s one of the five songs Ice and I are going to play whenever we do our anti-GBV cover band Hot Freaks (there’s no need to say anything about “Hot Freaks” other than it just might be the worst atrocity ever committed by mankind; I do not object to its presence on this compilation, however, as it is a powerful and necessary reminder of the unknowable evil man can inflict upon himself). But Bob Pollard apparently thinks “Witch” is a better song than “Don’t Stop Know”, or “Big Boring Wedding”, or “Your Name is Wild”, or “Bright Paper Werewolves”, or any of the other songs from that same album, every single one of which is exponentially greater than “Cut-Out Witch”. And for the only Tobin song to be “To Remake the Young Flyer”! Great God above. If you’re going to acknowledge Tobin Sprout at all, you absolutely must start with “Gleemer (The Deeds of Fertile Jim)”, his most prescient contribution to our indefatiguable culture. “Young Flyer” is competent, but thoroughly boring and uneventful, and one of Sprout’s least notable songs. Then we’ve got the two flat-out bad singles from Mag Earwhig, “I am a Tree” and “Bulldog Skin”. I know these best-of’s generally contain all the pertinent singles, but the omission of “Hold on Hope” is proof that Pollard didn’t let a song’s status as a single overpower it’s quality when making out this tracklisting. Why couldn’t Pollard have spared us from having to hear, yet again, the sub Foo Fighters, limp-wristed non-cock-rock of “I am a Tree”, the worst GBV single until “Hold on Hope”? “Bulldog Skin” isn’t awful; like “To Remake the Young Flyer”, it’s just boring as hell. Picking out the best songs from Earwhig isn’t an easy thing to do, since most of the record sucks, but there are definitely songs on there better than these. One of them, “Learning to Hunt”, thankfully made the cut, and appears on the best-of, as is it’s right; besides being the best song on GBV’s most boring record, it’s also the best and most effective ballad Pollard wrote about something other than alcohol. It’s a shame that “Sad If I Lost It” isn’t on here as well, instead of either “Tree” or “Bulldog Skin”. I can’t argue with his selections from his last four albums, though; he took the only three listenable songs from 1999’s horrible Do the Collapse (although having the album version of “Teenage FBI” in addition to the earlier seven-inch version would have been nice), and only the best from the rest. “Cheyenne” would have fit on here easily, but that’s a minor quibble. Overall, I’m sure this is great to the novices and the uninitiated, and thus has value as a stand-alone disc, but including it in the latest box-set was completely unnecessary. We would have been better served by another live disc, or a collection of the early, pre-Matador seven-inches.
This GBV best-of sucks. Where’s “Postal Blowfish”? “Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory”? Jesus – fucking “Don’t Stop Now”? That may be one of his five or six best songs ever. Hell, that and pretty much every other song from Under the Bushes are better than two of the three they pulled from that record. Seriously – “Cut-Out Witch”?!? That song’s a turd, a stinky turd. It’s one of the five songs Ice and I are going to play whenever we do our anti-GBV cover band Hot Freaks (there’s no need to say anything about “Hot Freaks” other than it just might be the worst atrocity ever committed by mankind; I do not object to its presence on this compilation, however, as it is a powerful and necessary reminder of the unknowable evil man can inflict upon himself). But Bob Pollard apparently thinks “Witch” is a better song than “Don’t Stop Know”, or “Big Boring Wedding”, or “Your Name is Wild”, or “Bright Paper Werewolves”, or any of the other songs from that same album, every single one of which is exponentially greater than “Cut-Out Witch”. And for the only Tobin song to be “To Remake the Young Flyer”! Great God above. If you’re going to acknowledge Tobin Sprout at all, you absolutely must start with “Gleemer (The Deeds of Fertile Jim)”, his most prescient contribution to our indefatiguable culture. “Young Flyer” is competent, but thoroughly boring and uneventful, and one of Sprout’s least notable songs. Then we’ve got the two flat-out bad singles from Mag Earwhig, “I am a Tree” and “Bulldog Skin”. I know these best-of’s generally contain all the pertinent singles, but the omission of “Hold on Hope” is proof that Pollard didn’t let a song’s status as a single overpower it’s quality when making out this tracklisting. Why couldn’t Pollard have spared us from having to hear, yet again, the sub Foo Fighters, limp-wristed non-cock-rock of “I am a Tree”, the worst GBV single until “Hold on Hope”? “Bulldog Skin” isn’t awful; like “To Remake the Young Flyer”, it’s just boring as hell. Picking out the best songs from Earwhig isn’t an easy thing to do, since most of the record sucks, but there are definitely songs on there better than these. One of them, “Learning to Hunt”, thankfully made the cut, and appears on the best-of, as is it’s right; besides being the best song on GBV’s most boring record, it’s also the best and most effective ballad Pollard wrote about something other than alcohol. It’s a shame that “Sad If I Lost It” isn’t on here as well, instead of either “Tree” or “Bulldog Skin”. I can’t argue with his selections from his last four albums, though; he took the only three listenable songs from 1999’s horrible Do the Collapse (although having the album version of “Teenage FBI” in addition to the earlier seven-inch version would have been nice), and only the best from the rest. “Cheyenne” would have fit on here easily, but that’s a minor quibble. Overall, I’m sure this is great to the novices and the uninitiated, and thus has value as a stand-alone disc, but including it in the latest box-set was completely unnecessary. We would have been better served by another live disc, or a collection of the early, pre-Matador seven-inches.
Monday, June 14, 2004
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
done saw me a movie
I watched Kill Bill last night, the first one.
My initial gut feeling is that it’s more enjoyable than Pulp Fiction or Reservoir Dogs. It’s probably not as good as either of those – those movies each have at least one character that’s more fully developed into something approximating a real human being – but it’s a more entertaining movie. Definitely not as good as Jackie Brown, of course.
But so, my biggest complaint with it: she leaves two corpses lying on the floor of a hospital room, and then spends thirteen hours lying in the back of one of the corpses’ truck. I know it’s a hospital, and there are probably just corpses lying around everywhere already, but don’t you think somebody would have noticed these particularly conspicuous corpses, what with all the blood and gnawed tongues and broken necks sticking partially out into the hallway, and everything? And don’t you think that the cops or investigators or whoever would notice that one of the corpses’ car-keys were gone, and start to look (or send somebody to look) for this car, in hopes of catching the murderer? And don’t you think that, due in part to the extreme distinction of this corpse’s car, one of the corpse’s former co-workers would know exactly what car was his, and would be able to describe it to the investigators in close detail? And don’t you think that the car would be pretty easy to find, considering it was sitting in the employee parking deck? And don’t you think that the investigators, upon finding this car, and finding the blood-splattered woman talking to her feet in the back, would have hurled Uma into jail as swift as they could? And don’t you think that, since it was in Texas and all, Uma would have been fried up all good within a decade or two, even though she was obviously insane and/or mentally handicapped (you know, the whole talking to her feet thing). But then again I guess you don’t go to a Quentin Tarantino movie for realistic depictions of the law enforcement trade.
That truck was the worst thing about Kill Bill. It was just stupid, not funny or witty at all.
Also watched Five Easy Pieces the other night. Good film. I like those slow ‘70’s movies that are never in a rush to get anywhere.
I watched Kill Bill last night, the first one.
My initial gut feeling is that it’s more enjoyable than Pulp Fiction or Reservoir Dogs. It’s probably not as good as either of those – those movies each have at least one character that’s more fully developed into something approximating a real human being – but it’s a more entertaining movie. Definitely not as good as Jackie Brown, of course.
But so, my biggest complaint with it: she leaves two corpses lying on the floor of a hospital room, and then spends thirteen hours lying in the back of one of the corpses’ truck. I know it’s a hospital, and there are probably just corpses lying around everywhere already, but don’t you think somebody would have noticed these particularly conspicuous corpses, what with all the blood and gnawed tongues and broken necks sticking partially out into the hallway, and everything? And don’t you think that the cops or investigators or whoever would notice that one of the corpses’ car-keys were gone, and start to look (or send somebody to look) for this car, in hopes of catching the murderer? And don’t you think that, due in part to the extreme distinction of this corpse’s car, one of the corpse’s former co-workers would know exactly what car was his, and would be able to describe it to the investigators in close detail? And don’t you think that the car would be pretty easy to find, considering it was sitting in the employee parking deck? And don’t you think that the investigators, upon finding this car, and finding the blood-splattered woman talking to her feet in the back, would have hurled Uma into jail as swift as they could? And don’t you think that, since it was in Texas and all, Uma would have been fried up all good within a decade or two, even though she was obviously insane and/or mentally handicapped (you know, the whole talking to her feet thing). But then again I guess you don’t go to a Quentin Tarantino movie for realistic depictions of the law enforcement trade.
That truck was the worst thing about Kill Bill. It was just stupid, not funny or witty at all.
Also watched Five Easy Pieces the other night. Good film. I like those slow ‘70’s movies that are never in a rush to get anywhere.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Yes. I'm Going to Hurt Somebody.
There's been a horrible occurrence at work, repeating itself daily for the last few weeks. Every day, after lunch, for at least three weeks now, a co-worker in a cubicle near mine has listened to an endless, instrumental harpischord rendition of "Do You Know Where You're Going To? (Theme from Mahogany)". It's playing right now, and it probably will be playing until after I leave this afternoon. I have absolutely no idea where it's coming from, and all attempts to find that out have been fruitless. At first I assumed it was coming from Martha's cube; it just makes sense that a kindly, mid-60's black woman would want to listen to something like that. But Martha was on vacation all last week, and still I heard the song, every day, clunking away into infinity. At first I kind of liked hearing it, to be truthful; it was soothing and peaceful and made me relax just a tiny bit. And most of the time it's not an issue, as I generally have headphones on while working. But at times when I do not feel like listening to anything, or that day last week when I forgot to bring my headphones with me, and just whenever I wind up having to hear it at all, it is wildly irritating, and another tiny reason why I wish I could have just stayed in bed all day.
There's been a horrible occurrence at work, repeating itself daily for the last few weeks. Every day, after lunch, for at least three weeks now, a co-worker in a cubicle near mine has listened to an endless, instrumental harpischord rendition of "Do You Know Where You're Going To? (Theme from Mahogany)". It's playing right now, and it probably will be playing until after I leave this afternoon. I have absolutely no idea where it's coming from, and all attempts to find that out have been fruitless. At first I assumed it was coming from Martha's cube; it just makes sense that a kindly, mid-60's black woman would want to listen to something like that. But Martha was on vacation all last week, and still I heard the song, every day, clunking away into infinity. At first I kind of liked hearing it, to be truthful; it was soothing and peaceful and made me relax just a tiny bit. And most of the time it's not an issue, as I generally have headphones on while working. But at times when I do not feel like listening to anything, or that day last week when I forgot to bring my headphones with me, and just whenever I wind up having to hear it at all, it is wildly irritating, and another tiny reason why I wish I could have just stayed in bed all day.
Frankenstein Gets Her Hair Done
[the first person to point out that Frankenstein was the name of the doctor and not the monster will be banned from our comments forever]
Bolts were the only things missing. Lurching six-foot-seven, with graying skin and a peculiarly block shaped head, and hair that sat there like the thin glaze atop a pan of grease left out on the stove, Maria could have been Boris Karloff in drag, were she to ever wear anything other than jeans and a t-shirt. Her shoulders always tilted back just barely, as if she were slowly falling backwards as she walked. Her face, craggy and lipless, had the warmth of a rock. Unsmiling, with no emotion, she’d say hello and call me sweetie as we passed each other in the hallway, the stomping of her feet drowning out my timid greeting. She was an old thing, and frequently brought in her infant granddaughter. This kid, a fat little lump with skin the complexion of lard, would gargle and wail as Maria’s co-workers told her how precious she was. Even then, Maria’s face looked like a clenched fist. Over time, as the days and months cycled through my date-stamp, I grew accustomed to Maria’s appearance, and stopped thinking about the monster she resembled. Maria became just another person I tried to ignore as fully as possible.
This morning I arrived at work a bit early. I headed straight for the break room, and sat my lunch bag in the refrigerator. I was buying myself a Diet Coke when Maria walked in, her normally flat, shapeless hair twisted up into a corona of short, brown curls. The other Maria, eating breakfast at one of the tables, inhaled excitedly, and croaked, in her thick Cuban accent, “You got your hair done?” Maria had gotten her hair done, and now, instead of looking like Frankenstein, she looked like Frankenstein with a perm.
[the first person to point out that Frankenstein was the name of the doctor and not the monster will be banned from our comments forever]
Bolts were the only things missing. Lurching six-foot-seven, with graying skin and a peculiarly block shaped head, and hair that sat there like the thin glaze atop a pan of grease left out on the stove, Maria could have been Boris Karloff in drag, were she to ever wear anything other than jeans and a t-shirt. Her shoulders always tilted back just barely, as if she were slowly falling backwards as she walked. Her face, craggy and lipless, had the warmth of a rock. Unsmiling, with no emotion, she’d say hello and call me sweetie as we passed each other in the hallway, the stomping of her feet drowning out my timid greeting. She was an old thing, and frequently brought in her infant granddaughter. This kid, a fat little lump with skin the complexion of lard, would gargle and wail as Maria’s co-workers told her how precious she was. Even then, Maria’s face looked like a clenched fist. Over time, as the days and months cycled through my date-stamp, I grew accustomed to Maria’s appearance, and stopped thinking about the monster she resembled. Maria became just another person I tried to ignore as fully as possible.
This morning I arrived at work a bit early. I headed straight for the break room, and sat my lunch bag in the refrigerator. I was buying myself a Diet Coke when Maria walked in, her normally flat, shapeless hair twisted up into a corona of short, brown curls. The other Maria, eating breakfast at one of the tables, inhaled excitedly, and croaked, in her thick Cuban accent, “You got your hair done?” Maria had gotten her hair done, and now, instead of looking like Frankenstein, she looked like Frankenstein with a perm.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
two things
1. this new Streets record isn't half-bad
2. there's a lot of good live Minutemen stuff up at www.corndogs.org. Tons of stuff there, including their entire Live at WREK show from '85 or whenever. Found out about this through Vinyl Mine, a good mp3 weblog.
1. this new Streets record isn't half-bad
2. there's a lot of good live Minutemen stuff up at www.corndogs.org. Tons of stuff there, including their entire Live at WREK show from '85 or whenever. Found out about this through Vinyl Mine, a good mp3 weblog.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Could Zito be pitching poorly to purposefully lower his value and remain affordable enough to stay in Oakland forever?!?
So the A's are all great and really impressive and everything, and the science and thinking behind their success is really interesting and all that, but can we hold off on the beautification of Billy Beane until they actually make it past the ALDS for once? At least the Braves were kind enough to not choke until the World Series, for the most part. Up until 2000, that is. Since then they just choke whenever it's convenient for them.
It's something of a shame that the A's model, designed to help cash-poor small-market teams compete with the rich ones, is going to lead to its greatest success with the team with the second highest payroll in the game. Of course that team could teach the A's a thing or two thousand about choking.
So the A's are all great and really impressive and everything, and the science and thinking behind their success is really interesting and all that, but can we hold off on the beautification of Billy Beane until they actually make it past the ALDS for once? At least the Braves were kind enough to not choke until the World Series, for the most part. Up until 2000, that is. Since then they just choke whenever it's convenient for them.
It's something of a shame that the A's model, designed to help cash-poor small-market teams compete with the rich ones, is going to lead to its greatest success with the team with the second highest payroll in the game. Of course that team could teach the A's a thing or two thousand about choking.
