For years now, we’ve all soldiered blithely on. Too eager to believe that he would be back. That his brittle bones would somehow (through the magic of science? Wizardry? ANYTHING?) reverse their course and calcify with elasticity instead of more brittleness. And we were all far too naive. Too hopeful.
To do the same thing repeatedly and expect a different outcome, that’s a definition of madness, but damn if this wasn’t hopeful madness. To ignore a 19-year-old using a cane to conceal a hobbling, surgically reconstructed gait? To dismiss a track record that saw him play the totality of one regular 82-game season in four years? To think his oversized, sandstone frame would ever allow him to sustain through the rigors of one 82-game season? This was all madness.
Yet there was Oden, toiling with the labored sadness of an over-the-hill golden retriever. Eager to please, fully willing to please, but with a look of uncertainty, of pain, and most damning, a look of self-doubt. His ocean of talent, frustratingly, was trickled out in mini-sized bottle of Poland Springs. “Snake bit,” “star crossed,” it doesn’t matter. To label him a “bust” is a disservice. To consider him a “project” is, again, madness; for now we can only think of Oden as a man and one who has to consider a completely new trajectory than the one that saw him so completely capable of reigning dread on his opponents as frequently as the Fates have cursed his body.
I almost never write up or, heck, even opine about music unless it’s Destroyer/Bejar-related. It’s my thing and you probably have enough haughty sources for music reviews/ideas and I mean we can all agree that Bowie and Queen tracks are the BEST. In any case, I’m breaking one of my few codes and writing about music for you, the wonderful audience of IsMagical, translation: “Listen up.”
The Gremlins EP is amazing. Just unbelievably weird and sexy-as-all-get out.
Okay, so aside from the fact that I’m 99.99% positive the very first noises on “Introducing” are the chopped noises of the whale-Dory encounter from Finding Nemo (Brian’s favorite movie, Gettin’ Faded category) dig on the next track.
Track Two: “Maim My Bitch” has that pull of listening to underwater sounds with your eyes closed, maybe you’re actually underwater or maybe you’re on Ketamine, in bed next to someone who you’re glad you know, but you’re nervous about knowing them in that way and you’re wondering “Who put this Blue Planet doc on?” In any case, welcome to the official IsMagical makeout track for 2012.
Beyond “Maim” the EP is just ridiculous. Slow, woozy, “Is the room moving or is the music moving, MAN.” “JonBenet” is probably my second favorite after MMB, and, well, lyrics about spider nests and JonBenet’s passing? [stamp of approval] Add a savage and wrenching guitar solo that almost seems like a throwaway, … enough! … I’ve had enough, Gremlins, you’re cool with me.
This weekend in the Premiership saw some killing by killers. Dempsey and Balotelli (who else?) so let us discuss the honors, distinctions and actions that separate these two from the rest and each other.
Mr Sturm Und Drang:
“Woulda Been A Sniper In Harlem”
The Original Winger has got the video of the game cincher, until FOX/Premmie goons take it down, but, “Umm, Yes! More of this.” First off, let’s talk about the stamp/stomp that was. “Balotelli is dirty,” [feigned outrage, rabble-rabble!] “Smarten up, dunny,” that just makes his legend grow more. Does he need to sublimate his own strife? Maybe. All he does is seek-and-destroy, he’s an agent of chaos that just so happens to be a top 5 talent in the league when he’s swimming in anarchy. Dude burns down his house with fireworks hours before the Manchester United match? “WHY ALWAYS ME?”, 2 goals and a United pistol whipping, he silenced everyone.
After stamping —aside, Umbro can you make a Balo shirt with Stampy from The Simpsons, kthxbai— Scott Parker, the penalty kick! Oh, the penalty kick! Balotelli’s stillness belies the fury and rage of his psychotic emotional maelstrom, watch that video. Watch and know anarchic genius, the mastermind of a pipebomber, of a revolutionary who, more than anything, “Just wants to watch the world burn, Master Bruce.” What cause does Balo need beyond humiliating Tottenham? “Keeper is a knocker, check my fake to the right and know my left, son!” Goal. “Audience, you are now my voice.” “Spurs? Hate me now.”
So sure, Balotelli sublimates and makes manifest his strife, more reasons to love the dude. Jordan sublimated (though not always manifested) maddeningly stupid disses from chumps on the 1991 Timberwolves just so he could win a bet against Pippen. The stamping, yeah, it was dirty, what’s your point? Moral indignation? Fury that he wasn’t kicked out of the match? He’s serving a four-game ban, for what isn’t that terrible of a stamp. [SIGH] “Yeah, I know it’s still a stamp, you’re missing the point.” Moralizing? That nonsense is for your churches and temples. Soccer is its own church with its own gods and Balotelli sprang forth from the skull of Cronus fully formed and ready to rule.
“Fuck a Carling Cup. You call me Bawse from now on, I kept you 3 up in the Premiere”
Balotelli is a fire-breathing, thunder and lightning combo of such raw power and cunning that he evades description. Drogba sorta packs the same Nissan truck frame with a bit more speed, but the Cote ‘d Ivorian doesn’t pack the brains and psychosis of our 21-year-old protagonist. Balotelli, a reiteration, is living the life the rest of us are too afraid to dream, let alone live. If you want your sports figures to be without passion, psychosis, goofiness, god-given talents made manifest in their own time and own way, buy a LeBron #6 jersey, punch yourself in the balls and reup on your Xanax ‘scrip.
Real American Hero:
“I Stay Icy On Purpose”
If Balotelli sprang forth from the skull of a Titan, life’s manuscript set ablaze with his own Zippo and smiling; Clint Dempsey crept in the backdoor a la Loki from Norse mythology and not Marvel Comics. Dempsey was the second-best child in a family of superstar athletes with a budget to only send one of the gifted children to the Yellow Brick Road of athletic lucre and that was his tennis-playing wunderkind sister. Broken mirrors, broken lives later and his sister is dead and Demps is the benefactor of that largesse and then forges himself into the nastiest American soccer player in a generation (or ever?) The story is the type of Horatio Alger mythmaking that went out of favor sometime between the 1950s and the 1980s (thanks, baby boomers!) but, yet it’s there. Trailer park upbringing, teammate’s families raising funds so he can stay on the travel team, Furman (Furman?), New England Revolution, to Premiere League. If you’re just now catching up with the narrative and the man, note too, Dempsey became the first American player to ever notch a hat trick in the Premiere League this past Saturday.
Goal one was a strictly a “right place, right time” tally, but the other two?
“Don’t Have To Go To Church To Get To Know Your God”
“Is Your Majesty Not Entertained?” The Yankee said with a droll affectation.
The other two goals were the sublime notches of a pure scorer. A learned scorer, who, unlike a Balotelli, or more accurately a Messi, honed his craft because he had to to keep up. Apprenticing and working with what raw materials he was given and forging them through external, brutal training and the foundry that a man’s soul only burns in the face of personal tragedy. Dempsey occasionally can come across as a bit “Favre-ian”* in his “Aww shucks-edness” and his largemouth bass-catching dreams and pics on Twitter, but never forget that he is an assassin. One who has spent his time learning and snatching at bits of knowledge to make his passes crisper, to make his movements more subtle. Whatever speed he’s lost, his knowledge is now paying dividends. He, amongst his multitude of skills, has that “Oh so American!” wolfishness about him, that predatory ability to piker away and then finally to strike and to vanquish.
A few days back Nike dropped the FuelBand which they have been promo’ing very hard on Twitter with #MakeItCount. Since the tail end of December, #MakeItCount has been their jones, it’s everywhere on all of the Twitter channels —basketball, football (both kinds, kids), running, collect ‘em all— and Swoosh even dropped a mothership Twitter handle: Nike. Now we begin to see points of intersection, the picture becoming clearer, with what the company is planning for tomorrow’s United-Arsenal match at Emirates Stadium. Click.
Now we see that #MakeItCount wasn’t merely a lede for FuelBand, but a very aggressive 2K12 marketing initiative. Internet-ready marketing slogans stitched into cleats? Check. Star Swoosh athletes’ Twitter handles stitched into cleats? Check. This is how you work when you’re the biggest alpha male in your business and want to reinforce your dominance. “What’s up adidas? Meet my hammer. Boom.”
Nike hasn’t released anything saying that the players will be wearing FuelBands or if the shoes are equipped with the accelerometer and calculating device itself, but well, how far is Nike away from building this tech directly into the kits, cleats or pads of any player in any sport?
*Update: Agency that made the ad is R/GA. Interesting!
Nike has released their latest piece of technological marvel, the FuelBand. FuelBand —essentially Swoosh’s next generation of Nike+ technology— is a nifty, seemingly omniscient gizmo that provides you with feedback on how many calories you’re burning while working out AND while you’re just doing you. It measures your expended energy when you climb a set of stairs, walk to the bus stop, type on a keyboard, whatever. The technology is cored around two mighty impressive doohickeys/science things, namely: a three-axis accelerometer (to more effectively measure your body’s every movement); and a proprietary algorithm that takes into consideration your oxygen consumption, along with more standard fitness device metrics such as calories, steps taken and duration.
The above ad is the usual from Nike. Supremely well-packaged pop culture nods, interspersed with Nike’s own brightest moments and athletes that are at this point just as canonical to pop culture as the cover of “Abbey Road” or Homer Simpson. Again, just another gem in W+K’s(??)* crown as best agency out there.
The real intrigue about FuelBand is whether Nike will team up with Open Graph on Facebook or not. Facebook announced this week the 60 companies/apps that are teaming up with Open Graph in 2012 and there’s nary a Swoosh on the list. Already, there’s the standard “status updating” ability of the device, Nike has had this for years and was integral to Nike+ bands too. They promo-ed the hell out of the device with the #MakeItCount trending topic on Twitter, but I am surprised that there isn’t a deeper integration with Open Graph…for now. Or, and this is speculative conjecture on my part, maybe Apple* told Nike to hold back on fully integrating with Open Graph? There’s a growing rift between FB and Apple and this could very well be a tete a tete between those two monsters of e-commerce and community and Nike siding with Team iPhone. Which sorta makes sense until you remember that Facebook will likely have 1 billion users very soon. And again, I’m not seeing how there won’t be some deeper integration with Open Graph, and Facebook in general, in the not-too-distant future for the gadget. But, it’s kinda curious and fun to rumor-monger and say “huh” sometimes.
Additionally, Foursquare and Path teamed up with Nike. To what ends remains to be seen, “checking in” at stoplight on the corner of Damen and Wellington doesn’t really strike me as fun or, y’know, on my mind if I’m going for a run. So with working out it’ll be interesting to see if there’s another layer of seamless checking in or whatever for Path and Foursquare to harness.
*I’m not certain if that ad is W+K, but I’d be really surprised if it wasn’t. Again, it’s not W+K, but R/GA a London-based digital agency. Very impressive work.
*Apple and Nike have a very friendly relationship going back to Nike+ ver. 1.0 and Apple helped develop the Nike+ shoe chip, the Nike+ apps for iPhone, websites, etc.
“Hey, what’s up? Where can I get a filet -o-fish around here? You got any leads, man? Come on, seriously, I’m not kidding. I need that crispy, golden goodness like a smack addict needs a sweet ride on that pony express, The H-Train.
I know, you’re all “What? A talking coelacanth?” Yeah, that’s right, I can talk, I can walk, I can SING! But what I really want to do is eat a fucking filet-o-fish, are you going to help with that or not? Because if you’re not in the mood for helping, I can go and find someone else to get me a filet-o-fish. I’m one of the oldest species on Earth, I have *lots* of friends. One of the few denizens of the deep that’s not my friend? The hoki*. Know why? Because it’s the delicious fish that’s inside of that deep-fried piece of culinary poon I call the “filet-o-fish.” Nota Bene, hoki: I grow up to 6.5 feet and you top out around 47”, so who do you think is going to win this clash of the food chain? Don’t think the Golden Arches didn’t consider this. You’re just lucky you live off the coast of New Zealand and I prefer to live in a deepwater pockets around Madagascar and Indonesia.
Look, so listen, are you going to help or not? Oh! You will? Excellent. Here let me give you a couple of sawbucks and you can nab me some “fishy burgers” and get yourself some fries or something. Oh, and I have a hinged jawbone that allows me to open extra wide so don’t worry about getting me too many.”
*I found this image on National Geographic’s Coelacanth page. I’m fairly obsessive about the coelacanth and think that they are absolutely one of the strangest critters in the briny depths. I just had no idea that they could photograph so poorly. In any case, this one really desperately needs a filet-o-fish.
*It’s pronounced “hokey” like the adjective or the dance, “Dooooo the hokey-pokey.” And they are actually fairly threatened by the fishing industry that’s been built up around them. After the crash of the North American cod population in the late 1980s-90s American restaurants, primarily McDonalds and Long John Silver’s, needed a cheap, firm, white fish with huge populations. Shockingly, there’s not so much regulation and New Zealand’s fisheries officials say one thing, when biologists are saying another thing —ripe for population crash. And let’s not even consider the impact of carbon footprint when we consider shipping frozen fish from a tiny rock in the far South Pacific. So yeah, think about not ordering a filet-o-fish the next time you’re at a McDonalds.
Australian scientists have discovered, for the first time in the history of modern science!, that two separate species of sharks are capable of hybridizing. Now before everyone gets all in a tizzy about the potential for whale sharks and great whites to reproduce (a scary and bad prospect) it is very important to note that the two species that crossbred are sister species. The blacktip shark and the Australian blacktip shark are very closely related, although genetically diverse enough to be valid and different species —they look a lot alike, but the Aussie is typically a bit longer and they have differing numbers of vertebrae, plus genetic differences like allozyme and mitochondrial DNA variations and genetic markers.
The really exciting part about this news is that the team of scientists discovered that there are multiple generations of these hybrids patrolling Australia’s coastal waters. What does this mean? It means that the hybrid babies (F1* or first generation, if you will) of Mr Blacktip and Ms Australian Blacktip are they themselves virile and capable of reproducing, “y’know, “making babies.” F2 or second generation hybrids were discovered, which is really cool and sorta rare with hybrids. For instance, the mule, a hybrid between a lady horse and a gentleman donkey, is sterile. What’s not so cool, is that with reproducing hybrids, there’s the threat of one species (the Australian Blacktip in this case) disappearing. But if there are multiple generations of these hybrids out there and still healthy number of Australians (there are) that threat seems minor.
*F1 actually stands for filial one, which is science’s way of saying “first generation. “iPhone F1 came out in 2007, et cetera.” #ScienceNerd
I was invited by Green Zebra to snap some fotos of their beautiful restaurant, some new menu items and cocktails. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Brian, you’re not a photographer, WTF? LOL.” I know, I was confused too, because you’re right. I’m not a photographer. BUT I am friends with some folks at Green Zebra and they needed a cheap/free photographer who likes getting paid in meals, I fit that criteria every time. (Hint, hint, restauranteurs)
In any case, the images (if good enough?) are apparently for Out Magazine, so yeah, international publication photo credit, FTW! Head on over to my Flickr and have a looksie at some outtakes. Also, the above image is of the very exceptional living, moss art that’s on display at Green Zebra right now, I’ll try to find out the artist’s name.
NB: Sorry I haven’t posted since Monday. I’ve been busy and forgot to save a piece I was working on before Tumblr went down for a bit. I’ll have something up later today.
Remind me again about the USA actually winning the Cold War, because as far as I can tell from this video, KREMLIN IS PWNING. Unicorns, turntable burgers, marriage proposals, creepy burger patty masks, the smoking hot blonde, glasses-wearing counter girl? What I really enjoy about this commercial is it’s proof of Westernizing hipsterdom invading Russia (and, fingers crossed) simultaneously being parodied. Does Vladimir Q. Public get the same level of chuckles from this commercial as US citizens are spoiled with when we see this YouTube?
Yesterday I was gofering about and had to buy an orchid for a friend’s girlfriend*. Biology nerd that I am, I got to thinking about how frustrating it is to keep orchids alive in Chicago*. Now don’t get me wrong, orchids are really, really, really neat. They are a fascinating example of the divergence and capability of evolution and a species’ ability to adapt to any conditions, mind you, as long as it’s not the upper midwest in winter. Inevitably, the consideration of orchids relative mortality rates led me to consider my nemesis, the giant panda. Now, on the Twitterz I had myself a nice, old-fashioned mini-rant on these insufferable evolutionary dead ends. But now it’s time for some pontificating.
The panda, like so many contemporary “celebs” in the vein of the Kardashian monsters and Hilton tarts, have used American obsession with “the cult of celebrity” and glommed on to a powerful PR agency to promote its cuteness and, ick, conceit of “style over substance.” In the panda’s case the PR agency is, naturally, the World Wildlife Fund which has for the better part of fifty years championed the panda as the face of endangered animals. Take a long look at the logo to your right. Note the cold, black, soulless eyes, the expressionless demeanor, traits not dissimilar to any number of zombie-fied celebs in our troubled day and age.
And bully for the panda. The WWF logo is what most of us are exposed to in elementary schools as we, at a tender age, are taught about the perils of pollution, habitat destruction, endangered species and the menace of extinction.
Still, World Wildlife Fund, if we’re really fretting over endangered species, and mind you, this may be personal preference, I’m putting the Siberian tiger as my logo every day of the week and twice on Sundays. Now let’s discuss the folly of the panda and why … sigh … cuteness aside, this is one evolutionary dead end for the ages.
The giant panda is from a taxonomic classification just like you and I! Kingdom: Animalia —we’re all animals, unless you’re a literate oak tree; Phylum: Chordata —Bang! we’re all critters with spinal cords, centralized nervous systems (some, like hagfish have really primitive CNS’s but whatev) and backbones; Class: Mammalia. I’m going to be really surprised if you’re not a mammal. Order: Carnivora. Ah-HA! We’re not carnivores, humans by scientific determination and our own evolution are omnivores, pandas ARE carnivores however.
Blessed with powerful incisors, canines and claws, the panda shuns nature’s gifts and uses these, to instead pairing said gifts with perfectly well-developed binocular vision and instincts to hunt prey, eat bamboo for upwards of 22 hours a day. Why does the panda spend nearly every waking hour eating bamboo? Funny story, actually. See, the panda’s digestive tract is that of a carnivore. It owns very few of the beneficial flora and fauna that populate herbivore and omnivore’s gastro systems that allow for the efficient breakdown of plant matter into nutrients, proteins and necessary amino acids. See, it’s a carnivore and should be perfectly content to eat meat, but NOOOOO the panda has to have 99% of its diet consist of bamboo. So it has to eat nearly constantly to harness even its remarkably low energy levels for a wild animal, all the while leaving it with the remarkable/disgusting ability to poop about 40 times a day.
Still, if being a ridiculously, needlessly, pointlessly fussy eater was the panda’s only evolutionary shortcoming, I think we could all agree that it was the weird, but “OK” black sheep of the mammal family. However the panda has another trump card in its hell-bent drive towards biological irrelevance and that card is: terribly low birth rates in nature and in captivity. The panda is notorious in the zoo circles as one of the most difficult animals to breed successfully. Notorious to the point that zoos have at various times used panda porn* and sneaking tabs of Viagra into the male panda’s food to get the finicky non-lovers to make love. All to no avail. And in nature, the results are not much better, scientists have at least since the 1970s been conducting surveys to determine where the panda population is at —the most recent one just got started— and the outlook isn’t promising, per usual.
Pandas just seem to be a bizarre misstep in Mother Nature’s CV. Mind you, one that has for a few generations hooked the developing minds of youngsters into at least superficially caring about the environment and conservation, thanks to the WWF, and maybe that’s enough.
*He was outta town. I had to pick up a camera charger at his apartment, his gf would be the one letting me in.
*NB: It’s a bitch-and-a-half unless you have one of those glassed-in orchid houses. They require humidity, sunlight and temperature requirements that one is strained to find in December in the Windy City.
* Mating videos of amorous pandas. How pandas were ever in the mood for “makin’ whoopy” or by what stroke of luck someone had a camcorder with which to record I’m not certain.
and glommed on to a powerful PR agency to promote its cuteness and, ick, conceit of “style over substance.” In the panda’s case the PR agency is, naturally, the World Wildlife Fund which has for the better part of fifty years championed the panda as the face of endangered animals. Take a long look at the logo to your right. Note the cold, black, soulless eyes, the expressionless demeanor, traits not dissimilar to any number of zombie-fied celebs in our troubled day and age.
