World Record Skateboard Slalom

Poetry

I can't get enough of this.



The Great Ecstasy of the Sculptor Steiner (1974)

Buddy Bell, Topps '87

As a baseball loving boy in the early and mid '90s, I had an extensive collection of cards, some of which had considerable monetary value (at least according to the secondhand copies of Beckett that my grandfather filtered down to me).

However, despite close attention to and awareness of the fluid value of all my cards denoted by Beckett's directional arrows, I was prone to coveting cards that were worth nothing. Most of these were obscure Boston players (Bob Zupcic, Carlos Quintana, etc...) but I also became strangely enamored of the 1987 Topps Buddy Bell card (below).


I knew nothing (and still don't) of Buddy Bell beyond what I learned from the stats on the back of his card, yet I still carefully slipped at least half a dozen copies of this particular card into protective sleeves and binders.

Early signs of irresponsibility, financial indifference, and an affection for alliteration and the irrational tenets of Romanticism?

Rise of the Superman

Yesterday Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt set a new 100m world record (9.69s) en route to an Olympic gold medal.


Impressive? Not really, this is the seventh time the record has been either lowered or met in the last three years (Bolt held the previous mark at 9.72s). Advanced training techniques and equipment technology (and sometimes drugs) designed to enhance elite-caliber athlete's freakish, innate physical gifts all make times that were once unthinkable almost routine.

A new record is neither unexpected nor surprising. BUT, in a world where any stumble, lapse in focus, or change in environment can cost precious hundredths of a second, closer scrutiny of Bolt's race reveals what may be the most remarkable athletic performance in recent history:

• At 6'5" Bolt is a natural 200m runner who was considered too tall and lanky for the explosive 100m event. He had only run one 100m at the senior level before this season.
• In preparation for the race Bolt woke at 11 am, watched TV, ate some McDonalds chicken nuggets, took a three hour nap, ate more chicken nuggets, then warmed up.
• A notoriously poor starter, Bolt had the second slowest reaction time out of the blocks.
• He was running with no tailwind - usually a crucial factor in WR performances.
  
• 70m into the race, Bolt, sacrificing form and aerodynamics, turned his head to check his competition. No one was there.
• 80m into the race, he spread his hands to his side, slowed, and pounded his chest in jubilation. Percentage wise, this would be the equivalent of a marathoner deciding to finish the last 2-3 miles of their 26.2 mile race at a leisurely jog.
  
• All of this was accomplished with his left shoe untied and his shirt partially untucked.
  

Bastards at NBC are squashing YouTube videos of their coverage - here's a French version

Usain Bolt 9,69s - Finale du 100m J.O Pékin 2008
Uploaded by tachelhite

Even if Bolt's performance was drug-aided - a distinct possibility given sprinting's recent history of tainted champions - his doctors should be lauded for their efforts; no other human has ever made moving so fast look so absurdly easy. It's like the last scenes of the Incredibles when they finally let Dash compete in a track meet and he dials back his superhuman speed to make the end result look at least remotely plausible.

Our Commander-In-Chief

Ever since he awkwardly presented the national budget (or "e-budget" as he called it in jest) using a laptop a year ago, I have found there is a very endearing side to President Bush.

My first reaction to the clip above was utter disgust and embarrasment: "This is our president?". Not a novel reaction. But upon further viewings, I realized: "This was our president!"

I suppose I'll never believe that President Bush was a decent or even competent president, but I'll be damned if he can't make me smile.

A Better Class of Gossip Rag?

In "H-Bloo on A-Rod,"The New Yorker tries to make sense of the Alex Rodriguez/Madonna Kabbalah brainwashing saga, and solicits commentary from several prominent Jewish scholars:

“The true Kabbalists, they fasted, and I think baseball players need their carbs,” he said, and added that Rodriguez’s bronzed complexion seemed incompatible with intense Aramaic study. “If you’re a Kabbalist, you really have no time for the sun.”

Trenchant social analysis or woefully amateurish celebrity reporting? I think the latter. I was impressed with the concept of "soul-mate poaching" but how can you write an A-Rod/Madonna article (even a semi-satirical one) without using the term "affair of the heart?"

Topics of Discussion

I just spent an hour or so talking with my grandfather in the driveway. Topics of conversation included but were not limited to:


chiggers/ticks/mosquitoes and all manner of insidious pests; the automatic weapon he got to fire at a family reunion; FDR; a possible rabbit infestation under his shed; fond remembrances of a busty woman he saw jogging several decades ago; a 1939 Johnny Pesky rookie card; Libertarians; the elephant skin belt he wore sometime in the 1960s; dental hygienists; skipping his high school graduation to leave for Navy boot camp; rhubarb; researching local politicians on Google; the end of the world; knee injuries; turkeys; and a dog he used to own with a penchant for barking at people of Arab descent.

The 112th Boston Marathon

Here are some pictures from the race. I live on mile 23, so I ended up getting some pretty neat shots of the leaders.


Women's leaders: Dire Tune (Left -eventual winner), Alevtina Biktimirova (Right - second place by 2 seconds)


Men's leader and eventual winner Robert K. Cheruiyot


Other notable finishes:
Lance Armstrong 2:50:58
Karen Gillespie (my mother) 4:41:57

The Aesthetics of Smoking, or Egomania

For many reasons, I grew up an anti-drug.

My parents divorced when I was very young. Me, my sister (the oldest), and my brother (the middle child) stayed with my father in our house on Osgood Road. My mother moved around a lot, but never too far away, always being sure to remain in touch enough to take us (sometimes) on the weekends or pick us up (sometimes) from school. She eventually remarried (not her last time) and re-reproduced (her last time). My father, on the other hand, invited a woman to live with me and my siblings when I was in Kindergarten. She was nice and had two children; one older than my sister and one younger than me. This mathematically made me the middle child in the middle of a post-broken home amelioration attempt. On cue, it blew up in its makers' faces and violence ensued. My elder blood siblings resorted to drugs, music, rebellion, everything people our age tend to remember the '90s for (good times and nowhere to go), while I, by default, became the counterpoint. The constant tension and strife between my father, my stepmother, and my siblings, was more than I could bear to consider partaking in. So I did what made sense; I did not do what my siblings did. This included steering clear of drugs and unsavory people that might lead me to become something my parents disapproved of. Not surprisingly, I became resentful of my good grades and anti-drug attitude, and was not proud when my parents said "good work" after looking over my report card. Though my self-reliant, self-righteous attitude effectively kept me out of social circles and off of drugs, it also made me a very lonely person.

My sister was a smoker from the age of 16 or thereabout. Every time I was around her when she lit up, I would lecture her about the harmful side effects of smoking, how it's killing her, and be generally dripping condescending incredulity. She would always say the same thing: "Gotta die somehow." A cliched smoker's response (she never said it without cackling afterwards), I always thought it was the worst defense. I found myself saying this recently when someone suggested I stop puffing on a Camel.

Like many people who are lucky enough to take the 4 year vacation known as college (and now have to PAY for it...), many things changed when I went to school. I began drinking and smoking pot. Not out of rebellion, but out of both curiosity and a sense of decorum. Nothing about shedding the straight-edge skin was painful. It was a blast. However, it made me reconsider certain values I held, the most glaring of which was tested two years into college. One day without much thought, I purchased a pack of cigarettes and started smoking. My friends alternately approved and disapproved.

So, why did I, and why do people in general, start smoking?

- From a sociological standpoint: The standard sociological argument is that it's a parroting effect - teen sees person she wants to be like or be near smoking so she herself starts smoking. Other factors are prevalent, such as smoking parents, but really, from that point of view, it boils down to the parrot effect.

- From a cultural standpoint: "Coolness" is (like, almost always?) the reason one starts smoking. Whether it's out of rebellion, the urge to do what is not allowed, or the desire to partake in what cool people partake in (most cool people smoke, or so it seems), smokers tend to trace their picking up of the butt to an image, idea, or person. Of course, smoking also is an act that has no justification outside of pure self-gratification, so in that sense, it represents an aspect of the American character - straight, undiluted, 200-proof self-gratification. This is often taken as the essence of cool; a sum of unexplained acts originating from a self that resists standard labels, explanations, and expectations. So if smoking could be considered cool, it would be naive to say that Miles Davis, Keith Richards, or Dont Look Back have nothing to do with it. People who start smoking for these reasons would probably never admit it or, at least, would disregard the attempt to explain the "why" of smoking when, duh, the lack thereof is part of the fun.

- From a phenomenological standpoint: Smoking is relaxing. It occupies your basic motor skills, helps you regulate your breathing, and helps you take time. It tastes great, especially when paired with coffee or red wine.

As far as I can tell, smoking was once as casual as drinking water. Now, there are signs in bodegas urging smokers to protest the proposed cigarette tax increase ($6/carton!) that New Yorkers are currently facing. Not only that, there are industries, profit and non-, built around helping people quit. Why has smoking become so bad? Depending on your sources, either one pack takes 7 minutes off your life or if you quit by the time your 26, there is virtually a 0% chance of developing lung cancer due to smoking. Clearly, evidence has indicated that smoking can and does kill all too often. Can cigarettes be enjoyed responsibly? And hasn't everyone "Gotta die somehow"?

Wes Anderson tends to make very pointed use of smoking in his films. Whether it's an issue of realism or not is beside the point; to me, smoking, if I may wax philosophic, is a token of the smoker's Dionysian acceptance of their own mortality. If that's too Romantic for you, the urge to smoke is antithetical to the urge to remain alive. It concerns quality over quantity, how one lives as opposed to how long. In a sense, every person that smokes a cigarette is performing their very own miniature crucifixion.

Every morning I scale 6 flights of stairs in a grimy building occupied mostly by hardworking immigrants. On the second floor, I always pass two older Eastern European men sitting on a bench, smoking and chatting in their native language. I at first tried smiling and nodding at them, but they would just scowl (understandably), and I would move on. Smoking, though it's often associated with rebellion, is also an expression of solidarity. Who huddles outside bars when it's 2 degrees outside? Smokers. Who's "Gotta die somehow"? Smokers. Am I a smoker?*

*OK, this piece has two endings. Here's your chance to fill in the blanks. You can choose the one you like the best:
1.) Doubtful, but I do enjoying smoking.
2.) Sure, aren't you?

Say it Ain't So, Flav

I'm getting my SportsCenter fix this morning and I learn that Dallas Cowboys All-Pro wideout Terrell Owens plans to make a guest appearance on Flavor Flav's upcoming My Network TV sitcom Under One Roof. Flav plays an ex-convict who lives with his successful, straitlaced, real estate developer brother; details of T.O.'s role were unavailable.



Early prediction for the show: Canceled immediately following the pilot episode. Unless T.O. makes an appearance in the first episode, we'll probably never get a chance to check out his acting chops. In the meantime, we should all amuse ourselves with this Sal Paolantonio article explaining why T.O. is overrated. As for Flav, he has overstayed his welcome in the world of cable television and this latest sorry endeavor further emphasizes how far he has fallen since the glory days of Flavor of Love: Season One. Flav has long worn the crown (literally and figuratively) as King of reality t.v. but it's time he does the right thing and gracefully step aside to make room for Brett Michaels's legitimate ascension to the throne.

Patrick Ewing Jr.

Patrick Ewing Jr.'s dunk is unreal. Next to Gerald Green's birthday candle dunk in New Orlean's, I think this is my favorite dunk of the year.

Great Men in History: Ted Williams (A Eulogy)

The day the Slpendid Splinter went away and never came back was the saddest day in the history of baseball. His last hit was a towering 500 foot home run. He went out in a style that seems quite ironic to his final bow. Because he would turn in his proverbial grave if he ever found out that his son believed chryogenically freezing his celebrity father was a proper way to turn a profit, more important than letting him die a dignified death. A soldiers death. A Hall-of-Famers death. A man who was rail thin and believed that physics and finesse were the answers to hitting the ball over the fence, not large muscles and brute force. The day Ted Williams died....those who loved him wept tears of sorrow and loss, the Splendid Splinter is gone but he is not forgotten. For those who said no to "The Babe" and laughed in the face of Mickey Mantle moving his way up the organ transplant list just so he could get one last swig out of a bottle. We salute the real father of the long-ball. If Ted wanted people to remember him for all the right reasons he wouldn't want the legions of adoring fans to forget his tours of duty in both World War II and Korea. We know the truth. Ted's statistics would have been even more impressive if he hadn't been part of the Greatest Generation and lose nearly 6 seasons in his hitting prime just so he could be one more American Hero. Mr. Williams flew fighter jets just as well as he could swing a baseball bat. Sport and Baseball enthusiasts, fans of the game, find me a better man than the one spoken of here! For Teddy Williams will forever be that little boy standing in the middle of some San Diego train track swinging a pillow as if it were a Louisville Slugger, driving some poor high heater into the grand stands of eternal greatness.