The California Dream

Last night I had the California Dream. In my dream I woke to a sun drenched sky and the sound of ocean waves echoing in the distance. As I sat down to breakfast a cool breeze slipped through an open window. When I rose and looked out onto the street below I saw children playing a game of pickup football, calling timeout for the occasional car. In my dream the world was beautiful, safe, and quiet. In my dream I was in Oceanside, California.
Oceanside is a small town approximately 35 miles north of San Diego that has been filled with thousands of people looking for their own version of the California dream. Now, before I’m accused of wide-eyed optimism, Oceanside is not heaven (unless heaven has an unemployment rate), but for residents like Mike DeLeo it’s the closest thing to it they’ve ever found.
“I work inLos Angeles and have been commuting for eighteen years, not because I couldn’t afford to live in LA, but I enjoy the quality of life,” wrote DeLeo in a recent letter to the city council, a letter he was compelled to write because he fears his beloved Oceanside home is in serious danger.
Unfortunately residents have good reason to fear that their dream of peace will be taken from them in a cloud of construction and noise, and the culprit will not be some monolithic oil company or faceless governmental bureaucracy, but that most beloved of American institutions, professional football.
For the past several years the San Diego Chargers have been conducting ongoing negotiations with the City of San Diego to enable them to rebuild their aging and outdated home, Qualcomm Stadium. The Chargers, owned by Alex Spanos, wants the city to grant him approximately sixty acres of public land for free, upon which he plans to build not only a 450 million dollar stadium but also residential and commercial complexes. The city, perhaps learning a lesson from other metropolises that doled out millions in public benefits to professional teams and are still waiting for the benefits they were promised to manifest, has largely resisted Spanos’ demands. In frustration the Chargers have officially stopped negotiations and have turned their attention to other smaller towns in the surrounding area, towns which may be more easily taken with lavish promises of development. In short, towns like Oceanside.
There is no doubt that football, from the Friday night-lights of high schools to internationally known professional teams, serves as a common bond for a large percentage of America. There’s a reason more people watch the Super Bowl than the President’s State of the Union Address. But make no mistake, football is also a business, and beneath the images of courage and teamwork lay a foundation of dollar signs. Spanos and his Chargers have enjoyed recent success on the field, but in the boardroom they remain relative failures. Last year Forbes magazine valued the team at $731 million, ranking them near the bottom of the NFL, and Spanos blames their finacial shortcoming largely on an outdated stadium. For Spanos the equation is simple: new stadium equals more money.
Nothing is as simple as black and white, and the Chargers are not an evil empire only interested in increasing their checking accounts. It is true that the both the teams and its players, most notably NFL MVP LaDainian Tomlinson, have used their resources to help the San Diego community and public schools. The team makes a concerted effort to engage in charity activity and according the team website, “The San Diego Chargers have been a proud partner with the San Diego community for more than 40 years. The Team and its players annually contribute time and resources to make San Diego County one of the best places in the country to live and work.”
In the coming months the measure of the Chargers dedication to the people of San Diego will be truly tested. It’s one thing to put together a blood drive or textbook donation, quite another to truly listen to the voices of communities when millions of dollars are on the line. Because it’s not just game day that concerns the residents of Oceanside, it’s the thousands of cars and the resulting smog pouring into the town. It’s the never-ending passing of trailer trucks on their way to put up or break down that night’s rock concert. It’s the end of a town that according to city press releases prides itself on being “a thriving community that provides all the conveniences of a modern city without the disadvantages.” If the San Diego Chargers build their proposed stadium Oceanside residents will know only too well every disadvantage a major city has to offer.
Mike DeLeo ended his letter by writing, “I hear some council members say Oceanside is a jewel, after working in Los Angeles they are so right. So why do they want to destroy it with crowds and traffic? What happened to enjoying life?”
Unfortunately for DeLeo and his fellow residents some people measure the goodness of life by the strength of their family and community, and for some happiness is measured by the size of their wallets. Here’s hoping that Spanos and the Charger’s truly measure up and let Oceanside keep dreaming in peace.

A Cracker By Any Other Name

I recently started writing for a hip-hop website (djbooth.net, if I were to shamelessly self-promote, which I’m not) and the first thing my editor wanted me to do is come up with a name. Not just a name, but an alias, a persona, something fresh, something hip-hop, something not Nathan Slavik. In other words, I needed to drop the government name. I understood his point, a name can be make or break, and Nathan says “Hi, of course I’ll have your daughter home by ten,” not “I’m qualified to review underground hip-hop albums.” I’m a firm believer that a name can set the stage for your entire life, not only by influencing how you see yourself, but what the world expects of you. For example, if I were to name my future son Bronco, there’s no way that kid’s not going to be wild, in an eventually self-destructive coke habit kind of way. Conversely, little Norbert Slavik Jr. is going to be very involved in a world of magic and dragons. This is why most parents just choose to go the safe route with Chris or Sara, those kids have the most options. Now the pressure was on me to name someone, and that someone, was me.
At first I was excited by the possibilities, after all a new name means a new life, but the thrill soon turned to horror. Not only is coming up with a dope name hard, coming up with a not-terrible name is pretty difficult. It wasn’t long before I was turning to my girlfriend and saying things like “What about Ritz, you know like a cracker, I’m a cracker, and it projects kind of a rich opulence sort of thing.” Once she very kindly but sternly pointed out that Ritz was probably the dumbest fucking name she’s ever heard, desperation started to set in. I had to go back to basics, look to some role models and figure out what makes a great hip-hop name. I decided to go straight to the pros and figure out who has the worst and best name in hip-hop? Maybe in my investigation I’d learn the secret formula, and come up with something better than El Diablo Blanco.
It’s a more complicated question than it first appears. After all, what is in a name? Some people have strong enough personalities that they can manage to overcome a poor name. For example, think anyone has the guts to point out that 50 Cent’s kind of a silly name? To his face? The same face that was shot nine times? As far as I’m concerned he could be named MC Creamsicle and it’d be tough. But there has to be a point where we can all sit down and agree yeah, that’s a pretty bad/great name. I realize that the following list is subjective, and as always open to revision, but after much thought here’s the breakdown.

Bottom Three Worst Names
1) Diddy – The worst part of it is he managed to change his name from the embarrassing Puff Daddy to the absolutely atrocious Diddy. Let’s put it this way: I was over at a friends house when her two year old son peed his pants, then ran through the house announcing to everyone who would listen “I went Diddy.” I rest my case. This is what happens when you’re surrounded by people who enthusiastically agree with everything you say.
2) Ice-T – I realize this is a very controversial call, and a hard one because Ice-T is rightfully one of the greatest MC’s of all time, but just take a step back. Let’s pretend for a moment that we’ve never heard of Ice-T the rapper, never heard of him period, hell you don’t even watch Law and Order. Ice-T? Really? If I’m listening to the radio and the DJ says “After the break, I’ll be playing the new joint from Ice-T,” I’m not gonna be in any rush to sit through those commercials. What makes the name even more strange is all the hardcore songs. Should a man infamous for a song called Copkiller be named after a deliciously refreshing summertime beverage? And yes I admit that if I ever met him I would apologize profusely, while running away, and crying.
3) Vanilla Ice – Not much of a debate here. Though as soon as I wrote it I started to wonder if it’s not secretly the best name ever. At least it’s honest. The name screams “I’m a white guy masquerading as a rapper for money and women, also I have lightning bolts cut into the sides of my flat-top.” Which in retrospect was exactly what he was. No, no, I don’t care how honest it is, he probably thought it was dope. Which means it’s terrible. Sadly, Vanilla Ice was an upgrade from his actual name, Rob Van Winkle. You can’t make this shit up.

Top Three Best Names
1) Ghostface Killa – The anti-Diddy. I don’t even think it needs much explanation. All the Wu-Tang members have great names, even Gza somehow works, but Ghostface tops them all…with the possible exception of Ol’ Dirty Bastard, but he’s the only one in the world who could have pulled that name off. Ghostface is beautiful and tough, mystical and street. Ghostface Killa might sneak up behind you in an alley and stab you with a ninja star, but before he does he’s gonna whisper something in your ear so dope that as you’re being stabbed you’re thinking “I wish I wasn’t being stabbed, but that was a great line.” The names that good.
2) Busta Rhymes – Legend has it that De La Soul gave the aspiring Busta the name while he was still part of Leaders of the New School. De La never disappoints. A big part of the name game is how well the moniker matches the personality, and Busta’s hyper borderline-ADD flow fits perfectly. It’s the type of name that makes running down a hallway while being chased by an elephant a plausible event. I wish I was being chased by an elephant. I wish I could be one of the greatest live performers in hip-hop history. I wish my name was Busta Rhymes.
2) Snoop Dogg – No one has gotten more mileage out of their name than Tha
Doggfather. I think he’s legally mandated to spell out some form of his name at least once a song. S-N-Double O-P indeed. The name projects the kind of laid back cool that can only come from a millionaire who spends a sizable amount of his fortune on weed. It’s also mischievous, but in a gang affiliated kind of way. You can’t be on top of the game for almost two decades without a great name, and the undisputed King of the West Coast (sit down Game, it’s not you) is one Mr. Snoop Dogg Esquire.

So what did I learn from this exercise? I learned that it’s possible to give yourself a painfully bad name and still end up wealthy and powerful, I’m looking at you Sean Combs. I learned that there are plenty of gifted MCs with great names that will probably never sell as many records as Hammer, well hello there MFDoom. In the end it’s what you do with the name more than the name itself. And with this revelation in mind I’m leaning more towards just sticking with the government name. At least it can’t be ridiculed by smart-ass writers. Then again, what do you think about 10th Wonder…like the bread…get it? Yeah, you’re right. My mother would be ashamed. Well, until the muse is kind enough to bless me with something better, this is Nathan Richards Slavik, signing off.

Glory is forever, but so is brain damage

When Eric Sondheimer reported on the 2006 CIF State Football Championship Bowl Games in a recent LA Times Article he painted a picture of the inspiring purity of high school athletes, writing “You could see it on the players faces, how they answered the call, ignored their bumps and bruises and gave everything they had in the name of a state championship.” In this Sondheimer was merely giving us what we have grown to expect; the image of the high school football player as the American boy becoming the American man through hard work, toughness, and sacrifice. However, when he went on to laud the play of senior safety Mike Loucks, who returned to the field despite suffering a concussion the prior week so severe that he was, “seemingly having convulsions as he kicked his feet around and didn’t know what was happening,” Sondheimer crossed a dangerous line. Far from celebrating young athletes when they return to the field from injury, we should be immensely concerned. These athletes are clearly willing to risk permanent brain damage in the name of adult expectations, and instead of words of concern they hear only applause. Instead of safeguarding the health of our children, we tell them to walk it off and get back in the game.
While such displays of toughness may have minimal impact on a sprained ankle or bruised shoulder, concussions can be potentially fatal. Each year approximately 30 high school football players die due to head and neck injuries. Many of these deaths are simply tragic accidents, but there is nothing accidental about putting a young man with a recent history of brain trauma onto a field were he will certainly sustain more blows to the head. A recent NCAA study headed by Dr. Guskiewicz concluded “The relative risk for patients who had a history of concussion was 5.8 times greater than for patients who lacked a history.” In other words, each concussion increases the chance of another injury, and another, and another, until the athlete is left with permanent brain damage.
The early retirement of professional football players like Steve Young and Wayne Chrebet due to repeated concussions should have served as powerful warning to the parents and coaches of young athletes, but when pride and medical prevention collide, short lived glory almost always wins.
The California High School Football Championships have provided moments of inspiration and hope, but underneath the storylines that make the papers and Disney movies lay tales of injury and suffering. American athletic culture has demanded that the high school athlete play the part of the modern warrior, rising above physical pain to victory, and these young adults are understandably willing to do anything to fulfill their role, even if it means sacrificing their health. Medical experts widely agree that each concussion case should be treated individually, and I certainly won’t pretend to know the details of Mike Loucks personal situation, but his story and particularly the way it was portrayed in the media serves as a powerful reminder of just how much we’re willing to sacrifice in order to get our sports fix. Or more aptly, just who we’re willing to sacrifice

Hurricane Florida Levels Columbus

It’s moments like these that I’m glad I don’t have children. It’s always good to wake every morning and hear neither the pitter nor patter of little feet, but tonight I am especially relieved, and not for the usual reasons. Not because a writer’s salary would force me to cloth junior in old newspapers, or because getting them into a decent preschool requires a lawyer and a sniper rifle. No, I am glad I have no children because I would have undoubtedly raised them as ardent Ohio State fans, as my father raised me. And tonight they would have looked to me with tears in their eyes and asked me questions I don’t think I would be able to answer.
Little Nathan would have wanted to know how the Florida Gators could completely dominate an absolutely stacked Buckeye’s team? In between convulsing sobs he would have asked why Heisman Trophy winner Troy Smith only threw for 35 yards? 35! Those little bubbles of snot would come out of his nose as he looked to me to explain how a blue chip defense could give up nearly 400 yards and 41 points. This would be a prime teaching moment, one of those perfect opportunities to teach your child some invaluable life lessons: the world is a hard place, sometimes you lose, and the important thing is you tried your best etc. Despite knowing the right things to say, despite the tears staining Nathan Jr.’s scarlet and gray t-shirt, I can’t imagine doing anything other than looking him square in the eyes and saying, “Well son, we sucked, we sucked as hard as we could have possibly sucked. Now go to sleep while Daddy makes a visit to Mr. Jack Daniel’s house.”
That’s the thing about games like tonight’s BCS Championship, for the losers there aren’t any lessons to learn. The Buckeye’s were completely beaten in every phase of the game. They way they played tonight there wasn’t a game plan in the world that would have stopped Urban Meyer’s insatiable Gators. No amount of additional effort would have made a difference. Not even a perfectly healthy and multiply-cloned Ted Ginn Jr. would have mattered. This kind of loss has the possibility to crush the confidence of players, to make them question everything they know about the game. The quicker everyone involved moves on the better. If I’m Jim Tressel (and I look terrible in sweater vests by the way) I would burn the game film, forbid anyone to mention this game again, and start preparing for next season. For this 2006 Buckeye’s team the world will not forget so easily. Everyone from Kirk Herbstreit to the guy toasting subs at the campus Quizno’s will make sure that every player on that field feels shame and humiliation on a national scale, the last thing they need is a coaching heaping it on with no benefit. Amnesia is the only remedy.
It’s like this: you’ve just finished building your dream house when a hurricane rips though town. If the hurricane is relatively mild you return and survey the damage, figure out where the architectural weak points were, and rebuild your house better and stronger than ever. But if the hurricane is strong enough to completely level your house, well then there’s no need for analysis because no amount of reinforcement would have done a damn thing. You can spend days crying over the wreckage and wondering why, or you can take a deep breath, recruit everyone you know, and start clearing away the debris so you can start construction all over again. Sometimes reflection is fatal and the only way forward is willed blindness to the past.
It’s impossible to explain this kind of philosophy to a child, even one as intelligent as Nathan Jr. Their entire world revolves around the why, and only an answer will do. But when there is no answer coming, they only thing we can do is make them some hot chocolate, pop in that tape of the 2002 Fiesta Bowl, and watch them fall asleep with the joy of a national championship in their dreams. Even if it didn’t happen tonight.

The Curse of Prosperity

Nobody wants to hear it. Even I don’t want to hear it, and yet here it comes. Regret, jealousy, the shaking of disappointment. There was no way the Patriots were going to lose that game, not after a first half when Brady was his usual clockwork self, Dillon was running (or at least walking very quickly), and Asante Samuel had conjured the ghost of Ty Law to haunt Manning. It was all over. Years of watching the Red Sox collapse during big games like a sorority girl after a night in Tijuana has inevitably tempered my confidence, but honestly, deep down, it was all over. And yet just moments ago I walked to the closet and hung up my Bruschi jersey in defeat. The year is over, along with my most reliable avenue of escape from the real world.
No one wants to hear how crushing that loss was, and I understand. The Patriots have been the most dominating team of the current century. Three Super Bowls in three years, the parades almost seen automatic now. There are fans that would give anything for their team to even win four games (hello Alameda County!) and here I am complaining about a championship loss during a season that saw the Patriots vastly overachieve. There are thousands (or at the least hundreds) of Cardinals fans who can only dream of what it’s like to lose in the playoffs. What right do I have to complain when the people of New Orleans not only saw their team fall under the feet of the new Super Bowl Shuffle Bears, but also saw their cities brightest symbol of rebirth put out? Even I can acknowledge that there’s got to be certain karmic justices for Colts fans to watch all of New England finally feel the stab of a big game loss. I should just order some Ellis Hobbs merchandise, be grateful for a team that’s been astoundingly successful, and shut up.
Though the more I think about it, the more impossible that type of amnesia is. Only the occasional fan would be able to put things in perspective and happily move on. That’s not the way sports work, or at least not for those of us who make the trials of sports such an integral part of their lives. Simply put, we care, and it’s impossible to stop now because it’s the smart thing to do. Statistics and numbers dominate the sports world, but no one watches because they love math. Quick question, how many academic decathlons have you attended? We watch because our teams are an extension of ourselves, and their seasons the markers of our lives. I’ll always remember literally jumping off the walls of my apartment when Vinatierri killed the unstoppable Rams to start the so called dynasty, and I won’t ever be able to forget the crushing hopelessness of watching Marlin Jackson lay on the RCA Dome field holding the most important interception of his life. So while I am smart enough to realize how good I have it, I refuse to not feel upset over Sunday nights loss, because the day I’m able to forget and move on, is the day I no longer care. And I hope that never happens.

The Envelope Please

I care about the Grammy Awards like I care about the upcoming Making the Band 4; I might watch it to marvel at the ridiculousness, but it’s meaningless. In the hip-hop world winning a Grammy is less a sign of artistic excellence and more a sign of crossover appeal. I’m willing to bet the closest most Grammy voters have come to Ice Cube is when they put some in their Ice-T. The fact is Grammy officials were convinced that hip-hop was a passing fad, and only started giving hip-hop it’s own category in 1989. Now, as hip-hop has become increasingly mainstream your average voter is more and more exposed to the likes of Nelly, Paul Wall, and their assortment of Grillz then ever before. This years nominees are actually relatively solid (well done whoever pushed to get Lupe Fiasco two nominations), but even this recent stab at basic respectability is enough stem my hatred. In order to fortify myself against the hype, and to ensure that you never become deluded by the Grammy glamour, allow me to present my own awards show of sorts…

TOP THREE ABSOLTELY RETARDED GRAMMY HIP-HOP MOMENTS

1) Will Smith Gets Jiggy with a Best Song Grammy - First and foremost I’m not one of these Will Smith haters, he was there from the beginning crafting solid party hip-hop. There’s no reason we can’t all throw some old school Fresh Prince in the summertime and roll through three miles an hour. That being said, Will Smith is currently the Bryant Gumble of hip-hop, or maybe Gumble is the Smith of broadcasting, or maybe they’re both just Wayne Brady, regardless you get my point. White people feel comfortable with him, they feel comfortable gettin jiggy at their daughter’s Bar Mitzah, and they feel comfortable handing him a Grammy. Oh, and he also got a Grammy for Men In Black. That’s right Kool Herc, the music you gave birth to is now the soundtrack to a Tommy Lee Jones movie, congratulations.

2) MC Hammer wins for Best Rap Album – While it is true that the Hammer and his entourage were setting the nation on fire one pair of gold-plated parachute pants at a time, it’s also true that Hammer made music that can no longer be played without widespread laughter. Not only has his music utterly failed to stand the test of time, I wouldn’t be even remotely surprised if a 300 pound Hammer showed up on Celebrity Fit Club. Ironically enough it turns out the only legit thing Hammer ever did was quit. God, this is almost too easy. So the next time your tempted to give the Grammy’s even the smallest amount of respect, just remember, they gave MC Hammer a fucking award!!!

3) Puffy’s No Way Out wins Best Album – There are two options here: either a man so stupid he changed his name from Puffy to Diddy managed to make the best hip-hop album of the year, or the Grammys are a complete embarrassment. I suppose the third option would be they’re both more confused than Danity Kane after a quantum physics lecture; in any case I believe I make myself clear. The real travesty here is that Puffy beat out Biggie’s Life After Death for the award. You’ve got be kidding me! One of the top five greatest MCs of all time is tragically murdered and he can’t even beat the guy whose only serious credit was signing him. I don’t even know anyone who still owns No Way Out, let alone listens to it. I still remember the first time I heard Puffy spit this classic line: “Playa please, I’m the macaroni with the cheese.” Seriously, they gave him a Grammy, I think I just vomited in my mouth.

In the end, I hope The Roots and Lupe Fiasco and Mary J. Blige all walk away February 11th with more Grammy’s then they can hold, lord knows they deserve them. And if that happens, if the Grammy committee somehow recognizes the combined genius of Missy and Busta and Mos Def, if they show that finally they’ve learned the simple lesson of separating quality enduring hip-hop from flashy commercial efforts, maybe I’ll start to care. But if history is any guide then Ludacris will end up watching Chamillionaire’s acceptance speech from his seat, and I’ll be looking on the Internet for a flamethrower and directions to the Grammys. Let that be a warning to you Grammy voters, I don’t know who you are, but I’m not above locking you in a room with a Best of Mase cd on repeat. After all, it’s a wonder you didn’t give the man a Grammy.