Spend some time with me, and chances are you’ll notice I’m not paying attention to what you’re saying. Please understand, it’s not that I don’t value your company; if that were true I would have already devised an elaborate system of avoiding you. You see, I suffer from an as yet undiagnosed case of Auditory ADD (if everyone else is making up their own little diseases, than I can too).
My sickness causes me to listen to every conversation in earshot. More accurately, I’m a chronic eavesdropper. Letting off some steam about your boss on the train ride home? I couldn’t agree more, he was more relaxed when he was drinking. Talking to a friend about your boyfriend’s habit of keeping his socks on during intimate moments? Please, go on. Telling your mother that you’ve realized all that tuition money was probably a waste? I got every word. The explosion of cell-phones have only made me sicker, people will talk about anything in public now. But every so often I hear something so fantastic, so unexpected, so absolutely stupid, that I have to write it down. Looking back over my notes, here are some personal favorites.
The Scenario: I’m eating lunch in a café at UCLA. A group of engineering students behind me are talking about whatever they talk about. I’m barely paying attention and very much focused on my crossword when I hear…
The Line: “You know, sometimes I wish I lived in the time of wizards and hobbits.”
The Reaction: It took me a second to realize the full implication of this statement. I hate to break it to you my magic card-playing friend, but there never was a time “of wizard and hobbits.” You seem to have crossed a very important line. “I wish I could play polo on the back of a stegosaurus” is an infinitely more plausible scenario than the one you’ve laid out. I considered saying something, and then pictured him casting a fire spell on me while tossing his cup of barley soup at my head. I held my tongue.
The Scenario: I’m standing in line waiting to order breakfast. The woman in front of me has been contemplating the menu like it’s the DaVinci Code. When it’s her turn she approaches, glances at the board above the cashier, and asks…
The Line: “So, is this your menu?”
The Analysis: No amount of sarcasm could possibly be enough: No, this isn’t our menu. This is a menu from another restaurant we’ve traded with. You’re gonna have to go there and read our menu, then come back here and tell me what you want. It’s just something we do to infuriate our customers. Also our menu is in Sanskrit, so you’re probably going to want to get an interpreter, or enroll in a four-year university. Next!
The Scenario: On the train home, late night. Not only is this guy talking on his cell phone, but the train is pretty empty, so by process of elimination I’m listening to every word. He’s not very interesting, babbling about some vacation plans, when he says…
The Line: “There’s no way I’m going back to Seattle, not after what happened with the zoo thing.”
The Analysis: What!? What’s the zoo thing!? Jesus Christ on a bicycle tell me what happened at the Seattle zoo! My mind was racing with possibilities. Did one of the animals attack him? Maybe he attacked one of the animals. Maybe a llama spit at him and he got the ornery beast in a headlock before being attacked by a whole llama gang. I don’t blame him, I wouldn’t want to go back to a zoo where I was viciously beaten by a pack of furious llamas. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him what happened. Not because I would have to admit I’d been eavesdropping, but because I figured the real story couldn’t be as good as the one in my head. I was right, to this day many a waiting room hour has been spent contemplating just what can go wrong at a zoo.
The Scenario: I’m at a meeting at work, this was during my catering days. We’re all sitting there listening to the manager lay out the complications of chocolate fountains, when there’s a sharp bang, followed by a voice behind me whispering…
The Line: “I think I just staple-gunned my finger.”
The Analysis: What do you mean you think you staple-gunned your finger? Look at your finger. Is there a staple sticking out of it? If so, then you probably shouldn’t have been pretending like the staple gun was a real gun. Or at least made sure all your appendages were safely out of the way. For the record the speaker of this particular line was a good friend, and when I turned around to inquire about said stapled finger, he replied “Christ, it feels like there’s a lightning bolt in my finger.” This is why I like him so much.
Looking back at this list, I’m pretty happy with my disease, it certainly makes the world a more entertaining place. I’m not really sure what other people do when they’re waiting in line for things, no cell phone game is half as engrossing as the pearls of wisdom that come out of the mouths of your fellow human beings. I know I must have said a few over the years, I hope someone was around to record my best moments.
I’m sure everyone has some personal favorites, moments that have stuck with them throughout the years. Feel free to share, we can do a sort of almanac of overheard conversation. And if for some reason you can’t think of anything, then I highly recommend taking a little more time to examine your environment. After all, if you’re not listening to other people, I’m probably listening to you.
NoChancer Headlines
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Whitey to the Rescue
This is what it was meant to be. Outside the movie premier a hundred or so people talked and waited for the doors to open. They were Black, White, Latino, Philippino, and every other imaginable ethnicity (I of course held it down for the Slovaks). There were teenagers in white t-s and a middle age couple wearing sandals and socks. Everyone was distinctly different but united by love for a culture. We were all there to see Byron Hurt’s new documentary “Hip-Hop; Beyond the Beats.” Hurt spent five years making the documentary examining the link between masculinity and hip-hop. Here are the two basic formulas at work in Hurt’s documentary:
car + gun + video girls + acting hard = rap video.
material wealth + violence + misogyny + acting hard = being a man
It’s the formula that gets played out over and over, and over, and over again on MTV, BET, and whatever HOT/JAMN/POWER radio station is in your area. Jim Jones just came on the radio while I was writing that last sentence. I rest my case. Ballin! If hip-hop is dead, as Nas claims, then the above two formulas killed it, and hip-hop’s resurrection depends on a solution.
A panel featuring Hurt, Talib Kweli, M1 of Dead Prez, Yo-Yo, and the VP of BET stayed after the film to answer questions and try to come a step closer to an answer. They all said some amazing and revealing things, which produced a series of epiphanies in my little brain. More than epiphanies, they were revelations. I figured out the answer, I figured out how to fix hip-hop. Without further ado the answer is…white people. That’s right, we did it again. Hip-hop was cold and we handed it some smallpox blankets. White people are what’s wrong with hip-hop, and we hold the tools to fixing it. I know that my revelation is deeply problematic and simplistic on many levels, but I’m going to someone haphazardly put them aside because that’s what a revelation is, a parting of the clouds in a moment of absolute clarity. It’s time to stop debating and cut to the chase. To borrow a TI phrase, this is real talk. Follow me for a moment:
1) Hip-hop is a business. Capitalism is the most powerful force in the world (sorry love). Money determines what gets on the airwaves, who gets signed, and who gets paid. Artists quickly learn that if they want to follow the money, they better follow the formula. This point was hammered home during Hurt’s documentary. The VP of BET also made this point; his message – if you buy it, we’ll start playing it. If De La Soul sold 10 million albums they’d be on as much as 50. CREAM.
2) As Mos Def said, “Hip-hop is us. It’s going where we’re going.” If we want to see more Mos Def and less Jibbs, we need to start buying copies of Black on Both Sides and stop buying Jibbs Featuring Jibbs, an album that could have been alternately titled Me Like Shiny Things.
3) White people buy more hip-hop than anyone. As Jadakiss pointed out in an interview during the movie, “You’re first 700,000 [albums sold] is black, after that it’s all white folks.” I’m not sure how much sociology Jada knows, but he sure as hell knows his album sales.
In the end it’s simple mathematics. White people are the ones who want to see black men shooting each other, white people are the ones who want to hear about black men dealing drugs, and white people want to see black women shake their “Tipdrill.” There’s no doubt that there’s an element of truth to the hardness of black urban life, the question is why is this hardness is so exaggerated and so disproportionately represented. In 1993 NWA and Kwame were both on the top ten, there was simply more room for different voices. Then white people found hip-hop in droves (I include myself here) and the market changed. White people wanted to hear 50 rap about being shot nine times like they wanted to see Schwarenagger shoot alien predators. For most of us it’s entertainment, plain and simple. But for people who actually live in the environments that get rapped about (AKA non-whites) the repercussions of violent and material imagery are only too real. It’s not only our fault, and not only out solution, but simply as a market perspective if white people started being more responsible about how we consumed hip-hop, we would change the game drasticly.
I’m not saying that hip-hop is solely responsible for the problems of the ghetto, eliminating poverty’s would go a lot further, but I can’t eliminate poverty. I can’t give everyone healthcare; I can’t even give myself healthcare. But I can turn off the radio when Jibbs comes on, and I can pick up the new Lupe Fiasco and leave The Massacre on the shelf. For those of us who listen to hip-hop regularly this will be easier said then done. Lord knows I’m far from perfect. I blasted Rick Ross’s Hustlin as loud as anyone, and I watched The Whisper Song video more times than I should admit. I’m just trying to figure out why I turn up my stereo when a three hundred pound black man (300’s probably a little svelte for Mr. Ross) from Miami raps about selling coke, and why I don’t change the channel when some girls in booty shorts start shakin. Come on white people, it’s the least we can do. We’ve fucked up enough; let’s try to leave hip-hop intact.
Byron Hurt’s HIP-HOP: Beyond Beats and Rhymes will air nationally on the Emmy-award winning PBS series Independent Lens on Tuesday February 20th at 10:00 PM. Check local listings.
car + gun + video girls + acting hard = rap video.
material wealth + violence + misogyny + acting hard = being a man
It’s the formula that gets played out over and over, and over, and over again on MTV, BET, and whatever HOT/JAMN/POWER radio station is in your area. Jim Jones just came on the radio while I was writing that last sentence. I rest my case. Ballin! If hip-hop is dead, as Nas claims, then the above two formulas killed it, and hip-hop’s resurrection depends on a solution.
A panel featuring Hurt, Talib Kweli, M1 of Dead Prez, Yo-Yo, and the VP of BET stayed after the film to answer questions and try to come a step closer to an answer. They all said some amazing and revealing things, which produced a series of epiphanies in my little brain. More than epiphanies, they were revelations. I figured out the answer, I figured out how to fix hip-hop. Without further ado the answer is…white people. That’s right, we did it again. Hip-hop was cold and we handed it some smallpox blankets. White people are what’s wrong with hip-hop, and we hold the tools to fixing it. I know that my revelation is deeply problematic and simplistic on many levels, but I’m going to someone haphazardly put them aside because that’s what a revelation is, a parting of the clouds in a moment of absolute clarity. It’s time to stop debating and cut to the chase. To borrow a TI phrase, this is real talk. Follow me for a moment:
1) Hip-hop is a business. Capitalism is the most powerful force in the world (sorry love). Money determines what gets on the airwaves, who gets signed, and who gets paid. Artists quickly learn that if they want to follow the money, they better follow the formula. This point was hammered home during Hurt’s documentary. The VP of BET also made this point; his message – if you buy it, we’ll start playing it. If De La Soul sold 10 million albums they’d be on as much as 50. CREAM.
2) As Mos Def said, “Hip-hop is us. It’s going where we’re going.” If we want to see more Mos Def and less Jibbs, we need to start buying copies of Black on Both Sides and stop buying Jibbs Featuring Jibbs, an album that could have been alternately titled Me Like Shiny Things.
3) White people buy more hip-hop than anyone. As Jadakiss pointed out in an interview during the movie, “You’re first 700,000 [albums sold] is black, after that it’s all white folks.” I’m not sure how much sociology Jada knows, but he sure as hell knows his album sales.
In the end it’s simple mathematics. White people are the ones who want to see black men shooting each other, white people are the ones who want to hear about black men dealing drugs, and white people want to see black women shake their “Tipdrill.” There’s no doubt that there’s an element of truth to the hardness of black urban life, the question is why is this hardness is so exaggerated and so disproportionately represented. In 1993 NWA and Kwame were both on the top ten, there was simply more room for different voices. Then white people found hip-hop in droves (I include myself here) and the market changed. White people wanted to hear 50 rap about being shot nine times like they wanted to see Schwarenagger shoot alien predators. For most of us it’s entertainment, plain and simple. But for people who actually live in the environments that get rapped about (AKA non-whites) the repercussions of violent and material imagery are only too real. It’s not only our fault, and not only out solution, but simply as a market perspective if white people started being more responsible about how we consumed hip-hop, we would change the game drasticly.
I’m not saying that hip-hop is solely responsible for the problems of the ghetto, eliminating poverty’s would go a lot further, but I can’t eliminate poverty. I can’t give everyone healthcare; I can’t even give myself healthcare. But I can turn off the radio when Jibbs comes on, and I can pick up the new Lupe Fiasco and leave The Massacre on the shelf. For those of us who listen to hip-hop regularly this will be easier said then done. Lord knows I’m far from perfect. I blasted Rick Ross’s Hustlin as loud as anyone, and I watched The Whisper Song video more times than I should admit. I’m just trying to figure out why I turn up my stereo when a three hundred pound black man (300’s probably a little svelte for Mr. Ross) from Miami raps about selling coke, and why I don’t change the channel when some girls in booty shorts start shakin. Come on white people, it’s the least we can do. We’ve fucked up enough; let’s try to leave hip-hop intact.
Byron Hurt’s HIP-HOP: Beyond Beats and Rhymes will air nationally on the Emmy-award winning PBS series Independent Lens on Tuesday February 20th at 10:00 PM. Check local listings.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Where For Art Thou Romeo?
Last week my printer threw off its inky shackles and rebelled. The mutiny was crushing in its totality and in a matter of hours I had been reduced to the type of pathetic man that has conversations with inanimate objects.
“Come on baby, I just need a few pages, just a few…you know what, forget it! You think there aren’t other printers in the world that would love to produce my work! Sorry, I didn’t mean that, you know I love you.”
Concerned for my mental health, and more likely knowing just how technically incompetent I am, my girlfriend subtly handed me the phone and the tech support number. I went to the kitchen for some Reese’s reinforcements and dialed.
It started as all tech calls do. A recorded woman led me through a seemingly endless labyrinth of options, and then ignored whatever button I pressed. I know some focus group found her soothing, but I would rather talk to a machine. The idea that another person, even if it’s only their detached voice, was putting me through this torment was terrible. I expect pity from a fellow human, only a machine could be so callous as to make me enter my 27 digit service code four times. By the time I was connected to someone with an actual working cardiovascular system, I’d plowed through a king size package of Reese’s cups. When I get diabetes, I’m suing Dell.
I don’t know how many people there are in India named Romeo, but there can’t be many, and it was a small dose of pleasure to know that I may have been talking to the only one. More than likely his bosses at the tech support center had told him to pick a Western sounding name, and Romeo was born. I wouldn’t be surprised if he shared a cubicle with John Wayne and Ringo. Romeo was going to help me with my printer, and for the next hour we would spend a considerable amount of time listening to each other breathe.
It was an emotionally draining experience. After replacing the ink cartridge for the third time under Romeo’s guidance, I could feel the old fury building up inside. I had better things to do than talk to someone a world away who I could barely understand…and then Romeo would prompt the latest attempt at printing with a ridiculously enthusiastic yet heartfelt “Ok now, here we go with it!” and the tension would ease. It wasn’t hard for me to picture Romeo at moments like these. I wondered if he had a wife, a girlfriend? Who did he go home to at night? For some reason I became convinced he was wearing navy blue slacks. As a child, what did he think his future would hold? It probably didn’t include answering phones. Or maybe this is what he had worked for, a steady job that allowed him to buy all the books he wanted. Alone in his apartment he would surround himself with Shakespeare and escape to the world of that other more famous Romeo. Perhaps he fantasized about dying with the same type of romantic tragedy as his namesake. This is how my mind works. This is why I can’t fix a printer.
I tried everything he told me, every last restart and paper feed, but nothing worked. My printer no longer wanted to have anything to do with me, it had packed its suitcase and left. It wasn’t easy to figure out my warranty number, I couldn’t understand Romeo’s unsure English and I was hopelessly unorganized, but after much wrangling the proper forms had been filled out. That’s when Romeo noticed my address.
“West Hollywood? So you are near Hollywood then?” he asked excitedly.
“Well, yeah. I live right there, pretty close,” I replied.
Romeo paused for a moment, I pictured him closing his eyes. “Oh, it must be very beautiful then, ok? Many movie stars, oh.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him Hollywood is mostly made up of unemployed actors and homeless people. Out of my window I can see the Hollywood sign, and a KFC.
“Well, yes, it’s very beautiful,” I said, “You see famous people sometimes, and there’s palm trees along the roads. Maybe someday you can see it for yourself.”
“Oh no, no, I am on the other side of the globe,” murmured Romeo. He said it like a confession, as if I didn’t already know.
“You never know,” I responded, “someday you could be driving down Hollywood in a nice car. Even the movie stars would turn their heads to see who it is. It’s sunny everyday, you’d buy sunglasses to wear, it’d be great. Who knows? Maybe someday, huh.”
At that moment I really felt like Romeo and I were friends, and I wanted to give him some daydream to help him make it through endless hours of answering phones. I wanted to give him some small escape, a tunnel out of the monotony of his day. For a small moment I felt the vast expanse of the world open up and I wondered at the ability to talk to someone across the globe, to be able to share in their dreams if only for a second. All my previous technical anger was gone, I didn’t care about my printer, in fact I was a little glad its breakdown had brought me closer to someone I would have never talked to otherwise. I suddenly wanted to go have a drink with Romeo and listen to him reminisce about the day I called his office and inspired him to leave it all and somehow, someway, make it to Hollywood.
“No,” announced Romeo “that will never happen for me. Thank you for calling Dell, ok?”
It was over that quickly. The world was small again, just me, my apartment, and a malfunctioning printer. I kept the phone next to my ear for a moment, not wanting to hang up, but the connection was dead, if there had ever been a connection at all
“Come on baby, I just need a few pages, just a few…you know what, forget it! You think there aren’t other printers in the world that would love to produce my work! Sorry, I didn’t mean that, you know I love you.”
Concerned for my mental health, and more likely knowing just how technically incompetent I am, my girlfriend subtly handed me the phone and the tech support number. I went to the kitchen for some Reese’s reinforcements and dialed.
It started as all tech calls do. A recorded woman led me through a seemingly endless labyrinth of options, and then ignored whatever button I pressed. I know some focus group found her soothing, but I would rather talk to a machine. The idea that another person, even if it’s only their detached voice, was putting me through this torment was terrible. I expect pity from a fellow human, only a machine could be so callous as to make me enter my 27 digit service code four times. By the time I was connected to someone with an actual working cardiovascular system, I’d plowed through a king size package of Reese’s cups. When I get diabetes, I’m suing Dell.
I don’t know how many people there are in India named Romeo, but there can’t be many, and it was a small dose of pleasure to know that I may have been talking to the only one. More than likely his bosses at the tech support center had told him to pick a Western sounding name, and Romeo was born. I wouldn’t be surprised if he shared a cubicle with John Wayne and Ringo. Romeo was going to help me with my printer, and for the next hour we would spend a considerable amount of time listening to each other breathe.
It was an emotionally draining experience. After replacing the ink cartridge for the third time under Romeo’s guidance, I could feel the old fury building up inside. I had better things to do than talk to someone a world away who I could barely understand…and then Romeo would prompt the latest attempt at printing with a ridiculously enthusiastic yet heartfelt “Ok now, here we go with it!” and the tension would ease. It wasn’t hard for me to picture Romeo at moments like these. I wondered if he had a wife, a girlfriend? Who did he go home to at night? For some reason I became convinced he was wearing navy blue slacks. As a child, what did he think his future would hold? It probably didn’t include answering phones. Or maybe this is what he had worked for, a steady job that allowed him to buy all the books he wanted. Alone in his apartment he would surround himself with Shakespeare and escape to the world of that other more famous Romeo. Perhaps he fantasized about dying with the same type of romantic tragedy as his namesake. This is how my mind works. This is why I can’t fix a printer.
I tried everything he told me, every last restart and paper feed, but nothing worked. My printer no longer wanted to have anything to do with me, it had packed its suitcase and left. It wasn’t easy to figure out my warranty number, I couldn’t understand Romeo’s unsure English and I was hopelessly unorganized, but after much wrangling the proper forms had been filled out. That’s when Romeo noticed my address.
“West Hollywood? So you are near Hollywood then?” he asked excitedly.
“Well, yeah. I live right there, pretty close,” I replied.
Romeo paused for a moment, I pictured him closing his eyes. “Oh, it must be very beautiful then, ok? Many movie stars, oh.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him Hollywood is mostly made up of unemployed actors and homeless people. Out of my window I can see the Hollywood sign, and a KFC.
“Well, yes, it’s very beautiful,” I said, “You see famous people sometimes, and there’s palm trees along the roads. Maybe someday you can see it for yourself.”
“Oh no, no, I am on the other side of the globe,” murmured Romeo. He said it like a confession, as if I didn’t already know.
“You never know,” I responded, “someday you could be driving down Hollywood in a nice car. Even the movie stars would turn their heads to see who it is. It’s sunny everyday, you’d buy sunglasses to wear, it’d be great. Who knows? Maybe someday, huh.”
At that moment I really felt like Romeo and I were friends, and I wanted to give him some daydream to help him make it through endless hours of answering phones. I wanted to give him some small escape, a tunnel out of the monotony of his day. For a small moment I felt the vast expanse of the world open up and I wondered at the ability to talk to someone across the globe, to be able to share in their dreams if only for a second. All my previous technical anger was gone, I didn’t care about my printer, in fact I was a little glad its breakdown had brought me closer to someone I would have never talked to otherwise. I suddenly wanted to go have a drink with Romeo and listen to him reminisce about the day I called his office and inspired him to leave it all and somehow, someway, make it to Hollywood.
“No,” announced Romeo “that will never happen for me. Thank you for calling Dell, ok?”
It was over that quickly. The world was small again, just me, my apartment, and a malfunctioning printer. I kept the phone next to my ear for a moment, not wanting to hang up, but the connection was dead, if there had ever been a connection at all
Friday, January 26, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
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.
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
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.
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.
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