Killing the Messenger

What do you get when you send a glorified gossip reporter to Las Vegas to cover a party?


If you answered anything other than, "a gossip column," you're either an editor for ESPN or an idiot   the two no longer seeming so mutually exclusive.


And so we are treated to another chapter in the LeBron James saga of media saturation.  A column goes up and comes down in the course of ten hours, only to later to blow up online as another example of rampant ethical miscues that have plagued the worldwide leader since The Decision   and the fact that I can capitalize that shows just how ludicrous the situation surrounding LeBron James has become.


By all accounts, Arash Markazi did exactly what he told his editors at ESPN-LA he was going to do.  He went to the Tao nightclub in the Venetian hotel and casino and spent the night in the company of King James and his army.  Markazi, by all accounts, has a great deal of access across Las Vegas   hint, hint ESPN   and used this to go behind the ropes.


The article in question is fairly innocuous by NBA nightlife standards.  Star and entourage take up residence in VIP section of nightclub, star surrounded by legions of bodyguards and yes men, and star catered to all night by nightclub staff.  The only controversy outside of James beating Lamar Odom in a dance off (I would have thought spending that much time with the Kardashians would have him better prepared) is a one off remark from James about his preference for panty-less women acrobats, an almost universal sentiment held by twenty-five year old men I can assure you.


The article, seemingly edited and formatted for print, was down almost before it was able to be swept up by the summer's growing fascination for all things James and media conspiracy theories.  However, in pulling the article, ESPN opened itself up for a great deal more criticism than it would have received had it just let another irrelevant "after hours" piece run on one of its local affiliates.  Some in the sports blogosphere would have picked up on it, but most would have shaken the article off as another superficial glimpse into the life of a celebrity athlete who has the fame and resources to live like many of us sometimes dream we could.


Why did ESPN pull it?  Editor Rob King cited Markazi's failure to, "identify himself as a reporter or clearly state his intentions to write a story."  That certainly hasn't stopped many of the great journalists of the past (not to say Markazi's piece even belongs in the same universe as the work of Talese).  And it seems likely that Markazi, while not explicitly stating his intention to write a story, was probably not purposely vague or deceitful when speaking with James' crew about his background, and his being well known around town further casts doubt on his ability to go undercover.


So what is the problem with all of this?  It isn't necessarily ESPN's on-again-off-again relationship with journalistic ethics, since it is becoming widely known that ESPN has painted itself into a corner as both a news source and a entertainment provider.  And since ESPN has spent the summer cozying up to James, any questionable move is bound to end up, and rightfully so, the topic of the day on Deadspin or The Big Lead.


The real problem, in my mind at least, is that ESPN wants to punish a writer for doing exactly what they sent him out to do.  Markazi went to Las Vegas to spend the night partying with LeBron and write about what he saw.  When he returns with a predictable piece about fame and excess and what it is like to be the most wealthy and popular twenty-five year old on the planet set loose in the kind of town where even a unpopular, poor twenty-five year old can find himself in any number of questionable situations, the editors  feign surprise and ax the story.


ESPN is having enough trouble juggling the dual responsibilities of being the worlds largest sports news source as well as the worlds largest sports entertainment provider.  To try to juggle worlds biggest sports gossip provider as well is a recipe for disaster that is compounded when a case of cold feet gets a questionable story yanked.


A friend of mine, after reading the piece in question, asked me what the big deal was.  I didn't really have an answer.  There is nothing in Markazi's piece that we haven't heard 100 different times from TMZ or the New York Post.  The only really interesting bits are the reaction that other NBA players had to the spectacle, a simple shake of the head.  Perhaps Chuck Klosterman said it best in a tweet yesterday, "For 3 weeks, people whine about seeing too much LeBron coverage. Except when ESPN spikes a story about him. Then it becomes essential news."


For almost thirty years the people at ESPN have known exactly what they were doing, and executed the plan so effectively that ESPN has become the unquestioned leader in sports coverage.  It seems to me there are two ways to go:  ESPN gets its act together after a regrettable stretch of poor judgement, or we all see just how hard it is to be the top dog when you want to have your cake and eat it too.

The Internet Comment Board: Where Thoughtful Discussion Goes To Die

It is the end of July and all across the college football universe it seems clear that we know one thing for sure:  we know nothing.  This is the nature of the sport.  When teams experience 100% turnover every four years you are necessarily limited in what you can predict.  Things come together quickly, windows close almost as soon as they open, and unless you are on the top you spend all your time fighting and clawing to get there.

Four years ago the University of Michigan was a bad penalty and a last minute comeback from playing for the MNC.  Today?  Well, laughingstock might be too strong a word, but that only depends on what bar you are hanging out at.  We don't know what we are going to get year in and year out.  Will the all world recruit live up to the hype, or will he get the "special teams touch of death" and spend the next two years as nothing more than a human bowling ball?

This doesn't end the fascination, speculation, and rampant argument that accompanies any sport where enough people have emotionally invested themselves to the point that they will sit through unbearably hot September afternoons and bone chillingly cold November snowstorms for a chance to watch their alma mater.  Pair this with the anonymity of the internet and you have the perfect storm of stupid comments being amplified by stupid people gathering in groups and message boards.  Every fan base has them, and you have no doubt seen it for yourself.  These are the kind of people who think "scUM" is a clever moniker for UofM, and any mention of MSU is followed by the obligatory prison joke.

Its all fun and games until it isn't.

Earlier today I read an article on MSU's chances at making the Rose Bowl this year   not out of the realm of possibility by any means.  The schedule is set up well, the team returns a lot of offensive firepower and the best defender in the Big Ten, and with solid play from the most unknown units (offensive line and defensive backfield) the team could conceivably make a strong run through the Big Ten.  I finished the article and broke one of my own rules of the internet:  I read the comments.  I wanted to list a few of the most egregious comments in this post, but I didn't have the heart to even click through two of the seven pages of comments.  In fact, those two pages provided one comment that even referenced the article in question.  The rest were a series of insults and bombastic statements aimed to belittle the opposing team.  What do last year's discipline problems at MSU have to do with this year's team now that all those involved have been dealt with?  Why is the quickest comeback to a UM fan a swift kick to the dead horse that is NCAA sanctions?  What is the point of arguing for arguments sake?  Are we as fans so bitter toward our rivals that all we can respond with is petty name calling?

It is July, and what do we know?  Nothing.  But that doesn't stop the chatter.  People will argue about who will win the national championship, who will inevitably disappoint after huge pre-season expectations, and why anyone still lets Eastern Michigan play football (seriously, someone needs to take Ron English's squad out back for some Old Yeller treatment).  Most of those arguments are interesting, and when taken with a grain of salt they can lead to some very heated but enjoyable barroom discussions or emails.  However, do yourself a favor.  If all you have to respond with is a played out internet meme (lolsparty, scUM) or personal attack, remember what Mark Twain said:

"It is better to keep your mouth shut and appear stupid than to open it and remove all doubt."

LeBron, Legacy, and Letting Yourself Love Sports in the Moment

I admittedly haven't been a sports fan for long in the grand scheme of things.  If you want to trace my roots of true fandom back, you would inevitably start in the late 90's.  Those were my middle school year   the dregs of every child's development   and probably the first time I really cared about sports and a team.  I had watched sports before then, but it had always been somewhat coincidentally.  I watched the Lions play every Sunday in the fall because my father would have the game on.  I would watch golf and baseball during the spring and summer, but again, it was on TV.  Sports were something that happened in the background, and while I enjoyed going to games and watching on TV, I had no real connection.  But in the closing years of the 90's I started to become invested.  I started to switch the channel to sports, started to talk to my friends about games and players, started to develop my own identity as a fan.  Through th years that identity has grown as I have spent more and more time watching, reading, and thinking about sports.

Sometimes it feels like I have let the beast grow out of control.  Do I care too much about sports now?  Do I spend too much of my day reading college football blogs, NBA trade rumors, and Bill Simmons columns?  Sports bring me a lot of joy, but I find myself   somewhat unfairly   wanting more.  That idea of more seems to be one thing sports fans have in common.  The joy of watching sports in the moment has taken a backseat to wanting more of those moments.

After years of watching Michael Jordan lay waste to the rest of the NBA, fans clamored for the next big thing.  The league did its best to deliver, anointing young up and comers like Grant Hill and Penny Hardaway as the next big things, but it never stuck.  Michael Jordan gave every game he played in an added significance.  You felt like you were part of history when you were watching those Bulls games in the 90's because you never knew what feat might be next.  I can personally remember watching game six of the 98 NBA finals at a friends house gathered around the living room TV to watch what still may be the single most important moment of basketball I have ever witnessed.  Jordan put his team on his back, stole the ball, and with time winding down, as he dribbled the ball in the back court, everyone sensed the weight of the moment.  He drove in, pulled back, and unleashed a beautiful jump shot.  With that shot, history was made.  The man walked off the floor as arguably the greatest champion to ever play the game.

As sports fans we crave moments like this.  We want drama, we want achievement, and we want to see the greatest players exceed our expectations on the biggest stages.  It is a sick relationship really.  Half child-like reverence for larger than life heroes, half projecting our selves into these moments, living vicariously through the athletes we love because they have accomplished the things we never could.  When our heroes let us down in big moments it hurts us deeply.  We invest ourselves emotionally in the teams and players we root for, and that relationship is all too often one sided.  If you were a Lions fan when Barry Sanders prematurely retired, you felt hurt.  If you were a Supersonics fan when the team moved to Oklahoma City, you felt crushed.  And if you were a Cavaliers fan a few weeks ago when LeBron James ripped your heart out on live television, you felt angry and betrayed.  If you love a team or a player on some level, you have invested parts of yourself into them.  You've taken time to watch the games, paid money to sit in the stands (and if you were over 21, you probably paid 8 dollars for a beer), and you invested your emotions into the fate of the team.  You cheered when the won and cried when they lost.

But the relationship is largely one sided no matter how unfair it feels to the blue collar guys in the upper deck, the season ticket holders who show up every night, or the kids at home whose rooms are filled with posters and pennants.  All the love and adulation we throw at our heroes isn't in exchange for loyalty or championships.  Pro athletes owe the fans one thing and one thing only: effort.  It is hard to blame Cleveland fans for wanting more.  Feeling that they are owed loyalty from one of their own, a native son of northern Ohio.  But what is interesting when you view the LeBron saga from the outside is the reaction of fans of the NBA in general.  Fans like me.

Like most anyone who has invested themselves in sports themselves, and not just specific teams, I spend a lot of time thinking about legacy.  I read up on the history of the different leagues.  I love the stories and the significance.  The reverence you hear in the voices of interviewees on NFL network or 30 for 30 documentaries when they speak of those moments from the past that meant so much.  I get caught up in thinking and talking about how everything relates.  These debates matter to me.  They matter to a lot of people.  We spend more and more time arguing about the past and future of sports than we ever have.  Bill Simmons once proposed that these arguments mean so much to us because we always want to believe that what we are witnessing is the peak of performance.  We want today's NBA players to be "better" than yesterday's because it will validate the time we spend invested.  Nobody wants to think the best years are behind them, even if it is the best years of competition.  We naively believe that the game and players are always getting better.  And so we look to the stars of today to make that next step, to become the greats that history will remember so we can be satisfied with what we see today and look back long into the future and say, "I remember when."  We want feel like we are a part of that history.

In the last couple weeks the sports world has gotten the input of players like Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson on LeBron's decision to sign with Miami and play along side Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh.  Would Jordan have done it?  No.  Magic?  No.  And the reasoning seems simple.  Those guys wanted to beat each other, not hang out.  They wanted to win championships and destroy their opponents and prove to everyone that they were the best out there, and we loved them for it.  We identified with Michael Jordan's unwaivering desire to win because we the fans felt the same way.  This was the way a pro athlete was supposed to carry himself.  Jordan wanted to win above all else, and we have loved him for it.

So when someone says that LeBron "closed the book" on the debate over the greatest of all time, it hurts.  In Cleveland he was his own man, and the rise and fall of his team was almost squarely on his shoulders   I guess his and Danny Ferry's.  In New York, New Jersey, and even Chicago things would have been the same.  It would have been LeBron's team, and he could have set about trying to build a legacy that rivaled or surpassed Jordan.  If you loved LeBron you wanted him to have that chance to maximize his talents, and if you hated him you wanted to see him falter alone, with no one to blame but himself.

Miami offers none of those options.  If LeBron wins, he doesn't do it as "the guy", the shadow of Dwayne Wade obscures what could have been his achievement.  And if he loses?  Face it, this team won't lose.  They may not run off a string of 6 NBA titles (keep in mind that it could happen), but they will reach the mountaintop.  So what are we left with, as sports fans craving history.  We get to witness a potential dynasty, one which is quickly becoming akin to the nWo in terms of ire felt by opposing fans.  It will be interesting, but will it be enough?

As a long time fan of the NBA, someone who cares deeply about its history, I feel robbed of the chance to see the kind of history that I was too young to appreciate during the prime Jordan years.  However, I realize that my disappointment is no more valid than that of Cavs fans who believe that LeBron was indebted to toil away in Cleveland and deliver their city the championship that it seems may never come.  I can't allow my dreams for LeBron's legacy to seem important.  My expectations of him don't matter, only his expectations for himself.  History wasn't stolen from NBA fans like me in the same way the O'Brien trophy wasn't stolen from Cleveland.  It was never ours to begin with.  It belongs to the teams and the players.  All we can do is sit back and watch, try to savor the victories a little longer and move past the losses a little quicker. There is nothing wrong with loving your team.  Just know that your team won't always love you back.

Crying Wolf

I won't begin to excuse the state of political discourse in the country today.  We take too many of our opinions from the talking heads floating around Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, et al. to have any meaningful discussion on the issues that matter.  So when I hear someone complain about almost anything to do with politics I usually just walk away.  The intelligent observers still exists, but it can get frustrating wading through all the chaff.

This is the fundamental problem with the 24 hour cable news cycle:  24 hours of news doesn't exist, and frankly, even if it did it doesn't sell.  We tune into cop shows to see action, soap operas to see quarrels, and reality TV to see humiliation.  Today's viewers aren't of the same breed as those who watched the evening news through televisions golden years of network dominance.  Substance can only take us so far, and the best news is almost all substance.  So instead, to fill the airwaves and the corporate coffers we get Glen Beck, Keith Olbermann, and everybody's favorite curmudgeon, Bill O'Reilly.

Is it any wonder that we are where we are?  When O'Reilly exists for a large portion of the population as the heir apparent to Cronkite, Brokaw, and Jennings? (A statement that I have no doubt would tickle Bill pink if he ever heard it).  We now live in a time where outrage passes for genuine interest and sound bytes pass for legitimate discourse.  For a country that is staring down some dire straits this is not the place to start.  It seems now we can't begin to confront issues because we don't even know what we are looking at.

Two weeks ago, LeBron James made a hasty   to say nothing of ill-advised   exit from Cleveland, drawing the ire of fans, journalists (with the exception of the few who were so star struck that they lent their names and credibility to the slimey proceedings.  I'm looking at you Wilbon), and a somewhat rightfully betrayed owner.  And when that owner made the mistake of sending out the first draft of his statement (and there is a lesson in this for everyone:  write your angry email, but wait twelve hours before you hit send) most of the sports world divided into the two reasonable camps, "Dan Gilbert is right to be outraged," and, "Dan Gilbert is crazy if he thinks the Cavs will even win 30 games before LeBron wins a title."  The letter read like something you write after being dumped, with insults and disappointments thrown together in a barrage of caps-locked statements and chest pounding.  Regrettable, yes, but for a city that hitched its collective hopes and dreams squarely on the shoulders of a 25 year old man-child surrounded by a posse of sycophants and yes men, it was an understandable response.

But it wasn't enough.  Soon, Jesse Jackson got into the game for no other reason than someone turned on a  microphone within a three block radius.  Now the conversation was shifting, was this letter just that of an angry and betrayed owner, or the embodiment of a slave-owner mentality that pervades professional sports   hockey excepted.  People talked, talking heads argued, and some awoke to this unforeseen outrage that had been "going on" under their noses for years.  Eventually things cooled off when the Heat began to sign players at an alarming rate and everyone began what might be the only pastime more beloved that arguing over hot-button issues, wild speculation over the future.

Was Jesse right?  No, and I cant say it any better than Jason Whitlock.  Jesse was just looking for a way to steer the conversation to attack what he saw as an unfair attack against a black man by a white owner and a large portion of the white media.  For all the bad things that can be   rightfully   said about Jesse Jackson, he has good intentions, but we all know what they say about those.  Jackson misread a complex situation in a way that is becoming all too common.  He saw black vs. white, and figured "where there is smoke, there must be fire."

Our society has too long and rough a history with black vs. white narratives to allow many to step back and view those issues in the proper context.  We become mixed up in first impressions.  Some want to punish guys like Don Imus for being racist, when they should really just punish him for being an idiot.  Others cry about affirmative action as "reverse racism" without paying attention to the hundreds of years of mistreatment and segregation (be it overt or de facto) that have built the society we live in.  We as a country have a knack for injecting racial outrage into issues that  have little basis in actual racism.  We see smoke, and we believe there is fire.

Racism still exists.  Discrimination still exists.  But the steps taken since the days of MLK and Malcolm X have driven those problems underground.  Today's racism is subtle, and todays discrimination is based in deeply rooted inequalities that have been shaped over hundreds of years.  African Americans still overwhelmingly populate the poorest sections of our inner cities, and for that reason are locked into a section of the education system that struggles to keep its head above water.  When "proficient" becomes just another word for three grade levels behind, then we know we are faced with a bigger problem than some idiot using the n-word on TV or rap videos glorifying wealth and excess.

But the types of problems that face this country in it's long slow march toward true equality are the kinds that aren't easily understood and even harder to fix.  So we focus on the superficial problems and hope that the rest will sort itself out.  This gives everyone the satisfaction of "doing something about racism" without really doing anything.

This is why it doesn't surprise me when I read that Shirley Sherrod was pushed out of her job at the USDA for her remarks at an NAACP banquet.  She stated that when helping a poor white farming family she:

"was struggling with the fact that so many black people had lost their farmland and here I was faced with having to help a white person save their land. So I didn't give him the full force of what I could do."

If all you look for is the racism that bubbles to the surface, you are going to miss the real stuff that does the most damage.  Worse yet, you are going to miss the real lessons that not everything is about race.  Some people have learned that.  Shirley Sherrod certainly has, because later in the same speech she got to the point that many missed when they railed against a black public servant withholding the full scope of her power in helping a white family.

 "I did enough so that when — so I took him to a white lawyer that we had — that had attended some of the trainings that we had provided because Chapter 12 bankruptcy had just been enacted for the family farmer."

"So I figured if I take him to one of them that his own kind would take care of him. That's when it was revealed to me that the job is about poor, versus those who have. And not so much about white — it is about white and black, but it's not — you know, it opened my eyes. Because I took him to one of his own."

This country has enough battles to fight to overcome racism.  We certainly can't afford to be fighting the wrong ones all the time.

(I implore all of you to follow the work of Jason Whitlock and John McWhorter, two of my biggest inspirations in writing this piece.  My ideas on the subject have been shaped by their thoughtful and provocative commentary on race relations in this country, and for that I thank them.)

Train wreck, in real time

If you are lucky enough to know me, and I mean really know me well, I might have let you in on a dirty little secret of mine. It is something I am not particularly proud of--the type of thing for which the term 'guilty pleasure' was meant to be applied. I am hopelessly addicted to celebrity gossip.

Step one: admit that you have a problem. Check.

I came to terms with this problem a long time ago, and have set about pursuing a path of tasteful moderation. I only have two gossip blogs I will check on a regular basis, and two more that I might wander to every few days. I refuse to look at these sites on anything but my home computer--I don't need WWTDD popping up on my work history. I even limit my intake of stories. I won't read about the Gosselins. I skip over everything related to Paris Hilton. And until recently, I had exhausted myself on anything to do with Lindsey Lohan.

Lindsey and I go way back. I remember sitting around the house with my younger sister watching Lohan in the remake of The Parent Trap with Dennis Quaid and the late Natasha Richardson. She may have been 11 at the time, but hell, I was only 14, and I was smitten. So smitten in fact that a few years later while home sick I threw in my sister's DVD copy of Freaky Friday, a movie which provided me nothing other than an hour and a half to leer at an older, more intriguing Lohan. Once I had seen Mean Girls--which I proudly own to this day--I was officially hooked. The movie became a staple around the dorm room, usually played opposite Mario Kart as we pre-drank on Friday and Saturday nights. We all loved the movie, and all the more because of her. She was the sex symbol of the times. The barely legal knockout. Red hair, long legs, and just enough freckles to drive you nuts.

The honeymoon, as they say, didn't last. Lindsey started partying harder and harder, around the same time that the internet seemed to be making it easier to keep up with your favorite celeb while they were off screen. Sure, she would release other movies over that time, but they never drew me in like Mean Girls, and even if her album had been any good I wouldn't have been able to take it seriously because I was in a four year exodus from the world of popular music.

By the time the wheels had come off I had cooled on Lindsey. She still looked like what I fell for as I was growing up, but the person behind the mask had changed.

--

Enough nostalgia and retread. The world knows the saga of Lindsey Lohan and I can offer no additional information on that. There were drugs, eating disorders, mental breakdowns, burglaries, car accidents, and sensationalist claims from family and friends that hit on either the extremely positive (Lindsey is brilliant and misunderstood, but sooooo strong as a person) to the extremely negative (Lindsey has AIDS, Lindsey is a thief, etc.). She has even gone to great lengths to compare her life to that of another drug addict that was spit out by the Hollywood machine--Marilyn Monroe.

At first I laughed. Lindsey broke into a house and stole jewelry? Hilarious. Lindsey kicked out of Club ____ for drunken behavior? What an idiot. Lindsey launches a clothing line and it flops? Funnier still. But after all the bad things seemed to pile up with no end in sight I became disillusioned. People joke about rubbernecking, the fascination with watching accidents occur and seeing the aftermath, but rarely do they actively engage in watching a tragic fall from grace, and derive pleasure from it. I hated myself because I hated Lohan. I felt she deserved what was coming to her, and that ultimately the universe was punishing her for her outlandish behavior and inflated ego.

And so I stopped reading. When I saw her picture or her name in the banner I would simply scroll past to the next story. My tolerance level had been reached. This went on unchanged for months. I avoided any mention of Lindsey's name and was generally a happy person.

Eventually, however, the curiosity crept back in. I started reading a blog post here or there about her. How could I not? The headlines were getting even more ridiculous than before. Now she was over a half million in debt and making a scene outside clubs after being refused service. This was the big leagues. No more getting fired from movies, she wasn't even being considered for movies in the first place.

It seems too cliche to say Lindsey is a case of the American Dream gone horribly wrong. Talent and beauty rewarded too fast. A poor soul who couldn't escape the clutches of her selfish and overbearing parents. It doesn't fit for the same reason anyone with a brain mocks VH1's "Behind the Music"--it's too predictable. Of course the drummer died, the singer and the guitarist fought over a woman, and nobody cared about the bassist. Thats how it always happens.

Too often we look for ways to pass off blame for celebrities. Different ground rules apply. People say Michael Jackson was just a product of an extremely dysfunctional childhood, but what does that really mean when we look at some of his actions? Is his pedophilia somehow less revolting because his father was a religious maniac? Are the molestation charges somewhat softer because he was denied a proper childhood? No. These actions matter, and anyone who says anything else simply has his head in the sand.

So I will continue to watch the downfall of Lindsey Lohan. I'll read about her next arrest, look at pictures of her stumbling drunk outside a club, and probably even watch a couple minutes of the sex tape that she is bound to release at some point. I am not saying I will feel good about any of this, but I won't feel bad either. Lindsey has had all the chances in the world to straighten up.

Ultimately, watching Lindsey slowly bankrupt herself of money, credibility, and dignity isn't about feeling good or bad, but simply feeling something. Ill do this for the same reason that millions of people will watch The Bachelor or Jersey Shore--entertainment. Somehow I get the feeling that is what Lindsey wants.

Dispatches from the Big Apple: Walking Uptown into the American Dream

The one thing that I wasn't prepared for in my visit to Manhattan was the sheer size of the place--both vertically and horizontally. On my first day in the city I walked for nearly four whole hours. I felt that in that time frame I had accomplished something great. I had explored a vast swath of New York. I had walked through the East Village and Soho, past Little Italy and Chinatown and all the way to Battery Park and then back. Later that night when I checked the map I was amazed not by how much I accomplished--which I had been bragging about off an on the whole evening to my friends--but by the amount that I hadn't seen. In my hours of wandering I had gone no farther north than 14th st.

In my travels I have seen a lot of the country. I have driven through the south, the southwest, the Rocky Mountains, the plains states, etc., and everything I have seen makes me believe that Manhattan is not, in fact, part of this country. It is a different mindset. We are a country of expansion. We build bigger houses, and we commute longer distances to them in our unnecessarily large SUV's. When compared to Detroit or Chicago, New York could just as well be somewhere in Europe, or maybe more appropriately, on the fucking moon. There is no "out" in New York, only "up". Buildings reach ever higher to take space away from the birds and convert it in to yet more lofts and office space. It is a city that spits in the face of population density statistics. Who needs an acre plot in the suburbs when you have a cramped 7x10 room in the East Village. As one of my friends said when we discussed this topic, "I don't need anymore space than this. I have a bed, a closet, and just enough room for a few necessary possessions. My apartment is for living--not entertainment--I have the city for that."

--

As I walked up 5th Ave with a friend from college who was also visiting, we talked about the city and our perceptions of it. He grew up in Chicago and had visited New York a handful of times before and was interested in how I saw everything through virgin eyes. We talked about the scale of the city, and how its enormous place in pop culture taints the city in the eyes of its visitors.

Then he said something that caught me quite off guard. "This is it. This is the American Dream." No stranger to the endless debate that accompanies grandiose topics like what really constitutes the American Dream I was intrigued by this idea. I initially agreed with him. Taken on face value he had a point. We generally perceive the Dream (as I will call it from here on out) as being the pursuit of not just money, but comfort and social standing as well. Perhaps no street in America drips with more of these three things than 5th avenue. High rise buildings create a huge chrome hedge maze filled with people trying to find their way through. There is no horizon, no distance, just crisscrossing streets and dizzying heights. The luckiest of the people on the street--or more aptly, the most successful people--get to retire to their high rise apartments and look down on the fray. They found their way out of the maze and have been blessed with a balcony seat to watch the rest of us toil away.

However, like all the best generalizations, this one was also doomed to failure; a seemingly obvious failure that speaks to both the disconnect between Manhattan and the rest of the country as well as the vast social and cultural changes that have affected what we want most out of life.

Sometimes when I talk politics with people I feel as if we come not from neighboring cities but from different dimensions where the rules of the debate are different. Thinking about the Dream being a high rise in Manhattan brought about the same feeling. I could walk around my hometown and ask what each person felt was the Dream, and I can guarantee two things. First, I wouldn't get the same answer twice; and second, not one person would ever consider living in Manhattan, period.

Why then was I immediately drawn to this theory of a 5th ave. high rise being the ultimate end to every one's version of the Dream? Part of it has to do with money, obviously, but that part really doesn't interest me. It doesn't say anything real about the individual other than, if given the chance, they would take a life of luxury if given the chance.

What does interest me is the subset of people who could very easily classify this as the Dream, or at least their version of it. I would imagine the vast majority of these people would be between 18 and 35, have a college education, and a love affair with pop culture. Young, upwardly mobile professionals, people who could, from some of their earliest memories remember being conscious of New York City. Perhaps no place on earth is more force fed to the US population than New York City. For a middle class white kid who grew up watching entirely too much TV I was destined to be drawn to it. It is the rough equivalent of how tourist traps out west draw in visitors. Mysterious billboards announce a must see attraction hundreds of miles in advance, and this constant barrage of advertising gets you thinking. What is "The Thing" (see footnote)? We see New York in much the same way, except the selling point isn't so obvious. No one has to ask "What is New York?" to pique our interest. The draw is in the limited view we get of the city. For a thirteen year old kid watching Seinfeld reruns in flyover country the existence of such a place provides enough allure to bring us in.

People migrated to New York in the beginning because of the opportunities that were present there. This is where people flocked to from their home country to pursue their dreams, and its quite possible that the whole idea of an American Dream was built just like the city--slowly growing upwards to accommodate more and more people and ambition. Today the dreams of 19th century immigrants have been replaced by the ambition of young middle class professionals, bohemians, and repressed artists. The city is awash in money, culture, and art. It is a hub of endless activity. It is everything the rest of the country isn't.

This works for those eager to escape the confines of suburbia. But the Dream has changed. The promise of a better life that drew in so many people through Ellis Island still exists, but now it can be found elsewhere. Just as the rest of the country expanded, so has the Dream. Now it is a nice house with a yard, and enough money for a vacation or two every year. The comfort and opportunity can be found everywhere, but with the added benefit of space.

So where does that leave the Dream? Just as confused and muddled as the rest of this countries values and ambitions. The Dream used to be the opportunity to succeed, but the opportunities afforded to a good deal of the population over the past 60 years has splintered the dream. Now that the pathways to success are more open than ever before it is up to us to tailor the Dream to fit what we want. My dream may be that apartment in New York, while my neighbor's is a bigger house and a sports car. The specifics aren't important, whats important is that both me and my neighbor have the opportunity to build a life that is based more on wants than needs. We no longer dream simply of survival, we dream of surviving in style with a fully automatic dishwasher and a pool.

All this explains my reaction to my friend's theory of 5th ave being the center of the American Dream. My initial agreement was based more on my own dream than any bigger idea of what Americans strive for. But I soon realized that the American Dream as it has been known through this countries history is dead. We achieved the dream in 50's with the rise of the middle class. We killed the American Dream and opened up the landscape for millions of smaller dreams.

The American Dream is dead, long live the American Dream.

==

(Footnote: I had the pleasure of stopping at a tourist trap that went by this name somewhere along the freeway between New Mexico and California. Billboards displayed large question marks, and cryptic questions about "The Thing's" origins to build up suspense. Once you get to the truck stop that houses "The Thing" all you need to do is pay your dollar and wander the exhibit, which includes various machines and antiques before concluding over a skeleton encased in glass. For my dollar I got more questions than I had when I entered, as there was little explanation of anything contained in that fenced in area behind the truck stop.)

Dispatches from the Big Apple: Coney Island Bound

Day one of my odyssey through New York started slow. It was a quiet tired early morning drive that got me to the airport. Barely able to keep my eyes open after a restless nights sleep I cruised down the interstate trying to keep my mind off the flight ahead.

I hate flying. I know it is a completely irrational fear, and that there are crates full of evidence to prove that I am safer flying than doing pretty much everything I do on a daily basis, but the fear isn't totally rooted in horrible thoughts of fiery plane crashes. I don't like ceding control to others. I don't even like being a passenger in cars, much less planes. Give me the wheel and let me take control, or watch me squirm uncomfortably in the passengers seat.

Despite my buildup of nerves, the flight went off without a hitch. There was very little turbulence and I quickly settled in to my seat and zoned out for the duration of the flight. After touchdown (and is there any better feeling than when an airplane's landing gear hits the ground? Not to to yours truly.) I caught a cab to Manhattan and began to soak up the city.

From my friends apartment in the East Village I made my way south along Broadway. It was hot and only the shade from the tall buildings that lined the streets gave any rest from the brutal sun. I walked slowly southward enjoying the hustle and bustle around me. Large groups of people flowed through the sidewalks like water down a river, constant motion past any obstacles (be them trash cans, light posts, or wide-eyed tourists).

I made it to the southern tip of the island and took a short rest in Battery Park. Ferries and tour boats moved through the water while the statue of liberty loomed large in the distance. Most pleasant was the smell of the ocean from where I sat. You could feel the breeze coming into the giant maze of waterways that carve up the city. As waves pounded the shore in front of me I felt the urge to jump headfirst into the surf (but my better judgement kept this slight urge in check).

After a long walk up the west side of Manhattan I made it to Washington Square park for a much needed rest. The scene was picture perfect. People were strewn out all across the park and children played in the fountain. There was a man under the large roman-esque archway who played a tune on his tenor sax as a young lady looked longingly at him from the other side. Another man had a group of 5 gallon buckets arranged around him with a snare drum and played wild shifting beats that seemed to help drive the activity in the park. I only wish the two of them would have gotten together, maybe even found someone to pound out a few notes on an electric keyboard, it could have been magical.

(Ah, how my best laid plans have gone awry again. This post was meant to be quickly followed up by another post of my trip later that night to see Wilco play an outdoor show in Coney Island. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the time to write the piece while I was in New York, and that trip was immediately followed by 10 days spent in a cabin in northern Michigan getting drunk and stoned in front of campfires and enjoying a scene much the opposite of NYC. Consequently I have removed the "part 1" from the title, and will be moving forward with another post (as I no longer feel like rehashing the concert). Stay tuned for another Dispatch from the Big Apple)

Dispatches from the Big Apple: The Buildup

A day before departure seems like as good a time to start a vacation narrative as any. I am sitting on my bed at home surrounded by piles of clothes and a suitcase. All that's left is the packing, then tomorrow morning I will be off to New York City for the week.

Vacations begin long before you step out the door to leave for the airport. Along with the physical tasks that accompany a trip--planning the trip, packing the suitcases, getting everything in the car--there exists a certain amount of mental prep work that needs to be done. In leaving our homes and the things with which we are familiar, we are opening ourselves up to the world. Vacations in American society today exist as our last grasp on geographic exploration. We are descended from thousands of years worth of explorers and wanderers. Our world is shaped by the inquisitive and adventurous nature of our ancestors. But the maps have all been made, and the corners of the globe have all been swept out in National Geographic articles and Discover Channel specials. So today we pack the kids in the car and drive to Disney World, or catch a trans-Atlantic flight to backpack across Europe for a couple weeks to wet our appetites. We long to chase the horizon as those before us did, to cover new ground. The new ground may be gone, but its spirit still lives.

Over the past few days I have begun the process of traveling, letting my mind wander off to New York City days before my body will arrive. There is probably no other city in the world that affords its potential visitors with such a wide range of imagined possibilities. The city looms real in my psyche, somewhere I've been hundreds of times, in the pages of books and on movie screens.

I try hard to keep my knowledge of the city in perspective. To me it exists as the ultimate pop cultural entity, housing stories of history, sports, music, and politics. In reality it is so much more, a living breathing place, like an organism run by millions of cells that work together to bring sentience. I know its face but not its body.

And so I am off tomorrow to experience a familiar place for the first time.

Everything Ends Badly, Or Else it Wouldn't End*

Jay Bennett, former guitarist for Wilco, died last week at age 45.

This news creates an intersection between two wildly unrelated trains of thought that Ive been having over the past week and a half.  First, with the new Wilco album due out in over a month, I had been eagerly awaiting a taste, and my wish was granted when the band put up a stream of the album on their website.  Ever since Ive been trying to get my thoughts together on the sound of the album and its relation to earlier albums, three of which involve major contributions from Jay Bennett.  Ive also been thinking about death.

Death and music.  Lets go back to the beginning.

Two Saturdays ago I got a disturbing phone call early in the morning, and a succinct voicemail.  "call me back, its important."

I made the call, and asked what had happened.

"Joe is dead."  Silence.  I don't hear it.  I ask him to repeat.  "Joe is dead" he responds "he was hit by a car last night, he was dead when they found him."

--

Ive never loved a band as much as I loved Wilco the summer before my senior year of college.  I was living in a hot cramped room in the third floor of an old seven person house in Ann Arbor.  There were four or five of us around that summer, and I was only working part time while the rest of the guys were just waiting until school started.  We got drunk on the porch, we smoked pot all day, and we listened to music, and the music that we listened to was Wilco.  Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.  Being There.  Summer Teeth.  We found every demo tape and b-side we could get our hands on.  We soaked up every bit of Wilco's music that we could.

The music was my escape.  It fit every mood I had.  Sunny pop songs for listless lazy July days.  Boozy barroom rock for nights spent getting drunk on cheap beer.  Quiet folk ballads for evenings watching the day turn to night from the big porch.  The songs fit my life.  Love songs ached for lost love like I ached for my girlfriend who was spending the summer in Ireland.  Rock songs inspired us as we jammed away for hours at night in the basement.  Layered pop songs kept us occupied as we smoked pot and talked about whatever subject happened to be running through our heads.

It was summer, and we had nothing to do but listen to music.

--

The week after Joe's death I did my best to keep it out of my mind.  I kept busy with work and only had the occasional realization that he was in fact dead, and I wasn't ever going to see him again. 

I am a poor atheist.  I want an afterlife.  Death scares me.  Nothingness scares me.

I want answers to my questions about life, and I want there to exist some great purpose, even though everything I observe leads me to believe that human life is much like animal life.  We are born to survive, to mate, and to eventually die.  Humans are like an ant colony.  Cogs in a global biological wheel.

If that's the truth, you can have it.  I want rules.  I want the world to behave like I was brought up to believe it should, justice should be served, good things should happen to good people.  I don't want funerals for friends younger than I am.  

--

Jay Bennett was a rocker and a musician through and through.  He could play just about anything you put in front of him if it had strings or keys, and often did with Wilco.  His prowess on guitar helped Wilco tour after the departure of Brian Henneman, and Bennett's talents on keyboard would appear in the next album.

Being There was Bennetts entrance on to the Wilco scene, but Summer Teeth was his real crowning achievement.  The collaboration of Jeff Tweedy's dark and violent lyrics with Jay Bennett's sunny pop songs produced a fully realized pop album.  Bennett and Tweedy used flourishes of keyboards and other sounds to give the album a warm plush feel to contrast the dark mood of the lyrics.  The album opens up like a coffin, smooth crafted exterior driven by despair and pain.

--

I arrived at Joe's funeral early.  A few of my friends were gathered in the parking lot.  No one was talking much, just the occasional greeting to a passer-by or attempt at small talk.  We moved into the large lobby of the church.  Against the far wall sat the casket, surrounded by flowers, and people weeping.  I couldn't bring myself to get any closer than 10 feet.  I saw enough.  I didn't want to see him, laying there lifeless.  Too much.  Too real.

I took a seat for the funeral service and soon found myself numb.  I wasn't thinking about Joe, or death, or anything in particular.  I was just staring, my body hanging limp.  There was nothing to say, he was too young to be up there in a coffin.  He was cut down before he should have been.  He crosses the road at the wrong place early in the morning, and bam.  Nothing.  That's it folks, shows over.

As much as I wanted to believe that it was unfair, I could only conclude that ultimately, that's life, and fairness just doesn't have a lot to do with it.

So Joe is dead, cut down at 24.

And Jay Bennett is dead, sadly passing at 45.

What had Joe done?  Grown up, and went to college, but he was barely out of school.  He finally found a job in Chicago, but was only at it 5 months.  What had Jay done?  He had played in a bunch of bands, mastered a number of instruments, and left a large musical record behind him.

--

Two weeks ago I might have talked at length about Jay Bennett's death being tragic.  A musician dead before his time, his best music left unwritten, best songs unsung.

Is Bennett's death any less tragic in light of Joe's fate?  Not necessarily.  They were both taken too early in the eyes of those they left behind, both left unanswered questions about their legacy, what would they be known for.  They were both good people, and neither deserved the fate they were ultimately handed.

As a child I had a much different, albeit naive, view of the way the world worked:  

Bad things didn't happen to good people.

I have spent my entire life trying to come to terms with the reality that this statement is patently false.  Not only do bad things happen to good people, but the reason things happen is often much more a product of chance than karma.  There is no guarantee that things are going to work out how you imagine, and even the best laid plans are subject to the whims of chance.  While it is terrifying to think  that there is no justice (at least justice as imagined by an 8 year old, where everyone gets what they deserve) it is also strangely comforting to know that chance is just as blind as true justice.

--

Both deaths are tragic for what can't be said about the departed.  One cannot help but think about the music that Jay Bennett will never make, or the family that Joe will never raise.  While we mourn the losses, we have no choice to carry on with our own lives, trying our best to savor the things we love a little bit more.  Life isn't fair.  Death doesn't care how old you are or what you've done.

All you can do is live your life, do the best you can, and look both ways before you cross the street.

(I stole the quote in the title from a Bill Simmons article I read today.  He got it from the movie Cocktail)

Learning To Be A Fan Again

Sometimes a moment seems so perfectly stacked against you that you can't help but laugh just to drive off the tears.

It was the first week of the 07 season, and Ann Arbor once again buzzed as students arrived and kickoff grew closer.  Michigan was entering the season ranked 5th in the nation, and was poised to make a monstrous run through the Big Ten.  A team that was one win away from a trip to the national championship game was returning its top 4 offensive players, and a large part of its highly touted defense from the previous season.  This was our year.  It was to be the icing on my final semester, the semester that I stayed around for in part for another season ticket package.  The last national championship happened when I was in 7th grade, I could remember only bits and pieces of it, but, oh baby, 2007 was going to change all of that.  We were finally going to put it all together again.

--

September 1st.  Halftime.  ASU 28, UM 17.  I stomp through the parking lot fuming.  I know this team has struggled against mobile QBs, but this is ridiculous.  We are being picked apart by a team we specifically scheduled to be a sure thing.  They are a Div. I-AA school for crying out loud.

I march steadily to my car.  I can't even go home I'm so upset.  This is the first game I have ever left early that hasn't been long decided and well into the 4th quarter.  Its not the players, the score, or even a belief we were going to lose that bothered me.  It was everyone else.  I have a hard time watching Michigan games around other people.  I want to yell.  I want to critique coaching decisions. Most of all, I don't want to hear what anyone else has to say.  Especially some of the things I heard from the people around me in the student section.  There was the drunk sorority girl standing behind me who's utter lack of football knowledge (especially her understanding of the pass interference penalty, which contrary to the vile expletive-laced suggestions she yelled to the officials, does not need to be called every time we throw an incomplete pass.  Its football for chrissake) didn't stop her from boo-ing every call that went against the Wolverines.  Then there were the two guys seated a couple rows ahead of me who were convinced that Chad Henne did not actually posses the skill to run our offense, and thus needed to be killed or beaten severely, and threatened to do so at several junctures in the first half.  

I was certainly not giving our team glowing reviews for their play in the first half, but I seemed to be the only one capable of maintaining my sanity in the vicinity.  People were shocked, pissed, depressed, and confused all at the same time.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I wanted to take in the rest of the game in peace.

As I reached my car I could still hear noise from the stadium in the distance.  I had parked back in an adjacent neighborhood so my driveway off of State St. could be rented out for parking.  The whole walk would have been wonderful had it not been for the scene that I had just left, the trees were swaying softly in the warm breeze and the sun was shining past the occasional wisp of cumulus cloud.  I started to drive and found the game on a crackling AM feed.

Let me make this clear.  At no point during all of this did I think it was a possibility that we were going to lose this game.  Not as ASU went up two TDs, not as I walked through the packed parking lot past the few stunned tailgaters who remained outside for the game, and not as I drove around.  We would come back.  David doesn't beat Goliath in real life.  I mean, they were a Div. I-AA school for chrissake.

I drove for a while, I stopped at a friends house to watch the end of the 3rd quarter, and I returned home to listen to the rest of the game in my empty apartment.  My lease was up and my landlord was letting me stay a couple days extra til I found a new place.  All I had in the apartment was a laundry basket full of clothes, an air mattress, and an clock radio.  I dialed up the game and sat with the doors and windows wide open.  My house was a stones throw from the stadium, just across the street from the practice facility.  I could hear the PA announcer over the roar of the crowd as it poured in through the front window.  I just sat and listened.

Things were better.  UofM had pushed back to within five points in the 3rd quarter, and had held them to only a field goal in the second half.  It was all playing out like it was supposed to, inch back in with defensive pressure and better production on offense, the tide turns, and the cupcake team always shrinks under the pressure of the Big House.

That's when we score.

Game over.  Thanks for coming.

We did it, we took the lead and now after a quick stop and turnover we get the ball back and everyone forgets about how close the season came to disaster in a couple weeks.  I had kept an unwavering confidence in the team's ability to win up to this point.  But then something funny happened to shake that confidence.  ASU didn't die.

As the drive unfolded I became more and more concerned.  This was all to familiar, too much like 2005 vs. Ohio State.  The defense played too far off and gave up too many yards underneath. The prevent defense was too soft and ASU exploited it.  As their field goal sailed through the uprights it finally occurred to me.  We could lose.

Henne's 46 yard pass to Manningham briefly restored my faith.  We still had some life, but it was going to take a big kick in crunch time.  Something didn't quite feel right.  We had a new kicker who was making what would probably be one of the most important kicks of his life.  The whole thing just felt scripted.  Huge underdog wins after botched FG.  It felt too much like the end of a Disney movie.

--

Fast-foward to the fall of 2008.

Its easy to get caught up in the pursuit of championships, perfect seasons, and Big Ten titles.  These become the goals of we the fans.  We want greatness and we want to beat our rivals for bragging rights at school or work, we want to win National Championships, and we are ultimately disappointed when these things don't happen.  

Last season was very hard to stomach.  Losses piled up and soon we were just fighting to finish .500.  But something happened after a few games, when it became completely obvious that this team was woefully young and unprepared to play against some talented Big Ten teams.  I started watching each game differently.  I was appreciating the little things more and more.  A big run gain on first down or a third down conversion became reasons to celebrate.  I looked for improvement in individual players.  I cheered extra hard when Stevie Brown executed a technically sound tackle.  I looked for the way Threet or Sheridan responded after a turnover.  I got pumped up when the defense came out after a short rest because of a turnover and played their asses off to get the stop on a short field.  My focus on the season shifted.  I was excited by the little joys of football again, the ones that can get overlooked when you focus too much on the nearly unattainable goal of a national championship.  I got past the disappointment of not winning every time.  I was a kid again.  I just cheered my team on in the present with no regard for the standings, bowl committee, or BCS.

--

Laying there in my empty apartment, staring up at the ceiling from my air mattress, I was inconsolable.  The worst had happened.  We were a laughingstock, no one ranked 5th in the nation loses to a D I-AA team.  The calls and text messages came in slowly, sympathy from Michigan fans, laughter and joy from Michigan haters.   I called one of my closest friends, but had trouble finding words to describe what happened, a game that was all but a sure thing had turned into a nightmare.  My father, who hadn't been able to watch the game because it was on cable, asked me how I felt.  I told him that I felt like the cards were stacked against us from the beginning.  The perfect storm had happened: we came out cocky but played unfocused.  They gave us a couple quick shots to the head and knocked us down.  By the time we realized it was going to be a fight, we were too far down and feeling too mortal.

"It almost feels like destiny was working against us the whole time," I said to my dad.  I couldn't help but chuckle a little as I said it.