Mister Faded Glory | The critique of everything

Aaahhh. Here we go. Finally, the brackets are almost upon us.

Just the notion of “brackets” makes our weary, frantic world appear much more orderly, and much more riveting. Remember waiting in elementary school for the sixth-grade dodgeball bracket after school. How about Quiz Bowl or Debate square-offs?

Your adrenaline rushed to all-time highs in late spring, a member of the junior high traveling tournament basketball team, facing off other AAU teams in two-day stretches at a time. You even cheered at State Wrestling in high school. While you got drunk, of course. Now, even as a faux-chaperone for mock trial tournaments – involving law students, no less! – your blood coarses through veins.

Not only that, those sunny brackets infiltrate your persona: Now it’s you versus your pile of expense reports. Your grudge-match race to the breakroom with Cindy from receivables. Your death-defying weekend bout cleaning up leftover winter lawn refuse. When your cats guard the entryway, it’s you versus them. Don’t think they aren’t seeking revenge.

Suddenly, instead of navigating a gray Wednesday, you’re looking down the road to an upset-riddled path to greatness. It can happen! That’s what brackets tell you.

(At least, of course, until the impending tournament expansion as early as 2010. Don’t bother fighting it, it’s destined to happen. Even though the bulging of the field relieves coaches of accountability, and simultaneously murders the cash cows of Championship Week and Opening Weekend, it will happen. Who, exactly, is for this?)

And speaking of, here’s what we’re looking for when the greatest brackets of all are unfurled this Selection Sunday.

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Since yesterday’s post detailing Bill Simmons’ egocentric foibles, the Sports Guy’s feud with former ESPN crank Keith Olbermann has escalated.

Today, Olbie took Bill further to task, with snide comebacks to each of Simmons’ snarky Friday tweets. I’m not sure who’s winning here, nor if any of this is even interesting. Really, though, aren’t Simmons and Olbermann alike? Could this feud actually be a concoction to drive Keith’s baseball traffic, or to excise Bill from the evil clutches of ESPN?

Alas, no one will ever know. Or care. Besides, Simmons is all square with me. How, you ask?

Well, I should point out that the Mister Faded Glory road to redemption isn’t exactly arduous … but during Bill’s Mar. 5 podcast with Chuck Klosterman, the Sports Guy re-earned his stripes. Discussing college basketball, Bill described Evan Turner’s return from injury, and I transcribe loosely:

“But, I mean, Evan Turner’s comeback from injury. This is a guy … (pause)…

Oh, wait. I sound like I’m on ESPN. HERE IS A GUY WHO … (giggles)…”

Yes, the road to my heart is short. Simply make fun of the ubiquitous “Here is a guy” syntax dotting jockspeak and poor context. An unnecessary prefix that makes you, another guy, sound stupid.

Bill Simmons, welcome home! See how easy that was?

In other news, the podcast was notable for Klosterman’s crazy/brilliant theory that ESPN and Nike are collaborating to engineer a dual NBA-NFL lockout in 2011 simply to promote soccer in the U.S. One of my readers is now giddy with joy.

Also notable about the podcast, it’s further demonstration I spend way too much time in the car. But, uh, here’s a guy who digresses.

On the heels of our recent film-inspired douche test (Remember? Synecdoche, NY? I rest.), I delve into further minutiae of pretentiousness. Today: one of the more obvious signs of a douchebag – the Keurig coffee pot.

For those unfamiliar with the Keurig drip-pod or K-Cup or whatever system; it’s the sleek, chic, super-expensive coffee pot that brews one tiny cup at a time. Instead of sifting through beans or grounds, you just drop in this pod, and the machine loudly unfurls nearly a tablespoon of tepid coffee.

I won’t confess to being a coffee snob, but I do like my sludge, and the stronger the better. I drink at least a travel mug every morning. Coffee fuels me, before I enter the soul-crushing world of corporate America. Yep. I’m like you.

But the Keurig thumbs its nose at that nonsense. With the Keurig, you can safely turn your nose up at breakroom or lunchroom coffee. Whereas us serfs will not eschew a cup from the cafeteria machine, even with stray grounds in the bottom, you can safely pass. Bully for you!

Now, again, I’m not a snob. Maybe I’m a purist? I don’t drink lattes or frappucinos or any of the stuff that makes you demonstrably fatter or poorer. I require only that my coffee be black as night – with a tangible bite, taste, and kick – and that it flows like the Nile. My coffee need be plentiful. With the Keurig, I get none of that.

How would I know? Well, I’ve got one. Yes, I do. But not only is your cup of Joe tiny and unfulfilling, once you’re a Keurig owner, you have the luxury of shopping for boxes of these K-Cup pod-thingys, made from the dregs of various coffee conglomerates’ beans or grounds. Green Mountain, Caribou, Tully’s, you name it – they all eagerly charge you thirty bucks for twenty thimbles of coffee, with a watery cup weaker than your standard Maxwell House scoop.

That’s right, Keurigs make weak coffee, and they don’t make enough coffee. Two settings exist on my model – puny and punier. Apparently I’m supposed to decide whether I want an espresso or a swallow. Which, I suppose, is fine in some instances – but it’s not fine when you can’t regulate the coffee amount. You drop in a pod, and you’re at the pod’s mercy. The pod controls the strength. Your role, as a coffee purist or gourmand, is finished!

But John, you say. You can buy one of those Keurig attachments that convert grounds into K-Cups! And that is true. For twenty dollars (NOTE: You can buy a full-fledged Hamilton Beach coffee maker for twenty dollars) I can have my Keurig converter. And, again, I do. I won’t bore you with the gory details – but just try and use one of these things. When your entire kitchen is covered in the converter’s wreckage, thousands of stray, messy coffee grounds, and you’ve got a sludge-filled half a cup, you’ll nod along with me.

So that’s the Keurig. If you like your coffee like a scalding cup of Aquafina FlavorSplash, I implore you – shell out your 200 bucks for the Keurig. Basically, it’s coffee drinking for those who want to convey an impression of coffee drinking, rather than your serious caffeine addict. Enjoy.

Though I can’t honestly believe you didn’t watch the Oscars simultaneously alongside Mister Faded Glory’s ultrafab feed on your Twitter machine, you can check us just in case you missed all the fun. Trust me, it was totally hilarious. And Avatar sucks.

@MrFadedGlory

You might think I’m obsessed with Bill Simmons. You might not be wrong. In a cage filled with weakling bloggers (myself included), he’s the 800-lb. gorilla.

But that’s exactly why I get so disappointed. My latest round of discontent stems from his recent minor feud with Keith Olbermann, Charley Pierce, and others based largely on silly comments in his Feb. 26 chat.

Basically, Simmons offered a ludicrous opinion about Tiger Woods’ fascinating comeback, comparing the golfer’s difficult road back to status quo alongside Muhammad Ali’s political and military struggles. At best, this is a leap. At worst, it’s nutty Woods puffery. Simmons was roundly castigated by Drew and Craggs almost immediately. But that’s it, right? Who really cares?

We all say dumb stuff. We all make ludicrous assertions in print. For an example, read almost any Jason Whitlock piece. He bases his whole persona on your aghast reactions. For that matter, on Monday at Mister Faded Glory, I’ll unleash an unprovoked assault on Keurig coffee makers. MY OPINION WILL NOT BE IGNORED.

My point is that it’s a throwaway opinion, and wrong or not, it all would have been forgotten. But it wasn’t. Either fueled by scoffs from KSK or Deadspin — or unbelievably aggravated at chatters who disagreed — Simmons attempted in Friday’s column to prove his inane chat comment was actually airtight. Go ahead, read it. I’ll wait.

You’re right. It’s ridiculous. (It even reads like he’s been spending too much time with BFF Jason Whitlock.) His basic premise: Tiger faces a more difficult road to acceptance than Ali. Absurd, painful, and basically boiling down to “more media coverage” equals “tougher time for Tiger.” Snore. (Personally, I cringed at the part where he claimed Ali could “retreat and draw strength from the burgeoning civil rights movement.”) The whole exercise was tenuous at best and totally counter-intuitive at worst. And Simmons’ wounded ego also hinted he might not do chats again. The horror of minor disagreements! (Awww….).

But the column brought out the wolves, detailed nicely by TBL’s Duffy. Longtime foil Pierce chastised Bill, and eager curmudgeon Keith Olbermann piled on. (Which sparked a barrage from Bill on Twitter.)

But I’m left to wonder: Was Bill really that tormented by the scoff at his chat opinion? Did he really toss and turn, furrowing his brow well into the night, wondering what in the world could he do to counter the snickers of KSK and Deadspin? I mean, really? How did he eat?

Or …

This is a symptom of a larger ESPN problem, isn’t it?

Think about it. Think about all the times you’ve read or watched a Worldwide Leader ‘head or scribe first anticipate the counter-reaction to an impending point before he or she actually makes the point. Have you ever listened to Colin Cowherd? “Now, I know what the bloggers will say…”

Mike Tirico is another example, particularly when he’s filling time in golf, or bursting pauses on Monday Night Football. So certain is he of the importance of his point, he will first address the potential backlash before actually delivering his opinion.

Even Scott Van Pelt and Ryen Russillo, largely approved by sports bloggers, are no strangers to stating the counter to their premise. Which, if you think about it, is insulting. As an audience, we don’t need to be spoonfed. As a mediaite, you can’t always worry about the arguers. Someone is always going to argue. When you elevate their impending disagreement, your credibility and authenticity is savaged. Get your premise out, and deal with the fallout. Normally this is how the cerebral sort out their opinions.

Instead, however, the ESPN populace worries first about disapproval. It’s why Tirico admonishes anyone before they can disagree. And it’s why Bill frantically dashed off his awful column on Friday, hemming and hawing and woefully mounting a defense that wasn’t necessary at all. It’s why his casual statement has turned into the latest chance for the Old Guard to bash him. Worse yet, he’s unnecessarily succumbed to a disgusting ESPN trend.

And at the close of this exercise, that’s the worst fallout for one of ESPN’s most popular and provocative voices.

Because you know what happens when you go around watching whatever you say all the time.

You’ll never get much said. Bill included.

That’s right, world.

Rest easy. The Syracuse Orange are back on top of college basketball. Back at No. 1.

For the first time since the halcyon days of Billy Owens and consecutive tournament flameouts against Minnesota and Richmond, of all things.

Yes, I know it’s fleeting. But this Orange fan can enjoy it. No doubt they won’t finish the year at No. 1 – my bet is on Kansas, after it wins the Big 12 tourney – but a high seed seems imminent, and the team has so far played well.

So we’re not totally lackadaisical or dismissive. We’re just enjoying.

And so, we can rest. It’s the sports calm before March’s four-week storm. So there. More later.

I’ll spare you a drum roll. It’s Synecdoche, N.Y.

Ebert called it the best movie of the decade. The AV Club’s Scott Tobias bestows it cult status this week. My stomach turns.

Synecdoche, New York is horrid. It is exactly the type of pretentious tripe prompting critics to unleash elitist admonishments. You didn’t get Synecdoche? Well, let me explain it to you. Reviews lauding a dead-in-the-water story like this should result in confiscation of the critic’s laptop. Which, by the way, I’m sure is a Mac.

I mean, look at this nonsense from Tobias:

It’s no great slight against the film for me to confess that it’s hard to digest, especially in its second half, when the story-within-a-story and all the doppelgängers within reach a tipping point where they start to lose coherence. And the troubles aren’t alleviated by Kaufman’s directorial style, which mimics Spike Jonze’s unfussy, excessively drab approach to shooting his scripts; this complements the matter-of-fact surrealism that bleeds into his characters’ lives, but in Synecdoche, it can be suffocating, too, to be denied the cinematic grandeur of what Caden is creating. Maybe a more distinctive touch will emerge when (or if) Kaufman directs again, but my sense is that he was so consumed with the practical challenges of making this film (which was independently financed, in addition to being barking mad logistically) that he wanted to keep the shooting as simple as possible.

That, folks, is a paragraph of absolute shit. Written only to stroke the writer’s ego, written only to exert some sort of intellectual superiority, which is, in fact, motive similar to Charlie Kaufman’s entire self-indulgent purpose in creating Synecdoche, N.Y. This movie sucked, and that review sucked worse. Kaufman failed. Don’t bail him out.

Solely a pretentious exercise in flagrant self-importance. Charlie Kaufman spins his lead character’s tale in endless, interminable circles designed to comment on how bleak life is, I guess. Which is totally fine (I like bleakness!) if you care one iota about the characters. Instead, we’re exhausted and disgusted by the time Synecdoche ends, and eager to return to our own bleak lives. I guess in that case it’s the most realistically uplifting movie ever! (Rolls eyes.)

That’s not the point, of course. Instead, it’s Kaufman’s comment on society and the artist’s mind, or something. Fucking please. Kaufman already did this, with Adaptation. He already described haunting pain, in Eternal Sunshine. Those films are good. This one is root canal surgery. Themes and plot devices and swirling character studies are all fine, but at some point your movie has to be a movie. And this fails miserably. It’s the type of film that critics and eggheads are scared to dislike – for doing so means they “missed something” or maybe aren’t quite as intelligent as their brand purports.

If a movie can’t hold attention and doesn’t have any coherent narrative or authentic genuine characters, then it cannot be good. In the end, the writer’s commentary – whatever the fuck it is – is fine. But if there’s no story, there is precisely no reason to watch. Underline that, dipshit critics.

I’m not saying movies and stories should all be popcorn escapism. But story, hook and entertainment are each important. Synecdoche prefers to refute all that; and its defenders would cite its rebuff of all storytelling as some sort of jumbled commentary on the futility of life. Gag me with a fucking spoon.

At some point, the movie needs to be consumable. Not necessarily enjoyable (Examples – Requiem for a Dream and Closer are fantastic, painful movies), but worth the audience’s time. In Requiem, it’s drug dealer verite. In Closer, it’s the futility and selfishness of love. Synecdoche has not one – NOT ONE – reason for you to invest your time and brain power.

What would make you want to sit through three hours of overindulgence, of bland acting, of stalled narrative, of a story that goes absolutely nowhere? What makes you want to sit through any of this?

What, pray tell?

So you can learn that life doesn’t follow a verse-chorus-verse plotline?

Please. Didn’t you already know?

In a way, the Winter Olympics are perfect for us all.

You know, we’re not exactly the smartest populace. We revel in nonsense (24) macho violence (American football), and slick packaging (Totinos Pizza? In a roll?) in our consumption. We cheer for tired storylines (Andy and Erin on The Office) and easy jokes (Jay Leno), really anything funneling us toward cathartic predictability.

So the Winter Olympics take care of all that.  NBC pays tons of dough for the right to shovel heaps of Americana and human interest toward nothing sports like Figure Skating and downhill skiing and speed skating that are otherwise interminably dull. And in between all of that tripe, we’ve got Exhibit-A of tongue-in-cheek Olympic predictability:

Curling. Yep.

Perhaps you’ve missed quips from several of your Facebook friends – devoting status updates to the mystical game of Curling! Either they’re excited to watch it! Or they can’t understand how it’s a sport! Let alone an Olympic sport! Or – because winter is here in the Midwest – they’re outside trying it!

Fucking please. This screams douche.

Perhaps you follow people on Twitter, who again, yearn to make fun of #Curling. They just want you to know HOW FUCKING WEIRD CURLING IS! I know, Z-O-M-motherfucking-G!

Wherever you’re at, curling is the easy joke. It’s tried, it’s true, and it’s either so weird it deserves snide scorn, or so weird it’s preternaturally cool. Even Slate doesn’t know what to make of curling. (It hates tired Olympic coverage, but curling’s probably progressive, so whatevs.)

Maybe you’re not online, and instead you subscribe to a broadsheet. And you’ve discovered heaps of local columnists, whose conglomerate employers have improbably Ok’d an expense account to subsidize stories of curling, learning to curl, and trying curling for the first time. IF ONLY I HAD A ZAMBONI…

So this is where we are. You can’t escape it. And no one wants you to. Instead, we’re forced to grin and bear the insufferable onslaught of dopes laughing at curling. But this is entertainment, and this is us, and this is the Olympics. Wait – they use brushes! How weird!

‘Scuse me. I gotta go try this. Till later.

In which OUR HERO the SNOW CAT finally DISCOVERS the winter wilderness of his new territory.

With trepidation yet SUBLIME BRAVERY, our SNOW CAT marks his territory, resembling the MAJESTIC SIBERIAN TIGER as he shuffles through dead leaves and the dirty ground.

The majestic snow cat pauses only slightly, SHARPENING CLAWS on discarded railroad ties, and PLANNING HIS STORM of the tree fort.

After traipsing through the FRIGID, BLOWING DRIFTS, OUR HERO returns to HIS CASTLE after TWENTY thrilling minutes.

Oh, right. Like you don’t come here for the thrilling cat play-by-play.

You’re expecting perhaps a recap of the Daytona 500, NBA All-Star game, or Winter Olympics? Well, check elsewhere, my friend. Those events are terrible, and I have a life. I mean, look at this cat!