Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

No, I’m not as clever as Best Week Ever on VH1. But the fact that I try has to count for something, n’est-ce pas? Anyway, I try to post this on Mondays. But here it is … late … or is it early?

THE BOARD
1. Three-day weekends. I won’t say Memorial Day is the greatest holiday in the calendar year, but it’s at least the best in the last week of May. The perfect beginning to the summer. The end to a school year (for most). A time for awakening, recharging, barbecuing, debauchery, and relaxation. We’re supposed to remember something, but as a non-Republican who constantly feels uneasy in the shadow of the current administration, I am clearly not a patriot, according to them, and the White House will certainly tell you I have no business celebrating Memorial Day.

2. Internet Archive. If you believe in the utopian ideals of freedom of expression and the social policy of a marketplace of ideas, then sometimes you’re pleased to discover a site that manages to pursue that ideal in some manner, by archiving postings, audio, and news that appears online. Interesting, provocative. Much props to twin earth for the link. Now, on to the porn.

3. Necks. Chicken necks? No, of course not. A simple mention for the most underrated part of a woman’s body, the back of the neck. Stylish, alluring, and sometimes, gorgeous. Now just don’t tattoo a bunch of Hebrew gibberish on it.

4. Sideshow Bob. If Kelsey Grammer is still into the spinoff thing, he should consider a show revolving around the archnemesis of Bart. Recently seen: The voting episode that mimics Rush Limbaugh, All the President’s Men, and A Few Good Men.
“You can’t handle the truth! No truth-handler you! Bah!! I deride your truth-handling
ability!”
… or …
Judge: Take him away, bailiffs.
SSB: What? But why? Oh, yes. All that stuff I did.

5. The Breakup of Phish. I know you’re all expecting me to mock this band here, simply because I don’t “get it.” However, I empathize. It’s tough to see a band you follow exit into the sunset, but at least these guys went out on top. I mean, you could be listening to St. Anger.

THE BORED
1. Tourism. Trapped in a cultural and literal wasteland, the chances for fun, quick, inexpensive getaway weekends are few and far between. Yeah, there’s Denver. (7 hours.) KC (lived there.). Dallas (7 hours.) Wichita (done it all.). Lawrence (Iowa City II). Manhattan (Ames).So, what to do? Especially with a birthday coming up. Ideas are welcome…

2. Storms. Well, apparently the homeland is a disaster area. And while on my sojourn to DSM, the wedding reception was rudely interrupted by a pack of wild tornados. I would like to say I joined everyone else downstairs when the sirens went off, but, as SK would say (and did), “Seriously. Beer is comped, dude.” Can’t even say we were noble. Nobly drunk, I suppose.

3. This week. Can it go any slower? It can? Great.

4. Injuries. Never an excuse for sporting failures. Never. Never. Never. Kerry Wood’s out three weeks? Well, maybe this year.

5. The NBA on ESPN. Please stop shouting. Please. I’m begging here. You’re not profound, in fact, I think your coverage has sealed the coffin of a dying sport. Barely-high-school-grads playing video games and chucking bad shots? This is supposed to be a factory lifestyle, not a pro sport. All this while desperate members of their entourages screech about the “L” on TV? Make a freaking jumper. ANYBODY. Am I a broken record here?

Song of the weak. Mambo No. 5, Lou Bega.
I can’t believe it’s been only four years since Sweet Lou bestowed this classic upon us. Every night, every commercial, every second was that stupid little ditty. It’s listed here because it will always be intwined with my return from England and graduation in the states. A little bit of Monica, Amber, Tina, whoever. We’re all waiting for No. 6, Lou. Take the ball! It’s in your court!

I spend at least 30 seconds of each day trying to solve this mystery. Been on the amazon board for four months, yet no release, no date, no nothing. I suppose it’s all right, though, because apparently the creator had TONS of unreleased footage for Newsradio, and is filling out the collection with that.

Which brings me to my point, espoused by a friend over the weekend. Is Newsradio the last great sitcom we’ve had?
I can remember, during my childhood, laughing out loud at Night Court, Cheers, Seinfeld, and more. Now, my sitcom-of-choice (I, like the Emmys, exclude The Simpsons. A genius show, but a cartoon.) is Scrubs, which is very good, yet a far cry from the sitcoms of eons past. Newsradio had arguably the most talented comedic cast OF ALL TIME, and featured subversive commentary, improv incorporated into storylines, hilariously funny cameos and subtle pop culture references, ending untimely with the introduction of Jon Lovitz. Where, in live action, must we go for that now?

It’s back to the home state for a short period this weekend. One graduation, one wedding.

My youngest cousin gets his sheepskin at Mason City High School on Sunday, and his graduation party follows. Go Mohawks.
Prior to that, a friend gets married on Saturday. I ran with a few different circles in college, one represented prominently throughout the DSV network. The other dates back even further, with debauchery and fiascos recorded as early as fall 1996.

The final member of the four walks down the aisle on Saturday, with a drunken reception to follow. At any rate, all of us were married within the last nine months. No, not to each other. And, if you picked the odds-on holdout in the pool, you were wrong.

Anyway, this is the first wedding I’m going to as a married man. Will I still get drunk? Will I still get, um, other stuff? Will it still drag on (it is in a Catholic church) or will I have lost my taste for constant sarcasm, having already received my nuptials?

A good bet is ‘yes,’ ‘yes,’ ‘not on your life.’ Till next week.

As I do fairly often in this space, I’m once again lamenting about the radio stations I suffer through smack-dab in the middle of our troubled nation. Not only must I hear Nickelback and Matchbox 20 cuts 74 times a day, but around 4 p.m. the DJs are fairly taken with editorializing.

One exchange, moments ago:
“I read a news report detailing that mustard gas and serin gas were found in Iraq. However, UN weapons inspection chief Hans Blix still maintains that there is no evidence of weapons of mass destruction.
You know, I’ve figured out why Hans Blix hasn’t found (WMDs). He doesn’t know what they are!”
(Bike horns, slinky sirens, and ‘boing’ noise omitted.) (Cricket chirping sound supplied.)

The sad thing is, he’s only playing to the audience. I’m sure there were loud guffaws on the other end, from the mainly-warmongering-Republican-insulated-Bible Belt listeners. The tragic comedy goes on.

Extraordinary, Liz Phair. Once upon a time Ms. Liz gazed out over the landscape from her perch as the ultimate pissed-off indie-rock chick. Songs like F**k and Run and 6’1″ were the perfect complement to her brazen persona.

Now, however, we’re far removed from seeing the chick who showed off her nipple on the album cover of Exile in Guyville. With the mass-release of her single Extraordinary, the highlight (I think) of her latest album, designed (I think again) to showcase her legs, the former queen of cock-block-rock is literally dead.

The song is not only available four times per day on midwestern radio, it was also the linchpin of ESPN’s women’s basketball tournament coverage, and is now the featured song in Kate Hudson’s new atrocious vehicle.

I realize that it’s not really fair(kosher?) for me to rip on artists for selling out, maybe we all do at some point in time, and I would maybe probably kind of think about doing the same thing … but Liz, come on. This is a bigger drop-off than Jason Giambi’s turn with NY. You’re better than this.

Whereas Liz used to be the girl in stilettos drinking Pabst at a Screaming Trees concert in between shots of WT and a chew, now she’s embracing her Connecticut roots, drinking Starbucks and happily shopping at the Gap.

I have nightmares about what’s next. L7, back on the scene with a cover of Frampton Comes Alive? I’ll pretend I’m dead, thanks.

THE BOARD

1. Shooting – Look what’s new. The San Antonio Spurs have bowed out in the playoffs. A testament to the Los Angeles Lakers? No. Bad coaching? Not really. Who knew that the most important thing for an offense to have is shooters. Maybe the front office will learn this after watching brick after brick after brick when Tim Duncan faced a quadruple-team. Athleticism, pedigree, youth will only carry you so far. At some point you have to hit a freaking 12-foot jumper. I could average 10 in the NBA.

2. Retros in Petco – Maybe a phenomenon would show up like this if Boston had ever bothered to change the Red Sox’ uniforms any time in the last century. However, imagine that the Sox had worn their gawdawful red softball jerseys for Game 7 of last year’s ALCS, the Aaron Boone game. Now imagine that the Yankees were having a “retro” anniversary day, and requested that the Sox wear their red jerseys for a May series at the Stade. Not only wouldn’t the Red Sox do it, New England would be in flames, riots, mass hysteria.
Well, this is what happened this weekend, when the 1984 NL champion Padres asked the Cubs to commemorate Leon Durham’s error by wearing their hideous blue 1984 jerseys to Petco field. The Padres were promptly swept by the pissed-off Cubs. The justice of sports.

3. Gay Marriage – Have we decided to stop harping on this issue, what with kids dying over in someone else’s oilfields as a result of an arrogant lie? Because, as MTV notes, Massachusetts is now open to gay civil unions/marriages/trusts/bonds/sacred covenants/hitchedness. As I always ask, when confronted with the subject, “Hmm. Does this mean I have to marry a man, though I am happily married to a woman? No? Well, then WHY WOULD I CARE? WHY WOULD I BE AGAINST IT?.” Judge not, lest ye be judged. How about that? I can quote a relevant Bible verse, too, pseudo-Christians.

4. Brad and Frankie – The secret’s out. Chicks dig reality TV. So I watch it on occasion, and have been pleasantly surprised with MTV’s last two editions of its flagship “Real World.” This installment is in San Diego, featuring a psycho-drama queen from KC, Frankie, and a meathead biker from Chicago, Brad. As you can imagine, they don’t get along, and in the words of Brad, “…and the drama starts comin’, and, oh my god, put your helmet on.” Good stuff.

5. Bushwacked – I try and refrain from too much political commentary, because I would prefer to offer opinions on which I think I’m knowledgeable. Too often I feel like I’m uninformed, because I usually like to hear both sides of the debate. But, this book, recommended by an allied site (Axis of…?) is informing and also disturbing. It also mentions the only viable suggestion to the problems facing us as big business and government continue to merge. It’s a must-read, especially if you’re 18-39. Because if half of us voted, the ‘Pubs wouldn’t stand a chance.

THE BORED
1. Gwyneth and Coldplay lead singer. Had a baby. What did they name it? Apple. Apple Coldplay. Nice to meet you. I’m holding out hope that this is an homage to Mother Love Bone, and they will name the next one Lady Godiva and a final one Stardog Champion in tribute to MLB’s releases. But I think they named it Apple because …
2. Orange was already taken, having been adopted by Syracuse University sted the longtime Orangemen & Orangewomen. Don’t know what to think about this. It’s not “Mean Green.” It’s not “Red Storm.” It’s Orange. The color of Ernie, adopted through a pursuit – aided by Nike – of the color of money. (Green).
3. Chris Berman’s Top Ten Heartfelt Moments in Sports in the long aftermath of the shadows of 9/11. Every Monday morning for the last two and a half years I’ve turned on SportsCenter to have to sit through this interminable monstrosity, which replaced “Plays of the Week,” which was often hilarious, and never a tribute to a child finding a lost puppy, an unknown golfer retiring, or Curt Schilling making some pointless statement to suburbia. What most may not remember is that ESPN abandoned the aforementioned sarcasm-fest to seem more heartwarming and familial in the stead of 9/11. Well, news to Disney, I’m done being choked with tearjerking highlights. PLEASE give me sports.
4. Iowa Hawkeyes – The No. 2 overall school in the nation refuses to play against any team with a nickname that defiles Native Americans. (Note: What does “Iowa” stand for? Native Americans shoveled off their land in a fury of Euroconquering with only a tribe name left to signify whose land it once was? Yeek) No word if this is just a way to avoid two 30-point shellackings in basketball per year by the Illinois Fighting Illini (who are now pondering a name change to “Orange.”)
5. VH1’s Awesomely Bad Songs. Starship topped this awesomely bad countdown by proving the awesomely bad king of popular music, on a list conjured by awesomely bad rag Blender and featuring awesomely bad stints from awesomely bad comedians making sure to tell awesomely bad you that songs were not simply “lame,” but awesomely bad, a term that takes “bad” to an “awesome” level, more specifically, “awesomely bad.” Did they mention the name of the countdown?

Previously in this space I lamented over the lionization of certain NBA defendants. Well, now I have at least one ally, dubious as he may be. Though cumbersome and Exhibit A for “How to write a brutal lede, end abruptly, and have no flow,” his latest column similarly rails against the unsettling, frenzied media-wide hero worship of Laker No. 8. You could compliment the columnist on a good article, but trust The Star copy desk – he already has done so.

Welcome back. Gonna be busy in Faded Glory Land (Shangri-La) for the next few days, as I struggle to catch up on work missed over the last week during my sojourn to the bay area. Still, here’s a San Francisco-related board. Omitted are the weather and scenery, because both were great, of course. Enjoy.

THE BOARD
1. SBC Park. Used to be Pac Bell Park, home of the Giants, and though both are corporate names, Pac Bell still sounds cooler. It’s a great park, with not a bad seat in the house, though you wouldn’t know it sitting in the upper deck next to two transplanted Mets fans. (Seriously, who complains when their ballpark is a concrete dump like Shea?)
Bonds played late, and it’s nice to see all the talk of him hitting .400 come to a concrete halt.
For crying out loud, he was never going to do it. Sportswriters, please, reign it in for a second. ESPN (Home of the Giants), I’m looking at you. Anyway, great park, lots of quirks, the food is good, and the best view in the city. No joke. Real fast, here’s a quick-hit top 5 of ballparks I’ve seen games at.
(1) Wrigley. Ambiance, Fans, Cubs, everything. Can’t beat it.
(2) SBC. A retro park done right. Still, $7.50 beers?
(3) Fenway. A great park, if the seats are a little tight and logistics a nightmare. Rivals Wrigley.
(4) Kauffman Stadium. No bad seats. Underrated, the opposite of the team that plays in it.
(5) That’s it. My other two parks are the MetroDome and Shea. They don’t warrant a mention.

2. Amoeba records. In the storied Haight-Ashbury district, home of the 1960s. Still an eclectic region, with punks, stoners, deadheads, yuppies, all races, all sexes milling about. The record store is enormous, filled with used/new CDs, vinyl (!), concert posters, what have you. My favorite store in my favorite region of the city.

3. Pacific Time. Finally, a time zone that gets it all right. Prime-time TV is perfect for viewing, with network shows falling in the cushy Eastern time slots — plus two Family Guys on Cartoon Network at decent hours). This is combined with sporting events beginning early in the day, and winding up at 10 p.m. Wow! What a concept, you can wake up to a Cubs game and the day closes with the Kings-T’Wolves. I wonder what working at a newspaper is like. Do they even have deadlines? Anyway, a friend of mine at the Chronicle has been extolling the virtues of Pac time for a while. He is indubitably right.

4. The Lions. San Francisco’s got ‘em. That’s right, sea lions! On tourist trap Pier 39, barking and wrestling and sleeping in all their glory. Still, where else can you find them? The other lions? Lion Bars, people. Nectar of the gods, hardened in chocolate, cookie, and nougat.

5. Kokkari, Scala’s, Zuni Café. Tried three upscale – I hate to say “trendy,” but I was with Ms. Faded Glory – restaurants in SF. All three were unbelievably good. Now I’m back in the Midwest, a region that wouldn’t know seafood if it crawled up and bit it on the pitchfork.

THE BORED
1. Northwest Airlines. This airline has long been a nemesis of mine, but I have wound up continuing to use it solely to earn a free flight. This particular round trip was reward travel, so Northwest promptly informed me upon ticket purchase that they earmark only certain flights for their reward travelers, so our return home was at 6:30 a.m.
Two sickening flights going out, even though I typically feel fine on airplanes, confirmed my decision that I’m done with Northwest. So, when a morning-perky agent informed me my bag was too heavy at 5 a.m. in the morning, well, I’d had it. How, pray tell, did same bag survive two flights to Paris, let alone one OUT to San Fran with virtually the same content, and/or weight?
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but it’s 25 dollars for over 50 pounds and 50 dollars over 70 pounds.’
As I turned over 25 bucks, I informed her that I was sick of NWA and would never fly it again. Defending her employer, she mentioned that all other airlines have the same baggage policy. Before I could open up my laundry list of NWA complaints, a middle-aged couple next to me spoke up, testifying it was true that all airlines do this, and by golly, their daughter, bless her heart, always packs too much and summarily they are charged.
Now, I was in no mood to argue with these two “morning people,” (a breed that deserves their own column) but Ms. Faded Glory — even less of a morning person than me, noticing that the other couple was a little overweight, offered this tidbit to the agent and the chattering couple.
“What’s Northwest worried about the bag for? Why don’t they weigh her?”
At this point the exchange pretty much ended. Off to Minneapolis.

2. Public transportation (or lack thereof): When in New York, I was confident I could get from uptown to midtown to downtown to Brooklyn to east to west whenever I wanted, for a “reasonable” rate. Well, San Fran isn’t the same way. Californians all have their own cars, and they use them instead. The bus is awful, the cable cars are filled with idiot tourists, and the streetcars are slow. There are too many brutal hills to walk everywhere, so cabs enter the fray. It’s a good thing we didn’t keep a cab ledger, because I would be sick to my stomach.

3. Jet lag. But I feel like garbage anyway, back in Central time. Seriously, it’s two hours difference coming back east. So why do I feel tired, as though I’ve been hit by a truck?

4. Smash Mouth. A shout-out to another friendly site, debating the worst band of all time. Ms. Faded Glory offered this entry, which I think has a shot at the title. An all-star suggestion. (Ha ha.)
Speaking of ska bands that rose to prominence in the mid-1990s, do Reel Big Fish, Voodoo Glowskulls, or Mighty Mighty Bosstones have a chance at the worst band of all-time title? Because they should. Mercifully, the earth opened up and swallowed them all.
Still, my vote goes to Vertical Horizon. Or how about Yes? Or Supertramp? All annoying beyond belief. I’m going to be thinking about this till I die.

5. Friends, Frasier, Fried. Tonight Frasier airs its final episode, and a footnote to the series is that – somehow – it ran longer than Cheers, its parent. Funny, I don’t know anyone who has ever seen an episode of Frasier.
I’m not going to waste time celebrating the final end of Friends. For ten years this dorky chick-flick comedy made everyone in their twenties think they were a comedian by simply mimicking the inflection and ambivalence of Chandler, Phoebe, and Ross’ voices. Could we BE any more relieved?