Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

You almost got a weekend post from me — a cocky diatribe written during the fourth quarter of Iowa State’s nailbiting should-have-lost game against Army, of all teams.

I was going to say something like, You know, after the loss to the Cyclones, we didn’t really think ISU could make the Hawkeyes look any worse. That was, of course, before the Hawkeyes fell apart against Ohio State. Eep.
Read more

They say blogging is dead, if only because there’s nary an individual thought to be expressed anywhere, anytime, etc. And I for one, admit that I’m a victim of said circumstance.

Here I am, about to offer a bulleted list of what’s going on in my head, in your head, in all our heads – most of it trivial and meaningless, and I care not that I’m first, second, or last in expressing my opinion, just that I’m relevant. Which, of course, is a huge stretch.

If we ignored Barry Bonds, would he just go away?
Honestly, isn’t the incessant media coverage, the instigating quotes, the personal beat reporters, the endless self promoting – isn’t it too much to stomach? And, why why why did no one respond to Bonds, “calling out” reporters for worrying about steroids and not donating to Katrina? HELLO, sportswriters! Wake up!

He is not your friend! Barry piles enough circumstantial evidence upon himself to cause even Jack McCoy to shudder. Somewhere, sometime, I read a ridiculous column by an inane reporter suggesting Bonds came back simply to hide in the shadow of Katrina. Now it looks like it’s true.

Seriously, sportswriters! Isn’t all this too much to take? Can’t you respond, asking Bonds how much he donated? You’re waiting for the money quote, listening to this fathead spew his incessant garbage. When have you taken enough abuse? When do you refuse to compromise your integrity, nodding along nervously with his reactionary statements? This jackass isn’t a Hall of Famer. He’s a cheater and he knows it. Leave him alone.

Yes, I realize I’m part of the problem, talking about Barry Bonds in the midst of a pennant/wild-card race. Since my team suffered another epic failure of a season, I’m a little lost. However, all is not wrong with the world, as the White Sox sputter toward the greatest collapse in the history of regular seasons.

White Sox fans are the same breed as Iowa State fans. Immune to any sort of regular-season success simply because they are persistently focused on a rival, they root more for their hated team’s failure than pay any attention whatsoever to their own’s success – or shortcomings. So, in truth, the Sox deserve this. Just as Iowa State deserves whatever sort of ridiculous pathetic loss in whatever meaningless bowl they wind up.

The Colts’ average rankings in this week’s NFL minds? 1.25. That means nothing, I know. However, as a Colts fan (and always disappointed in the amount of media coverage/blogs devoted to the Colts) I’m not alone when I suggest the Colts win in spite of Peyton Manning, not always because of him. If you follow Indianapolis, you know that Edgerrin James is the key to the offense, and that Bob Sanders drastically revamped Indy’s new-look secondary. (Yes, the line is also much improved.) And, if you’re like me, you’re becoming more and more optimistic. But we’ll see.

I know you’re all waiting with bated breath, wondering what the week’s four songs on my iPod are. I also know you’re wondering what type of iPod I own. Well, it’s a mini. In true, ironic fashion, not two months after I finally was able to join the iPod revolution — Apple unveils the Nano, which, aside from its other features, allows the owner to inscribe a personalized quote on the back. Now, if that’s not screaming, John, buy me!, then I don’t know what is. Regardless,

Foo Fighters, For All the Cows. It’s hard to believe it’s been more than ten years since Foo’s seminal first record, which I listened to religiously. In the years since, Dave’s been hard-pressed to put out an album that’s even close to as good as the first one. Perusing current setlists, it’s rare to see songs from that debut album in a Foo concert, save for this one, which is a classic off the album, and This Is a Call. Cows is a great track, and thankfully still included at concerts. Personally, I still think Exhausted is Foo Fighters’ best song.

Pearl Jam, Fuckin’ Up (Kansas City). Pearl Jam’s pretty much made this Neil Young cut their own. I stretch to say it’s a concert fave — it began their second encore at their last show at Sandstone, which I saw in a monsoon. The two people next to me bitched that Fuckin Up was on the setlist. Far be it from me to cast out a Pearl Jam fan as snotty, but, well, I was rockin’.

Weezer, We Are All On Drugs. Where this song was my senior year at Simpson College, I’ll never know.

Skid Row, Monkey Business. Probably on the soundtrack from the trip MFTE and MFG took to London in 2000, for no reason other than a stray keychain that let us into Thoresby House in beautiful Hackney after a night out drinking. Ah, the days.

An idea that’s taken some legs in print is Jason Giambi, erstwhile Yankees slugger and outed steroid user as baseball’s Comeback Player of the Year. In fact, it’s even the topic tonight on ESPN’s Outside the Lines.

The logic is that Giambi — falling off a cliff statistically last year — has rebounded even after the Yanks considered sending him to the minors earlier this season. He’s been a large part of their run to the playoffs, and his statistics do reflect a massive upswing.

However, skepticism enters the equation because of Giambi’s admitted steroid use. While its true that no one can 100-percent accurately say how much steroids contributed to his earlier success — or how much the apparent withdrawal contributed to his decline. Of course, the letter of MLB’s law, or even the letter of MLB’s fan voting policy (it’s included at some level in this award, this season) doesn’t forbid a player’s comeback should not be from rampant illegal drug use.

Read more

Sunday’s return of the NFL was a welcome event here in Mr. Faded Glory-land. Not only did it allow me to lazily sit in front of the TV from the Chiefs kickoff until the Colts closed out a win, it also allowed the bitter taste of Iowa’s laid-egg to evaporate from my mouth. In addition, my sloth very nearly put an end to the Official Marriage of Mr. Faded Glory – which would have been a disappointingly short tenure.

Read more

Well, I promised earlier that I would perhaps have a few words to say regarding Andre Agassi’s memorable run to the finals of the U.S. Open.

Agassi lost today, he hung in for three sets against world No. 1 Roger Federer — who seemed to find a higher gear in the third-set tiebreak. Federer, an astounding athlete and unbelievable player, summarily dismissed Agassi after that point, hitting improbable shot after remarkable shot.

Read more

Well, this is the NFL preview column, and the title is supposed to say tea leaves, I know.

However, I’m trying to cultivate a mysterious, spooky image for this site. This image won’t be supported by any design or images, mind you. I guess I assume you’re supposed to be afraid just because of a veiled reference to the 1940s-era Mummy movies. Moving on.

Read more

Guh.

I’d write something provocative about the unfairness of the college football season — crushing title dreams with ridiculous preseason expectations, and the ridiculous non-playoff format which may damn a team with only one loss. I would, but, you know, life is unfair.

Before we begin (or as we begin) I just want you to know that I’m completely and unequivocally prepared for an absolutely outrageous (!!) NFL season.

Is this because I’ve spent the bulk of my time tonight watching Steve Young, Chris Berman, Mike Irvin, and Tom Jackson giggle like schoolgirls while attempting to conduct a mind-numbing four-hour pregame show? (Seriously, as we speak, Irvin is comparing Jerry Rice to Jesus. And that’s the smartest thing he’s ever said.)

But no! It’s because this week, as with any other Labor Day week, all of our favorite prognosticators have unveiled their favorites for the NFL playoffs. Some homers (Bill Simmons) confidently exhort the Patriots. Some cerebral homers (John Clayton) skeptically push the revamped Colts. Some nuts (Skip Bayless) attempt to cram the Bengals down our throats – albeit with a shy just-in-case endorsement of the Colts. And still, some would-be intrepid columnists desperately reach for straws, in the hopes they will be the only completely correct prognosticators in the universe.(Dr. Z – Carolina and Peter King – Minnesota, I think, but he may have picked Denver, again.).

So, I of the grain-of-salt, wary-of-machismo/seriousness, and of the just-a-game faction of NFL fandom (I know, population: Me) am prepared for the bulk of all talking heads during November 2005 to be scratching their heads, frantically cackling, yelling at me that this is absolutely the wildest and wackiest NFL season ever.

It sure is! I will likely reply.
Read more

Surely it’s trite and self-serving to compose a post of pithy comments as we all attempt to take in the tragedies of Hurricane Katrina.

Just as it was four years before, with 9/11, there are plenty of stories to be told, prayers to be said, moments of silence to be held, money and time to give.

And as much as I don’t want to insert a “I know this weblog is trivial” diatribe here, I’m going to, insulting as it may be. I suspect any readers all are conscious of that already, and are already doing what they can to help. Regardless, I don’t think it’s necessary for every media or columnist to call attention to the fact that their existence or job is minor, and reproachfully challenge that during these times, any sort of trivial humor is grossly misplaced.

Such meaningless drivel does have a place, whether sports, movies, novels, music, blogs, thoughts, interviews or rants. They are important to their producer as well as the reader. So I promise not to stop with the jibes, rants, and self-aggrandizing music reviews, as well as the critical barbs at sports teams. Just know that I’m as aware as anyone else of the long-lasting, immediate, and more-horrific-by-the-second impact of the hurricane, and trust that we both have our priorities in order.

Granted, you’re reading the thoughts of someone who totally relates to that Mary Tyler Moore episode in which they all burst out laughing at the clown funeral.

Someone who incessantly finds the worst places in his daily life to utter a sarcastic quip.

Someone who gets himself in regular trouble for making light of the most minor things in somber moments.

Even someone who wondered while driving in his car today – are classic-rock radio stations going to forbid the airplay of Scorpions’ Rock You Like a Hurricane or Led Zeppelin’s When the Levee Breaks?

I apologize for the morbid sense of humor, during the unfolding, difficult, coming months – but if we are all supposed to work in the face of these tragedies to help put each others’ lives back together, then surely humor has its place as well. Help when you can, grieve if you must, and empathize with the plight of thousands and thousands always. (By the way, I know it’s a stretch for me to assume all these rantings are humorous — but let’s just go with it.)

Let me leave this post with two quick links.

First, the implications of race and status in the apparent total bungling of aid and efforts shipped to the area have largely gone unreported or unapproached. (Actually, reports have now started to trickle in, on Saturday morning. My point remains — the question is being asked suspiciously late.)

This is also a function of tragedies and disasters – they tend to impart blinders upon members of the media, who gravitate toward human interest pieces, even though difficult questions need to be answered. This is one of them.

Slate has a thoughtful article on just that. If you’re wondering whether the preparation or response to this disaster would have been entirely different had it happened in Westchester County, N.Y., then please start here.

And on a lighter note, ESPN’s Bill Simmons waxes personal about his career and the role New Orleans played in launching him into adulthood or the columnist-stratosphere.

I’m very critical of Simmons’ ‘guy’s-guy’ style, because he’s better than that. And also because he is similar to me, in both taste and writing style. Lately I’ve been a little miffed at his namedropping as well as his reminders to his audience of how successful he is – but here, his personal account works, as he juxtaposes the city’s life with his own personal thoughts, ruminations on his career, and ends up voicing thoughts we all may be thinking. Can the city come back? Bill, and I suppose all of us, are hoping for an affirmative – but perhaps resigned to the alternative.

Coming this weekend – a college football preview. YES, it’s already written and won’t be skewed by the results of opening weekend.