Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

Another subject we’ve discussed previously is the enigma of Kobe Bryant. Today, of course, Bryant is back in the news (And facing the prospect of a sluggish Spurs NBA Finals, the NBA must be rejoicing at its media juice), demanding (sort of) a trade from the Los Angeles Lakers, before supposedly retreating during the afternoon.

During interviews and subsequent confirmations today, the conventional wisdom of 2004 has also flipped – apparently Kobe wasn’t completely responsible for running Shaq out of town. Also, apparently he’s dissatisfied with the course of the Lakers. Also, does anything encapsulate the shifting sports media landscape better than this? As soon as Kobe was bitching to Stephen A. Smith about his employers, the entire industry published 30 separate mock trades. As he relented later on, ESPN.com’s front page declares “We can still look forward.” And we’re all still chasing the Kobe carrot. (Yes, pot, kettle, me, I get it.)

Regardless, the whole thing is a bit absurd. First, the Lakers aren’t trading Kobe. Who are they going to receive in return? As much as the Blazers may dangle Randolph, as close as Shawn Marion is to a new contract, and as enticing as Rashard Lewis-plus-Kevin Durant may be – the Lakers just cannot receive equal value for Kobe. They cannot. Only two other stars, in my opinion, carry Kobe‘s panache – Iverson and Lebron. And they aren’t going anywhere – Kobe is much more than the Lakers’ best player, he is the Los Angeles Lakers. He’s their entire marketing campaign, their media coverage, he’s all of it.

Anyway, today Kobe demanded a trade, which he won’t get, and let’s examine the absurdity:

• If Jerry Buss supposedly “ran Shaq out of town,” as articles claimed today, well, fine. OK, it may not have been Kobe pulling the organization’s strings, sure. No one ever thought Kobe was the Lakers’ puppet master. Still, his impending and presumably massive contract negotiation in 2004 certainly was on Buss’ mind. What kind of businessman would just throw caution to the wind and assume he could sign both? From a budget standpoint, and considering the pair’s relative ages – of course Buss had to pick Kobe, and of course it was a difficult, and not necessarily popular decision. had Buss waited another year with Shaq, no way he even gets Lamar Odom for him.
• That’s not to say Bryant wasn’t above using his crosstown rivals to eke more money out of the Lakers. Did anyone believe he was signing with the Clippers? Because, honestly, if titles were all he was about, Kobe would have been a lot closer with the Clip Show.
• In fact, Bryant or his agent even had the foresight to include a $13 million payout clause in case the star was traded, similar to a signing bonus, to him. Hmmm. Suddenly he doesn’t seem like just a disgruntled employee.

And, summarily, now Bryant‘s upset because (1) He needed a mammoth contract which forced the exit of tandem All-Star O’Neal, (2) He used the crosstown Clips as a bargaining chip to gain this contract, and (3) he got this contract. And he’s miffed because the Lakers don’t have enough spare cash to build a title contender? He should be ecstatic they’re at least looking somewhat forward (Andrew Bynum) – and not taking steps back and turning themselves into the Knicks.

Of course, had this whole story played out with “Michael Jordan” in place of “Kobe Bryant,” the media would be laughing it up, celebrating the great MJ, and assuming Jordan deserved everything he asked for, even if it included control of the entire free world. With Kobe, he’s a pouter. It’s a horrible double standard.

You all know that I think Jordan is not the greatest player of all time. Yes, I’m the one. I lean toward Magic Johnson, Shaquille O’Neal, Hakeem Olajuwon, and Oscar Robertson. However, Jordan is probably the best 2-guard of all time. Isn’t he?

Seriously, who’s a better scorer? Jordan or Kobe? It’s Kobe.

Who was better at age 22? Jordan or Kobe? Heck, throw in Lebron. It’s Kobe.

Who is a better defender (and coasted less on reputation?) It’s Kobe.

So, if Jordan was the conventional “greatest player ever,” then Kobe must be the best basketball player we’ve ever seen. And it’s unfathomable – because Bryant has modeled himself after Jordan in every way. His look, his endorsements, his game, his interviews, his PR, even his indiscretions, are the exact copy of MJ. Yet, somehow MJ was beloved by everyone, and Kobe is largely despised. It’s a mystery, an enigma, and even though I don’t care for either in particular, it’s a frustration.

Anyway, putting all that aside, the gist of the story is that the great Kobe Bryant got what he wanted. Now he’s not happy. A superstar’s – and an enigma’s – day in the life. Would be nice if there were some poetic justice to this non-story. Maybe an impending trade to the Heat – Kobe and Odom for Dwayne Wade and Shaq? We can dream, right?

The NBA’s on our mind today – so if you tuned in hoping to hear me break my silence on the train wreck that is the Chicago Cubs, it is decidedly not your lucky day. It’s a shame that 2003 and 2004 were such a tease for the Cubs, because as a result of the last two years’ terrible decisions, Zambrano‘s impending walk, and a regime change coupled with awful backloaded contracts, they’re not going to be competitive until at least 2012. And until Scott Eyre, Bob Howry, Mike Wuertz, Will Ohman, Cesar Izturis, The Strap, and Dipshit Mike Barrett are all DFA’d (or maimed, I suppose), we’re done with the Cubs. Done.

Also not on our mind? The NBA Finals, though you may remember much teeth-gnashing in these parts while discussing douchebag 2-guard Manu Ginobili – and sweet affirmation arrived today, as blogger extraordinaire MJD took the Argentinian cheap-shot artist to task in an absolutely, devastatingly sweet post. Consider:

Before Ginobili, the NBA sort of had its own style of flopping, different and less offensive than what goes on in soccer. It used to be limited to post play and stepping in and taking charges as someone drove the lane. But now, this balding son of a strumpet will flop anywhere on the court, at any time, at any distance away from the ball, and for any amount of pretend contact. At this point, Manu Ginobili makes Vlade Divac look like Chuck Wepner.

Heh. So true. We hate Manu Ginobili. The world must know! And would the Mormons have pelted him with batteries – we would have rejoiced!

More to come – we rambled enough in this post that we didn’t even get to our next subject.

As you know, I was away over the weekend and just returned to the official stomping grounds of Mr. Faded Glory. Much to my horror, I discovered that everyone’s favorite snooty online ‘zine decided to thumb its nose at one of the – nay, THE – seminal film among twenty- and thirtysomethings everywhere. That’s right, Slate doesn’t like Fletch.

The news greeted me with horror. Fletch! Chevy Chase! It should come as no shock to readers that I consider Fletch my absolute favorite movie of all time, and it is certainly the most-watched movie within my catalog. In fact, several of you very readers probably have seen the movie alongside me, reciting lines at every turn.

Anyway, I found it nearly impossible that someone – anyone – possessed this sort of vitriol against a beloved celluloid classic. Originally, I had planned to line-by-line debunk Mr. Salam‘s angry critique of Fletch - but I decided against it. How is that worth my time? I know Fletch is great. I know the 1980s quip-filled action-comedy was perfected by Chase in his prime. I know all this – and I’m sorry Mr. Salam isn’t privy to understanding the flick’s sophomoric dialogue – which has spawned countless inside jokes and quips and quotes among all cliques during the last two decades. I’m sure in Salam‘s high school the cool kids made fun of his Oldsmobuick and called him Arnold T. Pants. (No, never, never…)

But this guy isn’t the problem. Sure, who cares if he’s too cool for Fletch. The problem is Slate.

Once upon a time, Slate was a shrewd little online magazine, promising a little bit of thoughtful news analysis up and down the mainstream media and pop culture nation. However, it’s devolved into the Skip Bayless of left-wing mainstream thought – each and every article or opinion piece (Yes, except Hitchens and Saletan) is a contemptuous dismissal of conventional wisdom, current trends, or common human behavior. Whatever is currently cool, Slate is certain that it’s actually lame – eager to turn all things mildly popular or even cultish, upon their head. You see, unless you, as a mouth-breathing mastodon, don’t read the magazine – well, there’s no way you’ve realized Slate is actually the arbiter of all things cool. And shame on you.

It’s no tragedy, it’s just an annoyance. Once a collection of good writers, now Slate has simply become a pouty bloggers’ mouthpiece (Yes, point taken. Don’t bother pointing that out.) – the lunchtable with all the kids who laugh at you for listening to Radiohead. You see, Radiohead is on the radio. And counts platinum selling albums. No way they could be cool.

Which brings us back to Fletch. Slate‘s contention is the movie’s failure as comment on the 1980s. Well, they’ve got us. Just like Three Amigos! failed to capture the plight of Mexican settlers in the 1900s and Caddyshack trivialized at the intersection between the golfing haves and have-nots, Fletch failed to properly crystallize the role of the fourth estate in the Reagan administration. Darn it.

Slate’s other criticisms are merely broadside potshots at Chase, a star whose sheen has dimmed. However, even as abrasive and cocksure as Chase may appear, for about ten years he was a star. Hilariously understated, snarky, and the consummate smart-aleck. Even if you hated him, you were on his side. That’s his charm. Imagine Adam Sandler in that role – nobody exuded cockiness, cheekiness, and arrogance yet still with ascertainable affability and undertones of the everyman like Chase. In Fletch, he’s at his peak. At no point do you fail to root for Fletch, even as petty and snarky as he can be. And he’s us – who doesn’t want to be Fletch? Talented, successful, somewhat brave, and, most importantly, ready with an uproarious quip in even the most harried situation.

It’s a fine line that Chase‘s intrepid columnist deftly walks. Fletch is totally cool – even as he’s elitist, cheeky, and snarky, he’s also the people’s champ. It’s nearly impossible for a character, a story, a movie – or a magazine – to pull off snarky and arrogant without coming across as totally unlikable. Which, come to think of it, is almost certainly the reason the flick inspires Slate’s petty jealousy. Not so farFletched.

Mister Faded Glory returns to his homeland this weekend, with sublime events to celebrate. First, the official younger sister of Mr. Faded Glory just graduated from college, completing her degree in four years, or for those of you scoring at home – 4 months less than it took moi.

Secondly, the official former, longtime homestead of MFG is about to be reoccupied. That’s right, it’s the probable last time I’ll ever set foot in my childhood home. And, not to get all melancholy on you, but that’s definitely a bittersweet event. Remember, I cried during season five of Scrubs, so it’s definitely liable to get a little misty inside Casa Old MFG. We’re definitely liable to repeat “Parting Ways” on the ‘Pod – much to Ms. Faded G’s chagrin. Or perhaps Off He Goes. Or Long Road. You get the idea, I can tell. You’re already rolling your eyes.

Anyway, without further wistful propagating, we arrive at one conclusion. Seriously, Mister Faded Glory is old. Old old old. I don’t mean to arrive at a running theme on this blog, but, you know, maturity sucks. No matter how you slice it. At the very least, we’re confident that JD reached adulthood before we did.

Tru dat. See you after the holiday weekend.

So, I’m finally done with 24. Mercifully, the end came last night. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. The season finale itself didn’t push me over the cliff (How apropos. Oh, shit, that’s a spoiler!) but the entire sixth season itself, uh, did.

Look, I’m not going to claim I’m a huge fan of the show. I’m really not. I like it fine, but it’s crap, easy to digest, easier to poke fun at. It’s campy, fun TV, each moment more preposterous than the last. And I’m willing to suspend my versimilitude for one hour a week just to enjoy its ride. Indeed, that’s what I’ve been doing during the last five seasons.

Because, in reality, this stupid show has only had one passable season – the first – and even that had about six episodes in the middle that were a snore. (In fact, you all know I think this show should be shrunk and retitled “Eighteen.”)

No, I’ve actually decided to end my guilty pleasure because of the show’s annoying tendency to completely recycle every single storyline. This isn’t revolutionary, of course. I’m not exactly treading new ground either, and I know in six years similar storylines, dialogue (We’re running out of time! Copy that!) and characters are bound to pop up. Sure. But it’s the sheer, baseless copying of all things prior that totally doomed this season of 24 as the series’ worst lemon yet. A cursory glance at TWOP’s fantastic series coverage (sometimes I think it’s the sole reason I continue to tune in) offers glimpses into each recycled plot. To wit, check out season six, recycled in every way:

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Mister Faded Glory has totally slid to second-tier fan status regarding the NBA – we no longer have a team (OK, the Nuggets, sort of.), and we’re totally disinterested in the conference finals. In fact, our favorite part of the NBA remains May and June’s run-up toward the ultimate exercise in futility – the NBA daft, I mean, draft.

You can always check the most prescient nuggets of draft-day prognostication at NBA Draft DOT net, but we prefer to mock the NBA draft assuming each team’s choice swirls in idiocy, because, often, it does. In fact, we begin this exercise today after the completion of the NBA Draft Lottery. Some quick impressions:

• Wow, Boston got jobbed. I believe Bill Simmons – this is currently the most discombobulated franchise in the NBA. Now they’re stuck with, who, that tall Chinese dude?
• Also, Phoenix got jobbed. They stood to recoup Atlanta’s pick if the hapless Hawks fell out of the lottery – but Atlanta’s in at No. 3, leaving the Suns out of the lottery and a chance to add a blue-chip player like, oh, Acie Law or Joakim Noah. Now, the Suns have to go shopping or draft exceedingly well to get themselves over the hump next season. But, then, would anyone put that past them? Let me get this straight – in the last two weeks, Phoenix watched the NBA hamstring its chances against the hated Spurs, and now the Hawks are suddenly lucky enough to find the lottery? Citizens of Phoenix – hide your dogs. They’re about to be kicked.




• (Postscript: It was refreshing to hear a contentious David Stern on Dan Patrick‘s radio show last week, eviscerating poor Patrick. Stern affirms my point, however, as he completely flip-flops defending himself. At first he’s livid at the suggestion that the “wander-off-the-bench rule” is open to interpretation. Not ten minutes later, he explains that he arrived at a suspension through the careful examination and interpretation of the video. Quite the switch – it’s either black-letter law or it’s case-by-case, right, David? Instead, for you, it’s both. What a joke.)
• Lots of early analysis thinks Portland is surely taking Kevin Durant. And, to wit, the Blazers can’t go wrong either way. Secretly, I’m delighted that the Pac Northwest (or, maybe, Kansas City) will get one of these two studs, rather than say, Charlotte, or Atlanta, or Chicago, or whoever. But I’m of the mind Greg Oden will be the Blazers’ No. 1 pick. And that’s not my choice – if I were a GM, Kevin Durant would be my pick no matter who my team is. However, NBA general managers often fool themselves into selecting pieces before prowess in the draft – that is, they select for an open roster spot rather than the best player. Not a good strategy, in my opinion. And, in the case of big men, because they’re somewhat more scarce than 2-guards, GMs always select the bigs, often fooling themselves into taking the stiffs over the studs. And, on paper, perhaps Oden, LaMarcus Aldridge, and Zach Randolph looks too promising to pass. Not to mention Brandon Roy as a 2, and Jarrett Jack at the point. Not too shabby. Which brings me to my daft mock: Read more

Often, Mister Faded Glory listens to sports talk radio. No, that doesn’t make me a staggering dunderhead, it simply means I like sports. I can deal with freakouts, flip-outs, revisionist history, and conventional wisdom to an extent – but sometimes the chatter even drives me off a cliff.

Which brings us to a perfect case study this week – I refer to them as case studies because sports media talking heads are all too happy to pull up a chair and dissect the tendencies, culpabilities, and reactions to an intentional foul as though reviewing an amicus curae brief. No one’s on death row here, people.

I’m speaking, of course, of Amare Stoudemire‘s suspension for tonight’s pivotal game five. This is at once a stupid decision by the NBA, and a decision countermand to any thinkable fair policy.

In fact, I’m of the mind that had TNT not decided to devote fully 45 minutes of its postgame show to arguing about an impending suspension (emphasis mine) rather than, you know, discussing a fantastic game, well, I don’t believe the avalanche of sports media would have started, and I don’t think the NBA would have responded. As it happened, the groundswell of nattering nabobs of nuttiness proved too loud for the league to ignore.

But the real travesty is the mouth-breathing chorus of media. It’s ludicrous. Not only is it a stupid attempt that casts aside the purposes and priority of an NBA game, but it’s a baseless attempt for generally moronic individuals to attempt to prove their legal aptitude.

This is a second-round game in the NBA playoffs. It is not a murder trial, nor a rape trial, nor anything of real import. Yet somehow analysts – perhaps jealous of all things legal or even coherent thinking – manage to equate this NBA rule with tort liability, or even criminal liability. And so, we will do the same, below. But first, here are the sides, many of them evident in the roll-call link above:

1. We can’t put this into words, but it’s wrong.  This was Mike Greenberg this morning, and Charles Barkley on Monday night. Neither could figure out the practical argument for the suspension. Greenie was attempting to read between the lines of a private code of conduct rule, and Barkley simply cried foul. (Though he did arrive at a correct result – he simply couldn’t codify it. And literally equated the rule to murder, using the focal point of a trial to prove that no rule is without two sides, nor is a rule always absolute. Actually, maybe Chuck is the most sane example we’ve got.)

2. A rule is a rule and the law is the law. Life is unfair. Thank you Kenny Smith, Mike Golic, and Shaquille O’Neal, among others. This is the wrong point of view. How wrong, Dr. Cox? That wrong. And numerous others rush to the defense of the NBA – assuming that if the league looked the other way after Amare’s rush to the floor, legions upon legions of players would cry foul, seeking a retroactive game insertion or something, because they themselves were wronged by a suspension at some point in the past. This is so stupid I feel ridiculous typing it. Retroactive application of the law. Makes absolute perfect sense, of course. Since none of these folks are lawyers, nor could they pass a paralegal exam, let me try my coherent thought. Let’s deconstruct.

My premise: The NBA was wrong to punish Amare Stoudemire and Boris Diaw for running to the defense and aid of Steve Nash after a cheap and baseless body block by Robert Horry.

First, the NBA would argue that this is completely correct interpretation of the rule. On its face, the players should be suspended. In fact, several commentators would deem this rule, “absolute.”

Fantastic. We’ve just equated “Running onto the floor in the waning minutes of an NBA game” with “Statutory rape.”

The triviality of the rule, in addition to interpretive possibilities suggests that the rule is not absolute. For that matter, what rule is? Each and every piece of code in all legal, professional, ethical textbooks includes exceptions, named and unnamed. Why do they do that? For a central tenet of jurisprudence:

Public policy may serve as basis for judicial opinion.

Since we’re equating this offense, rule, and punishment on the same level as legal issues, let’s not leave that nugget behind. Because this is why Mike Greenberg and Charles Barkley (And Stephen A. Smith) were right.

It doesn’t make a lick of sense. None. In a situation completely created by a Spur’s cheapness, San Antonio unjustifiably gained from the NBA’s stricter-than-thou opinion. This is like being sued for dumping toxic waste and killing an acre of forest, and receiving a reward of a whole new dump truck. In a wrongful situation created totally by San Antonio – and Robert Horry, in particular – they benefited. Ouch.

In sum, the remedy was counterintuitive to the severity of the charge. In fact, assuming that “Running onto the floor” is a more harmful evil than “Body checking a whimsical canuck” is counter to, quite obviously, the public perception of basketball code.

And since the NBA does take each and every offense into consideration, reviewing them all – ahem, on a case-by-case basis – then, first, that proves the rule is not absolute, but furthermore, how can public policy fail to carry weight as a pillar of criteria?

It doesn’t make sense in the legal world, it doesn’t make sense on the face to the NBA’s paying customers, and it certainly doesn’t make sense or remedy the wrong between the two parties involved. And though no sportswriters are saying it, this is the truth. Would be nice if either the NBA or the media allowed itself to arrive there. As it is, the shouting, finger-pointing, idiocy, and revisionist conventional wisdom continues.

Fantastic. That’s the NBA. And it’s coverage. Good luck to Phoenix.

It’s upfront time, and though I surmised the end for Scrubs – today, NBC announced that not only was I wrong about the show’s end, but I was wrong about the jump to another network. So, totally, I was wrong. Very wrong. So wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

Well, in actuality, the last post marked the 500th nugget of wisdom or inanity spewed on Mister Faded Glory – a monumental occasion that we totally would have celebrated in excess, you know, if we would have noticed.

But it’s been four years, and three or four facelifts, and we’re proud to still be blogging, churning out product, and hopelessly failing to find a niche for our happy little blog. Rest assured, we’ll be all over the map in the future as well, and fear not, because you can always look to MFG to get your daily weekly monthly fix of:

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That didn’t really work out right, it was supposed to be titled, “Scrubs Update,” except sound clever.

Well, I think my handwringing over a possible JD-Elliot reunion, in a desperate attempt to tie up any loose ends is all for naught – if episode descriptions are any indicator, JD‘s going to run into his old flame Kim, and supposedly, learn he either has a kid or someone else fathered the child. My guess is – personally – that the kid is his, and he moves from Sacred Heart.

And, at the end of a six-year run, I think JD‘s evolution to his point of exodus is probably a fitting way to end the series. What it also does, most likely, is end the show while still somewhat in its prime.

And to that end, since I’m so certain this is the final fortnight of Scrubs, when possible, we’re going to count down (well, sort of) some of our favorite Scrubs clips. Here you go:

This is from the episode in which the gang shows up at Yankee Stadium, and a fat, egocentric baseball mercenary unexpectedly but predictably returns for truckfuls of money, shamelessly sucking up all the while to his new employers. In addition, he’s lionized by the media for his entire career – yet nary a suspicion for a fat, overweight flamethrower who enjoyed his best seasons after age 40, skips out on any and all spring training and possible steroid testing, and is rarely even with the team, only flying in each fifth day to toss a perfect game against the Royals or get lit by a competent team – until the playoffs, in which he shirks, begs off of, or combusts in any pressure-packed moment. And he’s a prick.
Oh, wait, that’s not a Scrubs episode. That’s Roger‘s return. Silly me. And he’s still a jerk.

But, then, so’s your face…