Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

Seems like each year I lead off this snide exercise with a litany of complaints. Possibly, I offer a diatribe about the draft being a shell of its former, possibly whining about unpolished players, possibly cackling at ESPN’s woeful coverage. Basically, I sound like a curmudgeon, complaining about a bygone era supposedly vastly superior to the present. And I hate those guys.

Still, facing a weak draft crop, I’m tempted to wonder if the NBA’s flailing attempts to adhere to the NCAA as minor league aren’t finally catching up. Everyone was quick to trumpet greatness this spring when Dwight Howard, Kobe Bryant, Carmelo Anthony, and LeBron James ended up in the League’s Final Four.

But I can’t quite help feeling a bit empty. Think about how many basketball mistakes we saw. Lebron, the league’s best player, has barely a jump shot and no low-post game. Dwight Howard has even fewer post moves, and little basketball I.Q.

It’s easy to find a slew of complainers, whining that college basketball isn’t as good as it used to be – but as a result of its own lackluster age limit, the NBA has suffered, too. Is one-and-done really helping anyone? Had O.J. Mayo not gone to USC, he might have apprenticed for a time rather than become The Man. Would he be better off?

(I bet he says no. But what do you say?)

Regardless, it’s still way fun to snicker at inept teams evaluating 19-year-old kids. So let’s get started.

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These are always so fun!

Let’s recap, in case you’ve been away from ESPN’s Mike and Mike, the ESPN ticker, and even ESPN Outside the Lines today.

• First, a blogger on Midwest Sports Fans explores the reason Phillies’ left fielder Raul Ibanez is enjoying a banner season at an advanced age. Read the piece; it’s exactly what you would expect from a thoughtful sports blog. The author evenhandedly examines the stats and postulates theories.
• Second, a Philadelphia Inquirer columnist publishes a column excoriating “Jrod” for daring to mention any possible substance use for Ibanez.
• Third, a new story is published, by a different Philly sportswriter named Jim Salisbury. Apparently Ibanez lashes out after reading the column, professing innocence, and opining that the court of public media is unfair – especially the actions of this “42-year-old blogger living in his parents’ basement.”
• Fourthly, Jerod Morris, the blogger, posts an evenhanded response to the unforeseen media swirl. He doesn’t even rip on Inquirer columnist John Gonzalez. Not surprisingly, with mass-media readers on the case, he’s suffering a deluge of knee-jerk hatred.
  
• Finally, the national media picks it up. Mike and Mike wrap this into an ill-fated discussion of libel law.  ESPN runs Ibanez’ story on its crawl. Did I mention Outside the Lines?

Before you take any sides at all, read the original piece. Especially take note of Morris’ use of terms like “acknowledging the elephant in the room,” or endeavoring to call his steroid speculation exactly that – speculation. Hint: It’s in the title. Did we mention this post was originally about his fantasy team?

But now we’ve reached ground zero, again, in the tiresome sports reporting vs. sports blogging debate. And lucky for us, a story that shouldn’t have been snowballed into a question of journalistic ethics. (Yay?)

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Since I’m practically a workout warrior, some of my best thoughts come to me at the gym, while pounding the virtual track during the evenings, listening to a halfway-decent metal cover of Land of Confusion.

Consider this collection of fragments and diatribes a twisted glimpse into my frazzled mind, neurons misfiring with every step. If only I had some other way to communicate these in 140-character bursts in real-time!

• Scratch that, I don’t even have a smartphone. My LG is barely functional. I’m half-tempted to order the Jitterbug, partially to begin a revolt against technology that enables us to do everything, at all times, and none of it well.
• How can I justify a Pre or a Blackberry? I’m currently trying to limit my Internet time, now clocking in at a disturbing 10 hours a day. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and I’m still blogging. What the heck am I clinging to?
• Speaking of Twitter, how soon will the young mothers that make up 80 percent of all facebook status updates migrate over? Soon, right?
• Facebook, as we know, is all that is good and all that is evil in this world. But I cringe for the future of writing, each time I’m forced to read hopelessly long status updates about Junior and his misbehavior. Or snarky asides, one incessantly after the other, detailing how exhausting it is to take care of your no-good rapscallion. (1) Maybe your kids would behave better if you, you know, got off fucking facebook and parented. Or (2) Try joining the rest of us. Get a soul-crushing job, run a bunch of errands, do your community stuff, and come home to read pithy status updates from those of you lucky enough to have any home time. Then tell us how tired you are.
• I’m really not this mean. I feel kind of bad. Oh, whatever, that’s writing. But here’s a positive note: Yesterday, I also ran on the treadmill, barely paying attention to the Memorial playing above my head. Somewhat shocked, I discovered Tiger Woods’ comeback. As Tiger stuck his dead-solid-perfect shot on 18 – I smiled, instead of recoiling. Me, who perpetually cheers the underdog, and despises the overhyped. It’s been rare in my life that I’ve celebrated a Goliath’s excellence, but that was quite a shot.
• Still, can we knock off the “Is Tiger a lock to win the US Open?” stories. Honestly, no. A thousand times no. No one ever is, that’s why we watch. Seriously, stop shouting, no.
• For all its bad reviews, Terminator Salvation really wasn’t that bad. All of us tend to overrate each Terminator installment just because T2 was so freaking good. But when you think about it, the first Terminator really isn’t all that special, and is fairly forgettable in its own right. Salvation was at least a worthy attempt.
• Just in case it hasn’t sunk in how eminently forgettable this Cubs season is becoming, ask yourself this – who represents the North Siders in the All-Star game? Ted Lilly and Randy Wells have outside shots, right? Alfonso Soriano may get voted in, sadly. But only Ryan Theriot should go. As a reserve. That’s it. That’s the list.
• We’re flush with “bro-mance” movies (I cringe at this stupid notion. Was Ghostbusters a bro-mance movie? Three Amigos?), all tributaries within the Judd Apatow comedy empire, and each and every criticing fawning over them to no end. Yet Ryan Reynolds is still forced to slum in schlock like The Proposal? Come on! He’s the world’s best comic actor! Has no one seen Just Friends?
• I just saw dueling TV ads for network shows called The Mentalist and The Philanthropist. That’s me, trendspotter. Now do you doubt the Jitterbug?
• The jury’s still out on the new Conan, even with Pearl Jam on his opening show. My question: PJ performed twice for the audience, but no clip of RITFW exists. Apparently NBC doesn’t want those million extra clicks on hulu.
• Recently I was in Lawrence, Kansas, (More later, he says forebodingly) and I chose to wear my bright orange Syracuse hat. This still inspired venom among Jayhawk fans, even though the whole thing was six years ago, and, ahem, YOU WON A TITLE SINCE THEN.
• The sales job on the Orlando Magic leading up to the Finals was absolutely fantastic. For the week dead time, the airwaves and broadband filled with postulates on how the Magic could make it a series; some talking heads even claimed Rafer Alston was a competent player. Even though game two was good, the Magic just can’t. I’m sorry.
• For crying out loud, Pau Gasol can guard Dwight Howard straight up. This is all we needed to know. I’m alternately impressed and depressed with Gasol – when he wants to play, the Lakers do not lose. If he’s uninterested, the game is in doubt. Similarly, I cannot fathom how few post moves the 23-year-old Howard possesses, it’s almost shocking . Imagine him facing up Hakeem, O’Neal, Robinson, or even his coach, Ewing. Long way for Howard to go.
• But it’s all sales at The World Wide Leader. And hypocrisy. For whatever reason (H/T, intrepid reader) ESPN’s baseball coverage, once fantastic, has regressed significantly. Besides Jayson Stark’s increasing irrelevance,  overworked Buster Olney spent all 2008 explaining and whining about a poor Indians-to-the-WS preseason prediction. God, we could care less. However, earlier this year Olney picked a precipitous decline for Johan Santana, but we’ve not heard or read a mea culpa since Johan launched his usual stellar campaign.
• And, finally, I’m extremely proud of Ms. Faded Glory, who begins today having achieved one of her career benchmarks. I won’t go into details, but she was rewarded with a smartphone.
• For me, I can only imagine the energy, relief, the satisfaction and empowerment that must bring. And, as I stare at an Inbox full of rejection emails from literary agents, all passing on These Monks, I’m somewhat inspired, still somewhat hopeful, still ready to press on. I guess. In fact, perhaps it’s time to wrap up this post.
• I mean, I can always check back in on Ms. Faded Glory’s smartphone, right?

Actually, I should have April-Fool’s-joked that I’m opening a Twitter account devoted to the genius of re-releasing Pearl Jam’s Ten. Is that too believable?(Note: I don’t own it.)

Anyway, Twitter is stupid, and if you’ll look around, you’ll notice more morons glomming onto this stupid phenomenon. A friend of mine on facebook just remarked she is twitter-ing for a college class. Everyone’s doing it. The head of Zappos tells us how great it is. (appropriately, in a 10,000 word blog post.) Banks now attempt to aggregate customers through Twitter. This is true.

Regardless, right here is Norman Chad’s evisceration of Twitter, which, ahem: ZOMG is brilliant wish I could have wrote it

As the newspaper industry plunges into oblivion, perhaps we should instead place blame on competitive audiences – either accustomed to or forced to endure shorter and shorter bits of information bombarding them from everywhere. No one has time to read a 60-paragraph ode to the golden age of newspapers, when everyone smoked and wore fedoras. Everyone’s dumber, with shorter attention spans. But, whatever, I haven’t checked my acquaintances’ updates in several minutes, so I’m totally out of here.

As you’re no doubt aware from years of reading about my exploits (often fraught with peril, or, alternatively, self-delusion), I have a bizarre aversion to classic literature of any kind. Though I like Catcher In the Rye, 1984 and select literary classics, I detest The Great Gatsby and countless others.

In fact, in late 2007 I alluded to a new year’s resolution in 2008 – an achievable milestone of reading five classic novels. Well, guess what. I’m somewhat unhappy (or contemptuous) to inform you I’ve failed miserably in this regard. I made it through five pages of Brave New World, I couldn’t handle The Sound and The Fury, I’ve started Slaughterhouse-Five seven times, and I never picked up the other two: The Grapes of Wrath and A Tale of Two Cities. (The blurst of times!?!).

I can’t explain it. I give up. I love to read. I voraciously devour pages, books, web sites, blogs, magazines and even message boards during Cubs season. But I cannot delve into classics without becoming totally bored, frustrated, lost or annoyed. I’m either exhibit A for the failure of the MTV generation, or much less intelligent than I think I am. Probably both.

Anyway, this is all prelude to today’s nugget of counter-wisdom. As you’ve probably learned from any number of news reports, our global economy lies in ruins. Just as nothing could stop growth in 2005, now doom and gloom and despair await for the balance of eternity. Each reactionary article piles on another in a vicious circle; stories built upon past performance and uncertain predication crafted by reporters who never went to business school nor worked in private sectors – nor who have the time or wherewithal to research any business background or context for their daily financial eulogies.  And how could they? Their dwindling news staffs spend more time spinning quaint soliloquys about the death of printed media than bothering to focus on newsgathering, much less journalism. (Hate to pick on Joe, but his was convenient. ED.: Wait, here’s another. Shut up.)

Regardless, it’s trite to complain about doom and gloom, I know, but even more trite to dismiss sweeping circumstances that affect millions of people today. We get that, and I’m sorry. Life does suck. Things are bad, and many people hurt; I attempt not to be callous. (Except about the newspaper stuff. Stop whining and search for a solution. Print died in the 1990s, you guys just never knew.)

But it’s not going to last forever. What goes left must veer right, what goes up must come down. Life is never as good as when it’s great, nor as bad as when it’s dire. (Ed. note: This is usually my rationalization for any pitfalls during any given Cubs season.)

And I bring up literature because I’m finally reading Jay McInerney’s Brightness Falls, the wunderkind’s 1980s follow-up to his brilliant Bright Lights, Big City – my favorite novel ever. The swirling, cast-of-hundreds follow-up occurs in 1986, within Manhattan, and, well, just read on:

It was all too much. The Dow Jones would probably hit two grand today, but Corrine thought it was crazy. The economy was in dreary stages; inventories high, GNP slow, but the Dow kept shooting up. It was a kind of mass hypnosis. Castles in the air.

She had to be careful what she said around the office. Wall Street was pumped up. It was like a cocaine jag. Everyone grinning fiendishly, talking to fast, not quite focusing on anything.  The clients, too. Especially the clients. Corrine tried to moderate their greed, urging them to look for real value. … But everybody wanted instant gratification. …  They wanted risk without downside. They wanted to get in on a takeover prospect right before it went into play and double their money in three days. They wanted whatever was in the headlines that week, preferably on margin. They wanted to be able to tell their dinner guests they sold short on a turkey. They wanted sex and drugs and rock and roll.

McInerney, Brightness Falls, p. 42, 1992, Alfred A. Knopf.

See? We never learn; we always want sex and drugs and rock and roll. The recently-passed Paul Harvey, a wise man, once claimed, “In times like these, it’s helpful to remember that there have always been times like these.”

Which is helpful, I guess, but doesn’t alleviate the doom and gloom. Nothing probably will, until later, until change, and until we’ve forgotten all about this. Someday it’s coming.

We think.

Finally, a great, revolutionary, phenomenal day. Right?

What a moment. It’s tough not to gloat, to waggle fingers, or to proselytize, but whatever. Tonight is great, and thanks to any of you who voted for the correct choice. Thanks to the state of Iowa, my home, for proving your intelligence.

Perhaps it’s trite to claim Barack Obama’s win as a landmark. But I suspect most of us feel the same way about Mr. Obama that the devilish Baby Boomers felt about John F. Kennedy. In any case, as great a leader as we think President Obama; none of our pride, happiness, or thrill can even compare to the feeling African-Americans must feel tonight. I mean no disrespect; this is truly monumental, and I’ll never understand or describe it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t feel some empathetic pride.

Maybe this is the sea change for which we all hope. Maybe. Yes, yes, we can.

Thank you.

It’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls, for the times, they are a-changing.

Sarah Palin’s not-so-surprise appearance on Saturday Night Live is certainly no longer news, or fresh, or particularly relevant – all it does is vault our favorite elderly man’s dimly-lit pinup girl into the limelight further – but I can’t stop laughing at this Saturday’s sketches. Amy Poehler’s rap, in particular, may actually have been the stuff of legend.

Still, the episode leaves a bizarre taste in the mouth. The VP nominee’s cameo was hardly the quick-strike surprise of Barack Obama, the smiling acceptance of Hilary Clinton’s, or the creepy full-fledged hosting turn of John McCain. In fact, SNL trotted out Tina Fey in top form and a derisive Alec Baldwin to poke fun at Palin, and even Lorne Michaels smugly nodded amid the Alaska governor’s presence. When she bobbed her head along with Poehler’s jabs, it was not only sidesplitting, but even a little sad. Was she really in on the joke?

Probably to be expected, however. Palin inspires extreme visceral bipolar reactions, no matter the substance, and her cameo is no different. Slate wonders alternately if she aced some phantom test, if she appeared so mum as to avoid serious misstep or was simply tough enough to take typical Hollywood abuse. Well, maybe. She looked like the kid in high school you hate, the idiot so dumb you’ve given up on him/her. Yet the kid still wanders by the cool table, stumbling into conversations snidely making fun of them, eviscerating them right to their face, with them none the wiser. (It’s also possible she confused Alec Baldwin’s liberal tendencies with Jack Donaghy’s hard-core conservatism. Acting!)

Surely Palin’s (mostly moron) supporters thought her “playing along with the joke” was simply evidence of the brass cojones Palin has. Fuck you, liberal Hollywood/Manhattan elite, they surely saw Sarah say.

Still a third surreal possibility exists, however. Maybe Palin’s moved on. With the election only a few weeks away, maybe she’s decided to get in on her own ridiculous joke. It’s possible she knows she’s an idiot, it’s even more possible she doesn’t care. Maybe, perhaps, she suspects her fledgling national political career careens toward an inglorious November end, hitched to the wagon of the biggest flip-flopping two-faced shill to grace our stage in a long time. Maybe she’s setting herself – and all of us – up, prepping us for a next wave of Palinmania.

It’s possible she’s going to ride this pseudo-sexy Tina Fey impression into a burgeoning career of celebreality. Imagine the Palins, hockey players, pregnant kids, and all, on an MTV reality show. Imagine the Flailin’ Palins as the third team on “The Island.” (Johnny Bananas, quite possibly, would be driven further chauvinistically mad). Imagine them on their own reality show. Imagine the possibilities – she’s hip! She’s cool! She’s on SNL! And soon, her talk show follows Chelsea Handler on E!.

She never wanted this stupid VP job; she just wants to live in the limelight, to occupy a weekly seat next to Britney Spears in Best Week Ever. A role on the GOP ticket just happened to be a temporary stop. From sports anchor all the way to blatant celebrity icon, stopping on covers of InStyle and Vogue and Elle and People and unable to leave the public consciousness from here on out. She’s done with the campaign, instead, she’s eyeing a role as president on 24, a starring role in Fargo 2, a feud with Donald Trump, tryst with Alec Baldwin, and impending tenure as the object of legions of repressed GOP sexual frustrations. Whose December check will be larger, Maxim’s or Playboy’s? Perhaps she’s a skewed step ahead of all of us?

OK, probably not. But it’s worth noting, right? Right? Oh, whatever.

This – this post – is why I need Mail Goggles for blogging. Till later.