"It's his arms"

sports tripe

I really like Larry O'Bannon, and I'm not alone – the strapping senior guard has a growing cult following here in Louisville, as evidenced by this feature article in today’s Courier-Journal. For the indoctrinated, he’s known as "Lar-ree," a weird turn on the old “Day-rel” chant that so irked Strawberry. Go figure.

Larry appeases the underlying guilt so many of us feel for being fans of college basketball, an ethically dubious system at best. He just seems like a good kid: makes the honor roll, speaks to community groups, works hard, wears glasses. The whole works. Not to say other players are “bad” kids, per se – Larry just seems to be extra good. And he’s a hometown product, which tickles us townies who secretly (or in my case, overtly) fear that the Cards are losing their local flavor.

Larry has another appeal not spelled out in the Courier feature, outside a “1.8 percent body fat” nugget. Ladies like Larry. Lots.

I know of at least one young woman at U of L who has a photo of she and Larry as her desktop wallpaper. A server at the BW3 near my home announced that Larry is her cousin (I’d imagine the ranks of Larry’s extended family are growing daily), but added that if he weren’t – we’ll, you know. Even a lesbian friend of mine is on the bandwagon; “It’s his arms,” she explained in an e-mail.

Go get ‘em, Larry.

I couldn't (and didn't) say it better

sports tripe

ESPN.com’s Pat Forde – late of The Courier-Journal – sums up the UK-U of L rivalry probably better than anyone I’ve read for a while.

I imagine that only living here for several years as Pat did can engrain fully into a writer how deeply pathological and incurable the rivalry is, no matter what a Courier poll says. Polls have shown that figure skating is the most popular sport in America. Un-uh.

Our blood feud seems somewhat civil to outsiders, I think, because we HAVE to live together – we don’t have the state-line tidiness of Ohio State/Michigan or Texas/Oklahoma. And whether we like it or not, the rest of the country views us all as hilljacks – even if you live in the Highlands, mister – and we are bound by that common derision.

But the fever runs deep.

Not that anybody cares ...

generic tripe

I was interviewed by a Courier-Journal reporter of my acquaintance today about this self-same blog. Seems The Courier is interested in bloggers who are writing about NCAA hoops. I can’t help but feel that I’m poor subject matter. Certainly, I’ve been running my mouth about hoops for the better part of 37 years, but I started blogging about a week ago. Seems like cheating, in a way.

At any rate, the reporter – a passionate journalist, Louisville Cardinal alum, lover of fine barbeque and fledgling blogger in his own right – asked me why I started this Web log anyway, and who I hope will read it. Of course, the real answer is that I aspire to emulate the almighty Twinkie in all that I do. As to who will read this thing, I could say only that I’ve really never thought about it, and now that I have, I don’t care so much.

Blogging, I think, is a purely egocentric – to be more forthcoming, narcissistic – proposition. So far, I’ve written only about my tiresome personal biases and irrelevant observations. That’s about as far as I plan to take it, really. As a writer (at least of sorts), it pleases me to do this. It’s far more fun than spending an hour on an e-mail about a potential content licensing deal.

I don’t imagine that I’ll change anybody’s mind about anything. Not really trying to. Those few folks who choose for some strange reason to follow this little blog will probably get tired of reading it before I get tired of writing it. Except, of course, any UK fans I may offend – Capt. Ahab, Khan Noonian Singh and the bunny lady from Fatal Attraction have got nothing on those guys when it comes to fury scorned.

Well, that’s pretty much my vision.

And, oh yeah, it’s free.

I'm only hurting myself

sports tripe/hollow confession

meanoldman note: I composed this little salvo in all good faith, but just as I was about to push "Publish," I remembered my good friend Keith, a rhetoric professor from Grayson and, of course, a Cat Fan (capital letters).

I don't know if I should feel relieved that I'm not singulalry guilty of the woeful malice described below, or worried that I'm so far gone I blocked Keith out of my mind as I wallowed in the ill-gotten pleasure of a UK loss.

Hope is so ellsuive.

__________

Right after Kentucky fell to Michigan State in double overtime, my friend, who grew up in Chicago, asked me if I had any UK friends who I needed to call and razz about the tough loss.

First, I said, only a Yankee could be oblivious to how deeply painful tournament losses are to lifelong college basketball fans, particularly the nutbags who live around here. I wouldn’t do that, not even to a Kentucky fan.

And then it dawned on me that I don’t have any UK fans as friends.

Really – not a single one.

Sure, I have friendly acquaintances from work and the like who may have a Wildcat or two in their closets. That I can live with. And as I think a little harder, there may be a couple folks to whom I apply a “don’t ask/don’t tell” policy, just to be on the safe side. Many of my friends simply don’t care much about sports, and some claim to cheer for both teams, which of course is so lame as to not warrant either the respect or contempt of a true fan.

I’m talking about honest-to-gosh, “Cats gonna beat the spread tonight, Cawood?” UK fans. I could never sit across from someone in a true spirit of friendship and talk about how much they love Patrick Sparks or Melvin Turpin or Rick Robey. Basketball is a big part of my life, and if I’m going to share that with somebody, they can’t bleed Blue. And real UK fans feel the same way I do. So there you have it.

I realize this is about as absurd a prejudice as a person can hold, but by virtue of that absurdity perhaps it's also one of the more harmless. As least I know I’m being an ass when I cheer against UK and its fans.

And it’s been a good weekend. Two dramatic wins by my favorite teams: U of L and whoever’s playing UK.

Even a man who is pure in heart ...

hollow confession

I’m sitting here two hours before U of L’s bid for its first berth to the NCAA Final Four in 19 years, gnawing on almond M & M’s (chilled, of course) and patting my upset stomach in nervous anticipation.

This is, obviously, pathetic. I am 37 years old, and I am half sick over the possible outcome of a game between kids who could be my own children. Well, only in a temporal sense, of course – I don’t have the genes to whip up a Larry O’Bannon, even if I were able to trick Lisa Leslie into letting me make a deposit, as it were.

I’m increasingly embarrassed about my antics while watching U of L basketball. Today, for this momentous game (and it really is a big deal 'round here), I’m just going to sit here by myself and scream insanely at the T.V. I’m resigned to it – I feel like Oliver Reed in Curse of the Werewolf, locking himself into a jail cell as the crimson moon looms.

And we all know how much good that did.

Doctor, catch something incurable

petty tripe

I went to a new doctor this afternoon.

I haven't had a regular physician for a few years, since my general practitioner quit active practice to go full-time into hospital administration. I generally don't like doctors, and I certainly don't like going to doctors, for the obvious reasons.

I began shopping for a new doctor about a week ago, after a spell on an airplane gave me a case of the cardiac heebie-jeebies. After being rebuffed by about 10 practices that weren't taking new patients, I finally just ran across the river to get an EKG at an urgent care center; well worth the $25 extra bucks.

Just to cover the bases, I did make an appointment with a GP about two blocks from my house. The booking was for 2:45. I got into the examination room about 3:45. Our initial session lasted about 15 minutes, and the guy asked me all of four questions. My posture is only slighty better than Marty Feldman's, and the guy didn't even notice. I had to force-feed him any information about me, and he must have checked his watch 10 times -- had to get to those five other overbooked patients, I guess.

Makes the urgent care center look better all the time.

Why do we put up with this?

Nausicaa Update: A Real Review at DAM

better movie opinion

My longtime pal Greg Harris has posted a comprehensive review of Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind at Destroy All Monsters. It's far more informed than anything you might expect to find on this blog; Greg has even gone to the effort of properly punctuating the title character's name, which of course is more diligence than you can ever expect to see from yours truly.

Garcia changes Bluegrass basketball – so sayeth The New York Times

sports tripe

An acquaintance was kind enough to pass on this link to a NY Times story on junior forward Francisco Garcia and his announced plans to leave the University of Louisville early for the NBA draft. (Excuse me if I don’t adopt the Times' preening affectation of delineating N.B.A. with periods – yes, I know the rule on acronyms, but give me a break.)

Two thoughts here:

Firstly …

I was scolded by Sporting News columnist Mike DeCourcy – who I think is about as with it as any national sports writer today – for complaining that Garcia, a junior, was honored at Senior Night (which I attended, of course). Don’t get me wrong: I hope the kid gets as much money as he can out of the draft and is able to move his mother to a nice safe neighborhood. He’s in a tough situation, and I don’t begrudge him leaving school if that’s the decision he needs to make for his family. I’m pretty sure this is exactly what they had in mind when they coined the phrase “hardship entry.”

But to me, Senior Night is for seniors. It’s a recognition of four years of commitment to the program, both in and out of the classroom. DeCourcy contends that “Garcia has done enough for Louisville basketball that he deserves whatever honors Pitino wishes to bestow upon him.” I disagree. Make him a captain, hang a banner with his number on it – a ton of honors are reserved for standout players. Senior Night simply shouldn’t be one of them. That’s for the four-year guys, even the ones who never make a big shot or sign an NBA contract.

Secondly …

Where does the Times get off with this dramatic closing?:

“It has taken only three years for Garcia to change bluegrass basketball. There is Spanish spoken during games, there is a junior speaking at senior night, there is a coach advising his star player to turn pro, and there is the growing realization that an early exit can still be a sweet one.”

Well, of course, that’s a rhetorical question. The Times gets off doing this because after two or three hours of interviews for any given story, Times reporters become subject matter “experts” who feel no compunction whatsoever about inserting themselves as sources into a story. As an old fart who works with student journalists, this widely embraced “journalistic” practice makes me even meaner than usual.

There’s Spanish spoken in games simply because a couple of Spanish-speaking players happen to be on the team. There’s no evidence of some new focus on recruiting Spanish-speaking players, or that prior to Garcia’s arrival there was some hesitance to recruit international players in general – we’ve had (or at least tried to have) kids on the squad from Africa and Europe for years now. But it makes good copy, and it plays to the Time’s audience demographic, so run with it. Besides, I'm the reporter, and I know everything about this topic anyway, so what's the harm?

Grumble.

It's the little victories ...

sports tripe

Just had to record a moment:

In the opening minutes of the Memphis-Vanderbilt NIT game this evening, the third-string ESPN commentator made this proclamation:

"Darius Washington, the talented freshman who missed two dramatic free throws against Louisville -- we'll be talking about that throughout the night."

It's good to be mean.

Nausicaa: Better than Mononoke, I’d say

movie opinion

I just watched in its entirety, for the first time, Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, Hayao Miyazaki’s 1984 sci-fi/eco-parable available now broadly for the first time in U.S. DVD release.

I’m fairly well-versed in Miyazaki after a few years of catching up; my first screening was the Miramax U.S. theatrical release of Princess Mononoke, I’d guess about 5 years ago. Since then, I’ve repeatedly rented and watched much of the Studio Ghibli box set; I’d seen bits and pieces of Nausicaa in the original Japanese prior to this week.

All in all, Nausicaa is an engrossing watch, if a little simplistic in its morality. It’s an obvious precursor to Mononoke; the central theme of man’s self-defeating war on Nature is inescapable, as is Miyazaki’s mildly disquieting (at least to my occidental sensibilities) fixation with 14-year-old heroines on the verge of sexual awakening. Not that Nausicaa is in any way lurid; there’s blood and dead people, not quite so much as in Mononoke, but enough to be confusing – probably not terrifying – to younger children.

But the sexual tension is there. As are the tentacled giant bugs and amorphous humanoid monoliths you’ll find in virtually all Miyazaki’s work. It’s visually stunning, and his omnipresent metaphor of transforming flight (again with the sexual awakening) is pulled off here perhaps as well as in any Miyazaki film, save his masterwork Spirited Away.

Nausicaa stands out for me because it avoids Mononoke’s moral tidiness. The bad guys (as in Mononoke, embodied in a powerful but distant female leader) aren’t summarily killed off, but they also don’t reform – they just go away when there’s nothing left for them to gain. It may seem like a minor distinction, but for me, it was a highly satisfying change of pace.

I don’t necessarily agree with this review’s comparison of Nausicaa and Mononoke, but it’s well worth a read.

Why meanoldman?

generic tripe

When I announced this blog to one of my dearest and wisest friends, he replied simply:

"Why not angry old man?"

The answer should be obvious. More often than not, I am mean for the pure joy of it, not because of any real anger I feel toward the object of my contempt.

It's all about motive.

Cadbury Eggs – the Devil’s goodness

generic tripe

I have eaten at least seven portions of wonderful/demonic Cadbury chocolate eggs this afternoon. I’m not hungry; in fact, I’m quite full. Nauseously so. Obviously, I hate myself and subconsciously long for some kind of self-prostration associated with the Christian holiday.

Will I use this blog only for this kind of hollow public confession?

Perhaps.