So yesterday Joe Strauss of the Post-Dispatch writes an article about Mark McGwire, the day when he will finally have to Talk About the Past, and the way the Cardinals plan on trying to handle the potential reaction of the fanbase.
And then, someone did something really great to that article. I'm assuming it was an editor, going off how things work around here, but I could be wrong. Regardless of who it was, they gave it the best title I think that article could ever have had.
Sosa as a young shortstop for the Texas Rangers, left, and unholy creature of the night, right.
Sammy Sosa wants everyone out there to know that, no matter what you may have heard, and despite seemingly incontrovertible photographic evidence to the contrary, he has not become a gay vampire.
No, Sosa is merely going through a skin rejuvenation process, and the lighting in the now-infamous photo was the real problem. Sure, he was a little pale compared to his usual skin tone, but more than anything, there were just problems with the light.
He isn't Michael Jackson. He isn't some sort of self-hating racial climber trying to turn himself into someone a little less brown. And he certainly isn't the homosexual undead. I just cannot stress this enough.
When I was a kid, I was a big wrestling fan. Pretty much every weekend, my best friend Mike and I would get up on Sunday mornings to watch the WWF, then spend the rest of the day practicing suplexes and a variety of submission holds on my little brother.
Mike's favourite wrestler was the Ultimate Warrior; he once went so far as to try painting his face in the manner of the Warrior with paint from my mother's crafting set. Unfortunately, it wasn't the sort of paint which easily comes off, and he ended up spending most of July that year with his face covered in blotches from the paint thinner we had to use to get it off.
My favourite wrestler was actually a villain. In fact, most of my favourites were villains; they just seemed so much more interesting to me. Probably says something about my own misanthropy, but that's really neither here nor there. Regardless, when I was a kid, I loved the Nature Boy, Ric Flair of the WCW. He was everything I wanted to be; he could do anything and everything he wanted and no one could stop him, because he would just kick their asses. For an extraordinarily smart but sickly and lonely kid of seven, it seemed like the perfect life. Plus, he was blonde, which meant he and I had in common the only thing I actually liked about myself.
George Brett is a Hall of Fame baseball player, one of the greatest hitters who has ever lived, and the best player to ever put on a Kansas City Royals uni.
He also happens to be one hell of a good storyteller.
Dave Sinclair died last week. I never bought a car from him.
With those two things in mind, an icon of St. Louis is gone; someone who virtually everyone knew. And somehow, it made me extraordinarily sad when I saw the news Mr. Sinclair had passed away. So here's my own tiny tribute to him.
You know how you always get those emails from your friends containing really weird stories you never believe, about a famous person someone knows or has slept with or something of the sort? Nine times of ten they're hoaxes, of course; just a fake email chain that gets passed from inbox to inbox, with titles like, "WOW, LOOK AT TIHS!" attached.
Seems we have a Cub fan here -- or at least a fan of one Cub in particular -- in the heart of Cardinal country, and she's not at all shy about who knows it.
Patrick Swayze passed away just a couple days ago, and I'm actually really, really sad about it. The man delivered perhaps the greatest line in cinematic history, after all.
While perusing the interwebs looking for something or other (I think I was searching for an image of some sort), I came across something rather fun. It was an old post on Bleacher Nation (a Cubs blog, for those of you who are unaware), back when the author was doing his previews of all the NL Central clubs for 2009.
hotchickswithdouchebags.com
See this? This is a douchebag. I need everyone to not be this guy. Can we do it?
The great thing, of course, is he called all his previews, "Why the 2009 ________ Will Suck". Of course, as we now have rather definitive proof the Cardinals do not, in fact, suck in 2009, while the Cubbies kinda sorta do, I thought to myself, "Oh, this is just too great. I'll read this and make fun of the guy, 'cause that's what we Cardinal fans do to Cub fans. Same as they do to us. World without end, amen."
So imagine my surprise, nay, my horror, when I read the article in question and started in on the comments. Why horror, you ask? Because I discovered that not only had a bunch of Cardinal fans already gotten there before me and made fun of the author of the article, but almost none of them were funny or clever. Hell, few of them were even spelled correctly.
I have to say, Ichiro Suzuki may be my favorite non-Cardinal baseball player. There are plenty of others I love watching, mostly pitchers. Guys like Dan Haren (though that always makes me sad, too), Tim Lincecum, and Roy Halladay are all fantastic to watch; seeing players lie that ply their trade is just amazing.
Ichiro, though, is on another level entirely. He's a master of his craft; no one else in baseball can maneuver the ball around the field the way Ichiro can. But honestly, that isn't really why I like him so much. No, the reason I like Ichiro so much (and the reason I so hoped he would end up a member of the Cardinals some day), is because of the quotes he generates.
In a recent New York Times article, Ichiro trotted out this gem, about why he believes infield singles are sexier than home runs:
"Chicks who dig home runs aren't the ones who appeal to me," he said. "I think there's sexiness in infield hits because they require technique. I'd rather impress the chicks with my technique than with my brute strength. Then, every now and then, just to show I can do that, too, I might flirt a little by hitting one out."
I mean, seriously. That's just awesome. Is there any other player in baseball who would say something like that? I submit to you there isn't.
And that, my friends, is why I love Ichiro Suzuki so much.
You know what really makes me happy? Unhappy Cub fans. I know, it's probably mean-spirited, but I just can't help it. As a fan of the St. Louis Cardinals since I was old enough to understand the game of baseball, seeing the Chicago Cubs and their followers in abject misery is akin to supping upon the sweetest ambrosia. I try not to take such pleasure in other people unhappiness, but alas, as Popeye would say, I am what I am.
Thus, it is with an unhealthy amount of glee that I announce to you, the Rundown reading public, the sports cinema event of a lifetime.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Bartman: The Movie.
I think after watching this video we can say that Matt Holliday was beloved in Colorado. Now that the former Rockie-then-Athletic has been traded to the Cardinals, we should all get acquainted with the kind of admiration he received in Denver. I imagine this is how one fan put a positive spin on the Rockies getting swept right out of the World Series by the Red Sox in 2007. Whatever I write about this video won't do it justice, so you should probably just go ahead and watch.
Sports excitement in late July is limited to baseball, and here in St. Louis, that's not a problem, because we're all obsessed with baseball and the Cardinals and Apple Pie and Standing Ovations for the Other Team's Good Play.
But, since baseball is the only major sport in full-swing now, there's plenty of creative room for other sports content, like this column over at Inside STL: "Top 7 Old School Sports Posters."
The classic "No Bull" poster featuring Jordan, Pippen and Rodman, the Brian Bosworth poster, the Bo Jackson "Black and Blue" poster or any one of several Michael Jordan posters were standard issue for boys and girls' rooms in the '80s and '90s. Take a look at the rest here.
A couple of years ago, there was quite the competition among the major car companies, and it led to a true golden age for us all. It wasn't some sort of race to see who could make the safest car, or the most fuel efficient, or even the most stylish.
No, the war I speak of was a quieter sort, a war of sounds and images, a war waged over the airwaves of television. I speak, of course, of the Indie Rock Ad Campaign Wars.
Ever wonder how far the NASA astronauts traveled when they were hoofing it around the moon? How about the amount of ground they covered relative to the size and shape of the average Major League Baseball diamond? No? Didn't think so.
Nevertheless, as part of the 40th anniversary of Apollo 11, NASA produced exactly such a map. A little random, but very cool:
http://history.nasa.gov
Click for much, much bigger image
If you squint, it kind of looks like the path Chris Duncan takes when fielding a routine pop-up.
I know it isn't Wednesday afternoon, but I wanted to keep Stan Musial at the top of the list yesterday. Thus, we have here a special Thursday edition of Aaron's Things.
I don't know anything about the death of Steve McNair, nor do I wish to speculate. A lot of sordid, sad details are coming out about the man's life, and there's entirely too much sanctimony flying around right now. I'm not going to do that.
I've done awful, awful things in my life. I imagine quite a few of us have, including plenty of those shouting so loudly about McNair's decisions. Well, fuck that.
The only time I've ever truly cared about Steve McNair was back in 2000, when the Rams played the Titans in the Superbowl. We all know the story, that McNair drove the Titans down the field, only to see Mike Jones make a game-saving stop at the goal line.
I don't know what kind of a human being Steve McNair was. Frankly, it doesn't matter to me all that much. All I know is I've never been more afraid of an opponent than McNair for about three minutes in January of 2000. The man was a hell of a competitor. That much I do know.
I found myself getting more than a little choked up last week over the death of Michael Jackson. Whatever the man may have been- and some of those things are certainly awful- he was the biggest thing in the world when I was growing up. I had a red leather jacket covered in zippers when I was five. I practiced for hours learning to moonwalk. In short, I was like pretty much every other kid who grew up in the '80s. I wanted to be Michael Jackson.
But then, just a few days later, I was surprised to find myself just as sad about the death of Billy Mays. I have no idea why, but I always enjoyed seeing Mays selling me some ridiculous product. He seemed so happy to be there, to have the job of selling gardening attachments for cordless drills and putty that was a real-life miracle. He wasn't creepy, like the Sham-Wow guy, or obnoxious like Ron Popeil. Somehow, even though Billy Mays was always trying to sell me something stupid, I still liked him. And I think that deserves at least a moment of recognition.
Is this the answer to all the world's ills? I don't know, but I'm willing to give it a try.
There are days when it seems the world around us is going to hell in a hand basket, my friends. Days when you look outside and see the environment slowly dying off, the economy collapsing, and basic human decency seemingly nowhere to be found. In fact, if I were a religious sort of man, I might think we were living in the end times, considering just how awful the world seems some days. After all, how else can you explain the Disney Channel's continued popularity?
But then, every once in a while, something comes along that restores your faith in humanity. Something wonderful, something that makes you look around at the world with new eyes, and rejoice at the beauty and glory of all God's creation.
That something, ladies and gentlemen, is here. That something is a bikini car wash.
Ah, it's that time again, that magical time of the week when I force you to watch some random thing I dug up out of the dustbin of history. No, don't try to stop me; it's quite useless to struggle. I'm like a Bond villain that way. You'll get away before you die, sure, but you're damn sure going to have to sit there and listen to me ramble for a while first.
I know I promised these every Wednesday, but I was busy with the draft yesterday, and taking the cat to the vet, and I just plain forgot. If it makes you feel any better, I feel just awful. No? Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?
Well, fine, if you don't want to be reasonable, then that's your problem. And you kiss your mother with that mouth?
You know, I'm not someone who generally has a lot of nice things to say. No, no, it's true, I know it. I make fun of things, and people, and people's things, pretty much every day of my life. But that doesn't mean that I don't occasionally find things that I like. And when I do find something I like, I don't mind spreading the word around a little bit.
Nick Schuyler, the lone survivor of the boating accident that killed Marquis Cooper, Will Bleakley, and Corey Smith, has a new tattoo that honors his fallen friends. It's a nice piece of work, too; simple, elegant, and meaningful. That's the okay part of this story.
The not okay part of this is where the tattoo first appeared: Nik Ritchie's thedirty.com. If you're not familiar with that particular website, suffice it to say that if one were to buy a Girls Gone Wild video and convince it to fuck MTV and ESPN at the same time while you shoot the whole thing with that creepy night vision filter from Paris Hilton's porn movie, the result might just be in the neighborhood. Not that it's a bad site, by any means; there are plenty of funny, bizarre things you can come across there. But an ink tribute to three dead friends probably shouldn't be one of them.
So go and take a look, and make sure to read the comments below. After you're done, go take the very hottest shower you can tolerate, and then weep for the state of humanity. Seriously.
Turn on the news any night of the week, and you'll hear about all of the awful things going on in the world. Ethnic cleansing, plane crashes, economic collapse, all of it beamed straight into your home in dynamic TragiVision.
But all of that pales in comparison to the outrage taking place right now in the world of professional women's tennis, and it doesn't seem that anyone cares. Well, I care, and I'm here to open your eyes to this shocking crime against all that is good and pure in this world.
It's time again for Aaron's Thing of the Week, when I present to you, the loyal Rundown Reader, something completely random that I like. Why? Because I want to, that's why.
This week's thing is one of my very favorite music videos ever made, Pulp's "This Is Hardcore." Hugely underappreciated album (of which this was the title track), as it didn't have quite the punch of their previous effort, Different Class. Nonetheless, Pulp may very well have been the greatest of all britpop bands, if also one of the least accessible and, at times, alienating.
The video itself is brilliant, sticking to a very pulp cinema look, with plenty of late 60s British life being portrayed in gorgeous, radioactive technicolor, along with some of the best terrible acting this side of the Johnny Wadd grindhouse features. Bah. Enough of my rambling. On with the show.
We here at the Rundown like to think of ourselves as your one-stop shop for a better quality of life. Sports are great, but man cannot live by OPS alone.
That's why, as part of my continued efforts to bring you the very best in all of life, I've decided to start a new weekly feature here. I'm going to call it Aaron's Things, and it will be right here, bringing you something good every Wednesday afternoon. Through the magic of the internets (mostly youtube, to be quite honest), the whole of human existence is at our very fingertips. My goal is to keep you from having to shuffle through quite so much to find the very best.
This week's thing is a little something I came across while writing a column about the Pittsburgh Pirates on Monday. I was a huge fan of the Sifl and Olly show back in the late 90s, and just can't stand the fact that so few people seem to remember it. So here, for your enjoyment, is my very favorite Sifl and Olly moment ever.
The Cards-Cubs rivalry is turning into an arms race of offensive baseball t-shirts. Responding to the "Zambrano mows my lawn" shirts that sparked the ire of sports bloggers across the Internetz awhile back, one Wrigleyville shirt vendor has stepped above the fray and come up with this retort:
http://sportsdeskspeaks.blogspot.com
Forget the bigotry, the fact that both teams have several Hispanic players, and the copyright infringement. What's really offensive about this shirt is the misplaced apostrophe.
1 comment(s) / Post a Comment
