Monday, March 28, 2011

Battle: L.A. Vs. Cleveland

I lived in Cleveland and elsewhere in Ohio until I was 22 years old. Then, after I graduated from college (Beer University '04), I found several issues with the screening test given by Cleveland's only employer—Progressive Insurance—and I moved to Los Angeles, California, where they had a more freewheeling economy, where I could get a job (at least as a proofreader), and where I hoped to one day write jokes for South Park (or some blossoming equivalent).

A few months ago, I quit my job and moved—at least temporarily—back to Ohio.

I've been back here for a few months, and I've been surprised to reach the possible conclusion that I like and respect the people in Ohio a lot more than I like and respect the people in Los Angeles.


(The funny thing about that line is that it's somehow both factual and satirical.)

"But, Dan," you might object, "you're a relatively intelligent person, so wouldn't you prefer to live in a city full of other ambitious, intelligent people? Clearly that's not Cleveland's greatest feature, so what's up?"

I really should take a moment here and thank "you" for asking such a timely and thoughtful duet of questions.

It was my experience that the average Angeleno is no more intelligent or ambitious than the average Clevelander, and that's actually a big part of what I'll call "my problem," because the Angelenos believe that they are fundamentally smarter and better-off than other people. But I believe they are not "more ambitious" as much as they have ambitions that are regionally specific—like my abortion-and-unclefucking joke-writing pipe dream, which I could not rightly fulfill in Ketchum, Idaho (that I know of).

In my opinion, if you try to look at it with a fair amount of objectivity, Ohioans are easier to appreciate because they have overcome more adversity. They find, create, and keep jobs in one of the worst economies since the invention of pants, which requires a real mental fortitude, while Angelenos find and sometimes keep jobs in the fifth-largest economy in the world, which requires a heartbeat.

In short, I found that the majority of people in Los Angeles have a much higher valuation of their self-worth than people in Ohio, in the wrong way, for the wrong reason (which struck me as being the cultural equivalent of those piss-poor Republicans in the shit-sticks who demand tax breaks for the rich because they themselves plan on being billionaires one day, but in this case it's people who demand undue respect for the occasional brilliant things that have come out of the city where they now live). I can't tell you how many conversations I had in Los Angeles where I could see that the person I was talking to was simply going through the motions for my behalf, which is one of the most irritating things in the world for someone who enjoys vibrant conversation.

You almost never get that in Ohio. Sure, you might have a beefed-up swarthy Italian drunken fightmare come up to you, slap the drink out of your hand, and ask you, "What the fuck are you looking at, faggot?", which would almost never happen in LA (almost everyone in LA is a pussy, which is why they shoot guns rather than fight with fists), but at least that spittle-faced Italian aggression is being done with a sort of personal earnestness. Indeed, what the fuck ARE you looking at, faggot?

The conflicts in Ohio are real (even if they're "real dumb"); the "conflicts" in LA consist of a person of relative earnestness (myself) being tempted to violence by the intangible, unchokeable nature of his peers' half-listening condescension.

Basically, most of the people in LA are as bad as, if not worse than, the way they are depicted in the movies, but it's just not quite as obvious as it's made in cinema. In the movies, LA cunts and dickheads have the balls to make it obvious that they don't like you; in real LA, it's never obvious, but it's everywhere. And it's not like all the people I'm talking about are movie stars, rock stars, or Hollywood writers, either; they're aspiring movie stars, rock stars, and Hollywood writers who've completely chugged the pernicious logic of "Fake it 'til you make it."

In Ohio, and the Midwest, the philosophy used to be, "Work your ass off 'til you make it," but that was back when America would actually produce goods and services, which is a bygone era, so despite the fact that hard work doesn't pay off at all anymore, there's still the underlying ethic that says our self-esteem should at least be partly based on the objective facts of reality.

Consider this: I was voted "Easiest To Get Along With" and "Best Personality" in high school, and yet in six years in LA I made only a small handful of friends. I got along with almost everyone in high school and college, and, despite never having been in a fight in my life, I could barely make it through a party in Los Angeles without wanting to crack open the smug faces of half the people around me.

I understand the need to have ambition and self-confidence, but not when it manifests a self-worth that flies in the face of reality. (I am reminded of some truly wise words I read recently: "Funny how the Age of Positive Thinking coincides exactly with the age of the apocalypse.") I much more readily trust an honestly derived source of confidence, which is often quite difficult to come by, rather than the illusory, defense-mechanism self-confidence of the average trying-to-make-it Angeleno.

Women in Los Angeles are incredibly guarded. I understand that that's necessary, because so many of them moved out there and are alone in a very big and sometimes scary city, but that doesn't change the fact that it's not fun at all to talk to them, to have to slowly unwrap their ninety layers of defense before you can get to who they really are. In Ohio, most women are their earnest selves, and if they aren't attracted to you, you'll know it. In LA, who the fuck knows? If you're not Vincent Chase, you've probably got miles to go before you can sleep.

Or at least that's what way it was for me, and that could be because I have no game, but I have gotten laid in Ohio, so . . . there's that. Which I admit is not much. 

"So everyone was a big douchebag? You didn't meet anyone worth knowing?" you might ask. "Maybe everyone in high school was fucking with you. Ever think of that?"

Of course. Certainly. I met some wonderfully kind and talented people in Los Angeles—omnigenius Stephen Frick (who gave me the above "Age of Positive Thinking" observation), proofreader DeLane McDuffie, writer Peter Dirksen, musician Mike Costantini, and others—but that's a handful of people versus a region containing probably 20 million head of humans. I'm absolutely sure there are others as wonderful and bright and not-irrationally-full-of-themselves as Stephen, DeLane, Peter, Michael, and a few others, but what I'm saying is that the percentages are way off, and for some reason my blood turns into a justice wolf whenever it's around the faketry of confidence-undeserving metroids.

I used to think that people were the same no matter where you went, but unfortunately that's just not true. It's probably true of 90% of places, but not Los Angeles, and I think I know why.

I have friends in Ohio who've never left the state/city where they grew up, and they tell me that they wish they'd tried living somewhere else for a while, like LA. I can usually tell by the way they say this that they feel like there is some missing piece of enlightenment from their lives—that they're not "complete" people yet because they've never lived somewhere that was foreign to them.

I tell all those people the same thing—a quotation from Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: "The only enlightenment you find at the top of a mountain is the enlightenment you bring with you."

And that's the biggest problem with the "LA people" I met: they're the kind of people who moved from their hometown and expected to find enlightenment in a new city, despite the fact that all their demons followed them there like they follow everyone everywhere. And no matter how obnoxious they might appear, they're going to fake it until they make it.

I could have stomached all of that if the people at South Park had ever gotten back to me—if I were funnier—but they didn't (I'm not). 

I'm a joke-writing failure, and there's already enough of those in Los Angeles, so I'm back in Ohio now, where I am enjoying the company of people who have enough backbone to say what they really mean.

I returned to Cleveland in early November, and as I have endured another autumn and winter here, I have found a fresh observation, which I have been chewing thoughtfully for a few weeks.

When it comes to weather, Cleveland is a wildly "moody" place. In the same week, you might see a thunderstorm, a snowstorm, a tornado, and a vividly blue sky with towering monoliths of shifting white puffs of cloud. For better or worse, Los Angeles is the opposite of that—there are two seasons: Summer, and Not Summer.

The fresh piece of observation in the jaws of my mind concerns this idea: Cleveland is actually four different cities—Cleveland In Spring, Cleveland In Summer, Cleveland In Fall, Cleveland In Winter. And Los Angeles is only two cities: L.A. In Summer, L.A. In Not Summer.

L.A. In Summer is one of the best places in the world: ubiquitous clear skies, a natural cooling breeze off the cold Pacific, an ocean of pavement to be hiked or run or biked or skated or driven. And even L.A. In Not Summer is a very nice place, where the most you'll ever need to wear is a hooded sweatshirt.

But to see the leafless fingers of white-bark trees piercing the gray skies of Cleveland winter, and then to see those branches bud with colorful and aromatic flowers in the spring before popping open large green leaves that quietly cheer whenever the wind blows in the summer, only to be burnt to orange and brown by the cold fires of autumn—it is to walk through a vast spectrum of Life, a symphony of natural vicissitudes.

The only Life in Los Angeles is the ugly pattern of millions of human decisions. The skies and the buildings and the air are always the same.

Which is probably why fashion is so important there. It's the human-world's version of "seasons" in the desert.

I have such a disdain for fashion that one day in LA I decided to throw away all of my clothes and buy several Jedi robes and just wear those for the rest of my life. 

I didn't do it, but if I move back, I probably will.

Finally, I'm aware that in this post I'm coming off like exactly the type of LA person I was/am complaining about, but here are the two key differences: 1. I'm completely aware that I'm a reprehensible piece of shit (I did, after all, move to Los Angeles), and 2. I wrote this for your possible entertainment; I did not take over a conversation at a party and blast all this shit out to people who obviously don't care.

If I could give any advice to both groups of people, it would be almost the same advice, but on different ends of the spectrum. LA People: Quit being proud of things you didn't accomplish yet. Ohio People: Quit being ashamed of things you haven't accomplished yet.

The most troubling part of all of this is that I probably have to move back to Los Angeles soon. I'm starting a small publishing company with a lawyer-friend of mine, and it would benefit the business for me to be somewhere with a larger and younger population.

The way I see it, if our books can make it there—in that concrete stew of human vomit—they can make it anywhere.

Plus, my brothers live there, and I enjoy skateboarding.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Burt Reynolds' Dreadful Summer Party

The following is a real movie review—of Cannonball Run 2—and it's one of the best pieces of writing I've ever read. Enjoy it, my dear friends.




BURT REYNOLDS' DREADFUL SUMMER PARTY
by Burl Burlingame
Tuesday, July 10, 1984
Honolulu Star-Bulletin

     A minimum effort from all concerned, "Cannonball Run II" is this summer's effort by Burt Reynolds and Hal Needham to get the public to subsidize a month-long party for Burt and his pals. The home movies taken during the party are edited into something resembling a feature film, at least in length.
     They're asking $4 for admission, and that doesn't include even one canape.
     Burt's friends are musty, dusty attractions at the Hollywood Wax Museum. They include Dean Martin, whose skin has the texture and unhealthy pallor of a cantaloupe rind and who says things like "When I make a dry martini, I make a dry martini,"—a sure-fire Rat Pack knee-slapper—and Sammy Davis Jr., who looks like a cockroach. Director Needham also never bothered to make sure Davis' glass eye was pointing in the proper direction. It rolls wildly, independent of the other orb.
     Other couch potatoes direct from "The Tonight Show" are the insufferable Charles Nelson Reilly; wheeze-monger Foster Brooks; Jim Nabors, who has swell-looking artificial teeth; and Don Knotts, who looks like a chimp recently released from Dachau.
     Dom DeLuise is aboard doing his annoying thweet-but-thilly fat man routine.
     Frank Sinatra, in a pseudo-Mafia don role that must have been a hoot in Warner Bros.' boardrooms, is on-screen for a flash. In the cutaway shots, the other actors pretend they're talking to Sinatra's stand-in, who's about two feet taller than ol' Pink Eyes.
     Susan Anton and Catharine Bach try to fill the jumpsuited bimbo role created Adrienne Barbeau, but Bach and Anton are two women who look best from a distance. When she smiles, Anton's lips slide up mechanically over teeth that resemble the grill of a '57 Chevy; her face has the hatchety directness of a Roman bireme at ramming speed. Bach looks hard, hard, hard; she could crack walnuts with her forehead.
     Both women spend much of the film coyly playing with the zippers on their jumpsuits. When they pull them down, the effect is less playfully sexy than revoltingly cheap.
     Burt's love interest in the last film, the quite-apropos Farrah Fawcett, is replaced by Shirley MacLaine, whose crinkly forearms contrast nicely with Burt's gassy, recently embalmed appearance. MacLaine does provide the only real laugh in the film, during a credit sequence that features otherwise endless, dull outtakes.
     There are other performers who manage not to humilate themselves. They include Jackie Chan the martial-arts whiz, Joe Theismann the football whiz and an orangutan wearing an unfortunate amount of pancake makeup.
     There's a plot of sorts; it reprises the last movie note for note.
     The theme song is in Spanish for some reason. "Cannooonbowel!" suggests the singer.
     The stunts are perfunctory.
     The cars are not exciting.
     The stars seem stuffed.
     The movie is a genuine cultural artifact, a relic given to us by a band of entertainers from long ago, who live in self-imposed exile in the dusty, neon hellhole of Las Vegas.
     They seem to have no trouble amusing each other.
     It's not contagious.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

The STD After The Rape

I have noticed/"coined" a phenomenon that I keep seeing everywhere, and while I fully subscribe to the idea that "if you want to find a pattern, you will," I still have to think that this sort of thing seems to be occurring more and more frequently.


In the board game The Settlers of Catan (best game ever, man), there is a sequence of events where you can automatically lose up to half of your valuable resources, and beyond that, you can then also have an additional resource stolen from you by one of your rivals. Whenever this happens, I mutter to myself, "...the STD after the rape."


It usually gets a laugh, which means there has to be some truth to it.


On a larger scale, I was thinking that a tremendous earthquake is a rape, and the subsequent massive tsunami is the STD after the rape.


On a fiduciary scale, the usurious practices of our major financial institutions were the rape, and the bailouts they received were the STD after the rape.


And whenever I rape someone, they get an STD.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

"All Kinds Of Music"

Music is a drug, and we're all addicted. Consequently, I'm always on a search for a new high, because no matter how much I might love a song or a group, I always start to build up resistances, and I need to find new music to keep me alive. There are quality songs in every genre, so I really mean it when I tell people that I listen to all kinds of music—the only problem is the process of wading through all the utter garbage to find the good stuff. Anyway, this post serves two purposes: 1. as a possibly helpful list for others to find new music they might like; and 2. as an existing source I can send people to when they ask me to qualify what I mean when I say that I listen to all kinds of music.


Rock
Alternative

Rap/Hip-Hop

Jazz

Funk

Singer-Songwriter

Instrumental

Country

Folk
Jam

Punk

International

Classical

Misc.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Breaking The Record For Broken Records

From the undiluted wit-perfection of my Twitter account—in the future, children will study Twitter as The Most Important And Permanent Phenomenon Ever—comes this philosophical, annotated quotation by myself. I was thinking about the state of world affairs, and I could not help but get the impression that:


"It appears as though the flow of Nietzsche's eternal recurrence has popped out of its groove and keeps repeating the same two notes."


I'm, like, so deep, man.


Past Friedrich Nietzsche

Future Friedrich Nietzsche

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

SportsDan's NFL Mock Draft 1.59233333333333333

With the NFL draft a literally incalculable number of days away, now is the perfect time for a mock draft by someone who used to be a great baseball player. So, ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the most theoretical NFL draft I've ever written.



1. Carolina Panthers - Cam Newton QB (Auburn Tigerbloods)

The Carolina Panthers realize they really shit the bed when they drafted Jimmy "The Faggot" Clausen to be their QBOTF. What they see in Cam Newton is a football player who makes football plays, and if you're an NFL team with NFL fans, then you need NFL players, and Cam Newton will be a playmaker in the National Football League for at least the next three years. That's longer than this franchise plans to exist, making it a slam-dunk pick.

2. Denver Broncos - Marcell Dareus DT (Alabama Crimson Tidebloods)

The Denver Broncos are in the fortunate position of needing the biggest, strongest black man they can find, and there are still a ton of those available at this point in the draft. Marcell Dareus'll do. He can slam into white offensive linemen with the best of 'em, and he has a particular talent for injuring Browns quarterback Colt McCoy, which the Broncos hope to develop into the ability to injure lots of quarterbacks. With Carmelo Anthony having left the Nuggets for the Knicks, the city of Denver has an open black-guy position available. No-brainer.

3. Buffalo Bills - Da'Quan Bowers DE (Clemson Tigerbloods)

Ralph Wilson must be spinning in his watery grave. I'm not even sure what that means, so let's move on: Bills need a pass-rush, and Da'Quan Bowers is supposedly good at that. I don't know, though, because I don't watch SEC football. To me it's too weird to watch a bunch of white racists cheer for people they call niggers before, during, and after the game. Anyway, Bowers will be needed to get after the sexy quarterbacks in the AFC East. The Bills need Bowers to hit Tom Brady, Mark Sanchez, and Dolphins Quarterback hard. From behind. Repeatedly.

4. Cincinnati Bengals - Blaine Gabbert QB (Missouri Tigerbloods)

Who can make any goddam sense out of anything Cincinnati does? In Gabbert, the Bengals get a quarterback who can scramble and throw but who also has the crucial Caucasian leadership-and-intelligence gene. A deadly combination that Cincinnati will somehow fuck up.

5. Arizona Cardinals - Von Miller LB (Texas A&M Aggiebloods)

Most mock drafts have the Cardinals taking Von "The Van" Miller, so obviously they must know what they're talking about, and I want to sound like I know what I'm talking about, so I'm going to give the Cardinals "The Van," too. For all I know, he's a great tackler who runs between the sidelines, plays between the whistles, and snacks between the meals. I bet the Cardinals love that about him. As a bonus, sabermetricians have already repeatedly proven that linebackers from universities with an ampersand in their name have a much stronger sense of life's veiled hollowness, which makes them devastating in pass coverage.

6. Cleveland Browns - Jerm Lupus WR (Ohio University Beerbloods)

In a controversial move, the embarrassed Browns select a player who died from a medical rarity known as a Staphylococcus Eruption while the Cardinals were picking. Not wanting to lose face, the Browns try to sign the dead body to a record contract, but Lupus's corpse holds out. Eventually, Browns negotiators have to to give up on the pick after they fail to come up with a counterargument against human decomposition.

7. San Francisco 49ers - Patrick Peterson CB (LSU Tigerbloods)

With this pick, the 49ers fill a gaping hole in their defensive backfield that last year left their tails in the air. It might be a little tight to get the sizable Peterson to squeeze into the starting lineup so soon, but with his smoldering combination of tangibles and intangibles, he can certainly lube up his chances in practice by staying all over his men. If they try to go deep, he'll need to go deeper.

8. Tennessee Titans - Nick Fairley DT (Auburn Tigerbloods)

Now that Jeff Fisher is gone, something something something. Great pick for the Titans!

9. Dallas Cowboys - Prince Amukamara CB (Nebraska Cornhuskerbloods)

King Jerry Jones has found his Prince! (That line was the only reason I picked him for the Cowboys.) The Nebraska cornerback has the size and speed to make plays. In fact, last year, at cornerback for the Cornhuskers, he made one play—Anton Chekhov's Three Sisters—that left Head Coach Bo Pelini searching for meaning in the modern world. Needless to say, the Cowboys are excited to have someone who's a defensive back, a director, and, if his name is any indication, a terrorist to immolate if they lose.

10. Washington Redskins - A. J. Green WR (Georgia Bulldogbloods)

With the Cleveland Browns passing on Green in favor of Lupus, Washington gets the guy they never thought they'd get, and nobody in Washington will give a good goddam. In Green, Washington gets a triple-threat receiver who can run routes, catch passes, and halfheartedly block. In Washington, Green gets stabbed to death on his way into a Subway.

11. Houston Texans - Robert Quinn DE (UNC Tar Heelbloods)

Quinn was suspended all last season for admitting to NCAA officials that he read and loved the Twilight series. He claimed that sometimes he felt just like Bella, unable to decide between wanting to tackle the quarterback, when the quarterback had the ball, and then wanting to tackle the running back, when the running back had the ball. After a year off, he said he's willing to try again, but he admits he's nervous to inflame the cruel dichotomy of his innocent desires.

12. Minnesota Vikings - Cameron Jordan DE (California Golden Bearbloods)

Shockingly, our first firsty-firsty of the draft. Cameron Jordan has a stereo-prototypical defensive-end's size, strength, speed, and name. With that kind of weaponry at his disposal, he could be a force for years to come, or he'll blend into the fog of other remarkably similar disappointing NFL players.

13. Detroit Lions - Tyron Smith T (USC Trojanbloods)

Detroit could really use an invigorated economy, but they'll have to settle for an offensive lineman with this pick. Tyron Smith should be able to protect Matthew Stafford while the ambulance races onto the field to carry Stafford away. I think it's a bit of a reach to pick Smith this high, but if last year taught us anything, it's that the Detroit Lions need a tackle with the footwork to be able to get out of the way of the ambulance, open the door of the ambulance, wish Matthew Stafford luck in his upcoming surgery, and close the door of the ambulance. With this pick, they get exactly that.

14. St. Louis Rams - Julio Jones WR (Alabama Crimson Tidebloods)

Wunderkind quarterback Sam Bradford's leading receiver last year was a donkey named Cloppy. Jones appears to be a significant upgrade at the position, though not according to the women of St. Louis, who flocked to the stadium last year to stare reverentially at Cloppy's big penis and testicles.

15. Miami Dolphins - Mark Ingram RB (Alabama Crimson Tidebloods)

Miami elects to bring Mark Ingram's talents to South Beach. Ingram is reportedly disappointed to hear that according to a rumored stipulation in the new CBA, Dolphins owner Stephen Ross will be legally allowed to rub his players' snouts and blowholes and pay them in hand-tossed mouthfuls of herring, mackerel, and cod.

16. Jacksonville Jaguars - Tim Tebow QB (Denver Broncobloods)

There was so much speculation that the Jags would draft Tebow last year that it feels like an inevitability that they'll draft him this year. When they find out you can't draft a player from an already-existing professional team, the Jaguars will politely dissolve their organization.

17. New England Patriots - Nate Solder T (Colorado Buffalobloods)

With the 17th pick in the NFL Draft, the New England Patriots select Some Jerkoff I Now Hate.

18. San Diego Chargers - J. J. Watt DE (Wisconsin Badgerbloods)

With any luck, every day at practice new defensive end J. J. Watt will give whiny quarterback Philip Rivers something to cry about. Positive: as a white guy from Wisconsin, Watt almost certainly has really shitty music taste, so maybe he'll be inured to that foggotronic "San Diego Superchargers" song. Negative: white.

19. New York Giants - Anthony Costanzo (Boston College Golden Eaglebloods)

In stereotypical fashion, New York selects a big greasy Italian to hassle visitors and make them feel unwelcome. Giants Coach Tom Coughlin and Costanzo both have Boston College ties, and it might be embarrassing if they both wear them at the same time. Good pick to appease the team's violent-guido fanbase.

20. Tampa Bay Buccaneers - Adrian Clayborn DE (Iowa Hawkeyebloods)

Tampa Bay is one of the hottest franchises in the NFL (literally!), and Adrian Clayborn, like many others, would like to play for them. I'm almost positive the Bucs are going to make that desire into a reality for Clayborn, because when he announced his eligibility for the draft, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers broke into a big, adoring smile, and then they tried to hide it, but I saw it. They want him; they just can't believe he wants them back. They're soooo nervous to make it official in April.

21. Kansas City Chiefs - Phil Taylor NT (Baylor Bearbloods)

The Chiefs really blew it when they drafted Glenn "The Faggot" Dorsey so high, and now they need to enlist Phil Taylor to anchor the inside of their defensive line. He's somewhat of a project pick; though he's officially listed as a Nose Tackle, Chiefs Defensive Coordinator Romeo Crennel is fairly confident he can teach the young man to tackle the rest of the body, too.

22. Indianapolis Colts - Gabe Carimi T (Wisconsin Badgerbloods)

Peyton Manning needs blockers; blockers need to be drafted. That's the way it goes in today's NFL. Call me a purist, but I prefer the simpler times, when players were kidnapped from their villages, stripped of their primitive spears, and taught the exquisite nuances of spearing someone.

23. Philadelphia Eagles - Derek Sherrod T (MSU Bulldogbloods)

The Eagles are going for a long stretch of the word Irony here by drafting a Bulldog to protect a dog-killer. But this is all part of Eagles General Manager Howie Roseman's grand plan. He knows that these days, it's not about winning and losing, it's about ratings and synergy. A Bulldog protecting a dog-killer? Commissioner Goodell, give this team an Emmy!

24. New Orleans Saints - Akeem Ayers LB (UCLA Bruinbloods)

The Saints' linebacking corps has been an addled mess for years, and Akeem "AA" Ayers is the kind of player who makes other teams submit to a more powerful authority. With his pass-rushing ability, he'll be able to overwhelm offensive lines, break the walls of the dam, and flood the backfield with millions of gallons of brackish rainwater.

25. Seattle Seahawks - Jimmy Smith CB (Colorado Buffalobloods)

There is some controversy behind Smith, who once tested positive for marijuana, but further investigation revealed that he attended the University of Colorado, so I don't know why the drug test was even necessary. The lab probably just looked at the return address and stamped the sample positive and mailed it back. Smith should help bolster the Seahawks' secondary; I'm not sure how much longer Jason Sehorn can carry the unit.

26. Baltimore Ravens - Torrey Smith WR (Maryland Terrapinbloods)

Torrey Smith is an Aesop fable unto himself—a tortoise who runs like a hare! That's really all I got. Baltimore can eat my ass.

27. Atlanta Falcons - Justin Houston DE (Georgia Bulldogbloods)

Atlanta selects Houston from Georgia. All this geography! All these words! Will this draft not end? Let me guess, another team would like to pick someone now!

28. New England Patriots - Muhammad Wilkerson DE/DT (Temple Owlbloods)

With the 28th pick in the 2011 NFL Draft, the New England Patriots select Another Jerkoff I Now Also Hate.

29. Chicago Bears - Mike Pouncey G (Florida Gatorbloods)

If I know anything about Mike Pouncey, it's that his brother is Pittsburgh Steelers Center Maurkice Pouncey, who clearly got the superior first name. Coincidentally, Mike is considered the lesser-Pouncey. With any luck, that trend will continue in the pros, because who wants to see Jay Cutler succeed?

30. New York Jets - Akeem Ayers DE (UCLA Bruinbloods)

In a masterstroke of drafting genius, the New York Jets, who've been targeting Akeem Ayers since fourth grade, submit a pick to Commissioner Goodell that says, "Akeem Ayers, UCLA, No Comebacks, No Erasies." The confounded Saints' ire is eventually doused when they come to realize the Jets' logic is flawless.

31. Pittsburgh Steelers - It Doesntmatter G (Referee Flagbloods)

It doesn't matter who the goddam Steelers pick, because they're allowed to cheat, so they don't even have to be that good. And the referees not only allow the cheating but assist them (*cough* 2006 Super Bowl *cough*). I'm not exactly sure what power the Rooneys hold over the powers that be at the NFL, but I have to assume it's ketchup-related.

32. Green Bay Packers - Joe Baldwin WR (Pittsburgh Pantherbloods)

Congratulations, Green Bay, on winning an untainted Super Bowl. However, I quote my friend Joe Polo, who is patently offended by the unusual ownership situation in Green Bay, "Screw those socialist bastards—I hate them."

Sunday, March 6, 2011

True Story

When I was eight, I was swimming at night in an indoor pool at a big fancy lodge, and while I was underwater, with my eyes closed, the power went out. When I reached the surface and opened my eyes, there was total blackness, and I thought I had gone blind. I started to panic, and when the power came on a few seconds later, it was a miraculous splash of color—and to this day one of the greatest moments of my life.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Charlie Sheen, The NFL, And Cocoa Puffs: 85% Of A Possibly True Theory

In his thought-provoking work Godel, Escher, Bach, cognitive-science academic Douglas R. Hofstadter juxtaposed and conflated the major works of mathematician Kurt Godel, artist M.C. Escher, and composer Johann Sebastian Bach, and in the process of doing so, he showcased the strange loops that can be found in the workings of complex systems.

Godel, Escher, Bach::hcaB , rehcsE , ledoG

But strange loops can be found in more places than academic systems, even in pop culture—as a certain pop-culture writer, the target of this lampoon, has been doing for years now.

Take for instance three things that have nothing to do with each other: Charlie Sheen, the National Football League, and Cocoa Puffs. Though they appear to be three different worlds (you might say Charlie Sheen and the NFL are both sources of entertainment, but I would argue that there are two options that are more alike—I'll get to that later), there are actually strange loops running through each of them.


The NFL is an organization that was created when the AFL and NFL merged in 1966 (note that date), when the more established NFL absorbed the upstart AFL. The combined league found great success, and its popularity has only grown. Now, the league is so successful its owners are shutting down the next season in order get exactly what they want with regard to their share of the profit pie.


Charlie Sheen is an actor who was "created" in 1965 when the established actor Martin Sheen had a child with artist Janet Templeton. He's been a movie star since the age of 20, and his popularity has only grown—to the point where he was recently the star of the highest-rated sitcom on television. Now, he's so successful that his show has had to cancel production so Charlie can get exactly what he wants with regard to his share of the profit "pie."


Cocoa Puffs is a cereal that was created in 1958 when the established flavor Chocolate was added to small orbs of corn, oats, and rice. It's been a hugely consumed cereal since its introduction to the American breakfast table, and now American mothers are taking it out of the cart in favor of healthier alternatives.

In a span of eight years, from 1958–1966, three things were created that went on 50-year runs of success before they had a meltdown in 2011. The root causes of each meltdown are entwined with each other. The common denominator is money—the NFL, Charlie Sheen/CBS, and General Mills are all hugely profitable—but what else?

Excesses. The NFL has an excess of greedy owners and violence; Charlie Sheen has expended great excesses on hookers, drugs, and alimony; and Cocoa Puffs contains excess amounts of sugar and high fructose corn syrup.

However, though each of these things is melting down, the American public continues to gobble them up with an equally greedy gusto. People are no longer merely cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs; they're cuckoo for It All.

We want to worship competitive violence, we want to mock others' excesses, and we want to quietly and privately indulge in our own excesses.

But the crunching in our ears is the sound of a cokehead's jaw grinding, and the sound of a helmet-to-helmet hit, and the sound of sugary cereal consumption.

And here's the inversion:

I argue that it's not the fault of these organizations or the scads of people who sponsor them with money and/or attention; it's the fault of complex systems themselves. Within each of us is a built-in frustration over the idea that the only difference between ourselves and anything else around us is the complexity of our systems. But if you look up and down the scales of contemporary culture or life on Planet Earth, there isn't anyone or anything left that's unlike anything else, so our internal pain is sated by either seeing the product of other people's internal pain (competitive violence, celebrity meltdowns) or by masking our own pain through the temporary relief of superfluous food consumption.

Worst. Complex. System. Ever.

Which is how I argue that Cocoa Puffs and the NFL have more in common with each other than the NFL and Charlie Sheen. Sure, the NFL and Charlie Sheen are entertainers, but everything is entertainment; not everything hits you in the mouth like a football collision or a spoonful of delicious cereal.

Unless you're a hooker and Charlie Sheen thinks you stole his watch.



Dan Klosterman is a columnist for Rolling Vanity. His forthcoming book, An Obnoxiously Long, Ambiguous, and Insipid Title, will be released in April.

Friday, March 4, 2011

I Strike Again!

Yet Another Sign That I Might Be The Problem:

"Season's over, everyone—Dan Donatelli hopes we win."

Last Sunday when I walked off the high-school court after shooting baskets, I crossed the path of the same two people I would often see shooting up there on Sundays—a man and his daughter who plays for Mayfield's varsity team.

Ohio's basketball playoffs are happening right now, so I asked them how the team was doing, and we all met each other. (I was Dan, and they were Bob and Shannon—good people.) While the freshman sharpshooter Shannon shot baskets, the affable Bob informed me that their next playoff game was against Mentor, which is one of the largest schools in east Cleveland and always a dangerous team. However, Bob said Mayfield matched up pretty well with them this year.

Long story short, Mayfield is no longer in the playoffs.

Jordan leaves me and wins, Bob and Shannon meet me and lose.

The only reason I don't completely blame the loss on my inexplicably bad mojo is because there's more than just my bad mojo at work here. Wretched losses happen all the time in this town.

Mayfield is the Cleveland of Cleveland.

Which sucks as much as it sounds.

Hot Sex And Children: My Advice

I would like to share an interesting theory I learned about from two independent-yet-dependable sources concerning human pregnancy, and it's potentially some of the most important advice a couple could be given, which makes me think maybe it's bullshit.

Anyway, it's a theory on how to give yourself a better chance of conceiving a boy or a girl, depending on what the couple might prefer. I share it with you now because I'm a great guy.

Johns Hopkins University,
home of the Possessive-Apostrophe Fighters

The theory goes like this: supposedly there are "masculine" and "feminine" sperm—sperm that are more likely to result in a boy, and sperm that are more likely to result in a girl, respectively (sperm  have tremendous respect)—and both kinds of sperm kind of act like their human equivalents: the masculine sperm are stronger but die quicker, and the feminine sperm are weaker but live longer. It stands to reason, then, that if you want to have a boy, the man should try to ejaculate as hard as he can while he's as deep inside the woman as possible, which would give the stronger and shorter-living masculine sperm a better chance of fertilizing the egg, and the opposite would also be true: a "shallow" ejaculation gives the longer-living, longer-swimming feminine sperm the advantage.

I don't know if it's true—I got my PhQ-MBO in Reproductive Endocrinologistics at Johns Hopkins, but my studies were not in this particular field—but I think the theory makes a lot of sense, especially when you consider the overabundance of female babies in China (what with the men's tiny penises and all).

The Chinese government strongly suggests 
ejaculating as deeply inside her vagina as possible

Of course, for the couple that wants to have a baby but doesn't have a sex-preference, the experts suggest a "medium" ejaculation.

Obviously, this isn't an exact method for fetus-sex-determination, but this isn't exactly a medical blog.

However, if it is true, I can see why it's not that commonly known: how ridiculously uncomfortable would this theory have been if I'd been telling it to you in real life?

Fortunately, I'm not there, so vagina peepie boner.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

War and Peace: A Perspective

I've been reading Leo Tolstoy's epic novel War and Peace recently, and let me just tell you, I have nothing interesting or humorous to say about it.

I LOVE BLOGGING!

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Congratulations, You Bastard

Today's Glaring Sign That I Might Be The Problem:


I lived with Jordan Likover for six years in Southern California, and then last October he quit his job, packed his things, and GTFAway from me. Four months later, he won Conan O'Brien's Twitter-bio contest.


In short, I'm a piece of shit.


Congratulations, Jordan, you bastard.


"I'm not gonna let you hold me down anymore!" Jordan shouted out the window
while Dan looked around nervously for witnesses, because that sounded kind of gay

An Open Letter To Mike Wilbon Of ESPN From A Cleveland Sports Fan

Dear Mr. Wilbon,

Sick Boy, in the movie Trainspotting, had a theory about successful people. "At one point you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone forever."

Mr. Wilbon, I cannot help but assume that Sick Boy's theory tolls for thee.

Any fan of Cleveland sports who is not at least 50 years old has never celebrated a single professional sports championship in his or her life. Which means your typical Cleveland fan has never once felt the reassuring release of cheering for a team that proved to be the best in the world at that point in history.

Our teams' heart-wrenching disappointments are well documented and oft repeated, so I won't bother listing them. To put it analogously, Cleveland fans are like someone on the losing end of an abusive relationship. Our love is unrequited.

Witness "The Decision."

As so many other people have pointed out, Cleveland fans could have gotten over the disappointment of LeBron's decision to leave . . . if it hadn't come packaged in one of the most awkward and awful programs in the history of mass media.

It was like being dumped by your lover by having him or her send you a link to a video online where he or she is having sex with a stranger.

After Mr. James gracelessly muttered the words "talents to South Beach," I turned off the television, and my heart was filled with nuclear winter. It was another needlessly cruel defeat for a city full of people who already know so well the bitter sting of disappointment.

For the next hour, my Cleveland friends and I talked to each other like we were at a funeral.

And then we heard about Dan Gilbert's letter, and we all ran to our computers to read it.

Mr. Wilbon, on PTI I have heard you slam Dan Gilbert many times for writing that letter, and every time you do I am confused about how you could be so dense. How can someone who has followed sports as an analyst and a fan for so long not see how profoundly important that letter was for Cleveland sports fans?

Our previous football-team owner took the team away from us, and then they won the Super Bowl. Our current football-team owner, in the process of his trust-fun, has turned the Browns into yet another laughingstock. Our current baseball-team owners are incrementally making the Indians into the American League's version of the Pittsburgh Pirates, and every sports analyst and commentator on Earth uses Cleveland as a punch line.

How can you not see how Dan Gilbert's letter was the closest thing to a victory Cleveland fans have had in half of a century? Everyone in the world had given up on us, except for one man. Only one person said, "Cleveland fans don't deserve to be treated like this," and you've shouted that man down and told him he should be embarrassed.

I believe I've even heard you link the "R" word to Mr. Gilbert's letter, but I have to think that that's just you projecting your own racism on something that had nothing at all to do with race, because nobody else I know saw any racism in what he wrote. It was about letting the fans know that there was still someone in the city who had a pulse and the drive to bring a championship to our cursed town.

And even if you were to accept my premise that the letter is what the fans needed, you might tell me that on the best of days what Mr. Gilbert wrote was a won battle but a lost war because nobody will want to come play for Cleveland now.

I might remind you that nobody wanted to come play for Cleveland, anyway, so at least we have the letter.

After my friend Johnny read the letter, he wrote to me: "'The Decision' made me feel like my girlfriend just broke up with me; Gilbert's letter made me feel like I just had sex with my ex-girlfriend's younger sister."

There are only two conclusions that I can draw from your reaction to Mr. Gilbert's pink rant. Either you are so embarrassed for having participated in that "Decision" abomination that your ego needs to turn Dan Gilbert into the villain, or . . .

Mr. Wilbon, at one point you had it, but it looks like you've lost it.

Is it gone forever?

Respectfully,

Daniel V. Donatelli
A Cleveland Sports Fan