Just 'Cuz Everyone Else Is Doing It

Hey, if it's good enough for Ian and Doug, I guess I can fuck with this iTunes Survey thing that's been floating around the blogosphere.... Here goes nothin'.

How Many Songs: 2147 (Bear in mind that a lot of my CDs are not ripped to iTunes, due to my iPod's current lack of functionality and various computer problems, plus the fact that I often burn CD's and remove them from my computer-- in other words, that number is low. I'm a much, much, much bigger music dork than that number suggests....)

Sort by song

First Song: "$$$$," Desaparecidos

Last Song: "Zenophile," Mylo

Sort by artist

First artist: 10 Years (cringe....)

Last artist: Zero 7

Sort by time

Shortest Song: "Pagina Uno. Introduccion," Prefuse 73/The Books (0:07)

Longest Song: "Cop Shoot Cop," Spiritualized (17:13)

Sort by album

First album: 2001, Dr. Dre

Last album: You Forgot It In People, Broken Social Scene

Top Three Most Played Songs: (Note: I tend to listen to full albums in the car, while I tend to fixate on one specific song when I'm at home, and play it ad nauseum for about a week straight until I get sick of it)
1. "Thunderstruck," AC/DC (45-- god, thats a lot)
2. "Bleed From Within," The Music (23)
3. "Infra-Red," Placebo (20)

Song That First Comes Up On Shuffle: "All of My Thoughts," Spiritualized (weird....)

Search...

"Sex," How many songs come up?: 4
"Death," How many songs come up?: 21 (thank you, Death From Above 1979)
"Love," How many songs come up?: 63
"You," How many songs come up?: 252

See, wasn't that just barrels of fun? Didn't you learn so much about me?

Such Great Heights

Being someone who relies primarily on Soulseek to hear most of the new music that passes through my ears, I often have a thought when downloading/listening to an advance copy of an album: Is this really the album? In that, have I just downloaded something which I will think for the rest of all time is truly the album, when in fact it's just a leaked teaser to throw off assholes like me? Can I truly be sure of what I'm hearing?

Granted, it's a fleeting thought, because quite frankly, who would do that? Who would release an entire dummy album that sounds enough like the band to deceive people into believing it is truly the album? I mean, Madonna releasing 30 second snippets and then laughing maniacally and cursing downloaders for the rest of the track(s)-- sure, I can see that. But the fear of a dummy album is largely unwarranted, and the thought quickly passes.

In a related note, at this point in my life, you would think I've learned not to overhype things in my mind before actually hearing them. I tend to do this often-- when I hear that a band I enjoy is releasing a new album, I get all giddy imagining the awesomeness that will soon explode in my eardrums. Inevitably, I am left disappointed as expectations are not met. Most recently, this happened with Kanye-- as I've written before, immediately upon hearing "Diamonds" I was ready to ink Late Registration onto my Top 10 list, only to be severely underwhelmed upon hearing the full album.

Recently, I was confronted with both of these abject thoughts upon hearing the new albums from two bands that I unabashedly adore and was/am extremely excited for-- Elan Vital by Pretty Girls Make Graves and Placebo's Meds. One is a case in which both of these thoughts crash headlong into themselves, while the other is one in which these thoughts are quickly abandoned.

First, Elan Vital. Now, I understand that certain albums are growers, ones in which you've got to invest a significant amount of time to discover the subtle nuances found within and allow the whole thing to sink into your brain. And maybe this is the case with Elan Vital, that I just have to live with this album and let it sink into me a little bit more, grow to appreciate what the first handful of listens have failed to illuminate to my addled little brain. However, my first reaction upon finally hearing this album, an album I had mentally pegged as likely to be one of 2006's finer works, was Is this it?

It's not that it's a bad album-- in fact, I could easily see, if I give it a chance, it growing into a work of art that I truly appreciate and enjoy. However, upon first hearing it, I was forced to wonder if I had in fact downloaded the album or rather some unfinished demos. I mean, the songs are alright, but they seem to be lacking that trademark PGMG burst of intensity and white hot heat, found on tracks like "All Medicated Geniuses" or "This Is Our Emergency." The only real song found here that truly harkens back to that same vein is album opener "The Nocturnal House," with it's whistle blowing rev-up will sure to be a delight in the live experience. "Wildcat" is another song that harkens back to older PGMG, although again, lacking in that certain brand of intensity.

However, the rest of the album abounds in good ideas-- it just seems as if they've remained unfinished, like the band was gonna add the finishing sheen to them, only to move on and say "Fuck it." It's not to say that songs such as "Pyrite Pedestal" or "The Number" aren't interesting or worthwhile ideas, for they are-- they just seem to be missing that traditional spark that made previous PGMG albums so interesting and fun. "Pictures of a Night Scene" exemplifies this idea perfectly: it spends two minutes slowly building the tension, making you believe that another "This is Our Emergency" type monster is coming. Hell, get past the odd jazz flourishes, and the last 30 seconds begin to push the tempo, and you figure the big pay off is coming-- only to have the song simply peter out abrubtly. And thats sort of how the album is as a whole-- you can see where they were going, and what they were trying to do, but it doesn't seem as if they quite get there, at least not nearly as well as they did on The New Romance.

As I wrote above, I am fairly certain there are things to be discovered within this album, and I would not be surprised if given time, this album winds up at least within sniffing distance of my Best of 2006. After all, it would be wrong of me to simply expect The New Romance Redux, and I'm certainly willing to give a band as talented and esteemed (at least by me) as Pretty Girls Make Graves every opportunity to prove me wrong. So do not be surprised to hear me change my tune about this album in a month or so- but as of right now, I can't help but once again be disappointed by my own minds overhyping and wonder if I did in fact download the true album.

This is not the case, however, with Placebo's Meds. In a review of their last album for the Kenyon Collegian, I wrote something like the Placebo blueprint was something to be studied and emulated by any young band stalking the Earth-- namely, that four albums in, they've continued to improve, each album better than the last. Well, with Meds, album number five, they continue to back up that point, as this is unquestionably their best work yet.

Whereas previous Placebo album showed frequent flashes of catchy rocking and witty brilliance, they were often balanced out by boring clunkers that necessitated the fast forward button. Sleeping With Ghosts came close to alleviating this problem, but still featured some songs which I could have done without ("Plasticine" and "Something Rotten" being two primary examples). With the exception of "Space Monkey," Meds is primarily an exercise in enjoyable rocking out for this humble fan.

One of the things that Placebo has always had going for it is its ability to craft balls out, catchy as hell anthems seemingly at will-- see "Every Me, Every You," "The Bitter End," "Second Sight," "Slave To The Wage," etc. So when I read that this album was designed to be a return to their live rock roots, I was excited, and that excitement is well founded-- this album is chock ful of anthems which are sure to incite frenzies in arenas all over the globe.

"Infra-Red" might be the catchiest yet most chiling stalker song since The Police's "I'll Be Watching You", with it's lyrical refrain of "Someone call the ambulance, there's gonna be an accident/ I'm coming up on infra-red, there is no running that can hide you, cause I can see in the dark." "Drag" is a typical catchy Placebo style love song, in that it manages to be heart warming yet slightly depressing/unnerving at the same time, if that makes sense. "Post Blue" and "One of A Kind" definitely rock out, while "Song To Say Goodbye," with its lurching guitar intro and kiss off of "You are one of God's mistakes, you crying, tragic waste of skin/ I'm well aware of how it aches, and you still won't let me in" closes the album in raucous fashion.

In addition to the anthems, every Placebo album has it's one epic, heart tugging ballad-- whether it's "Without You I'm Nothing" on the album of the same name, "Passive Aggressive" from Black Market Music or "Special Needs" from Sleeping With Ghosts, it's gotta be there. And the boys come up with what just might be the best of the bunch in "Follow the Cops Home," nearly five minutes of melancholy bliss. Hell, even the track with R.E.M's Michael Stipe (!) works out surprisingly well, with Stipe and lead vocalist Brian Molko harmonizing quite well.

Add it all up, and you've got one hell of an album, certainly the best of Placebo's career, and one that is bound to find it's way high atop my list of albums for the year 2006. Although my expectations for this album were high, the boys from England have managed to batter them and better them by miles, an amazing feat. And in a weird way, I almost wish this was a dummy album-- because if the album leaked to throw people off is this good, could you imagine how dope the real album would be?

Put A Couple Careers On Hold, You Could Be Next Kid

Killa vs. Jigga. Holy fucking shit.

Now, I know I haven't been on my blog grind for a moment, but frankly, what was I gonna write about? The NFL playoffs? Frankly, I could give a fuck at this point-- I watch the games if there's nothing better to do, but I can't say that I'm really, truly invested in any meaningful way. New music? Dude, it's January 19th-- there haven't been any records worth getting all hot and bothered over released yet (Although next Tuesday we got Cat Power and Jenny Lewis -- indie hipster boys, reserve at least three hours of your day for the requisite swooning!).

But this? This is definitely good enough to bring me outta my cave. Like my man Douglas said, talk about making a morning, let alone a week. But since heads have already said much about this topic, I won't speak long (but gimme a hot second, and I'ma put you on), except to say: Thank God 50 Cent and Game are nowhere near this thing, because say what you want about "You Got To Love It," but it's miles ahead of "Piggy Bank" (Sheek Louch was right, that shit is garbage) and the novelty aspects of "300 Bars." And you don't need to check Jay's resume to know that dude straight brings it ("Takeover," pics of Prodigy in a dress at Summer Jam, etc.). Hey, anything that will get new Jay verses out there, I'm all for.

I will admit, however, that I don't exactly know who I'm rolling with here. My love for all things Hova as well as Cam is well documented, so I guess all I'll say is that I'm hoping for some hot records and no one to get shot (again-- "I seen... the diamond thrown up before the shots was fired" WHAT?).

And real quick, while I'm here: My man Chucky K should spend more time writing shit like this, rather than weak ass shit like this. Like Ian said, see what happens when you hang with the rapidly declining Bill Simmons?

Your Flight Leaves at 8, Her Flight Lands at 9, My Game Just Rewind

So there I am this afternoon at work, sitting at my desk, suffering through the Joe Average Worker equivalent to chasing a vicodin with a 40 of King Cobra-- namely, shit that puts you to sleep with the quickness. Which is not to say that what I do what pays my rent, cable bill, and bar tabs is all that exciting to begin with, because it ain't. But this was seriously on some "You can't be serious.... you really askin' me to do this?" type shit. So I did what every other red blooded American does-- I surfed the damn internet. In addition to furthering my quest to read the entire Sexy Results! archives on the company dime (I'm up to May of '05), I caught up on my internet surfing, peeping the shit that I used to read all the time but have slacked off on lately as the ol' J-O-B has gotten a little more serious and all. And that's when I stumbled upon the genius that is Bethlehem Shoals for the umpteenth time, who dropped knowledge at the always inspiring Free Darko (cop the t-shirts, they're hot):

"But what I really want to do is what I do best: heap shame about the white man and back-handedly, somewhat imprecisely, praise those of the minority persuasion. One of my absolute least favorite things alive is white men, usually slightly older, talking sports to women who clearly don't need or want to hear it. At a crap Italian restaraunt back in H-Town, I nearly got up and punched some British guy who, when the conversation at his table turned casually to the geographic wonder that was the Rose Bowl, proceeded to bust loose with an amateur scouting report on Vince's pro prospects, the difference in defensive schemes, etc. Then last night, the man behind us had a running monologue going, presumably for the benefit of his wife/date, about the Princeton offense, Tampa Bay's defense, other garden variety ESPN.com information. Two rows back, the aforementioned LD impersonator would occasionally stop bellowing about defense (WORLD'S DUMBEST WIZARDS SEASON TICKETHOLDER. the Wizards are not built to play defense, just to score and get steals in transition/on the perimeter) to tell his daughter (??) about which Wizards were really valuable to a sound team game.

I am not a sailor or an adventurer, but something has become clear to me as I wash this earth with my scalding blood: if someone's not responding, they don't care. Either that, or you're talking way over their head. Granted, half of what people say out loud at a sporting event is to sound knowledgable around their oh-so informed peers in the bleachers. But if you are really, truly, talking about screens as a way of bonding with your female companion, it's not working. Keep in mind the model of the baseball game: at any given time, only about 70% of the spectators at a ballpark can apprectiate the nuances of the action, but that doesn't mean the others aren't having a good time. In fact, they're probably enjoying it on their own terms, with as much as they need to know, and find it intrusive to have someone browbeat them with technical wank. At the risk of pissing off our very limited female audience, usually a woman (or any non-fan, for you parents trying to force a burgeoning art fag to play catch) agreeing to go to a sporting event is itself a loveable concession. And if he/she is managing to enjoy the experience, its on her own terms, not through a cloudy, just-discovered lens of identical fandom that God calls upon you to polish. Otherwise, Sundays would not be a day of solitude, and playoff season would not be a unrelenting string of excuses and avoidances on my part."

Maybe it's just me, but I found this fucking brilliant and completely on point. Because if you're anything like me, you have one of those friends who thinks he knows everything about everything, even when they don't know what the fuck they're talking about. You know the type-- the kind of dude who tries to tell you that the Pixies didn't get their big break until Fight Club used "Where Is My Mind," completely ignorant of the fact that the Pixies broke up a full seven fucking years before the movie came out. The type of dude that spends a few hours playing Madden, sit downs to watch a football game with you, and all of a sudden thinks he's the defensive coordinator, babbling on and on about the intricacies of the 3-4 defense and the zone blitz and what have you, when all you're thinking is "God, please shut the fuck up and let me watch the game, ok Coach?" You know the type-- loud as a motor bike, but wouldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight....

Anywho, I fully recognize that when it comes to certain subjects-- most music, sports in general and baseball in particular-- I'm a full fledged dork. It's safe to say that if you know me personally (or hell, have read this blog), you've been subjected to a half cocked ramble about a band/musical style which your knowledge of is only tenuous at best. But hey, that's me-- you accept this as the price you pay for hanging out with someone as cool as myself. And if you can't-- hey, fuck you, I can't help it that I'm smarter than you and just trying to hip you to the new hotness.

That being said, I learned early on not to be that guy. Or maybe not early on, but I learned that shit. It was probably when the summer of '02 when I finally learned that shit. See, I had the genius idea of taking my new girl to Shea (a/k/a/ The Fucking Mecca) for a largely inconseuential game with my boys-- and I fucking scored the game! Respect to the lady, that didn't kill my game, but she did let me know that it was kind of on the dorky tip. And when you think about it, it makes sense-- if you're spending three hours with a program in your lap and pencil in your hand, wondering whether the left fielder or center fielder caught a can of corn in the sixth inning rather than "Do we need more beer?", the question of "Wonder if she's wearing the Vickie's lace panties today?" is something you ponder during the 7th inning stretch rather than something you ascertain with certainty a few hours later. Similiarly, if you spend an inordinate amount of time explaining just why it's called a "6-4-3 Double Play," the "You got condoms, right?" question is probably not in your future (unless you're me, cuz I ball like that).

And hell, maybe it was because it was my first summer being 21 and I hadn't spent enough time in NYC bars, so the idea of paying $7.50 a beer was an insult to humanity rather than simply paying the cost to be the boss, but I learned real quick. And it wasn't only the young lady who had to suffer through me scoring said game who schooled me, but rather the glazed over eyes of the compatriots of those that guy's that Shoals describes before it became clear to my fertile mind that "Yo, I don't wanna go out like that." So now, when I hit up the ball games, my concern is less with keeping score (cuz honestly, do I really need another program that I'll never look at it again and will only take up space in the passenger seat of my car until the end of time) and more with making sure the beer man is making his rounds with the quickness. And if my girl wants to ask a question, I'll induldge her in a suitable manner-- but I ain't tryin' to get into a ten minute discussion about the career history of the Expos #7 hitter, because she definitely doesn't care about that shit and frankly, I shouldn't either.

It just sorta brings it back to a few theories I have. Namely, that having a girl who likes the same music you do is cool, but not necessarily essential-- in fact, I'd argue that if she doesn't like the same music, thats a good thing. That way, you can hit her off with the inevitable mixtape filled with DJ Shadow and Massive Attack jawns and she'll think you're a musical genius for blowing her mind and introducing her to this shit (that is, if she's a good chick). In the same way, you don't need a chick to like sports, but rather to only to respect the fact that when OSU-Michigan is on, she either needs to find something else to do or get the fuck out of your way. But if you find that girl that digs sports-- and I'm not talking about those girls that front that they do, only because they're like "Derek Jeter is so hot!" or "I love Tom Brady's ass!," but actually know there shit-- that's even better. But if you can't find one of those rare breed, do yourself a favor and keep your inner Belichek inside, hard as it might be. Trust me-- it'll work out better for all involved. But the chick that not only says "Ok, I'll see you after the game" but says "Why don't I watch the game with you?" and doesn't just do it to humor you, but is actually interested-- that's the one you keep.

Do I have a point in this? Not really, other than that I have noticed this phenomenon just as Shoals has? Not really, other than to say that I have learned my lesson and, white skin or no, I will not be that guy, and that I found his observations funny. And I'll never be that guy again.

One Final Word On The Atrocity That Was The Panthers-Giants Game: All through the game, I was joking that when I went to the grocery store today, I'd find a picture of Plaxico Burress on my carton of milk, because dude was a missing person the entire game. I get home from work (surprisingly still awake), and what do I find in my mailbox? One of those "Avo asks Have You Seen Us?" postcards with missing children, and guess who's on it.... Jeremy fuckin' Shockey.

Yeah, I went there. In another few days, I'll be ready to accept the whole "We went 11-5 and won the NFC East, shit we weren't remotely supposed to do" argument. Not right now, though.

Playoffs!?!

Yeah.... let's not even talk about the Giants game, ok (In the same way that we're not gonna talk about the fact that if the 'Noles could kick a fucking extra point, there'd be no such thing as the 3 OT instant classic that transpired Tuesday night. Similiarly-- how is it that such a top flight program as FSU can't recruit one single fucking good kicker, Janikowski excepted-- and I realize I'm stretching the definition of the word by calling Janikowski good, at least if you're talking as a human being)? By somewhere around halfway the third quarter, I could no longer muster the will to scream at the TV or even do anything other than shrug my shoulders and go "Damn." Seriously-- the "Tippy's Taco or New China Taste for Lunch?" and "Twelve Pack of Heineken or 40's of Hurricane?" questions were more pressing matters in my mind than Manning the Younger's rapidly escalating interception totals. I feel kinda like Jerry, in that I figured I'd be more angry, yet I'm left with just a general feeling of "Eh....whatever" about the whole thing.

As I said, by about 3:00 PM Eastern time, I was pretty much numb to anything that was taking place in East Rutherford, New Jersey, other than to wonder if it was even worth it to try and call my boy Rosie, or had he already thrown himself from the upper echelepons of Giants Stadium. So surprisingly, I found myself caring a lot more than I normally would have about Carson Palmer's ACL injury on his first playoff pass. Perhaps it's because, as has been well documented, I ride hard for my man Chad Johnson, and so Palmer comes as an accessory, the Robin to CHAD!'s Batman, but I've come to respect and enjoy Carson Palmer this year. I've enjoyed watching himascend to the top level of NFL QB's, in addition to enjoying the fact that at least he proves that winning the Heisman doesn't necessarily mean you have to suck in the NFL. And so, seeing him there, crumpled in pain, followed by the image of him being carted off the field-- my heart sank. And again, it may have been entirely related to the fact that the chances of Chad Johnson catching a bomb and doing some insane TD celebration markedly decrease with Kitna at the controls rather than the Golden Boy....

I dunno. Seeing as how I have absolutely no affiliations with the Cincinnati Bengals other than the fact that I spent four years of my life approximately three hours away from Cincy (Kenyon College in the house, bitches!), this probably shouldn't bother me as much as it does. And Palmer's knee shredding obviously wasn't nearly the most depressing thing to happen this weekend when talking about the gridiron (and while we're talking about depressing things in NFL playoff land -- Sheppard, you've GOT to catch that TD pass!)... but I hope he comes back in July, spitting fire and picking up where he left off-- namely, dropping feathery soft bombs into the arms of Chad's woofing grill and laser beams into the arms of TJ and Chris Henry. I'm probably buying a Chad Johnson jersey at some point this offseason, and I can't afford to have a little thing like Carson Palmer blowing out his ACL derail the Who Dey?'s ascension to "AFC team that I fucks with hardcore" status....

And oh yeah: Fuck the Carolina Panthers, and fuck the Washington Redskins. Go Bears, Go 'Hawks....

New Years Jumpoff

Ok, so I probably should have posted this yesterday, but if you were expecting me to be able to write anything remotely resembling coherence yesterday... well, that's just silly. But anyway, heres my final kiss off to the year of 2005, and my first official embrace of the year two thousand and six. This is one of the rare personal posts that I run here, but this is just some shit that I've had on my mind and wanted to document, if only for posterity. Like anything else I write, I know I'm gonna realize something I forgot the moment I hit "publish," but whatever. Enjoy.

What I'm Thankful For From 2005:
- That I finally said "fuck it!" and stepped out of my comfort zone and moved away from the only house I've ever called home to journey five hours to the South to the relative unknown of Alexandria, VA with tons of friends in the back pocket yet no job and made it work. I may not be doing exactly what I planned, but nevertheless I manned up and tried to do something about my life, and it's been a thrilling experience for me. Maybe this means I'm growing up, at least a little bit. Matter of fact-- I've kinda dug this whole "fuck it, I'm up and movin'" dealy, and am thinking about becoming a professional nomad, hopping from place to place every two years or so. So if anyone wants to move to say, Cali somewhere around June, 2007, holla at the kid.
- All the new friends I made this past year who've helped me grow as a person and accepted me for who I am, and some old ones I reconnected with, sometimes in seemingly bizarre fashion. And as a corollary to that, fuck the friends that I've lost this year, because I'm all the stronger and wiser for it. Like Ed Norton says in 25th Hour, "Champagne for my real friends, and real pain for my sham friends." Those that rolled with me this year-- much respect. Those that didn't/couldn't/wouldn't-- your loss, no skin off my nose.
- All the great music that floated through each and every day of my life, most notably Bloc Party who were the soundtrack to my life for large swathes of the past year, but pretty much every record on my Top 20 and many other singles, mixtape cuts, and guilty pleasure songs besides.
- Sin City, without a doubt the most gangster movie to be released in the '05.
- That I finally started the blog that you are reading right now, after talking about it for at least a good year, and that people other than my friends and family actually read this thing (even if they are just looking for the lyrics to "Get 'Em Daddy" or googling things like the Suge Knight Biggie murder conspiracy.... I will try to bring even more heat in the coming year, and ya know, update more than once a week or something.
- The people that helped me survive the work day (i.e. those sites you see listed over there on the right) and anyone who linked to me this year or gave me a shout out, particularly if I only know you through the internet realm. Your dap means a lot to me, and I can only hope that one day I'll find someone stupid enough to pay me for this shit.
- That I managed to survive the year without succumbing to full blown insanity, general malaise/depression and/or alcoholism. I'm still standing, and I'd like to think I'm a more well rounded, stronger person now than I was twelve months ago.

What I'm Looking Forward To In The New Year:
- New friends, new places, new experiences-- essentially, more fun, period. And more hotness-- more hot females, more hot music (see next comment) and movies, more hot unexpected times.
- Tons of new music, including new discs from Cam'ron, Thursday, Deftones, Ghostface, Outkast, Pretty Girls Make Graves, and many others, probably any number of bands I haven't even heard of yet that are bound to rock my face off.
- Hopefully stepping at least a tiny bit closer to figuring out what I'm going to do with my life, seeing as how I will soon be entering my 25th year of existence on this Earth and I'd kinda like to have something of a better idea of what I do with the next 50 or so.
- Having constant flashbacks to the year 2000 throughout the months of April through October-- i.e., the New York Mets kicking ass and taking names. I'm trying not to get too hyped up about it so as to avoid crushing disappointment (This is the Mets we're talking about. I had similiar feelings fifteen years ago, when we signed Bobby "I'll show you the Bronx!" Bonilla, Vince "Playing with firecrackers is fun!" Coleman, and Bret "I'm better at throwing bleach than baseballs" Saberhagen, among others. It says alot when you can make noted sourpuss Eddie Murray look like a Nobel Prize winner...), but I've already started calling them the Queens Killing Machine, so to say that I have high hopes would be an understatement. I've already started putting aside money for the "World Series tickets on eBay" fund...
- Related: Johnny Damon hitting .250 as the Yankees are submarined by the rapidly rising Toronto Blue Jays in the AL East (I mean, I know that the Ryan and Burnett signings are dubious at best, but on paper you've got to seriously consider the Jays-- I mean, those two, plus Overbay and Glaus? You get nothing for winning the Hot Stove League, but if you did, J.P. Ricardi's trophy case would be a little more crowded right now...) Probably not gonna happen, but a man can dream....
- Less fucking drama, in all facets of life. That shit is just so meaningless (but unavoidable).
- And yeah, if I hit the gym and quit smoking, that'd be cool with me too.

The Return of the Felons

Well, well, well.... it's good to see that tradition still means something to some people. Florida State Felons, indeed.

And all that stuff I've been saying the last few days to various people, trying to convince myself that this won't be an absolute Penn State riot? That, as the ACC Title game proved, when it wants to the 'Noles can still play a nasty game and be a bear for any opponent? That Penn State might be the beneficiary of just a tad bit of extra hype, due to cuddly ol' Joe Pa and the fact that they miraculously rose from the ashes after two crappy seasons? That this game will at least be close and somewhat contested?

Yeah, eff all that. I'm getting flashbacks to the 2003 Sugar Bowl. I hope I'm wrong-- after all, at least Chris Rix isn't around to sleep through any finals, so we got that goin' for us, which is nice....