Misinformed Sanctimony Is Always Funny

Many would apply the term "misinformed sanctimony" to my crappy blog. I wouldn't disagree. But while I'm posting junk off the web, I figured I'd throw this one up on the old blog as well.



It's one thing to be pious with one's outrage with mankind's disregard for the earth (always annoying no matter how accurate you may or may not be). But it's quite another to combine that self righteousness with a hilarious level of stupidity. I laughed very loudly for a long time when I saw this. (Props to Jake for posting it on Facebook.)

It's fun to try to put a face with the voice. I'm picturing an angry, lonely, fat woman wearing stretch pants and a XXXL T shirt with a cat on it . If her life were ever portrayed in film, she would be played by Camryn Manheim. Let's break down her rant. Just for fun.

- "What the heck is in our water supply, what the heck is in our oxygen supply . . . of the metallic oxide salts that create a rainbow effect in a sprinkler?" Damn industrial pollution, infecting our sprinklers with rainbows. Man, lady. You sure know your science. Metallic, oxide salts? She isn't just full of horse shit, she's very specific in her horse shit. She sounds like Calvin's dad explaining the sunset. (Absolute classic!) I would have liked it more if she had actually made up some words in her explanation. "The phosphoraic tanins in the grass have been compromised by the acidoxation of the hydrolium in the atmosphere." And she neglected to state that it is really the work of the nefarious "Gay Agenda", infiltrating the sanctity of our backyards with their perverted symbolism.

- "Not just around our sun and our moon anymore. . ." When in the hell has there ever been a rainbow around a moon? Lady, are you mistaking reality for your Trapper Keeper cover from second grade? I'm not judging you. I think unicorns are really neat.

- "The visible spectrum . . . is rainbows. This cannot be natural." Right now, Isaac Newton is in heaven either shaking his head in disgust or laughing his ass off at the California education system. Apparently our friend here is not familiar with Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon record.

- "We all know it wasn't something that happened twenty years ago." As someone who spent his childhood in the 80's (twenty years ago), I can attest that as I slide down my "Crocodile Mile" (way better than Slip N Splash) I indeed noticed refracted light in the water mist and sunlight. I guess pollution has always been around. Damn corporations.

Also, this is my favorite asshole argument technique. To site a universally accepted truth that happens to be complete bull. "We all know that Ralph Machio wasn't in The Karate Kid. It's a universally accepted fact." "Everyone knows that man's brain is bigger than a woman's. It's science." To be able to sound arrogant and dumb as a hell all at once is quite the accomplishment. I'm proud to say, I pull it off regularly here on the old blog.

- "We as a nation have got to ask ourselves, 'what the hell is going on'". Damn you, America! (Shakes fist at sky.) Damn you and your oblivious, stupid citizens who aren't even aware of what is oozing out of our ground! We are ruining the earth and no one cares.

There are few things more hilaritating (Hilarious and irritating. Everyone knows it's a real word, so no need to look it up.) than someone who is insulting in their indignation and at the same time is clearly wrong. (Take your pick.) Let me set up a quick example. A few years ago, I was engaged in a discussion about politics and religion with a coworker. Always a dicey activity. Both are subjects of passion and ones with which most people don't like to compromise. And "coworker conversations" are a little like "in-law conversations". You're not necessarily friends but it's important that you are able to coexist. So no matter how strong the disagreement may be, you really can't afford to burn any bridges.

Anyway, in the course of our conversation, I used the word "stupider". I don't remember the context. My smug friend then smiled, as if he had just put my king into check mate. "You know, 'stupider' isn't even a word. It's 'more stupid'. Actually, the fact that you used the term 'stupider' in an effort to display your own intelligence is the definition of irony." He then proudly walked off with a shit eating grin on his face.

Let me set this straight for any snotty English majors out there with some need to validate their degree. "Stupider" is absolutely a correct word. One that is completely acceptable to use in any context. It's one thing to be uninformed. It's something different all together to be misinformed.

Certainly such pompous, pseudo intellectualism applies to our fat friend who is wearing my imaginary cat T shirt.

Nothing is stupider than that.

Self Ordained Professors

I love my Bob Dylan. I realize that it sounds creepy, pathetic and little bit gay to stick that possessive pronoun in there. But when you spend the better part of a decade exploring an ocean of music, taking the time and effort to fully digest the well known classics while on the constant search for bootlegged gems, you get to call that music your own.

For the record, I am referring to his music. I really don't care all that much about the man himself. In most interviews I've seen, he comes off as a pretty big asshole. That doesn't hurt my feelings. Would you really want to have lunch with Faulkner? Just enjoy his work.

And I love the work of Dylan.

I love the "spokesman for a generation, Freewheelin" days. I love the "plug in and piss everyone off" days. I love the "country crooner with the weird voice" days. I love the "Blood on the Tracks" days. I moderately enjoy parts of the "Born Again" days. I like about one or two songs per album of the "it's the 80's and everyone else also sucks" days. And I absolutely love the "blow the roof off the term 'comeback' with 'Oh, Mercy' and then don't stop putting out insanely good music for another twenty years" days. I'm happy to say his latest album falls into that last category.

It was ten years ago when a friend of my older brother's made him two Dylan mix tapes. He gave them to him with the disclaimer, "This is not elevator music. It deserves to be studied and cherished." This guy is a bit on the obsessive side. Of course, it could just be that I'm an asshole. If you love Dylan more than me, then I probably consider you to be an obsessive loser (there's plenty of the out there). If you don't love him as much as me, well then you're an unsophisticated Philistine who has no appreciation of greatness. You can't win.

By the way, I have realized I have the same attitude toward people's flat screen TV's. If yours if smaller than mine (50") then there's a small part of my brain, shameful as it is, that smugly says to myself, "Ha! I have four more diagonal inches than you with which to enjoy 'Golden Girls' reruns. You are inadequate." But if someone has a TV that's bigger than mine, my inner braggart gets quite defensive. "What are you trying to prove? 55 inches? That's way too big." I'm sure Freud would have some kind of TV/penis observation for us, if he were alive, read my blog and was the type to leave comments. But he's long dead, so I'll just leave any schlong jokes to be implied.

How exactly did I start talking about Bob Dylan and end up talking about dicks? What the hell is wrong with me?

So back to the Dylan mix tapes of 1999. My brother listened to them off and on. But I quickly usurped them. Seeing as how he didn't notice that I took them, I didn't feel all that bad about it. He was pretty used to me stealing his crap, anyway. Now I was familiar with Bob, previous to these tapes. I had bought his first greatest hits CD years before and I loved all 10 songs on that CD. But these tapes first illustrated the true depth of his music to me. Depth within each song as well as depth of a massive volume of work. I had 240 minutes of Dylan songs on those well worn cassettes that I listened to, rewound and listened to again. One day the actual tape within the cassette broke about half way through 'Desolation Row'. So I found a tiny jeweler screwdriver, popped that thing open, preformed a little surgery via scotch tape and the cassette was back in my walkman in no time.

I went to work with my uncle on his dairy farm in Smoot, Wyoming in April of that year. I stayed at my Grandma's house in the blue bedroom upstairs. Late at night, I would get in my car and drive to no where in particular listening to these two tapes. I remember having to pull over outside of Etna one night to sit in my idling car on the side of the highway in the middle of the dark Star Valley night. I had to give the song "It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding" my absolute full attention.

A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit
To satisfy, ensure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not forget
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to

This is the power of insightful expression. It articulates that which we feel to be most private and often perplexing. It says what we want to say, in a way that we never could. And there is great power in giving an emotion an exact description. If we are unable to verbalize the storm of emotions that swirl around in our minds and hearts, be they positive or negative, we can't really expect to manage them. But as soon as we are able to give them a name, we can then truly confront them and maybe even control them. This is the power of art. Music, literature, film, sculpture, Far Side Cartoons (I don't know why Spanish speaking dolphins make me laugh but they do), they all reach into our soul. They take that which we hold to be most private and personal and throws it down on the table, making it impossible to avoid while empowering us to confront it. And the fact that it was an outside entity that provided this discernment of our soul validates us as individuals as well as unites us within the human experience.

"That is exactly how I feel. And apparently, I'm not alone."

So, with that off my chest, I would like to now present five random video clips of my friend Bob. This is a bit of change in tone. I figure I've already done a "Dylan rules! You gotta check out this song!" post several months ago. (The music doesn't work, you can look up the songs you're own damn self.)

So instead here is a strange mix of video clips that feature Dylan's music and subsequently his cred ability being used (some might say co-opted) for whatever it is they happen to be selling. Some of these irritate me. But I'm not the type to get all butt hurt over a rock star selling his music for some ad space. As long as it is their decision and they are the ones being compensated for it, I figure they have the right to do it. As much as I love it, it isn't scripture. It's just pop music for hell's sakes.



This is the song "Beyond Here Lies Nothing" from Bob's latest album that was released earlier this year. It is a clip advertising HBO's series "True Blood". Look, I appreciate that HBO has given us some of the finest television ever. "The Wire", "Deadwood", "Curb Your Enthusiasm" all come to mind. But "True Blood" is shit. Hokey, preachy, hamfisted shit. I illegally downloaded (suck my balls, HBO legal) and watched the entire first season. I don't mind saying, that it was the worst combination or terrible writing and terrible acting I have ever endured. I have not spent much time in the South, but I know a bad accent when I hear it. And Anna Paquin couldn't sell a southern accent if she were magically granted a decent set of teeth for doing so. Enough with the Vampire bullshit already! Yeah, we get it. Vampires are like gay people. They can't help who they are and they just want to live normal lives. But those ignorant, hateful religious people just want to persecute them. Bla bla bla. Look, I'd be open to that metaphor if it wasn't handled with subtly of a sledge hammer.

Seriously terrible show.



Some months back, I took what I thought was a forgotten punchline of pop culture and ridiculed it. It's how I roll. Little did I know that a few months later, Michael Jackson would die and CNN would then ignore a people's revolution in Iran to eulogize and reinvent the noseless pederass (8 year olds, Dude) for nearly a month straight. And in the process, turn this punchline into a humanitarian and cultural triumph.

Don't I look like the dick.

I stand by my original statement that "We Are The World" is a terrible song. I really have no idea what the hell Bob was doing anywhere near it. I suppose he was trying to remain relevant. It was 1985 and he hadn't had a really good record in almost 10 years (1976's Desire). So I can give him a break for trying to fit in with the kids at school. Of course it wasn't until 1989 when he would figure out that all along, he just needed to be himself. I can't overstate just how good "Oh, Mercy" is. But at the time, it seemed like a good idea to stand next to Dion Warwick's nostrils and sing a self congratulatory Pepsi commercial.

Speaking of Pepsi commercials . . .



Alright, this one pisses me off. It's not that his music Bob's holy and cannot be defiled by corporate thieves or any horse shit like that. If Bob wants to sell his songs, I say let him. And it's not that they remixed one of personal favorite works. In fact I don't mind it. This is a way better version than Rod Stewart's atrocity. It's not that Pepsi took Dylan's image and authenticity and reduced it to a damn soda ad. Bob's authenticity is strong enough to survive that. The thing that pisses me off about this thing is that they use the Black Eyed Friggin' Peas to hip-hop it up.

Shit.

If it was Wycleff, I'd be down with it. Dre can sample all the Dylan he wants. If Snoop wanted to do his own version of "Subterranean Homesick Blues" I would love it. But the Black Eyed Peas do not qualify. When you are responsible for the crime against humanity that is "Lady Humps", (Please do not click on that. Whatever you do, do not click on that link!) you forfeit the right to share a stage with Bob Dylan.




Well this one is just weird. "Love Sick" is a fantastic song. And no one loves a good underwear ad more than this guy. Although I have always been confused by the wings. Is it a common fantasy to want to nail an angel? But there is a strange dichotomy between a nicely jiggly rack of boobs popping out of the top of a bra inter cut with Bob's pencil thin mustache. Look, I love nacho cheese and I love ice cream. But I don't want nacho cheese poured over my ice cream.



There is no sarcasm with this clip. It is pure beauty. Think of it as a pallet cleanser. It is taken from the film "I'm Not There". This is Heath Ledger playing a character based on aspects of Dylan. It's a great film for Dylan fans. There could never be a "Walk the Line" kind of straight forward bio-pic of Bob. This is the only way his life could be told on film. Fragments of half truth told in a jumbled order to create a mosaic of perfect accuracy. There may be a female nipple slipped into a few of these shots. Fair warning. But I got it off Youtube, so I blame the smut on them. This is a perfect adaptation of the song "I Want You". The eagerness and the fearlessness of new love is often depicted in songs and movies. But this clip gets it right. "It is I who am ready. Ready to listen. Never tired. Never sad. Never guilty."

So there you go. Quite frankly, I don't really care if his music grabs you the way it grabs me. I gave up on long time ago on trying to get everyone I know to love Dylan. He either does it for you or he doesn't. But it is definitely worth any time and effort you decide to invest in getting to know his music.

Blue Shadows, On The Trail.

So last weekend a bunch of friends and I headed down south for some camping, hiking and canyoneering in Parunuweap Canyon near Zion. It really was a perfect trip. Long, challenging but also fun and refreshing. We got to the campsite pretty late. Like 4:30 in the damn morning. We had about 30 miles of sandy roads to drive to our trail head so it took us forever. We were going to have to get on the trail by 8:30 the next morning if we were going to get everything done we had planned, so we didn't bother to pitch tents. We just rolled out our pad and slept under the stars.

It always takes me a long time to sleep. It can seriously be a hassle. Especially when I'm trying to cram a night's worth of sleep into a couple of hours. And let me tell ya, the worst thing to do when you're trying to go to sleep is try really hard to go to sleep. It just doesn't work. After a 45 minutes or so tossing around, I was just at that moment when I was about to drift away. You know that feeling. Finally your body and your brain has relaxed and you start floating. It's a good spot to be in.

Right then, I heard some coyotes howling in the distance. It was just enough to wake up my brain. I took great effort to not move at all, so as to not shake away my well earned sleep cocoon. A few minutes later, I heard the coyotes again but this time much louder. My curiosity got the best of me and I looked up, ruining all of the sleep progress I had worked so hard for. Now, a coyote isn't going to do a thing to a human. I think. I actually have no idea. For all I know they feast on human flesh. But I wasn't scared. I was, however, very awake. And my mind was flowing. And being the product of way too much pop culture mediocrity, the thing that popped into my mind immediately was this scene from "Three Amigos".



"Three Amigos" is one of those movies that I love just as much now, as I did when I was ten. And for the same reasons.

El Guapo: Jefe, would you say I have a plethora of piñatas?

Jefe: A what?

El Guapo: A plethora.

Jefe: Oh yes, El Guapo. You have a plethora.

El Guapo: Jefe, what is a plethora?

Jefe: Why, El Guapo?

El Guapo: Well, you just told me that I had a plethora, and I would just like to know if you know what it means to have a plethora. I would not like to think that someone would tell someone else he has a plethora, and then find out that that person has no idea what it means to have a plethora.

So there I am, curled up in my fleece sleeping bag on my 15 dollar Wal-Mart air mattress in the middle of frigging nowhere Utah staring up at the sky (which was now disturbingly light purple in the east) surrounded by sleeping people and I start singing rather loudly, " Boom ba boom boom, boom ba boom boom, boom ba boom ba boom ba boom boom. Bluuuuuuee shaaadooows, on the trail . . . "

I was kind of hoping someone else was awake, heard the coyotes and had the exact same thought process as me. This of course would result in a spontaneous sing-along. There needs to be more real life, spontaneous sing-alongs in my opinion. Not the gay, Broadway, jazz hand kind of sing-alongs. But like the one in "Almost Famous" where the tour bus sings Tiny Dancer. It would make life much more interesting. But it didn't happen this time. Everyone was sleeping soundly.

It was close to 6:00 now and I knew this was hopeless. I may be hiking 12 miles the next day (that day) but I'm not sleeping tonight. So I got up to enjoy the sunrise.

Goodnight, Ned.

You're a flower, you are. Just a little desert flower.

Parunuweap Canyon is just outside of Zion National Park that is just as stunning as the famous Narrows. Well, maybe not quite as stunning. But still amazing. This was 4th of July weekend and one of the busiest times of the year for Zion. I guarantee that The Narrows was packed. We saw one other group our entire day.

Think Burt Reynolds on a bear skin rug.

While hiking out, we were hit with a massive rain storm. We weren't in any flash flood danger or anything. It was just a nice refreshing shower at the end of the day. But as we we're climbing out, there was a massive 400 foot waterfall of rain water gushing over a cliff. My camera got some moisture in it, so it looks like this photo was taken in a sauna. But you can kind of see the waterfall, although this photo doesn't do it justice. It was one of the hilights of a great trip.

One Thing I have Learned Over The Weekend . . .

Iran has a lot of hot women. Like tons of them. Persian chicks. Who knew?

I have been glued to CNN the last few days, fascinated by the uprising in Tehran. I'm fascinated by the events leading up to it, by the irresistible nature of freedom and democracy and by the courage of people who risk their lives to defy tyranny. I'm fascinated by the reactions of different nations to that defiance and by the changing political climate that will result from it. And I'm fascinated by the fact that there seems to be a large percentage of sultry, exotic looking vixens rocking the "Princess Jasmine" look living in Iran of all places. Speaking as a proudly ignorant, ethnocentric American pig, who the hell would have guessed that?

Lots of Booze and Lots of Rambling: 5 Great Country Songs

Ah, "Hee Haw". (That is an awkward sentence to say out loud.) I remember walking around my Grandma's house in Smoot, Wyoming as a young boy. My Mom and her sisters would congregate in the kitchen by the pear shaped clock and chatter about . . . whatever the hell it was they talked about. I was never that interested in getting the latest scoop on Star Valley gossip. So I would amuse myself by either flipping through the dozens of Reader's Digests my Grandma had stacked around the living room, or take my chances on what was on TV. Without fail, "Hee Haw" would always be on one of the three available channels. Every time. Usually, it was already on, blaring loud enough to be heard in the kitchen.

I'm not sure why, but I hated "Hee Haw". Now, that's nothing to apologize for. It's a terrible show. But there were all sorts of terrible shows that I watched on a regular basis as a seven year old. Hell, I still watch a lot of terrible shows. It wasn't the corny jokes or bad delivery that irritated me. Look at this clip of "Hee Haw" (for as long as you can stand it). Now watch this clip of "You Can't Do That On Television". Both are equally terrible for the same reasons. And yet I remember running home from school to catch YCDTOT (give me a break, I was seven) but I could not tolerate the same level of corn on "Hee Haw".

The reason for this disparity lies in this fact; I hated Country Music growing up. Hated it with all the energy of my being. It felt like phony, hokey, inbred, slack-jawed garbage. Denim shirts and fiberglass hay. Not my bag. It didn't help that in the early 90's (my formative music listening years) "Achey Breaky Heart" was unavoidable. Honestly, what a shit song. I was forced to line dance to that thing at mutual for hell sakes. In 1994 (?) my beloved classic rock station Z93 changed its format to Country and became KBUL 93. Yee Ha! I felt personally attacked. For a few summers I installed phone lines at the University of Utah where I worked with a shaky, burned out hippie named Randy. We would sit in the van for hours listening to Country radio on am radio while I inhaled his second hand smoke. The scary thing about that, was that Garth Brooks and Shania Twain started to grow on me. But not in a good way. The way a fungus grows on you. It's itchy and unnatural but you can't get rid of it. (For the record, I haven't had many fungi growing on me. Just that one scrotum thing back in 02. That's it. I swear.)

I persisted in my resistance. Until one day, I was driving my brother's 1980 VW Jetta home from High School listening to Oldies 94.1. That's where I first heard "Boy Named Sue" by the man, Johnny Cash. That was probably 1995. I was an opinionated 17 year old asshole (believe it or not) that knew what music I loved and knew what music I hated. I loved Rock and Country sucked. It was simple. But then Johnny Cash had to come along and screw it all up.

There was an authenticity to that song that I couldn't deny. It resonated with me. My biggest gripe with Country music has always been that it's contrived. It pretends to be genuine when it couldn't be more phony. And yet Cash's voice and delivery just felt so damn real. I later found out that the lyrics that I found so entertaining and "authentic" were written by children's author Shel Silverstein. I was a black T shirt wearing, Zeppelin rocking, Metallica listening rock snob that got into snotty arguments about why Jimmy Page was a better guitarist than . . .whoever. And yet, I had to acknowledge the fact that I liked a country song written by the "Where the Sidewalk Ends" guy. I didn't know what the hell to believe anymore.

But I couldn't get that song out of my head. In a good way. This, of course, was in the dark days before the interweb. Before you could listen to any given song at any time on a variety of websites. So my only options to hear it again were to stand by the radio, ready to tape it off (which I did for about a week to no avail) or break down and buy a Country CD. Finally, I surrendered. I drove down to Sugarhouse to Blockbuster Music and spent good money on the music I had vocally despised my whole life.

I remember sitting in my parked car for a while, psyching myself up for self betrayal. It felt like I was buying porn. The deviant, weird porn that guys who work at porn shops get creeped out by. I went into the music store with my hat pulled down over my face. I first loitered around the Rock section, scanning the store for anyone that might recognize me. I then quickly moved directly to the "C's" in the Country section, located a Cash Greatest hits careful to not touch any other CD's. I then bootlegged it to the register as quickly as I could. Avoiding eye contact with the clerk, I handed him cash, uninterested in any change. I got my receipt and shoved the CD deep into my coat, to hide my shame from the light of day. I entered the privacy of my car, opened the CD and popped it into my discman balanced on the dash board.

Son of a bitch.

I loved every single song on that CD. "Walk The Line", "Ring of Fire", "Big River", "Folsom Prison Blues", "Sunday Morning, Coming Down". Every song was absolutely amazing. Johnny, you're really messing with my world, here. It was the only CD I listened to for the next few weeks. Secretly, of course. But I could not deny the brilliance of Johnny Cash. I had to deal with the fact that I liked at least one Country music singer. And there may be more. Up was down, black was white. Dogs and cats living together! MASS HYSTERIA! It's hard to recover, when your world view is rocked to its foundation.

Over the last fifteen years or so, I have developed a healthy respect for good, solid country. I'm still picky about it. As a general rule, I still reject most all of what could be called Wal-Mart Country. Which is anything on a top 40 Country station or on CMT. I still despise Billy Ray Cyrus and his ilk (Toby Keith, Garth Brooks, Kenny Chesney and the like) for all my above stated reasons. But that doesn't mean there isn't an ocean of powerful, honest music out there worth the time to explore. Most of the good stuff is old. From the 50's, 60's and 70's. I am also a big fan of many of the so-called "Alt County" bands that have come out recently. Now, there is such a huge volume of Country out there, I'm not too ashamed to admit that I am still a novice. There is tons of stuff I don't know. But I do know what I like. So here are five songs that for one reason or another, speak to me.

I'll Fly Away - Gillian Welch and David Rawlings

This song was on "The O Brother, Where Art Thou" Soundtrack. It has a great flatpicking Bluegrass vibe to it. What I love about this song is how happy and bright the guitar work and the vocals are despite lyrics that border on despair. He is a link to them. They are heartbreaking and beautiful. Basically they say "I can't wait to die, because I won't be free of all the pain of life until then." And yet the delivery is carefree and convincing. This song isn't misguided escapism. It's genuinely hopeful.

It's Only Make Believe - Conway Twitty

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Conway Twitty! On Hee- Haw of all things. I never would have thought that I would love this. Twitty has a nice Elvis crooner thing going. But the best part is how he looks really pissed off. Even when he nervously smiles. Sure he's singing about heart ache and rejection, but he looks like he could punch the camera man at any time. And if he did, his hair would remain perfectly in place. Years ago, I was in Chicago on business and heard a bluesy version of this song in a club sung by a woman. It was amazing. I have no idea who the band was. Probably just the house band. But they did this song justice.

Waiting Around To Die - Townes Van Zandt

This video was made in 1975. It was supposed to focus on Townes himself, but he decided to interview a blacksmith friend of his that was born in 1896. The song starts at about four minutes but it's worth watching the conversation at the beginning. It gives you context for his emotional response during the song. It takes a hell of a song to bring a guy like Uncle Seymour Washington to tears.

Steve McQueen - The Drive By Truckers

This is more Southern Rock than Country. But they're all branches from the same tree. Fair warning; this song is rated R for adult themes. That said, this is a badass song. A celebration of all things American. Is there a cooler American Icon than Steve McQueen? The answer is, no. And I say that, having only seen two of his movies. "The Great Escape" and "Bullet". Lando Calrissian is a close second. (Yes, Gregg. I stole that line from your comment from a few months ago. Suck it.)

Walking After Midnight - Patsy Cline

I've heard this song my entire life. But it is strange to me to see how young Patsy Cline is in this video. I know she died young, so it doesn't make sense for me to picture her being old. But her voice sounds so wise and so weary. It doesn't seem like that sound should come from a 24 year old girl. But it does. She has that "crying while laughing" cracking in her voice, that speaks to the pain of life. Truly beautiful.

Is The Spandex Really Necessary?

I am not a urologist. But those are some pretty mess up looking moose knuckles. I think the beans got twisted over the frank for a couple of those guys.

I have a stomach ache, for some reason.

So I was driving up Big Cottonwood Canyon rocking out to some Journey (that's how I roll) and had to swerve into on-coming traffic several different times to avoid hitting bikers. Now the only gripe I have with bikers is with the ones that insist on riding side by side so they can chat, oblivious to the train of cars stuck behind them. That is bush. Bush league. But that doesn't happen that often. It's a fine way to get fit and enjoy the outdoors. And it's certainly exhilarating to zoom down a canyon road going 40 mph. But I do have the following question for any reader that may know the answer.

Does the neon yellow spandex outfit make a difference?

I'm sure there are several functional advantages of the fully decked out spandex suit. And far be it from me to spout off, criticizing something I know nothing about. But can you no longer ride a bike and simply wear a pair of shorts and a t shirt? Will you be laughed off the road by the team in the the full on matching Tour De France garb complete with fake sponsors? I like to go hiking. But do I change into lederhosen and massive crampon-ready boots every time I head up a trail? I'm sure there are some nominal performance advantages that would come from nut crunching green shorts / suspenders and those cool gray hats with the feather in them. But I keep it casual. Pair of shorts, some running shoes and a non cotton shirt. I do sport some under armor compressions shorts, otherwise my inner thighs would burst into flames from the friction. (That last line was for the ladies.) But I don't dress up in a costume. I don't wear something that screams to everyone at 7-11 "Yeah, I'm a hiker. That's right. I care about my health. And nature. So suck it."

Taken out of the biking context the "Lance Armstrong" is a pretty silly look. And you know what? Within the context of biking, it's still a silly look. Especially for the portly biker. And there are a lot of them. Now I have nothing but love and sympathy for any fatty magoos out there trying to get back to their playing weight. It's a struggle that I am very aware of. But because I'm currently fatter than I want to be, I am also conscientious of looking like a big fat guy. Take this picture my friend Brianna took in Moab a few months ago. You'll note the day-pack fastened underneath my manly girth. It's like you came up to me a squeezed every ounce of cookie dough that was there, isolating it just for the camera. Not flattering. Brianna, seriously you gotta warn me before you take these pictures so I can suck it in. But now imagine I was sporting skin tight Lycra in a "look at me" shade of neon green. Or pink and blue.

That's what you call ten pounds of crap in a five pound bag.

Look fatty magoo bikers, you have realized that it's gone too far. You're too fat and you're ready to do something about it. You're committed enough to buy a $2,000 plus road bike to really get back into shape. Good for you. But don't forget to hide your shame. Seriously. For the same reason you don't take your shirt off when you run in the park, you'll want to avoid the "Lance Armstrong". You are not him. It's a great goal to have. But until you're a little closer to it, try wearing a poncho. Maybe a classy moo moo. Sure you may have a little more wind resistance with all that floral print flapping in the breeze but dude, you're 250 pounds trudging up BCC. You're not going to notice.

Why Is It That I Hate Kobe Bryant So Very, Very Much?

Way to got, Raja. Now kick him in the face!

So I'm sitting here watching game 1 of the NBA finals. It feels like I'm watching the German Army about to roll into Paris. No matter how I try to convince myself that The Magic can win, I just don't think it's gonna happen. The bad guys are going to win this one.

I know, Orlando beat LA both times they played this year. And no one thought they would beat Cleveland. And LA hasn't exactly been overwhelming in the playoffs this year. But I just feel dread in my bones. I blame my sports pessimism on my love of The Jazz and BYU football. Both teams are usually good enough to get to a big moment, only to collapse when it matters most. Yeah, it's been beaten into my soul to believe that when it comes to really important games, bad things are going to happen. The Lakers are going to win the damn title.

And yes, that is a very bad thing.

It is important to note that this is just sports. As such, it is inherently irrational. Nothing could be more irrational than a grown man leaping off the couch in genuine triumph because far away someone that they have never met threw a ball into a hoop. I know that. I tell myself over and over that it is stupid to care so much about such trivial nonsense. And yet, when D Will pauses at the top of the key, toys with his defender, break them down, snaps their ankle and humiliates them on his way to an open lane, I am filled with elation. It is the same sense of victory that I would feel if I myself had just done that. Perhaps not the same level of intensity. But the feeling is the same. And it is this notion of vicarious accomplishment that makes being a sports fan both exhilarating and insane. Intelligent, clear thinking adults make heroes out of out strangers for having a specific skill. Heroes! That's rediculous. Like I said, it is inherently irrational. And where there are heroes, there are villains.

Now before I go on, it is important to stress that when I speak in these admittedly absurd terms of "heroes" and "villains" (suddenly I have The Beach Boys stuck in my head), I am not referring to the actual people involved. This may be a cop out, but when I say, "I hate Kobe Bryant" it's like saying, "I hate Billy Zane's character from Titanic." ( In fact that's a perfect comparison. Wealthy, smug and evil.) It's not the flesh and blood human being named Kobe Bryant that infuriates me, it is the character he plays in the drama of the NBA. They are two different things. If I saw Kobe Bryant walking around town, I wouldn't feel the need to beat the hell out of him anymore than I would want to punch Billy Zane in the face if I saw him at the airport. "That's for handcuffing Leo, you bastard!"

Likewise when I say, "I hate Laker fans." I am referring to a crowd of faceless people wearing the same inexcusably ugly yellow shirts. Many of my good friends are from Southern California and are Laker fans. Which is to say they like the Lakers enough to talk shit when they're winning. But I have no actual hatred at all for them as individuals. They are my good friends.

In this strange mindset of vicarious victory and defeat, it's okay to hate. It really is. Because no matter how die hard a sports fan may be, we all realize that it really is just a game. And even though the hatred is real, (and it most definitely is) it is directed at an antagonist that doesn't exist in reality. When you love a team or a player with such devotion and passion, it is almost required to hate those teams and players that stand in their way. Vicarious competition. It's a weird thing.

Now, with that disclaimer out of the way . . .

I hate the filthy Lakers. I hate their ugly ass yellow jerseys. I hate their arena. I hate their pompous asshole of a coach. I hate that every national broadcast includes shots of crappy celebrities pretending to not be bored. Jack Nicholson hasn't been good in a movie since "A Few Good Men". That was in 1992. Stop showing the reaction of the star of "The Bucket List" to every damn play! The old man is irrelevant. *

Back to my mouth foaming diatribe: I hate Laker fans. Oooo, how I hate their fans. Entitled, arrogant, apathetic frauds that lack any sense of integrity. They do not deserve the success that they have. You can only truly call a team yours if they have broken your heart. And I have never met a Laker fan that has ever been hurt by the Lakers losing. They don't care. But the second it looks like they're back on top, they pound their chest and talk shit. They are the spoiled rich kids in high school that drive to school in a brand new Mercedes daddy bought them and then snicker at your pickup that you bought with your own money. (Yes, the Utah Jazz are a beloved pickup in this analogy.) Is a Mercedes a better car than a pickup? Sure. But do they deserve what they have? Do they appreciate it? Do they love it? No, they just love that it's better than what you have. Assholes.

And I hate their players. I hate Vujachich (I refuse to look up the proper spelling of his name) and his girly hair and his sour face. I hate Walton and that stupid ring around the rosies tattoo. I hate Ariza and the fact that he couldn't miss a 3 against the Jazz (Actually, I would love to have Ariza on the Jazz but as long as he wears that nasty yellow, I hate him). I hate Gasol and his sweaty half beard and the bullshit trade that brought him to LA. I hate his greasy Spanish basketball team. I hate the fact that he looks like the bastard son of the Geico Caveman and Jafar from Aladdin. I hate his flopping bullshit and his flying elbows. Hell, I hate his brother for having the same last name.

And I hate Kobe Bean Bryant.

I hated his Marge Simpsons afro and I hate his pointy bald head. I hate his constant sneer, I hate his phony smile. I hate that he gets every damn call imaginable and I hate that he still has the balls to bitch to the refs when they don't bail him out. I hate that he screwed over his fans by changing his number just so he would sell more jerseys and I hate that his fans were too stupid to notice. I hate that he brings his kids to post game interviews in a transparent exploitation to appear likable and I hate that it actually works. I hate that the overwhelming majority of NBA players that know him personally hate his guts and yet they pretend to be his buddy because the NBA PR people convinced them it is their interest to do so.** I hate that his own coach can't stand him and yet they realize the mutual benefit of tolerating each other. I hate that ESPN, Nike, Vitamin Water and McDonalds are committed to transforming him into marketable Jordan 2.0, international nice guy regardless of the fact that his arrest report for rape is on the internet for all to read. (Guilty or not, read that and tell me he isn't a self involved dirt bag.)

Most of all, I hate the fact that he is so damn good.

But this isn't anything too out of the ordinary. Everyone hates Kobe Bryant. It's like hating the Ebola Virus. He's a petulant, contemptuous, phony pile of human garbage. And yet in many ways he embodies all of the characteristics I admire most in professional athletes. Despite his off the chart talent, he works harder than anyone else in the league. He almost always performs his best when it matters the most. There is not better big-moment-assassin out there. Given my favorite teams' previously mentioned tendency to collapse under pressure, that is an enviable quality. All that said, he is also a destructive, selfish cancer that will happily tank an elimination game to prove a point. Man, I can't even give him two compliments in a row without instinctively crapping on him.

Now that I have gotten that off my chest, let me reiterate the hypothetical nature of this malice. Again, these grievances aren't with the actual human being named Kobe Bryant. They are with the fictional character we sports fans have created, named Kobe Bryant. The rape allegations from a few years ago seem confirm that the actual Kobe Bryant is in fact a horrible human being. I certainly wouldn't disagree with that statement. And it seems okay in my mind to hate someone that is so destructive and unaccountable. But, if I am going to allow that standard to apply to my personal sports nemesis, integrity demands that I apply it to my personal sports heroes as well. And that can be a hard reality to face.

Karl Malone inpregnated a 13 year old girl when he was a sophomore at Louisiana Tech (20 years old?) and has refused to acknowledge his son either personally or financially to this day. As despicable as Kobe's rape allegations are, I would say that Malone's secret shame is probably worse. And yet I love the Mailman. Does this revelation seriously taint my image of him? Hell yes. I have no desire to hang out with the guy. But I never loved him because he was a great father with impeccable integrity. I love him because he built the only pro franchise of my home town. I love him because he bled on the court for 18 straight years wearing my team's jersey. I love him because he's the second all time NBA scorer, the best power forward of all time (suck it, Duncan) and he belongs to me and my team and my town. Like all Jazz fans, I do have a conflicted view of him. As great as he was, he collapsed when it mattered most. But I don't let the fact that he was unable to beat Jordan (no one did) cancel out his greatness.

However, in an attempt to justify a hatred for the actual person Kobe Bryant, I can't apply a standard of personal behavior to one character in the NBA drama, as reasonable as it may be, and then selectively ignore that standard for a character I like. I can't burn Kobe Bryant at the stake, no matter how good the reason and then disregard the disgraceful reality of Karl Malone. To hate one, is to hate the other. Of course, for anyone outside of LA or Utah, that's not a problem. Everyone hates Malone. But whoever your favorite player may be, odds are he's pile of shit.

My point is, as sports fans the only way to make this insanity work is to keep all the extreme emotions contained within the quasi-fictional sports world. When D Will crosses over Chris Paul, I feel a sense of personal victory even though I know I didn't do anything. When Kobe Bryant hits an impossible three pointer against perfect defense, I feel a personal sense of injustice. (Seriously, no one makes that shot. It isn't fair.) But I know all the crazy emotions that make sports so compelling to follow are ultimately fabrications. Just like the characters we love and hate.

Damn it, I hate you Billy Zane!

* The NBA needs to figure out a sliding scale to determine who sits where. That way the biggest fans who care the most, get the best seats. So you may have paid $1,500 for floor seats but after a quick brain scan determines that you don't know a single player on the opposing team, you are banished to the nosebleeds to make room for the lunatic father and son tandem with painted faces who paid 15 bucks each for their ticket. This will mean less fake boobs in the first couple of rows, but I still like it.)

** A completely unsubstantiated statement that you can't convince me is false.

JUNE 15 th UPDATE: Shit. Shitty shit shit. Damn Lakers.