(COAC)HELLOOO?

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

Go on...

My Weekend was Better than Yours

But isn't that always the case?

Yep, just a little more masturbation from your favorite b. Leeder.

Friday night, did the Charlie Hunter thing at one GEM of a music venue (you'll be hearing more about it shortly). For those of you that do not know, the man plays a 7-string guitar that features 3 bass strings, and 4 guitar strings. So in essence, he's playing two instruments at the same time and it's the best thing ever.

Two for Bleu - Charlie Hunter

Saturday night, Groundation unleashed an impenetrable wall of riddim, that could only be scathed by the oddly-placed television screen curiously airing the UFC Pay-per-view event. I mean, we're all trying to mellow out and skank on down to the floor, but this is difficult to do with a giant image of one grown up punching another unconscious gentleman repeatedly in the face. Ah yes, the juxtaposition.

Silver Tongue Show - Groundati...

Last night, after that frustrating experience earlier that afternoon, the Euro poppers descended upon the city to delight us with some clever, synth-heavy hooks. Again, there were distractions with the Cowboys-Giants doing battle at the Drive-In (I'm really trying hard to come up with a nickname for that new monstrosity), but this one was more of a welcome distraction considering our embrace of the best game around these parts.

Black & Blue - Miike Snow

And with Sam Roberts taking the stage out in the Scud Mountain region this evening, it's as if the weekend hasn't even ended yet. I mean, I'm still hungover even though I am sitting at a computer, in an office, sharing a cube with my senior supervisor. It's like Sunday all over again otherwise. But should be a great show. Think they'll open with Love at the End of the World? Haha! Of course they will, silly...

With a Bullet - Sam Roberts

IT IS FOOTBALL SEASON YET!

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YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!

Everybody's happy!

EV-RY-BOD-YYYYYYYYYYY!!!!

We'll be dropping THE complete SHEET® on you tomorrow, but we didn't want you to head into opening football night without a little taste.

So for tonight's game, this is what we got:

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Beefdale's Breast Reduction (+6)

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Uncle Ben's Secret Rape Shed
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Deuce: Rothlies Rape Kit
Le Ginge: "Tell the whore to pay her own 100k to charity"
Jables... Jables!: "Innocent" Rape Artists
b. Lee: I hate to be unique but... Ben's Slippery Steel

That makes 4 dudes, all riding the Steel... Picture it...

Okay. It's what we've worked so long and hard for, ladies and gents. Enjoy the show.

My (Two) Weekends Were Better Than Yours

To your left, you see the reasons for my truancy over the last two weeks. Actually, it's the wrong picture because the wristband from the Strawberry Park Bluegrass Festival is not included, but I was there, too. But you get the idea. I also didn't get a picture of the tick that I extracted from my bodice last weekend, but I'm not sure he really would have worked with the collage, potentially making for a muddled... assortment of... various... artifacts. Too late.

Anyway, I've spent so much time on Landsdowne St. over the last few days that they're considering naming a street corner after me... Probably the one that I managed to vomit upon not once, but two times during my various exploits over the last few weeks.

This kind of post comes dangerously close to those bullshit, masturbatory tweets that the kids seem to love so much these days, but I felt the need to explain myself a little better in lieu of the rapid drop off in posted content. Or, I just wanted to let you know how much cooler I am than you are. So fuck off.

This weekend is recoup time, so I'm gonna rest up and come up with some good ideas to get this show back on the road and once again make sure that this blog is better than yours... Not that the opposite was ever the case. What's that? Game 7 of the Stanley Cup playoffs is on tonight? Sounds like a one-way ticket to the Boneyard. More to come...

Psychoanalytic Musings with Dr. b. Lee

On Confidence and the Cool; Pierce vs. Pacquiao

On Saturday night two victors walked off the stage and into their respective locker rooms. One with a scowl and the other with a smile. Performers have different ways of "getting up" for competition. They also have different dispositions during competition. Some people are all business; "doing their job" without even noticing the crowd and letting the ball, their fists, or their all-around play do the talking. Others use the crowd as a sort of weapon, wielding it against their opponent, while verbal jabs are hurled at opponents on and off the field of play.

Why is that athletes behave in either fashion? Some maintain a more reserved appearance while others visibly react to everything and seemingly need to add something extra to the game, whether it is in the form of talking trash or general theatrics. And is one approach better than the other? Is one more detrimental to the health of an individual competition or to the game at large? And is one approach more beneficial than the other, or in other words, is one approach "more fun"?

Prior to taking the ring in last Saturday's fight against Ricky Hatton, the cameras closed in on Manny Pacquio before he made his entrance. Typically a fighter will have a stern look of determination on their face prior to a bout, feeling the need to stay focused. However, when we see Pacquiao, he is grinning from ear to ear. It's as if he were about to take part in a parade rather than a boxing match. He was perfectly calm, serene even, yet ready, and apparently, absolutely confident.

Basketball players also seem to oscillate between these two extremes. Sometimes during the pre-game shoot around you see players stone-faced, getting mentally prepared for the game. Other times you can see players clowning around as if it were just another shoot around before practice, perhaps trying to work out the butterflies. But, rarely will you see the kind of "just happy to be here" look that we witnessed on the face on Pacquiao prior to the fight.

Normally, an argument would be, "Well, Sport A does not require the same kind of intensity and mental strength as a basketball game." But, in this case we're talking about boxing. If any sport required intensity, mental strength, and execution, boxing would most likely be at the extreme. However, Pacquiao seemed to rise above this. During the Pacquiao vs. Hatton 24/7 series, the majority of the barbs were slung from the Hatton camp. However, Pacquiao's side remained calm and relatively silent in the face of this assault. What is more, is that this onslaught did not seem to fire up Manny at all. There was no "bulletin board" material for Pacquiao, perhaps because he didn't want it. But probably because he didn't need it.

Maybe Pacquiao is just a transcendent figure, so wrapped up in his faith and his preparation that the outside world and his opponent do not even seem to exist prior to fight night. He doesn't need fodder or any extra motivation. He just needs to get himself ready.

Does such a figure exist in basketball? Or is basketball simply a different animal. Trash seems to be a part of basketball. You always need to get an edge on an opponent, one way or another, and mind games are a part of that. But, I do not think this plays as big of a role as some would like to believe. More often than not, the trash, or the histrionics appear to be more aimed at drawing positive attention to the actor, rather than negative attention to the actor's opponent. This hearkens back to a previous piece on the dispositions and tendencies of Kobe and TO.

Recall game 6 of the Bulls-Celtics series; Pierce starts to get warm in the 4th quarter; hitting back-to-back shots and putting the Celts up by 8 with under 4 minutes to go. As soon as he hits the latter of these shots, he turns to the Bulls bench and barks at them. Now, what competitive advantage is gained by such a tactic? Clearly not much, considering the fact that Chicago ended up winning the game. And more globally, how did this improve the game at all? Did it add more excitement to the game, or more "fun"?
Or was there a negative effect? Did Pierce lose concentration? By focusing on the yapdogs on Chicago's bench, did Pierce take his mind off the game, in turn helping Chicago recover and force the game into overtime? Of course, there is no way of knowing this, but it is difficult to see any benefit in jawing with people who are not even in the game to begin with. Sometimes of course a player needs fuel to get going. Someone from the crowd says something, maybe someone on the other team says something, and like a switch, the player starts performing. But again, this would also seem to argue against this whole concept of talking trash, for the opponent was aided by such a tactic.

Instead, maybe if Pierce kept his focus on the court, against his actual opponents, then maybe he bottles that fire, plays defense a little harder, and the Celts finish the series in 6, as opposed to 7 games. Or maybe, Pierce requires this release, either for his own personal need for attention, or perhaps because without this release he ends up committing a hard foul.

Or, perhaps basketball simply attracts this disposition; ostentatious athletes with a knack for theatrics in addition to making big shots. Basketball today is simply an outgrowth of its players, rather than an independent framework within which the players are forced to work. Talking trash isn't necessarily a part of the game (although Larry Bird and Michael Jordan were doing it in the 80's), but it has become one due to the nature of the games' actors. But this theory would seem too cookie-cutter, and would not take into account silent assassins such as the JZA.

Considering the history of boxing, the history of the pomp and circumstance, and the seeming necessity for boxers, their trainers, and promoters to talk and talk all the way up to fight night, Manny Pacquiao is surely an aberration. But, this cannot be considered a bad thing. If trash talk and promotions were all that mattered, then why would the fight even take place? People do not pay $50 to hear Don King speak, they do so to watch the fight.

The point is that in order to enjoy an event, trash talk and/or grandiose displays of selfishness are not necessary to the overall enjoyment level of the game. Sure, if Josh Smith threw down that between the legs dunk against the Heat, it would have been cool. Maybe the Heat even would have stepped up and not been so awful in game 7. There is no way of knowing. But one thing is for sure, no matter how much you talk, or dance, or scowl, it all comes down to execution, and execution stands on it's own. I'd rather watch Pacquiao smile his way in and out of the ring any day of the week, rather than watch a loser dance and jaw his way into the loss column.

Rock CriDick - The Hazards of Love by The Decemberists

Concept albums are a difficult chore. Specifically when they become a chore. The artist works so hard to fit the pieces of the puzzle together that the vision is so often squandered beneath a pile of frustration and a heap of overwrought expectations. Sometimes the subject matter is so obscure that the listener is completely unable to even grasp the common theme at play. Perhaps it is cohesive, perhaps it is a masterpiece... But the consumer is left wondering, "just what the fuck is it?"


This is what makes The Hazards of Love so appealing. Colin Meloy and company are not trying to reinvent the wheel, they are simply telling a story. And no doubt thanks in part to Meloy's background in literature, they are pretty good at it. What the Decemberists' did was to keep everything simple. None of the songs, standing on their own, are overly complex, and the album itself follows similar patterns and themes, even to the point of simply using the same song structure on multiple occasions throughout the album. Melodies are rehashed, themes recur, and songs repeated. Like any story, told in any medium... And it's done so easily

Aesthetically, the piece is moody. Some of the songs are angry, some peaceful, some are longing and regretful, and some are downright evil. But even while working with such an array of emotion, the collective work flows seamlessly, transitioning from different perspectives and their correlative passions, effectively and without the slightest hindrance, or even notice. Perhaps this is a result of flawless production, clear vision, or the poetic form in which these songs were crafted and are delivered. Or perhaps it is because the album never stops. After the initial silence of the first track, the music never stops. And no matter who is employed to sing the story, be it Meloy or one of the other two vocalists, the shifts are never cumbersome or alarming.

Sure, Meloy can not but help but indulge, whether it is by referencing obscure synonyms for barren wastelands or his reliance on words such as "thistle". And while such tendencies will surely send the critics howling into the night, it is exactly this willingness to be ridiculous that allows the project to be successful, by allowing the listener to immerse themselves in the world unfolding before them over the course of the album. He sells the concept, and this is why he succeeds in his goal, whether one fancies the final product or not.

And this is what is so amusing, the Decemberists have been targeted for years because of their tendency toward pretension. But does the simple fact that they have released a concept album, position them in this category once again? The songs on this album are laid out simply and the music remains well within the folk and rock genres with definite allusions to the progressive era. If the songwriter having a formidable grasp of the English language is sufficient qualification for considering him vain, then so be it. But check your criteria, you may fall into the same category yourself by simply employing the term.

One final note, and even some homework: if you put on the track titled Hazards of Love 3, and then close your eyes, you can actually see Colin Meloy, in the flesh, with middle-finger extended while others remain clenched, directed squarely at every AV Club commenter and outdated rock critic there is. Gotta love a brazen display, especially when delivered with a wink.

My Weekend was Better than Yours

Sorry, I was unable to get a picture of an RBV, a G & T, or a tall boy Pabst into the picture, but now you know...