Olympics or International Stupidfest?

Yesterday I had a delicious turkey sandwich from a little shithole around the corner from my office that calls itself the brown bag. The proper title for my fare was the Lincoln Hall which consisted of turkey on rye with lettuce and cole slaw to which I added a dollop of Russian dressing. While it was just a sandwich, it was scrumptious and still more relevant to me a day later than the 2006 Winter Olympics will ever be.

It’s true that bashing the Olympics seems like the in thing to do these days. I can handle that; consider me a sheep if you must. It’s infinitely better then listening to my boss have five minute long phone conversations while I patiently wait in a chair across the desk from her in her office without so much as a glance in my direction. I usually don’t even have anything to read.

Let’s review the Olympics though, shall we? The Olympics is essentially a party time when all the countries of the world get together, bring a dish of their own choosing and then a giant potluck dinner of an opening ceremony ensues. No one can make sense of it but Muhammad Ali usually represents the United States and it’s a sign of great courage we’re told. The weeks of competition that follow can be summed up as the world’s many nations gathering around a gigantic table, whipping out their international junk and applying the old measuring stick. The United States is a failure unless they finish top three in the overall medal count or are beaten by someone like Canada.

It’s elementary why the Olympics are getting less positive air-time than Todd Bridges these days:

I. The Olympics are an idea conceived by an ancient people
I watch HBO’s series Rome, so I know about these things You say it was the Greeks who invented the Olympics and not the Romans? Well, I don’t discriminate, I’ll lump them all together as toga wearing freaks, how’s that sound? Regardless of who it was, these were the same people who made young boys play the part of women in plays and stuck it in anything that moved, be it man, woman child, beast or cantaloupe. Yeah, let’s follow their master plan.

II. The Winter Olympics are now just another stop on the X-Games tour
There’s no more agony of defeat and thrill of victory. It used to be that the greatest athletes in the world got together and tested their talents against each other once every four years. Rarely did they get to compete against their rivals on the international level. Now the athletes are giving each other high fives before events and paying back beer and coke debts they accumulated on the X-Games tour. These athletes are now competing against each other on a regular basis. It’s like calling any random stop on the seemingly never ending Rolling Stones tour special.

III. Announcers are annoying – consider the case of fallen snowboarder Lindsey Jacobellis
Most talk radio hosts I’ve listened to over the past week or so have been crucifying Lindsey Jacobellis. The girl was kicking the ever-loving shit out of her competition, ahead by almost the entire mountain and she booted the gold when she tried to play to the crowd. I give her mad props…which is good where I come from. Even after wiping out, she still barely lost the gold, maybe by a couple of feet. The woman who took the gold…she knows. If she sees Jacobellis in a bar, she knows who the real champ is. In fact, I bet she buys her a beer and goes on her merry way. Also, as stipulated in point number II, the Olympics mean nothing now. Jacobellis will kick her ass on the next tour stop and yell “Booya” in her face. Announcers need to stop being so dramatic and get with the program and tell it like it is. Why can’t Bill O’Reilly announce the Olympics? Now that would be interesting.

IV. We need a nemesis….
No, no, Iraq isn’t good enough. We need to be rivals with a country that we loathe and whose society we feel the insatiable need to apply our doctrine to. Sure we hate Iraq right now but when was the last time Iraq challenged us in Moguls? Back in the good old days of the Cold War, we had Russia to root against. Sure, Americans shit their pants at the possibility of a Nuclear War launching at any given moment and those atomic bomb shelter signs were creepy, but oh the hockey! Just ask Kurt Russell. That remake of the U.S.A. team upsetting the Russians for the Gold in the ’80 games resurrected his career. Now he’s landing roles like Poseidon. Ahem, I said Poseidon. Ok, he got a payday, let’s leave it at that.

This all begs the question, do I even want the Olympics to become relevant again? The answer is: it depends. I seem to remember McDonald’s having incredible deals around the Olympics, like those cool collector cups I horded during the original Dream Team’s route of the basketball world. If it would make things like that happen again, I’m all for it. Otherwise, it’s just a waste of my time that could be better spent watching my full collection of Northern Exposure: Seasons I-IV.

30-Year-Old White Male Seeks Hip Hop

Dear Hip Hop,

I’m writing to you so you can help lead me to where the good songs are, where the good acts are and to explain to me what pushing rhymes like weight really means. Please accept the following as my application for acceptance into your club.

I am Hip Hop. It’s true. I am. Now, now, don’t act so shocked. Granted, you might think I’m a liar because if you knew me, you’d know that aside from being an accomplished ballroom dancer and the maker of the most delicious Chili you’ll ever be lucky enough to eat, I’m also a) a 30 year old white male that b) lives in Riverdale, c) likes to wear sweaters, d) has a mortgage and e) is proud owner of a 13 pound dog that wears a sweater. Now I know those aren’t the first things you’d think you’d find in a self-proclaimed student of the game. Allow me a chance to address your concerns though, Playa.

a) I’m a 30 year-old white male
So fucking what? Plenty of people are white. I believe color is a state of mind. In fact, I’d be purple if it wasn’t for that Grimace character. He really mangles the English language, doesn’t he?

b) Living in Riverdale
No it’s not the fucking place where Archie went to High School you bologna fucker. It’s the Bronx. I actually live in Kingsbridge which is a section of the Bronx on the border of Riverdale Avenue, West of where all the little Jewish ladies live. However, when I meet people whose only impression of the Bronx is what they saw from “Fort Apache: The Bronx”, then I’m from the Boogie. That’s dangerous. I mean if it wasn’t for the Bronx, this whole rap game wouldn’t be goin’ on! So tell me where you from?!?! When I meet people who might want to hire me, then I’m from "Riverdale" (said with nose in air and looking out the bottom of my eyes).

c) I have a mortgage
I also have a birthmark on my middle finger. How much does that rock? The mortgage though, it’s cheap uptown and it’s just like rent, only different like when you use your left hand and it’s like someone else is actually doing it. It screams responsibility though. That’s why I felt bad when President Bush told me I needed to cut my addiction to oil. The dude told me that when I was lounging in my own living room no less. I needed to hear it though, the truth hurts sometimes. I feel like such a shit that the Iraq War is my fault. I’m a bad person. Not bad meaning bad, but bad meaning good, ungh! It’s all about context. But like I was saying, mortgages are just like rent, except different. They imply responsibility. But so does wearing a condom. Yet, if you look at it in the context of wearing a condom when sleeping with a 43-year-old crack whore, does that seem very responsible? Context...

d) I like to wear sweaters
Bill Cosby wore sweaters. Sweaters are warm. And unlike button down shirts, you don’t have to tuck them in at the office.

e) Proud owner of a 13 pound dog that wears sweaters
My 13 pound dog is a Boston Terrier and she fucks shit up. She takes on Rotty’s (usually unsuccessfully) brawls with boxers and once peed on a Burmese Mountain Dog’s face after she ran him ragged. But the sweater is a tad gay, I’ll grant you that.

Anyway sir, here are my actual qualifications, I own a stereo, a few boxes of vinyl and shit loads of songs. I’m bored sick of them all, though. I’ve tried to buy a few new people in the last 3-4 years but it’s just been terrible. Of albums I’ve bought in the past 5 years, the only ones I at least half way dug were Saigon’s Warning Shots, Common’s Be, (although it can’t hold a candle to One Day It’ll All Make Sense), Aesop Rock’s Daylight, and everything done by the Roots. You can see I’m not exactly the most astute student of Hip Hop but I like what I like and frankly, there’s nothing out there that’s even close to moving me. I see a few obstacles to this.

Obstacle I
Hot 97 — Is there anything more painful than listening to someone scream shit like “DON’T GET IT TWISTED” and “IT’S ABOUT TO GET REAAAAAAL UGLY IN HERE” then hearing the sound of the page turning on the script? Between Funk Flex massaging his ego, there’s a few other DJ’s that really want to be his disciples and are killing Hip Hop. I can’t rap, I can’t freestyle, I have a hard time remembering lyrics but I know shit. Everything Hot 97 plays is shit. They’re not just ruining Hip Hop, they’re ruining radio. All the while wearing Roc-A-Wear jumpsuits.

Obstacle II
They really fucked me with the whole Napster thing. I was the perfect case study for Napster. I used to buy so much music after I’d download a track or two from Napster. They made more money off my ass. Now that it’s hard to find new artists, it’s over.

Obstacle III
I’m a lazy, inconsistent son of a bitch. I’m tired of seeking things out, I want things to seek me out. So send me things. Send me CD’s, vinyl, mix tapes, anything. Send me your demos, I dare you! I’ll review everything I get, I promise.

Obstacle IV
Jack Johnson. He might have ruined music for the rest of my life. I’m almost ashamed that someone who seems to be such a simplistic musician, singing about shit like Banana Pancakes, could be my favorite musician. He’s made it easier for me to tell Hip Hop to go fuck itself. I’ll always have the Roots though.

Obstacle V
I’m not quite sure when I’m getting made fun of. I try to hear the lyrics but I think the ones I usually remember are not good. It’s like the time I sat through Method Man and Redman’s How High, or should I say suffered through, and then at the end after the credits they basically told me they fucked all the white women and my penis was small? That was so not rad. So not.

So where do I go from here? Help a brother out Hip Hop. Let me in your club which seems to be going off kilter lately. I think I can help add some leadership if you’d have an open mind. I’m one of those whatchamacallem that when you give me something and I like it, I’ll spread the word. I’m a word spreader! Not like a Jehovah’s Witness, more like a loudmouth. Or someone who writes your mother’s phone number on the bathroom wall of the boy’s room to spread the word. You feelin’ me? Find me some new talent that is actually talented and not just noisy. Find me some poets, some lyricists, some bang my head on my keyboard beats that deliver with the flow too. I’ll make you proud.

I’m going to go get a bagel. I’ll catch you later. I expect to find my mailbox filled with the good shit by tomorrow.

Ya heaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaard?!?!?!?!?