"Deflategate" Is Absurd

by Sam Hanchett

Listen, the "tuck rule" incident will never stop bothering me. But if the Raiders won that game, I still think Tom Brady would have won some Super Bowls. I've actually hated the Patriots for most of his tenure which has been a golden age for Boston sports in general, which I have had to live around...and I'm from New York. But I'm a rational human being so I've softened a good deal and I enjoy going to Fenway (only time I ever watch baseball anymore) and watching other playoff runs at the local bar with my friends now. My rationality has also produced an annoyance at nit-picking. The media--it's nit picking. "This isn't about deflated balls, it's about CHEATING". It's about deflated balls, and no one would care if this wasn't the best team of the last 14 years.

Sure there are many ways to cheat in sports; and some things are way more egregious than others. For the Patriots we got two "gates" (can't the media come up with something original? How long ago was "Watergate"?) and some dude from the Panthers saying something vague about how he thought something was fishy because they lost. I believe this New England team (Belichick/Brady) has been to 8 AFC title games and now 6 super bowls and the two they probably wanted to win most; they lost, to New York. I bet they tried to spy and deflate the balls like crazy against the Giants, but wait, people still had to make actual tackles and runs and catches and passes and blocks?! What?! And the Pats didn't win?!

For most of the last decade I was the guy who would have most enjoyed seeing The Patriots go down in any sort of manner so you can't argue that I'm a Homer. In every level of sport people do whatever they can to get an edge. I don't agree with cheating but some corners that are cut don't bother me and most go unseen, making us none the wiser.

The Patriots have gotten it done ON THE FIELD more consistently than any other football team for a very long time.

"But they've done it so well that it's too good to be true right? No one can be that good. We gotta take them down a peg. We don't like people or teams that are perfect. Wait what? Someone said something about 11 deflated balls? Yes. YES that's it! That's how they've done it all these years. And we'll call it "deflategate" and talk about it for two whole weeks before that TV event with bad halftime music and overly expensive commercials that aren't even that good. The DRAMA!!!" - Media

"Um what about the Seahawks and discussing the actual football game and strategies. Talking to the players on both teams and learning about their lives and how they worked so hard to get to this moment?" - Me

"No, we're going with "DEFLATEGATE"!!! But tell me, what exactly is this "football game thing" you speak of"? - Media

Exit Through The Looking Glass

by Sam Hanchett

It's really interesting how inspiring the film "Exit Through The Gift Shop" is and at the same time makes you want to have nothing to with art in any way. It reminds me of the idea that when everyone likes your stuff, that means it sucks. I don't necessarily think that is true. But it begs the questions, What is art? What is good art? What is bad art? You almost have to take away everything you know about a piece or the artist to truly appreciate it. But what's sort of ironic is that when a creator is all about the creation and not him or herself, we actually become even more fascinated with the individual than we would have if we had known all about their life. They become bigger than any personality by hiding, letting only their art speak for them. So is this more vain than maybe giving your name, talking about your life and where you grew up and your influences? Not necessarily. I think you have to balance it, like everything. With Banksy it's pretty black and white, he doesn't want to go to jail so he has to keep himself under wraps, which is very impressive in this day and age. I've read that some critics think this entire film is fictional, and even if that is so, it doesn't matter. I think what it does so incredibly well is show two distinct artistic processes in Thierry Guetta's endless obsession to film without an ending and Bansky's obsession to constantly SAY SOMETHING and commentate on our society and world through his rogue creative methods. Banksy knows exactly what he's doing, and Guetta has no clue, but he still DOES it, and I think that is important, because many people never try anything because they're too scared to fail. Thierry didn't care. Even if this character couldn't make a film and was a Warholian nightmare smorgasbord of an artist, his footage made the story possible. Because of him (even if fictional) Banksy could tell the story of street art and it's impact but also show us that it or the pursuit of some sort of creative high could make a monster of sorts and that is all made possible by us...and HIM! The same people who would praise Banksy, would praise Guetta's work even though it was totally unoriginal (and he mostly didn't even, literally create it) almost seemingly because Shepard Fairey and Banksy inferred that it was good by giving Thierry minor, pre-show support. So what is legit? What is good? I know what is good. I know I know this, but then again, maybe I don't. Nobody knows anything, and maybe that's what Banksy is highlighting in this film, even though he probably thinks he knows what's good and what's not, but things happen in life all the time that make us question what we "know" and he knows that too, and that's why this movie exists.

Breaking...1...2...3...4...BROKEN...

**********SPOILER ALERT**********

by Sam Hanchett

I don't know how anyone can sleep after watching the last episode of BREAKING BAD. These characters, the anxiety and frustration they have had to deal with is something most of us will never know. But the effects were so profound for us viewers nonetheless. The thought of facing one's demise through a death sentence brought on by natural causes makes people want to hope in the face of that, want to be remembered, well at least, you would think. Not Walter White. From the beginning of this show the dilemma he has faced is one of extreme insecurity in what he has not accomplished in his fifty years on this earth. How can one be so ambitious when young but end up just a simple family man, a simple high school chemistry teacher who struggles to pay the bills that he needs a second part time job at a car wash? It is not a horrible situation to be in necessarily when looking out on the world and having some perspective. But our perspective is always molded through how we grew up and where we find ourselves in the present and what we dreamed that present would be. We can pretend to be someone else, pretend to be in a worse situation, be thankful for what we have, but in truth we know it’s still not good enough.

Walter takes a blue-collar approach when facing death, at first. Because this money will give my family comfort when I am gone; that’s all I care about. But then he doesn’t die right away and the rush of being really good at something takes over. The rush of not caring about certain moral consequences is not an issue because he finds solace in finally knowing that he is truly going for it, not thinking what can go wrong, not thinking about failing, which are the things that can hold a human hostage when trying to accomplish something special and risky. Anything in this world worth having usually involves some degree of risk.  But how do we strike a logical risk/balance quotient without going to the extreme? In the first season he was faced with imminent death, imminent cancer. He gathered his intellectual chips and ran with it. He weighed the pros and cons and made a decision. HE MADE A DECISION! An extremely hard one; one that flows opposite, and cuts the flecks of our societal values. QUESTIONS, questions, questions. What value does your decision have on your immediate life? What value does your decision have on the people around you? What value does your decision have on people you have never met, who imbibe an illegal product that will destroy their lives? The product that YOU made--to get your family money, the money you could never make legally because you got cut out of certain advances when you were younger. Certain advances that were yours rightfully, but you just didn't play the game right. So then you settled into the family life, got complacent maybe, but when DEATH stared you in the face, you got up! Your energy surpassed legality. You weren't religious. You weighed life, and what you could get out of it with your talents in the shortest amount of time...because you were dying. You went to the extreme. You broke BAD, because this universe doesn't care right? In your mind, afterlife is not an issue. The only thing you know is earth, and the care for those loved ones still living on it. THE MAN PROVIDES for his family; and sometimes a man will do what he must for his family, FUCK the rest of society. But society will cause repercussions, especially when doing something illegal; so many complications. You straddle death daily to provide, but by actually doing something that makes a ton of money, and realizing that you matter, really matter in "a business that could be listed on NASDAQ”. Walter White, your tremendous skills are now noticed. You became the MAN, you became tough, you became a killer, and because the universe might not judge, you provided superficial sanctity for your loved ones but also put them in grave danger. What price do we have to pay for a life fulfilled through our talents, traversing the glossy ambiguity of this existence? Is living a truly fulfilled life facing danger all the time? None of us want to be him, but a part of us wants to experience that extreme stress. Because we don't experience some sort of similar anxiety we feel like we are not doing enough. We don't want to make high-grade blue crystal in a lab but we yearn to do something that is just as clean, just as succinct, but prosperous for humanity or makes us feel completely satisfied about our existence on Earth. This is prosperous for Walt's bottom line. It gives him the ultimate success of pride and money, but the stresses of death and gangsters run amok and so on, haunt him. Look at season 3. Walt was the employee of the month every month for Gus, but Jesse became the moral beacon. A morality that caused Walt to kill evil drug dealers to save his (Jesse's) life, but also to save future children from ever being brought up in that drug culture. He wants to make crystal meth to financially secure his family but what happens when he comes face to face with men who sell his product but also employ children to deal and murder for them. The “goodness” in him, had to act, had to save Jesse, had to rid the earth of this scum even though he ultimately knew it could cost him his life. Walt, Jesse, Gus, don't matter in the scheme of all human existence. They just have their life, they have their intimate thoughts, they are selfish, but want to be unselfish, while being selfish. They want to have morality while creating something that rips people's lives to shreds. Their experience is fictional and completely extreme, but in a small way encapsulates our own thought process. We are good. We are evil. What's stopping us from being both? If earthly law can’t get us, what will? 

Relationships will get us. Secrets can only go so far. Tell tale hearts will rise in the non-sociopath who tries to do big and small picture good by doing so many evil things. Bad, good, these two qualities can bring a person to destruction or ultimate success. Walt wants to make crystal meth to financially secure his family but what happens when everything starts to frantically fall apart? Do you lie when it is the right time to lie? What will you do for the people you love? What extent will you go to for them? And if you go there and it invigorates you, yet you know whatever you're doing is wrong, is it wrong if you can get some semblance of god (or maybe a god complex) from it? The last five minutes of "CRAWLSPACE" threw my whole body into a contorted mess of shivers. Walter White had worked so hard to provide an out for him, his family, how he would be remembered, and through facing death for over a year's time he realized that he might have sealed the death of his brother-in-law, his 16 year old son his wife, and his infant daughter. He started this story ready to die, ready to do whatever it took to make his family exist successfully without him. He's worked incredibly hard, he's murdered for the overall good (even let someone die to save Jesse, again, in the long run, in a way), he's looked death in the face, but because of all of that his family might vanish from this earth.  Was it worth it? And what is "worth" even mean to him anymore? Decisions, decisions, decisions, what do they mean? There are levels for sure. But by the end of the episode Walter realizes what people realize who are good and bad and try to be good and try to be bad when they want to, when they have to, when they need to...There are results that you can't see. The more you interact with humans the less you can get away with(?) Everything comes crumbling down on him when he goes to look for his "salvation" money underneath his house. He finds that he does not have the cash to pay for his family's speedy getaway, and then Skyler suddenly appears to tell him why. He is at rock bottom, he has been fired by Gus, but not killed, yet. He starts to cry, and you feel for his worn meekness. He's so confused! He's facing death and his family is facing death, and he has this thought, this thought, "I started this fucked up shit to rescue my family, and now it has all gone a rye, and now because I did this they might all die, and I don't know why my wife gave her ex-lover a lot of money, and this is all hitting me at once and my face hurts so much because of all the times I've been punched and so on, and I AM in the crawlspace of my own basement, of the house I never wanted to live in (I WAS TOO GOOD ENOUGH TO LIVE IN) scrambling for money to save us all, in the dirt, in the grime. Where is the money!!!??? There is not enough. I am in dirt. I am in grime. I have realized that life is severely unpredictable and that makes me incredibly sad, lying in filth, underneath my house, I am aware that I am guilty. I am wrought with unholy values. I've hit my coffin bottom...But then something happens...his whimpering effortlessly turns into the most sinister laughter I have ever heard in my life. Slowly but surely the dreadful cackling pours out of him and keeps going and going and going... It permeates our psyche, it rattles our journey with this character, echoing the worst JOKER nightmares that we have ever had. He has finally found a true, wondrous, and horrifying release in himself. Finally! 

Walter White, it's time to be reborn. But can you do it while being dead inside? You broke BAD, and now you are BROKEN. But you are still alive, your family is still alive, your surrogate son still loves you even though he hates you. You are about to take the next step in evolution. Is it bad? Is it good? I have no clue. But I know it’s probably something we have never seen before; and as frightened as I am, I look forward to it; and because of that, maybe I can get some sleep now. 

Some 2011 Oscar Nomination Musings (Complaints(?))

**************A FEW MINOR SPOILERS AHEAD******************



by Idaho Chubbs

I have seen all of the Best Picture nominees except for "The Fighter" and "The King's Speech". Most I have no issue with. But I seem to be in a contentious sleepless mood so let's get on with it. Toy Story 3, ok, Pixar finally broke me with "Up" last year (A perfect film and water-works in the first 15 minutes every time I see it), and though this movie (TS3) was heartfelt, it's going in over "Blue Valentine"? The big bad hot pink(?) bear distracted me in cliched ways but maybe I need to see it again. But in any case "BV" was one of the best films of the year, but of course I'm not surprised by it's omission, so let's move on to "Winter's Bone", good indie Sundance flick, good performances all around, not sure if they deserve Oscars. Another movie that got a ton of Oscar buzz was the "The Town". Thankfully it got the only nomination it could possibly deserve. Renner should definitely be rewarded for taking one of the most terribly written, non-dynamic, black and white characters to exist in the general "I need to get out of the corrupt town I grew-up in" narrative, and making that still compelling. Although I'm not sure, as I watched the movie, if I was impressed by the magnitude of the character or the magnitude of which I knew Jeremy Renner could play him. Anyway, a third similar 2010 thriller that deals with corrupt "families" and how they sociopathically screw each other over was "Animal Kingdom". Saw it last night, and it hit me harder than "The Town" or "Winter's Bone". Jackie Weaver did score a supporting nomination as the deeply caring, loving and super creepy evil bungling crime syndicate matriarch, which seemed quite deserved. I probably didn't sleep last night due to the image of her pleasantly psychotic clown smile.

Onto "The Kids Are Alright". I liked this movie, but not sure what the huge deal was. Not sure Annette Bening was in the movie enough to get a best actress nod (but who really cares. It's between Michelle Williams and Natalie Portman, and they both got nominated, so were good). I am glad that Ruffalo got a supporting nod even though he should have had his first one way back for his role as Terry Prescott in "You Can Count On Me". What's funny is that his character Paul, in "The Kid's Are Alright" sort of seemed like an actual older, wiser Terry. Finally got out of the bland, rural parts of the Northeast, went to sunny California, tried college, didn't take, but local food agriculture did, working with your hands, and that blossomed. Ten years later here we are. Yeah he wasn't a perfect man, but Paul/Terry was way more put together in this movie than in "You Count On Me". So well, yeah, maybe Ruffalo's past character playing self did get his belated nomination after all in this present. Suffice it to say, the film had some really great scenes and moments but did not floor me overall, but I did like that it was sentimental without actually being sentimental (seemingly forced raw sex scenes aside?).

As for "True Grit", well, wow, Academy, you love the Coens so MUCH now. I guess Nolan can look forward to a ton of nominations and wins long after his best films have been made too. Whose favorite Coen movie was made after "The Big Lebowski"? Some might say "No Country For Old Men". Ok, I don't agree. Granted they have tried new things which is great, did a very personal film "A Serious Man" recently, but something's off for me, and it continued with "True Grit" which I wanted to love, but ended up just liking for the art direction, cinematography and Hailee Steinfeld. Their movies of late look so incredibly good (Roger Deakins is the master) but some sort of connection is gone. I'm not sure, maybe I've changed, maybe the me of the past will always like the films of their past and that subconsciously influences my critique of the their present and future films. Obviously I'm in the minority here, although I will say "Burn After Reading" was horrible. "True Grit's" ending was too abrupt, not really meshing with the rest of the narrative. Yes the older narrator Mattie Ross was at the beginning and the end, but I thought maybe she should of been somewhere in the middle as well? I guess what bothered me is that this seemed like a seminal moment in her life, and the movie was aware of that as well, but it played out awkwardly. The performances were good all around but some sort of genuine cohesion was missing, causing me to walk away not feeling much for the characters even though the Coens wanted me to. Maybe the script adaptation from the book just didn't allow for that flow because I felt like we were missing stuff when the ending, consisting of a five minute "wrap-up" in the present, seemed tacked on after such a dramatic scene of Bridges' Rooster Cogburn giving his all to save the life of this young girl--then--next scene, she's an old maid, never learned to be gracious(?) and seems bitter but always thankful for what Bridges' character did for her, stands at his grave in a beautiful shot with an Edward Gorey-like tree presiding over the frame--roll credits.

Bridges was wonderful and he totally immersed himself in whoever this lone ranger was, but the character just didn't hit me like Dicaprio's "Don Cobb" in "Inception" or Gosling's "Dean" in "Blue Valentine". I felt like those two guys left a part of them in those characters. They are not better actors, those roles just impacted me more emotionally.

As for Christopher Nolan not getting a director nomination, I really have no words. He probably directed four of the best movies of the last decade and you finally get around to giving one a best picture nod and even original screenplay but not best director. No, give it to the Coens who did an adaptation of something someone already did a film adaptation of; but then again this comes from an institution that doesn't nominate "The Dark Knight" and then a year later nominates "District 9" and "Avatar" for best picture (I don't care if there were ten spots to fill).

Well there you go, my objections are in (so far). It doesn't matter, but it does; I don't care, but I do. I am glad Aronofsky and Russell got nods. I think what would have been truly amazing is if "Exit Through The Gift Shop" got a Best Picture nomination. A documentary(?) in that category; ever happened? It's truly one of the best all around movies of the year and I would love to see a Bansky/Shepard Fairey/Mr. Brainwash spray paint brawl on the podium. Well, it did get nominated for best doc so maybe we will-- French side-burned Obama profiles cloaked in hoodies with no face interpretive dances and all! Ooh maybe Bansky will "deface" The Kodak Theater the night before and then Mr. Brainwash will take credit for it, selling the image to Madonna for yet another greatest hits album cover!

Laptops and BCS Bowls for Everybody!!!

by Idaho Chubbs

College football has taken some interesting turns the past month. Fashion Week uniforms finally debuted in robust density. Pitt and West Virginia clashed as if both were tussling for touchdowns on a runway in Chelsea. Ohio State tore apart Rich Rodriguez's chance at reclaiming his job next fall with their candy red apple helmets and long gray socks. The Beavers from Oregon State verses the Ducks from Oregon gave me the sense that I was witnessing a 1950's Princeton Tiger football team battle winged alien pewter-colored rats with "O"s burned into the side of their diamond encrusted heads. My lust for ridiculously clad football playing college humans had been quenched.

On to the BCS dilemma and the futile match-ups that are in store for our viewing displeasure five weeks from now. Boise State still has people second guessing them because their kicker could not hit some chip shots. What league are they moving into next year again? "The Mountain West Adirondack Appalachian Sun God Division"? Seems like it still won't matter. Auburn escaped The Crimson Nick Saban Traitors (Who hasn't been betrayed by this football coaching Benedict Arnold? I didn't grow up in the French Quarter of Jefferson purchased land or see my childhood pass me by in Miami's bird cage, yet even I want Saban to meet a fate that rivals any Greek Tragedy) after being down 24 points, and Oregon's uniforms keep getting weirder and they keep winning. Wisconsin is putting basketball scores up, and might beat anybody right now, but we'll never know due to the wonderful BCS. But they are playing TCU and if the Horned-Frogs beat the Badgers, then we will give them respect...no we won't, still a weak schedule. I'm sure that joining The Big East will take care of that...? College football is such a mess, but wait we do have the Sun Bowl with The U and Notre Dame, "Catholics vs Convicts", or maybe "Good students who play football reasonably well" vs "Better athletes who graduate now, don't get in trouble, and have no chance of winning national championships". Sorry Randy Shannon, good grades don't win BCS football crystal.

Kyle Brotzman immediately departed for Hades once Nevada kicked the winning field goal to annihilate any chance of his team going to a BCS Bowl. Mad Glen and I were down there getting some refurbished laptops out of storage when I encountered a football playing kicker crossing The River Styxx with Charon.

"Hey Charon", I said. "He's coming back with us."

Brotzman looked confused and forlorn. He could not even think about facing the world, especially his Boise brethren after missing two field goals that both pretty much equalled extra point distance. I told him I understood, but it was a momentary lapse and that even if they had gone undefeated there would have been no national championship, which pretty much was the last zenith of progress Boise could truly achieve.

"Besides, you stand to make loads of USA paper currency in the NFL for kicking a football every now and again one day a week. Come with Glen and me, it's time to get you back home to Idaho.

So Boise lands itself in a game vs Utah--The Las Vegas Bowl. I believe the well rounded student-athletes in South Bend crushed the Utes earlier this year. This will definitely be a game for the ages, 56-10 Broncos. Ohio State vs Arkansas, wonderful; over-rated QB vs over-rated QB. Both wear about 5 leg braces right? Mallet sealed his fate against Alabama, and that horrible red-neck-red sox facial hair beard isn't doing anyone any favors. How much better is Cam Newton than Pryor?--bigger, taller, faster, can pass quite well, and no ugly knee braces, AND plays for Bo Jackson's school, which is way cooler than Eddie Georges' alma mater. Hmmm Oklahoma vs Uconn--Are the Huskies the new Boise? Probably not and I would actually like to see Landry Jones and Kellen Moore shoot it out against each other, but alas, the BCS can't even get good bowl match-ups. Ok, we got it, no playoffs, even though people on Mars want it, but at least give us decent football games to enjoy. Stanford vs Virginia Tech seems ok I guess. I wonder when the Hokies are going to get over that hump and run a different offense so they aren't the same team that is good every year but can't win a National championship. You're never going to find Michael Vick again, even someone related to him is NOT him. Move on and grab a sweet pocket passer, you will be awesome.

So suffice it to say, I will probably be watching, count them, two bowl games; the national championship and "Catholics vs "Wish they were camouflaged Convicts Again" for nostalgia purposes. But what I have not talked about is that I will be coaching in one bowl game as well. I know what you're thinking, Hawaii vs Tulsa in The Sheraton Hawaii Bowl, nope, King Brody and Prince Tebow have those duties. Both have been the coaches for quite some time, but their slacking and preoccupation with their personal identities has caused the storied Rainbow Brody's program to bleed into an inception nightmare where they are not so good and get slaughtered by Boise; when in my realm they should be the ones doing the slaughtering. A decade ago Mad Glen and I left, and even though Hawaii sort of, kind of tied with Nevada and Kellen Moore as league champs, it is simply not good enough.

King Brody's match.com Norewgian reality show shenanigans with ivy league porn stars, that even Carl Jung's Red Book would be ashamed of in his wildest Xanex dreams, had caused him to lose focus on his coaching sports prowess. His bout in coming to grips with some sort of balance between fiction and reality was starting to eat away at his mind. He mostly lived inside his head, but his actual head always existed in reality, even though physically it was quite small and could be missing from literal human viewpoint if he was seen wearing a mascot uniform without the mask (which he often did on third match.com dates accompanied by a spot on "Ray Lewis pre-game exultation Nectar Dance"). When not frightfully insecure about his relationship with the opposite sex and them thinking he was an incarnation of Patrick Bateman's character playing-self, he was frightfully and horribly SECURE when getting the smallest shred of a positive signal from one. When a real life human woman fell head over heels for him, King Brody literally transformed into a combination of The Dark Lord Cthulu and Character the Bear's five split personalities' playing non, AND character versions of themselves simultaneously as they   became one entity who resembled something along the lines of John Mayer meets Hugh Hefner meets Bradley Cooper meets Satan's version of a orphaned son who was sold into indentured servitude by his mother. He would become so secure in fact, that when a woman desired his company in the bedroom, for conversation or even a casual glass of wine while making short snuff films with his 1995 digital camera, he would recoil with sociopathic glee because any female in want of his physical as well as mental form, was surely insane. He would never belong to a club that would have him as member. On the rare occasion where he found himself feeling normal people feelings, wanting acceptance or something resembling a "I like like you" sentiment, he would send late night flowers to the club that he wanted to join. But they never would accept him, hence King wanting to belong even more. This was, is, and always would be his tragedy.

As King was feebly attempting to rejoin the human race Prince Tebow was feebly attempting to cut himself off from it.  His favorite activity of self-nectar gassing with the melodious Manhattan combination of Clearly Canadian whiskey, lusciously sweet vermouth, and embittered cherry juice jubilee had reached an all-time high (straight vodka pretty much did the trick too), to the point where he almost threw Brody and an unidentified U of H coed off a bridge simply because King had not wanted to be driven into oblivion with Prince at the wheel that night. This caused an estrangement between the two for approximately 24 hours. They reconvened the following day over "winter roasted brew" to discuss Prince's break-up with the savory liquid that made you as smart as "A Whip that could cross parallel universes, space, and time" but also completely devoid of logic, sympathy and understanding towards other living creatures. This discipline caused Prince to sorrowfully woe about how cold it gets on hot lonely Hawaiian fall nights. He kept comparing himself to Jason Segal's character from "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" except that character could drink and was allowed to lament his lonely soul because it happened recently. Too bad for him Mila Kunis doesn't really live in Hawaii. Tebow drank lots of bland, healthy, rejuvenating teas and sustained himself on red wine, the snarky libertarian minded Fox News show Red Eye, Bukowski quotes supporting alcohol consumption, Modern Family season 2, and poorly rolled cigarettes that he seemed to be smoking every five seconds. This new discipline had made him even more curmudgeony, to the point where he basically skyped me that God is dead or was never really alive, and that his son was actually produced just like any of us, had no special powers except he was very nice and had a logical way of putting things verbally and that he got nailed to a piece of wood and died like any of us would or will, some day. Yet he still believed in everything he just told me he didn't believe in anymore.

With all that said, the recent smart phone war had made me cold, but I knew Mad Glen was right, it was time go back to Hawaii. It was warm and green and good. After we dropped Brotzman off at the Boise campus I was excited at the prospect of our rebooting The Rainbow Brody program. And frankly Glen now sort of looked completely sane compared to Prince and King. We had work to do. It wouldn't be easy; Brody and Tebow needed to face their demons, but I sensed with their rehabilitation, my philosophical smarts, and Mad Glens' three Heisman trophies and his WAY outside the lines of even abstraction thinking; we could go back in time one year, seduce Masoli into doing his grad work at our tropical paradise of academia instead of Ole Miss and save college football for the billionth time with something completely new to THIS universe, a National Championship for Hawaii and free laptops for anyone wanting to play on our squad. From what I have gathered, really good, dynamic quarterbacks love them, and they all play for the SEC.

Not next year though, this past season, done over again.

It WILL happen...or, has it already happened...?

TEAMS

by Idaho (Burbury) Chubbs channeling Jon Stewart's right to be serious


"This great evil. Where does it come from? How'd it steal into the world? What seed, what root did it grow from? Who's doin' this? Who's killin' us? Robbing us of life and light. Mockin' us with the sight of what we might've known. Does our ruin benefit the earth? Does it help the grass to grow, the sun to shine? Is this darkness in you, too?" - Witt (THE THIN RED LINE) 

There is something plaguing this world and it is "teams". I'm not talking about sports teams or a righteous cause that one believes in. I'm talking about association with a certain ideology that pinpoints a restricted line of thinking even though one might not agree with everything it has to say. We as humans yearn for an identity, something to believe in that can give us hope and goals, to get us through the daily grind of this vague existence, so we can feel like we matter. Sometimes it's not good enough to have a local identity with the actual people that we love or see every day. Sometimes we need to commune with all humanity in a positive or even negative manner, just to let them know that I matter in the scheme of things and even though I don't know what the fuck this whole life thing is, I'm gonna ROAR just the same. I understand this, but we need to fucking STOP IT! This isn't some preachy we are the world shit. I know we definitely ARE NOT. We never have been in our history on this planet. But I think we are the best now. Sure, some things never change, but aren't we the most civilized, on the whole, as we ever have been? But it's not good enough. It's not good enough for me, and it's not good enough for you, so we fight in many ways and on many levels. When my "WASPY" Episcopalian ass was growing up as a middle class kid on the gem-stoned banks of Long Island's North Shore, certain life/religious values were instilled in me. I was put on a "team" without my consent, but the thing is, as much as that team was discerning, it was quite open minded. It believed in a certain train of thought yet welcomed the challenging of that thought, even relating to the doubt of that belief. Through that method I was able to develop independent thoughts that conflicted with certain ways of thinking but were never dismissed. But make no mistake I was on a team religiously, it just took me some time to declare free agency; a free agency that resulted in my non-participation in this "take sides" society. A forever free agency if you will. Sure I have defined opinions about certain topics, but I'm always aware of the fact that as much knowledge of this world as I accumulate, the more I still know nothing about anything. And that is what many people don't understand about themselves. They believe whole-heartedly in what they believe in, or they believe in some things, have some doubts but still want to belong, be identified with a certain group. In my immediate life the religious conflict seems to be a non issue, unless you are a black and white extremist. People believe in their gods but they mostly interpret their spirituality individually, but cling to the organizations that might think otherwise. The clinging now seems to rear it's most ugly head when it comes to politics. I am a true novice when it comes to these matters but my brain grinds it's gears every day when exposed to Diane Rehm's near death voice, permeating my thoughts with information pertaining to said topics. My cerebral cortex cannot help itself but to THINK, to run all sorts of data that produce some half-thought. There are things happening everywhere, the Chicago Bears' record is a mirage, Israelis killed flotillas full of suspicious support in The Gaza, oil spill explosions have set the south's seafood economy back a decade as we try to figure out how to stop it (WE DID!)-("We're sorry"), as we try to blame SOMEBODY. George Steinbrenner died (and as sad as it is for someone to die, besides Stalin or Caligula, he got a memorial plague dedication that dwarfed Jesus's cross and made Babe Ruth's visage look like a little league participation trophy (wtf?). Democrats hate Republicans, Republicans hate Democrats, especially cause they're in office, vice versa. Independents have no back-bone, people seem to think that Libertarians are Republicans and The Tea Party seems to hate everyone except Sarah Palin? (Seriously I don't know much about it) Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber have reached the zenith of their exposition (I mentioned them, oh well), my fantasy football team shit the bed this week, The Catholic Church is corrupt, Heisman candidates love free laptops, The Boise State kicker (who is the leading scorer in his league's history) missed two field goals that youth soccer youths could make with their eyes closed, Fashion Week in New York lacked a truly original upstart designer but I loved G-Star's line of Canadian tuxedos, Devon Hester somehow made dreads into the coolest faux-hawk I've ever seen on a human-being, Gays can't marry everywhere yet, Is Louie CK the next Woody Allen except ya' know not as smooth (but more disturbing?)? Abortion is still an issue, GLEE is awesome, I'm starting to believe John Noble's Walter Bishop (TV show FRINGE) is my universal totem, Africa still has warlords, Lindsey Lohan's tweets about a sad sad life that I wish we'd all ignore, and Islam extremists won't stop exploding themselves until the entire planet is fucking a bunch of virgins in Elysium.


We have opinions about all of this, but we don't think we do. We are extremely well informed about a select few, but when asked about the ones we are not, we express our thoughts judiciously or we go from our gut. Both can have hazardous consequences. For me I go the way of the worm. But a nice, soft worm. I wiggle in and I find what you love and hate and I question all of that very subtly. I believe that I am nothing, but most people believe they are something, but sometimes I believe, that when we realize we do not matter, we can truly grow...or commit suicide. It's a fine, very blurred line. The world is swirling around us, out of fucking control and we look to grasp onto things, talking points even, so we can still keep our feet on this false, but, tangible ground. The distractions above hamper us. We want to solve everything, but are we willing to? No, not at all. But we think we can through identifying ourselves as being apart of some movement, mainly political or religious, or both. What I'd say, believe in our personal details. Let the rest of the fucking bullshit slide into the river Styxx. Stop wearing your issues on your sleeve unless you can be open-minded while possessing an inkling of what you are talking about. And if you do and your gut is hearkening you to make your accusations, assumptions and "I fucking stand for this"/"FUCK you if you don't? Know you're fucking shit. KNOW EVERYTHING! Because if you don't, you're wrong, or maybe right on some things, some earthly topics, but ultimately wrong. Just remember this; Saul became Paul; basically a Nazi became Anne Frank, except, ya' know lived and got his word out. We don't have to exemplify that extreme but I just urge us to think for ourselves but accept that other human beings think for themselves, and not necessarily agree but, just, give it thought. Let us at least TRY to understand, FUCKING TRY. If we don't, cool. If we do, ok. But let's be ourselves and not bow down to a "life team", because they just limit our capacity to explore our minds. I'm not saying don't believe in anything, I'm saying that you should try to see why other people believe in other things. Shit, maybe if we all did that, this world would be just a bit more civilized than it is now.

The Smart Phone Civil War

by Idaho Chubbs

PART I

When I was a young lad I never knew such technological wonders could exist past the first wheel ever created and the white lamborghini/lotus submarine that Roger Moore drove in "The Spy Who Loved Me". But then came Thee Lord Steven from the far away land of "Turtle Necked Jobs". He burrowed his way into our mind folds, leaking machine-fueled necessity into the white bloodless cells of our collective subconscious. Two decades later he is The Emperor of our meek planet and we are the ones with "new" clothes. With the arrival of the excruciatingly pointless ipad and it's subsequent golden child, the iphone 4, his clutches deepen to a core that even the great Dom Cobb could never "dream" but to trespass through. LET US ALL BOW TO THE CHURCH OF OUR SHACKLED I-LIVES! Let us worship these machines! (Morpheus voice) Let us take the immensely short time we have on "THIS ROCK" (Sawyer voice) to program our brains into living "life" through the glossy, black metallic, silvery structures that aid in our false communication with one another.

But whispers have surfaced, faint, but true; that a saviour...of sorts, has defied Lord Steven on the cavernous and rustic banks of Saint Nick's Sea Lawn of Roast Beef, giving him some much needed competition by a single, coup-like purchase. A tiny rebellion, yet small in nature, can start a mini WWIII. Change, and especially one that will break a tyrannical rein, is good--it's a start, but not without its consequences.

Hear ye! Hear Ye! A DroidX smart phone brick has been bought by one Boy Prince using the hard earned deutschmarks he has accumulated through displaying himself in front of a huge pick-up truck. And he wants everyone to know it. Yes, the new cellular device is bigger than my ego, but the upside is that I can watch INCEPTION on it feeling totally IMAXED while fielding a five minute phone call that will result in bulgy trophy-wife appreciating fore-arms, while standing in drunken dart frustration mediocrity known as La Lucky Dog. Alas this benefit will surely be lost on local hispterdom. They’d rather write in their "Mole-skin apps" and duct tape their i-jesus’s than tolerate the intolerance of being tolerant of the fact that Steve Jobs didn’t invent life (He’s the Atheist’s god right?). For a ripple of a dropped call apocalypse will echo from Beverly to Cambridge, boomeranging North to the ends of the EARTH (known as Rockport’s version of Diagon Alley).

As Great Colossus and The Throwbacks (Caspian) hypnotize the entire communist regime of the Starbucked—nest stadium-ed Eastern Land of Opium, I quickly fly to BP’s (no oil-spill pun intended) newly constructed Japanese bamboo beer garden he had just embarked on building for his latest Madame patron, to diffuse the fall-out that could crack the foundation of the Great Wall once the dastardly news spreads. For any hipster, let alone a North Shorian one, the thought of owning any ear-metal-transmitter device that is neither iphone nor the opposite (“I got this flip phone like 4 years ago. I don’t need all that internet mapquest bullshit. I just like, use it for texting and uh, as a phone.”) is complete blasphemy.

PART II

For over a fortnight my gut worms stood on mutinous end as civil war eventually struck our small arrangement of hamlets. The battles have commenced, already laying waste to good, honest, hipster, smart phone using lives. Colossus returned with a vengeful fury from the exotic lands of the East with battle-tested goods of silken worms, 5000 tons of duct tape, magic teas, and opium fit for consumption by every iphone fanboy/girl who would fight by his side. Somehow through a combination of his band's mythic brain vomit and a strategic use of his and Prinz Freddy's iphone strobe-light apps, he was able to hypnotize China into thinking our debt was paid back in full. The band instantly received every medal of USA significance from Obama, who also vigoriously declared "Some Are White Light" our new national anthem. A week ago today, the reign of terror began as they set foot back in fair Beverly, emboldened by Jobsian world domination, knowing their choice of technology was right for all humankind, whether they liked it or not.

Boy Prince and his ragtag "Widerstand", although small, had withstood Colossus's great army of gunslinging appsters thus far. A week earlier at La Lucky Dog, he had attempted to plead with him, justifying his purchase as being the best thing for his personal needs. The spikey-haired G-Star officiado would hear none of it. He was consumed with Apple domination. "How could anyone help but want to exist in a world without Shazamm or a pretend beer-drinking app"? He thought. "No one should. And anyone who does not have a want of this shall perish, no matter if it be friend, family or foe. Right then and there he ordered Prinz Freddy (who was somehow physically half iphone/Macbook cyborg by this point)to destroy Boy Prince with text lasers that sprang from is actual eyes screaming, "SEE YOU LAETAHHH!!!!" BP dodged Freddy's visual wrath, activating his bamboo-kevlar app ("DROID!" - Droid phone voice), suddenly covering him from head to toe (Think Batmobile security system style...Burton's BATMAN) in an impenetrable composite of both elements, hastily escaping with his life.

Once, a friendship formed by the gayest of times, now eternally sworn enemies (all because a silly piece of technology that makes you waste loads time by taking too many hipstamatic photos of yourself as well as constant updating about your life when you should just be living it (“I’m saying how cool my phone is, on my phone!”---Cut the meta crap sloors, it’s old).

As I sat in the Widerstand's "Paths of Glory"-styled trenches, curled up with my meagre fire and DroidX manual, I realized that our conflict was in vain. I had no need for such a contraption, and I would not stand to have my forearms, hands, and necky vein discs (although completely useless and whip-lashed from a week of digging trenches) replaced with Droid's pitiful T2000 "New Limb Extensions" App. Boy Prince's were all metal plates and bamboo veins now. All of the skin and bone from his elbow down had been torn off, resulting in a mess of tassel shredded blood bits, dripping with embittered puss. A recent, vicious shelling had killed his small platoon and left him shocked but not defeated. Colossus had secured a WWI German anti-tank app that had almost taken out Boy Prince as he was running reconnaissance missions back and forth on what use to be Route 127, from St. Nick's to the Apple Stronghold located in a Spanish villa styled stucco and red slated mansion located on the highest of cliffs of Magnolia. The spikey haired goliath (who strictly wore a charcoaled-grey, custom made G-Star Snuggy at all times now) had always fantasized of holding court in said architectural palace. His selfish dreams of world domination had made it sorrowfully so.

BP had wanted to amputate my arms.

He found that his new Droid ones were vastly superior to his old human ones. 

There was a fire burning in his eyes--

I feared he was turning into a machine. It had happened to Prinz Freddy (completely Apple product now), why not my Droid-loving friend, for even though our small gorilla-trenched army had started this most long and arduous week long war as one soul in defiance against the technological tyranny of Apple's Ceo Jobs and his trusty lieutenant Colossus 

(who wanted every single person in the world to have the exact computer and smart phone to express their individuality), 

we were coming apart, we were on the edge of defeat, starving with maddened rage from all of the smart phone radiation polluting once clean, crisp New England, apple orchard air. I-life had made it's mark on our world, it's Mussolini-like regime has rid us of choice, 

you could burn cds once--I remember...yes, ah, you could read actual books too, certain material things had their rightful place in our common, human nostalgia. 

Art you could touch and feel, along with the wonderful melodies existing through airwaves but also possessing a lovely decorated sheath envelope as its earthly home.

And stories that could be read by the touch of a page, you could mark parts manually in your cloth-bound tome, grabbing it whenever needed, not waiting for it to load, not worrying about having a $500 book (ipad) stolen from you on your morning commute. Mac Air, no cd drive, mp3s everywhere! What happens if it all gets blown to hell? Oh yes, you better back that shit up, OR I can just make a monumental book/cd/even DVD shelf that really puts the room together. Do apple products double as decor too? NO. We are slowly being forced to have no choice. Why must it be one or the other? What fun is giving a loved one a musical mix when the case is the size of a flash-drive? 

Even with a miracle defeat of Colossus, there would still be the task of rescuing Boy Prince's mind, for he had been marked from on high, by a far away big brother of sorts.

I saw that now. Much like the Bolsheviks' uprising a hundred years before us or Madame Defarge and her fetishized decapitation-loving rabble rousing mob two and change centuries hence, power would always corrupt. The Droid obsession was now equal to Colossus' fascist virtues. Boy Prince was a lost pawn who could not see the bleak truth staring back at him through his Pool Boy mirror app. I was on my own plain of opinion when it came to these thoughts. No one would dare question him now. His landscaping Cougar charm and “up for anything at anytime” influence reached far into our clan, including the feared dart sniper Frau General Katherine who had recently snuck a dart literally through a Droid messenger’s cigarette from 100 meters away just because he forgot to pay BP his proper respects when delivering treaty terms. This was a fate I had no want of, but I knew that unless I acted, this war was lost even if we won. 

Our army had become incredibly psychopathic, and not in a good way. Before the unnecessary death of our own scout by the sinister, medicinal hands of Frau, he had conveyed that Colossus, Prinz Freddy, and his star protege Jezebel (who thought any piece of technology not possessing an Apple logo should be banished from our planet despite the fact that her new version of itunes prevented her from fully enjoying her favorite mix-making hobby) were leading an all out apocalyptic assault on our crumbling above and underground headquarters. This knowledge gave me pause, but then made me realize that inaction of any kind would lead to the undoing of the fabric of our doomed(?) reality. Maybe they would destroy each other and save me the razor-sharp stress plaguing my being. But I could not take any chances. I was forlorn, wavering with monumental uncertainty. 

Night fell, my hands, limbs and brain, feeling distraught with pain and tense nerves. I blew my actual candle out in my hovel cave room positioned under the great walkway that criss-crossed the once beautifully manicured St. Nick's Lawn of Roast Beef. The darkness sunk into my core, beckoning to take me away to place of calm.

"CHUBBS".

There would be no peace, for the voice that echoed my name stirred a fear I had known but only two months ago. Somehow, some way, Mad Glen had found me. I figured his retribution was finally here to commence my physical undoing. 

"I know what you're thinking Idaho, but you would be wrong," said the voice. "You and me are square old man. I've come to solve your little problem." 

"How so?"

"You're not going to like it, but then again, you are actually a sicker more insane entity than I am even though you think the latter of me, it just isn't so...You will probably relish this final solution."

Six hours after dawn broke Glen's madness was achieved, and though I had been opposed to becoming part machine, his rationale had won out. Both smart phone generalissimo's had to be destroyed, and there was only one way to do it. 

We had removed my lifeless paws and replaced them with Nectar bottles made of the finest kevlar, kevlar so strong and rare that even the great Bruce Wayne had no knowledge of it. On the upper part of my spine lay an intricate fuse box the size of (ironically) a smart phone. The difference was that it was made of a skin composite His Madness had procured from T2000's refrigerator. The surgery was complicated but successful. My frame had been fully anesthetized in a free-standing tub of a watered down version of Trotsky goo. This enabled me to aid in the physically invasive endeavor while feeling no pain. Three tubes, each as thin as five needles were spliced into me from the spinal skin box, two traveling through my lean shoulder blades, down into my lats and forearms culminating in an entrance to the hand-Nectar containers. The third and final tube ran through my right rib canal touching on my lacking fat cells contained in one side of my always present fat back, finally resting in the pelvic forum where my gut worms held court. The toxicity of the worms was key. The skin box was able to translate my hybrid Nectar/blood into pure Nectar. Then the savory liquid was forced into the poisonous realm where the worms lay, destroying yet preserving their reptilian corpses, reproducing a toxic gut worm Nectar that could ravage any element known to man, but only when it hit earthy oxygen air. Because of this assault on my pelvic gut "friends", a gaseous, red ab vein formed; but that was as far as it went because as the poison was battling the sweet Nectar it was also constantly being recycled out of me only through the bottles and only when I vocally activated it by saying, "NECTAR ROAR!!!" Fortunately when I calmly purred, "Nectar", the bottles would produce the finest said drink, enabling me to quench my thirst literally when and wherever I wanted. 

* raw design sketch by Mad Glen

PART III


(Listen while reading: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDMGSxURGqk)

Mine eyes hath seen some things in this universe, but I fear the worst for my fair and peaceful technologically lacking soul. For the final battle is set and the formerly beautiful, mossy green ground will surely run frat floor smelly yellow with the blood of many a PBR pitcher. And darts will be thrown, and shrapnel apps shall be deployed without discern for human life at people who love smart phones, from all sides of the spectrum. There can be no "recall" of fallen souls; Hades would never allow it. 

The gut worm Nectar was luke in my veins and my task was clear.

Like a running-back waiting to pick his tunnel to TD euphoria, I had to choose my moment wisely, have patience, and then STRIKE without reprieve. 

It went something like this.

The buildings tumbled in on themselves

Hipsters clutching their skinless bloodied femurs while attempting to text orders, picked through the rumble, scalped of all hair

The skyline was beautiful on fire, purple, grey, yellow, full of insecure distraction that had led to such a ridiculous scene

All twisted metal and duct tape, tattered designer clothes melding into vintage fabric-ed burnt flesh nightmares never foretold

Everything washed out in a bone thinned orange haze 

As I waited for my moment, standing in my bunker cave dwelling, I said, "Kiss me Mad Glen, you're beautiful, these are truly the last days."

He said, "No"

I chuckled sadly

Then fell upward, into it, like a raving mad daydream full of violence and fevered resolve.

I emerged from my trap door dwelling to a nuclear heat that would make President Truman jealous, immediately seeing a Boy Prince vs Colossus duel producing enough laser radiation to destroy the moon. Corpses flailed on the ground, most were already on Charon's boat. The facade of St. Nick's was shattered, caved in from multiple Desktop Mac cannon blasts. In a split second I caught both men's eyes, and they somehow knew what I was about to unleash. 

The propelled blast from my kevlar bottle wrist rifles sunk into their smart phone energy plasm. The three us held on to our singular voltages as if we were clutching the loves of our lives. 

Slowly a black hole started to form.

I felt the skin box in my lungs and chest yearning to rip out of my back, straight through to my solar-plexes. I held true as Boy Prince and Colossus slowly got sucked into the abyss. Both parties pleaded, worn faces of evil realizing their folly, right before their existence was about to be snuffed out. My conscience was clean as I fought back lowly, sleepless, blood tears. The greater good demanded their demise. But what had that ever done for an individual human being? If Hitler had been assassinated right after Viennese art snobs rejected his bad drawing perspective, well, it probably would have saved a million times six human lives, so...

One more, "NECTAR ROARRRRRRR!!!" and it was DONE. 

Their physical forms melded into the dark chasm, leaving no ounce of bone or body part in its wake. The black form imploded in on itself and unleashed a sound so sonically nuclear that I was catapulted fifty yards back into crumbled building rock, feeling the warm red blood trickle down my face as my skin broke open. It rained jagged stone ash. No sound sung to my ears as I saw two burnt-to-a-crisp smart phones on the ground; one iphone 4 and the other a DROID-X. Defeated, tiny machines; whoever knew they could produce so much destruction? 

I closed my eyes

then NOTHING...SILENCE. 

AFTERMATH

In the weeks following; relief, sadness, and talk of rebuilding came to pass. The only survivors were me and other people that don't really matter, much like most of the castaways on LOST. Prinz Freddy's metal dome head still functioned despite it being severed from his body, but was quickly melted down for scrap, just in case. Our national anthem was restored, and China quickly let us know that we still owed them our great grandchildren's college tuition. Lord Steven, and even the Google heads of state were put under close surveillance by the CIA; but since nothing actually linked them to Colossus or BP's actions, no prosecution took place. About two thousand cougar housewives/Boston entrepreneurs/hipsters/creative people who like cool things but don't try as hard, died in the war. Marshall Law had never been imposed simply because Obama was under Colossus's strobe light app's spell. It's as if nothing happened in the eyes of the world. I felt as crazy and angry as Rorschach, except, luckily (I guess), I still walked this earth. 

But The North Shore knew. At first the people wanted me to be Mayor of all the villages. I declined and gave the power back to them. I only warned that they remember what had happened here and not repeat it. Technology was a beautiful thing, but not all things have to die right away for progression to happen.

Despite all I've been through in this silly life, this particular war had taken many a toll on me. Good friends became arch enemies and then I had to rid the earth of them. It was almost too much to bare.

I placed the ashes from both of their phones in an urn made from Prinz's head, placed it on one of Boy Prince's old, rickety surfboards, lit it on fire, and sent it down the bamboo garden pond he had worked so hard to create outside the PF Changs off of Route 128. 

"So you did IT."

Glen stood directly behind me.

"It was terrible, but yes."

He continued, "I forgot to tell you something. There is an extra feature I installed for your bottle hands. Once this fight was over, there would be no need for such a weapon. Calmly say, "Nectar Hands."

I did, and suddenly the bottles broke apart smoothly and formed into actual kevlar hands that had the smoothness of human skin.

"My hands! They work again! I feel like I can do normal things like wash dishes or make my bed."

"Indeed", said Glen. But I also have a plan for you, and I think you know what it is. Like I said we are square but this will be good for both of us.

"What is it?"

"WE GOTTA GO BACK!...to the University of Hawaii.