Thursday, March 22, 2007

How Many Shots Did It Take to Kill Sean Bell? One, but they gave him 50.

Cop #1: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one.

Cop #2: Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two.

Cop #3 & Cop #4: Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty.

Sean Bell, age 23: Unarmed and dead.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Imaginary Debate of the Day

Dikembe Mutombo vs. Henry Kissinger

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Lou Reed's "Last Great American Whale" Minus a Refrain

They say he didn't have an enemy. His was a greatness to behold. He was the last surviving progeny. The last one on this side of the world. He measured a half mile from tip to tail. Silver and black with powerful fins. They say he could split a mountain in two. Thats how we got the grand canyon. Some say they saw him at the great lakes. Some say they saw him off of Florida. My mother said she saw him in Chinatown. But you can't always trust your mother. Off the Carolinas the sun shines brightly in the day. The lighthouse glows ghostly there at night. The chief of a local tribe had killed a racist mayor's son. And he'd been on death row since 1958. The mayor's kid was a rowdy pig. Spit on indians and lots worse. The old chief buried a hatchet in his head. Life compared to death for him seemed worse. The tribal brothers gathered in the lighthouse to sing. And tried to conjure up a storm or rain. The harbor parted, the great whale sprang full up. And caused a huge tidal wave. The wave crushed the jail and freed the chief. The tribe let out a roar. The whites were drowned, the browns and reds set free. But sadly one thing more. Some local yokel member of the NRA kept a bazooka in his living room. And thinking he had the chief in his sight, blew the whale's brains out with a lead harpoon. Well Americans dont care for much of anything. Land and water the least. And animal life is low on the totem pole. With human life not worth more than infected yeast. Americans don't care too much for beauty. They'll shit in a river, dump battery acid in a stream. They'll watch dead rats wash up on the beach. And complain if they can't swim. They say things are done for the majority. Don't believe half of what you see and none of what you hear. It's like what my painter friend Donald said to me. Stick a fork in their ass and turn them over, they're done.

Wednesday, March 7, 2007

From the Desk of: Steve Sabol, President of NFL Films

Steve Sabol is a co-founder and president of historical NFL Films. Sabol has had his hand in the archival film company since its inception at the 1962 NFL Championship as a cameraman, writer, on-air personality and overall historian. Mr. Sabol shares with us his Top Five: Books

1. Catch-22 - Joseph heller
2. Bill Stern's Favorite Football Stories - Bill Stern
3. When Pride Still Mattered: A life of Vince Lombardi - David Maraniss
4. Lonesome Dove - Larry McMurty
5. The Exorcist - William Peter Blatty

Lyrics of the Day: "Pretty Peggy-O" as arranged by Bob Dylan

Originally a Scottish Folk song titled "The Bonnie Lass o'Fyvie," the narrative of the song follows the unrequited love of a military man. Arranged by Bob Dylan for the harmonica and titled "Pretty Peggy-o," Dylan stripped the song of its Scottish connotations, colloquialism and sound and reinvented it what seems to be a Southern American civil war setting. The unrequited love of the original version and subsequent arrangements is chopped away and transformed into a seemingly forbidden love.

I've been around this whole country
But I never yet found Fenneario.

Well, as we marched down, as we marched down
Well, as we marched down to Fennerio
Well, our captain fell in love with a lady like a dove
Her name that she had was Pretty Peggy-O

Well, what will your mother say, what will your mother say
What will your mother say, Pretty Peggy-O
What will your mother say to know you're going away
You're never, never, never coming back-io ?

Come a-running down your stairs
Come a-running down your stairs
Come a-running down your stairs, Pretty Peggy-O
Come a-running down your stairs
Combing back your yellow hair
You're the prettiest darned girl I ever seen-io.

The lieutenant he has gone
The lieutenant he has gone
The lieutenant he has gone, Pretty Peggy-O
The lieutenant he has gone, long gone
He's a-riding down in Texas with the rodeo.

Well, our captain he is dead, our captain he is dead
Our captain he is dead, Pretty Peggy-O
Well, our captain he is dead, died for a maid
He's buried somewhere in Louisiana-O.

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Fiction #1

Is it possible that I was the one who should have said something? If I did say anything I was sure to be branded. There is nothing more grossly noxious to my conscience than to have a stranger assure himself of what or who or how I am. It’s disconcerting. Granted I am not one to dwell on a stranger’s thoughts, but sadly sometimes that is all there is left to think about. I can sit and read and enjoy what I am reading and think about what I am reading and inwardly debate what I am reading, but it can last for only so long until I am trapped by the bastard who is internalizing my whole being with a single image or word. Why the hell do I care?

Most of the time, due to sharp judgment, or ignorantly exposing yourself, the stranger is right. The image he gets of you is perfect.

I was standing around after a melee watching humanity try and correct itself like the tail of an unfortunate lizard. I can never help but wonder what happens to their tails. And if it really is as painlessly easy as we imagine it is for these reptiles to grow them back. Anyway, we we’re downtown at Triagliori’s, a ritzy Italian place we really couldn’t afford. It was strictly an evening restaurant, dimly lit with intimate settings that are easy to imagine. Just think purposely, not shamelessly, romantic or the scene from Lady and the Tramp where the spaghetti plays cupid. The inside of that place. Triple-tiered crystal chandeliers demanding that each passerby notice its spectrums. The walls were naked left only with cream-colored paint to allow the fire’s reflection. The theme of the setting seemed to be of reflections. The walls and ceilings in the waiting area and bathrooms were mirrored. No gold, steel, or any metal to serve as borders; just mirrors bordering mirrors to allow for its infinite reflection. This was not our type of place, but we were there in celebration of Jack’s passing the bar.

He had turned 26 three days earlier and would have been practicing for Myers & Jackson, adjacent to the block where we were eating that night. Jack grew up loathing anything remotely related to rules, especially when it was disguised in theory. It is funny how things work out.

Anyway, we were just having our crummy bread plates taken away when all of a sudden…I’m sorry. Let me introduce you to the table. It was the aforementioned Jack and myself. Mom and Dad sat to the right of Jack, who was at the head of the table. To the left of Jack was his fiancĂ©, Marissa, followed by my wife, also Marisa, but with one “s”. I was opposite Jack at the ass of the table. Jack had won this match.

We were never competitive, but being brothers we knew we had to have some sibling shtick in order to maintain an edge of normality. We were four years apart, a gap that normally yields some sort of rivalry deemed brotherly love. But we were really just in love with each other: occasional arguments, aimless roughhousing, but never anything serious to permanently etch unhappy moments onto our brain. When I say Jack “won” I mean that he won the match of mates. Marissa, who had twice as many ‘S’s as my Marisa, was a strikingly gorgeous brunette, whom Jack had met while in law school...