(Wherein The Author Comes Out Of The Closet)

This column, its 75-song Playlist—and easily 12 hours of listening time over past few weeks—were directly inspired by a brief clip from the new Will Ferrell / Mark Wahlberg buddy-cop movie. The team receives radio orders to Bust A Perp. And not just any Perp. The big one. So for that extra blast of adrenaline, Ferrell cranks up his Perp-Busting music: The Little River Band’s soft rock staple, “Reminiscing.”

Click Here to read the entire column, and launch a free click-to-play Playlist (at the bottom of the column).

(FROM MY 8.10.10 B-METRO COLUMN)

I have a Word file entitled “keepers”—where I’ve ranked my favorite records, by year, dating back to 1980. Aside from being critical to maintaining Geek Cred, it’s a handy reference tool I use before making over-the-top claims like this one:

Stephanie Finch’s debut album, Cry Tomorrow, is my favorite pop record by a female artist in a decade.

Click Here to read the entire column, AND to access a free click-to-play link to Finch’s entire album.

Despite the best efforts of my 13-year-old son, a monthly subscriber to Soccer America and a devoted fan of English League Football, I’m suffering from a serious interest deficit in this year’s World Cup. And the sad truth is, the American in me is winning-out over my own best efforts to maintain the same level of interest I had four years ago.

Forget, for a moment, that the US soccer team’s chances of winning The Cup are about as strong as Dale Junior’s. It’ll take nothing short of a tectonic shift in the sport (most notably the off-sides rule) and/or the American psyche for soccer to generate anywhere near the interest it commands in the rest of the world.

The most obvious problem is, of course, the lack of scoring; an Unforgivable Sin in a culture increasingly insistent on instant gratification. Adding insult to injury, there’s the all-too-frequent occurrence of games ending in draws. As Rick Reilly (one of our least parochial sportswriters, in my experience)  wrote in his June 15 column on espn.com,  “In the NFL in the past 10 years, there have been two ties. In the first 11 games of this World Cup, there have been five ties. I hate ties. Doesn’t anybody want to win in this sport?”

Lack of scoring, however, is only one element of the more serious disconnect between soccer and literally every sport with a popular following in this country: It simply isn’t TV friendly.

For starters, there’s the near-impossible task of Americanizing the broadcast with eye-catching graphics, stats and human interest stories—since the “action” (a term itself with which many Americans would take issue) only stops for serious injuries. For one, it relegates the match commentators’ role in the perceived drama to the level of pinball-game narrators. And, for another, it eliminates the possibility of all-important beer-grabbing and/or bathroom-visiting during commercial breaks—while minimizing opportunities for highlight-show-worthy instant replays.

Soccer is, overwhelmingly, a game of flow—whereas virtually every popular American sport hinges on The Moment: Fourth down. Ball at the one foot line. Penn State down by six points. These are the moments we’ll discuss between plays, during timeouts, at the water cooler, across the dinner table, on the talk shows (hell, everywhere) for decades—and in American sports, virtually every big game produces scores of those Moments. Not so in soccer.

Moreover, because of that Big Moment structure, the crowds in American sports play a central role in the games’ drama. We love hearing the roar before and after every big play—in the same way that we love our sitcoms filmed before live studio audiences: That way, the folks at home always know when to roar, or laugh, as the case may be.

Soccer crowds have never been particularly punctuative. But this year, the human voice of the crowds is utterly de minimis, under the unsurpassingly-irritating drone of the vuvuzelas (3-foot-long plastic trumpets)—which South African fans blow, without so much as an inhale, from well before the national anthems to well after final whistle. Given their average 130-decibel output (10 above the human pain threshold), numerous players have complained they can’t hear themselves thinking—and (again, the TV issue) it’s forced ESPN’s technicians to dramatically alter the sound mix.

Yes, I understand vuvus are an important part of the South African culture—and since they’re the host nation, I should be sensitive enough to accept them. But the American in me cannot listen to those horns blare without asking, “Seriously, what the hell?” I’d honestly rather hear Mississippi State’s clanging cowbells.

And finally, for me the World Cup has suffered greatly in comparison to this year’s unusually compelling NBA Championship Series—Game Five of which, for instance, produced a third quarter so highlight-filled that even my wife was glued to the set. Except, of course, during the commercials—when we enjoyed every available opportunity to recount the Moments, grab more beers, and run to the bathroom. Because after all, that’s what we Americans like to do.

This column (which was written during the World Cup’s first round, or Group Stage) appears in the July print edition of B-Metro Magazine

June 18, 2010: After months of intense speculation, adoring fans across America are queued-up (some since the night before) to be among the first to own the latest release from Apple. It’s a scenario not uncommon to my generation’s once-upon-a-time frenzy to procure tickets to a Beatles concert. And in many ways, Apple today has become this generation’s Beatles. An analogy with its upside, and its downside.

On the upside, Apple represents much of what is great about America, particularly in its near-unrivaled history of innovation. From the original MacIntosh to the iPod, iPhone and iPad, Apple has literally created new product categories altogether—fulfilling needs that consumers didn’t even know they had, and in the process genuinely improving quality of life for millions.

But it’s not just product features that makes Apple so unique: It’s everything about, and around, those products. From his consistently impeccable sense of product-design aesthetics to his advertising, packaging and product-delivery system, Steve Jobs has created arguably the strongest single brand in the world today. A brand that inspires cult-like loyalty, and consistently rewards its fans with the best products of its kind.

And since that brand is so carefully controlled, we never have to worry about anyone at Apple claiming, for instance, to be bigger than Jesus. Or inspiring millions to experiment with mind-expanding controlled substances.

Then there’s Apple’s recent track record for blockbuster commercial successes—which has been almost as strong as the Beatles’ was. All of which is why Apple (despite lagging significantly behind Microsoft in total sales) now has a higher market valuation than its Seattle-based competitor.

That’s pretty much where the rosy side of the analogy ends. For starters, the Beatles created art. Music that touched the souls of millions, and still resonates with listeners more than 40 years later. Apple makes things. And that new Apple thing you want so much right now? It’s replacing that old Apple thing you wanted so badly just a year or two ago. Forget about that new thing you just bought touching your soul for forty years. The 4g Thrill you’re currently experiencing won’t even last four.

Then there’s the fact that people actually waited all night, sleeping on sidewalks, to buy that thing. When people waited all night for Beatles tickets, they actually got better Beatles tickets. Waiting all night for that new Apple thing didn’t get anyone a better thing. It only got you an extra day or two with that thing. And honestly: How could an extra day with that new thing possibly be worth the pain and inconvenience you endured to get it?

That’s where the analogy gets really sad: What does it say about us, when one of our single most unifying cultural icons is a publicly-traded corporation producing perpetually-replaceable objects—rather than anything of lasting value?

I’ll bet, if you asked Steve Jobs in complete confidence, and promised to cut off your 4g high-def camera before he spoke, he’d admit that, fifty years from now, Apple’s latest Coolest Thing Ever Made will inspire about as much loving hyperbole as the Altair 8800 or the Commodore PET does today.

And yes, I freely admit that the iPad and iPhone are very possibly the two coolest things ever made. But if you asked me, Steve Jobs’ enduring legacy, the accomplishment that we’ll still be talking about fifty years from now, will be his role as a co-founder of Pixar Studios. Where they know a thing or two about touching people’s souls.

This column also appears on the B-Metro website: http://bit.ly/appletoapple
(Special thanks to Kevin Boyd for the photo illustration)

With the series finales of Lost and 24 airing Sunday and last night, a huge chunk of my cultural life over the past decade has come to an end in just two days.

I was thoroughly pleased with the Lost finale—primarily because it offered genuine emotional closure for me. But also because I’ve never been particularly concerned with making “sense” of the show’s Byzantine plot twists or its alternate-universe reality—so I didn’t have any giant questions I needed answered. That said, if you were a fan, Time.com’s James Poniewozick wrote an excellent review of the show—and the finale: http://bit.ly/bzScaB

On the other hand, I was fairly disappointed with the last few weeks of 24—particularly in watching Jack Bauer transformed from a crusading superhero to a vindictive, cold-blooded killer. Still, the show (and Jack) already had more than enough credit in my goodwill bank to make the season worthwhile.

All that said, I figured this was as good an opportunity as any to publicly disclose something I’ve admitted, without shame, for years: On the whole, I like television better than the movies. Here’s why:

First, I rarely have the time, or the patience, to watch an entire movie on a Friday or Saturday—much less on a weeknight. With my DVR, an hour show on basic cable is 50 minutes, tops. AND there’s always the possibility that I’ll catch a really good commercial among all the lame ones I fast-forward past.

Second, TV is a writer’s medium. TV producers don’t have budgets for the special effects that dominate most Hollywood films these days, so they’re actually forced to focus on the stories. And there are plenty of shows that tell stories I like. (Although I do think the vast majority of TV comedy these days is so bad it’s not even funny).

Third, a month of cable TV—most of which is available in HD—is less than the cost to take the family to a single movie (particularly if you buy Coke and popcorn). Because of that, I’m a lot more easily satisfied by TV than movies.

Not that my overall standards have dropped, but I just don’t bring the same (often unreasonable) expectations to TV that I do to movies. At the same time, on a strictly objective level, I can list any number of TV shows which have genuinely impressed me over the past couple years—but very few movies. And yeah, I know that’s partly my fault—because I’m not willing to invest the necessary effort to find movies I’ll really like; but even if I was, I still don’t have the time to watch them.

Fourth, a lot more people watch TV—so there are a lot more opportunities to make reasonably meaningful small talk, day in and out.

And finally, TV is in my house—and at my age, that’s pretty much where I want to be. Which (to be perfectly honest) is one of the reasons it’s best to call me at the office, if there’s something important you need to discuss with me. Like, for instance, what you watched on TV last night.

(He’s in the middle, wearing the Parliament T-Shirt)

Fletcher signed-up for Rock Band as his elective this Spring—and the band had its public debut in Birmingham’s world-famous Spencer Center last night.

Click here for a sonic blast of primal rock at its absolute rawest. (Warning: May be disturbing to pets and small children).

http://bit.ly/rokkband

(THIS WEEK’S SOUNDLINKS COLUMN)

A NOTE OF INTRODUCTION: I recently discovered, much to my surprise, that not everyone on earth has heard of Wilco, so here’s my two cents’ worth:

Not since the Beatles’ mid to late period—from Rubber Soul to The White Album—has any band in pop music successfully jumped across as many genres as Wilco did, over the course of their first six albums (which included two collaborative efforts with Billy Bragg).

Full article here: http://bit.ly/wilcolumn

Sunday, April 11 marked the final round of the only golf tournament I watch every year. Which got me thinking why I have to watch The Masters—but no other annual tournament.

After all, several U.S. courses are ranked ahead of Augusta in both Golf.com and Golflink.com’s Top 100 lists. At least seven PGA tournaments match or exceed The Masters’ prize money for first place. It’s located in a town that’s never been widely renowned for anything outside of the tournament. And the entrance to Augusta National is about a block from an unsightly stretch of four-lane Generica.

So what is it about the Masters that makes it possibly the most prestigious brand in all of sport? I think it has to do with the reverence Augusta National has shown for the game of golf since its earliest days—and the standards of behavior that go with it.

I spent a Friday at the Masters in 2004, and I can honestly say it was the most respectful crowd of people I’ve ever seen. Anywhere. Think about that: The typical Masters attendee is a corporate titan who’s accustomed to hearing his minions drool praise over every thought that proceeds from his often-wide-open mouth. And yet, when any golfer (down to the lowliest teenage amateur) is lining-up a putt, you could close your eyes and swear you were the only person standing beside the green.

That standard of behavior extends to every square inch inside those hallowed grounds—including the concession area (where, by the way, you can still get an egg salad sandwich for $1.50 and a Heineken for $2). Everyone, on both sides of the counter, is polite, patient and genuinely friendly.

My favorite Augusta National policy is stated in bold type on the course maps (which are distributed to patrons free of charge): If you are found with a beeper or cell phone inside the grounds, you will be removed immediately, and your ticket privileges will be revoked for life.

All of which adds up to a magic you cannot find anywhere else in the sports world—including the Royal Ascot Race in Great Britain, where it’s a lot more about “who’s wearing what” than it is about the competition. And which is why I consider a recent phenomenon to be not merely an unspeakable irritant, but an outright threat to The Masters brand itself. That would be the village idiot bellowing, immediately after every golf shot, “GIT IN THE HOLE!!!”

Consciously or not, the buffoon who shouts this at The Masters has somehow convinced himself that doing so actually enhances enjoyment of the tournament for his fellow attendees, the millions watching at home and the golfers. I’d like to meet a single human being who delights in hearing it once. Much less over and over. And over. And over.

If you asked me, the folks at Augusta National should extend their beeper + cell phone policy to those “GIT IN THE HOLE” monkeys. It cheapens the experience—and with it, The Masters brand. Long before anyone at Augusta National gave a single conscious thought about “branding”, they built The Masters magic on an implicit code of comportment.

Which is why Augusta National chairman Billy Payne is probably the only man alive who could read Tiger Woods the riot act for his off-the-course behavior, and get away with it. For all his personal flaws, Tiger understands that there are simply things you don’t do at Augusta National. For me, that would include loudly ordering a ball to git in the hole. And, hopefully for the last time in Tiger’s career, cursing after a bad shot. Seriously, dude: You’re at The Masters. Act like it.

(Originally published online by B-Metro magazine, 4.19.10).

http://bit.ly/the-masters

(Ms. Gaga. With And Without Makeup.)

I have adored, without shame or apology, some genuinely pathetic popular music in my day. Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Alone Again Naturally”, for instance.

Full Story: http://bit.ly/gaggd

I suppose this is going to make somebody mad, but here it is…

While watching the NCAA basketball tournament last night, an interesting thought crossed my mind: Why are there so many white coaches on the sidelines? Because that’s where they spent their careers as players.

Not only was it a common occurrence for all ten players on the court to be black. A large percentage of the black players in the games were dark skinned—which tells me that even a drop of Caucasian blood may well be a genetic impairment to basketball greatness.

Boy, March must be a disheartening month for White Supremacists.