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World Wide Wednesday

November 14, 2012

World Wide Wednesday

Deep Routes

Can’t believe it’s been 15 years since the WWF Montreal “Screw Job”. In THOROUGH detail, here’s what legendary pro wrestling reporter Dave Meltzer wrote at the time:

It will go down in history as the single most famous finish of a pro wrestling match in the modern era. Twenty or thirty years from now this story, more than any famous wrestler jumping promotions, more than any prominent death, and more than any record setting house, will be remembered vividly by all who watched it live, and remembered as legendary from all who hear about it later. Through the magic of video tape, the last minute of this match will live forever and be replayed literally millions of times. But the story of what led to those few seconds starts more than one year ago, far more reminiscent of the dirty con man past of the industry than the current attempted facade of a multi-million dollar corporate above board image those in the industry like to portray outwardly that it has evolved into

October 20, 1996: Bret Hart was in a hotel room in San Jose, Ca, hours from making the biggest decision of his life – who would win the biggest bidding war in the history of pro wrestling. He had pretty well leaned toward staying with the World Wrestling Federation despite a much larger offer from World Championship Wrestling, but had changed his mind a few times over the previous two weeks as each side presented new offers. In the waning hours, Eric Bishoff and Kevin Nash were trying to convince him to change his mind and how great life was with an easier schedule. Bischoff was offering big money and a shot at becoming a movie star, a goal Hart had been pursuing while in semi-retirement. McMahon was offering him, in the now immortal words of Arn Anderson, not just a spot but the top spot in the company, and almost literally to be WWF 4-life.

Many close advisers of Hart’s tried to tell him going to WCW was the best move for his present, and more importantly his future after wrestling. But largely out of loyalty, and that obviously wasn’t the only factor involved, he declined the offer. McMahon, not to lose a very public fight, offered him the famous 20-year contract where he’d, after retirement in about three years, become almost a first lieutenant when it came to the booking process. Hart would earn somewhere in the neighborhood of $1.5 million per year as an active wrestler, and a healthy but far lesser figure working in the front office for the 17 years after retirement as an active wrestler. As part of McMahon’s offer, he also was going to allow Hart to explain live on television his decision making process, should he sign with WCW.

On Mandatory, comedian Rob Fee went undercover to see how much guys would put up with to try to meet a hot girl on OKCupid: 

In the first question she confesses to what seems to be a serious hit-and-run. Why would you show any interest in her? Under favorites, she admits her illiteracy, calls it “Two and One Half Men,” lists Geico commercials as one of her favorite shows, and professes love for “Bon Jorvi.” Next up, on “The six things I could never do without,” we get the mention of a dead father with September in parentheses – whatever that means – some bizarre proverbs, and then, #4 just says YOLO. Finally, she spends a lot of time thinking about kids! That’s creepy! She doesn’t have kids and says she doesn’t want kids but ONLY thinks about kids. Fellas, run.

So, by reading that bio you would assume most guys steered clear right? No. Not at all. Within 6 hours, my profile had been viewed over 400 times and 39 guys had messaged me.

Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt and say they didn’t really read the bio. They just saw a cute girl and went for it. I’m not saying that’s smart but I’m just hoping for their sake they didn’t read that trainwreck of a description and think “OK yeah! This is what I’ve been searching for!”

Continue reading World Wide Wednesday

November 7, 2012

World Wide Wednesday

Deep Routes

Wisconsin basketball player Zach Bohannon writes about teammate Josh Gasser’s torn ACL: (CBS)

I was less than 10 feet behind him trailing the play. I heard the piercing scream come out of his mouth as he crumbled to the ground. I tried to keep him calm and said, “You’re fine, take some deep breaths.” However, Josh knew, and shot back sharply, “No, I’m not fine!”

Everyone in the gym fell quiet. Nothing could be said. We all saw our athletic trainer and team doctor immediately test out his left knee on the court. We all prayed for the best, though we knew we had no choice but to expect the worst.

As we saw Josh get helped off the floor, none of it seemed real. Josh was the last person you expected this to happen to. Josh seemingly had no kryptonite; he was indestructible to us. Our team tried to put the shock of what we had just seen behind us. After about an hour of more practicing, Coach [Bo] Ryan called us in and told us before we did our final shooting drill we would all have a chance to see Josh before he left for the hospital. As we filed in one by one to the training room, each one of us had a moment to spend with Josh. Many of us hardly said a word; it was a quick good luck with a handshake or a hug for most. It was a very somber moment because we all knew the magnitude of the earthquake that had just shaken our team.

The Wire creator David Simon writes about the broader implications of last night’s election results:

America is different now, more so with every election cycle. Ronald Reagan won his mandate in an America in which 89 percent of the voters were white. That number is down to 72 percent and falling. Fifty thousand new Latino citizens achieve the voting age every month. America will soon belong to the men and women — white and black and Latino and Asian, Christian and Jew and Muslim and atheist, gay and straight — who can comfortably walk into a room and accept with real comfort the sensation that they are in a world of certain difference, that there are no real majorities, only pluralities and coalitions. The America in which it was otherwise is dying, thank god, and those who relied on entitlement and division to command power will either be obliged to accept the changes, or retreat to the gated communities from which they wish to wax nostalgic and brood on political irrelevance.

You want to lead in America? Find a way to be entirely utilitarian — to address the most problems on behalf of the most possible citizens. That works. That matters. Last night, it mattered just enough to overcome the calcified political calculations of men who think that 47 percent will vote against them because they are victims, or that 53 percent are with them because the rest of us vote only from self-interest and without regard for the republic as a whole. It was a closer contest than common sense and the spirit of a truly great nation should dictate. But unless these white guys who have peddled “normal” for so long — normal as in racial majority, normal as in religious majority, normal as in sexual orientation — unless they have a hard moment of self-reflection and self-awareness, well, it will not be this close again.

Continue reading World Wide Wednesday

October 31, 2012

World Wide Wednesday

Deep Routes

Bruce Arthur writes the apology that Lance Armstrong should – but will never – give:

Well, I don’t regret my decision the way those other guys did. I needed to be the best, and you couldn’t be the best and be clean in this sport. So I doped. And after I beat cancer I needed cycling more than ever, so I kept going. I doped better than anybody — I got better information, I got the best doctors, I pushed the envelope even though EPO killed a bunch of pro cyclists in the 1980s and 1990s. There was no other way. I built a machine to take on pro cycling, and I destroyed fields full of guys who were as dirty as I was. I don’t apologize for that.

I’m sorry I had to dope to be great, but this problem didn’t start with me, and didn’t end with me. So while I accept my lifetime ban, I call on the UCI and WADA and the USADA to agree to a one-time truth and reconciliation commission, to allow other riders to tell the truth without fear of repercussions. The sport created us; the sport needs to let us talk about it.

That being said, there are some things I’m sorry for. I’m sorry I ran Christophe Bassons, one of the sport’s truly noble men, out of the Tour in 1999 for daring to say that you couldn’t reach a top 10 at the Tour without doping. I’m sorry for attacking Frankie and Betsy Andreu for being in the hospital room with me in 1996 when I admitted to the doctors that I had used EPO, testosterone, growth hormone, cortisone and steroids. I’m sorry I sued our former soigneur, Emma O’Reilly, who wouldn’t back down from the truth. I’m sorry I called her a prostitute, and a drunk.

Continue reading World Wide Wednesday

October 24, 2012

World Wide Wednesday: The Best Links of the Week

Deep Routes

Jill Lieber Steeg writes an incredibly poignant and well-reported description of Junior Seau’s final years:

Other friends and family also said that Seau went “underground” for several months after his Carlsbad plunge. Like Gina, they all assumed he was depressed, which he was. But, also, Seau had made one of the most important decisions of his life: He was attempting to stop drinking and get sober. He called his friend Aaron Taylor, who’d gotten sober in 2002, and asked for his help.

“Junior was broken and at rock bottom,” Taylor said. “He said, ‘I can’t do this anymore. I’m miserable. I’m letting my kids down. I’m alone, and I’m isolated.’

“He talked to me about the tremendous guilt he had because he’d promised to drive his son Jake to his lacrosse tournament, and he’d overslept. He’d gotten drunk, he’d passed out, and his son missed his lacrosse tournament.

“He shared the angst he felt about the hours he wasn’t present for his kids. He wasn’t around. I know who Junior was in his heart. It was such a disconnect. He bought into his own BS. Football validates who we are, but that is not the real world.”

To admit that he had a problem, and that he was powerless over alcohol, were major steps for Seau. Nolan had encouraged Seau to get help at various points during their relationship, before and after his plunge, and he’d gone so far as to call The Betty Ford Center in Rancho Mirage to ask for information on its treatment programs. Hoffman also had called Betty Ford on his behalf.

“He felt terrible,” Hoffman said. “He said, ‘I don’t want to be this way.’ ”

Ethan Sherwood recounts a narrowly averted NBA scandal from 1993:

In the biggest moment of the year, with Houston’s season and possibly Hakeem Olajuwon’s legacy on the line, this backup shooting guard just walked right onto the court. He did not wait for a dead ball. He did not wait for a coach’s instruction. He did not check in at the scorers table. He did not even wait for a teammate to sub out.

He just waltzed onto the floor, an errant sixth man, joining the battle in defiance of every rule and structure that governs the game.

He simply joined the action and started playing. And though it was right there in front of everybody, nobody did anything to stop him.

Garland did it as though people do that, strolling past his teammate, and future Oklahoma City coach Scott Brooks en route to the action. Brooks made no effort to stop Garland, and even followed him briefly, onto the fringe of the hardwood, as though magnetized to Winston’s back. Scott Brooks was wearing a Rockets warmup jacket, attire that would have surely outed him.

Garland moved so quickly, so decisively that you would assume he belonged in the play. With so many eyes on the ball, it is difficult to believe that any fan recognized an extra man.

Continue reading World Wide Wednesday: The Best Links…

October 17, 2012

World Wide Wednesday

How I saw the Internet this Week.

Deep Routes

Joe Posnanski profiles Pete Rose in Las Vegas:

He is inside, the living legend, now 71 years of age but still the same somehow. He wears sunglasses and a Panama hat. He has a large blank sheet of paper in front of him, a sheet of paper that will soon be covered with names and numbers and little charts — Rose unconsciously scribbles when he talks. He has a coffee cup from Starbucks. He has an iPad next to him, live-streaming action from a horse track. And, at this moment, while the woman tries to coax a less-than-eager couple from Maryland to come inside (“Photos are free! Come inside! Come see the living legend!”), Pete Rose is folding a jersey that he has just autographed for a customer.

Rose is a magnificent clothes-folder. He folds in the sleeves quickly, with precision, then double-folds from the bottom; the entire process takes less than two seconds, and when he is done the jersey looks pristine, ready to be put on the shelf, folded in that subtly flawless way that is all but impossible for amateurs to replicate. He comes by this skill honestly. Pete Rose has signed a lot of jerseys. And he hated — HATED — watching people fold up those jerseys like they were old T-shirts pulled from the dryer. Didn’t they understand how much that signature was worth? Didn’t they want to protect their investment? So he took over. He would just fold them himself.

Will Leitch writes a GQ cover story on Jeremy Lin:

The thing that was most striking about Linsanity—the instantly iconic term that Lin admits still makes him uncomfortable (though that didn’t stop him from trademarking it)—was that Lin immediately became the best player on the floor. A kid who had reached double figures only twice in his brief NBA career, and never with the Knicks, dropped thirty-eight on Kobe and the Lakers, twenty-eight on the defending-champion Mavericks, and twenty-seven on the road against the Raptors, including a last-second three-pointer to win the game the way we’ve all imagined in our driveways. It was as though he emerged, out of nowhere, as a fully formed superstar. This didn’t make any sense, least of all to Lin. “I mean, to literally go from ‘If I score two, three, or four points today, it’s a good day’ to setting the record for the most points scored in your first five starts of any NBA player,” he says, still amazed. “I’d be a huge liar if I told myself, ‘I knew I could do that.’ You know what I mean? That’s not realistic. Let’s just be honest. I had no idea I could play like that. It was as amazing to me as it was to everybody else.”

Michael Lewis satirically takes up the plight of the Greenwich 12-year old whose father doesn’t make as much as he used to:

– Make lots and lots of new demands on his time.

Kids who don’t play the tuba or something should consider joining a travelling sports team or acting in a school play or, really, anything that requires your dad to be there to watch you do it. In theory, your dad should have more time for this kind of stuff. He isn’t making as much per hour, so his hours should be cheaper. But he doesn’t think that way. He’s trying to “get back to even.” He’s still trying to make as much as he did three years ago, which means working even more. This is tricky because you don’t want to discourage him from doing it. At the same time, his longer hours are just a huge opportunity for you. Because no matter what instrument or sport you decide to play, there is just no way he’s going to show up to watch you play it.

Quick Reads

- PHOTO: If Paul Ryan and Joe Biden switched haircuts.

- Ways to embarrass your pet on Halloween + 10 unamused pets dressed as food.

- SI has a brilliant gallery of athletes’ photos from when they were children.

- Simpsons quotes that, unfortunately, nobody gets anymore.

- 27 reasons why kids are actually the worst.

Continue reading World Wide Wednesday

October 10, 2012

World Wide Wednesday

Deep Routes

David Carr discusses the practice of quote approval being required for journalistic publication:

Journalism in its purest form is a transaction. But inch by inch, story by story, deal by deal, we are giving away our right to ask a simple question and expect a simple answer, one that can’t be taken back. It may seem obvious, but it is still worth stating: The first draft of history should not be rewritten by the people who make it.

TV Show host Chris Gethard responds to an anonymous note from one of his fans, who was considering suicide:

The first thing I need to say is don’t do it.

I repeat, whatever you are thinking about doing right now, I want to seriously implore you to not do it. I know you’re in a place where you’re scared and you’re confused and things seem like they aren’t going to get better, but I personally can promise you that things can and probably will change for the better. And the reason I can promise you this is that they got better for me.

You are feeling alone and I know first hand that in this mind state you feel like no one even wants to help or knows how. I know that feeling of reaching out to people and feeling them either ignore these feelings or demonstrate a complete inability to connect with any way that matters to you. I know how scary it is to need to connect with someone and to be unable to, I know how that makes you feel even crazier when you try to connect with someone and it doesn’t stick.

Continue reading World Wide Wednesday

September 19, 2012

World Wide Wednesday

For NYT Magazine, David Carr profiles Neil Young:

Young once promised he would never write a book about himself, according to Jimmy McDonough’s biography of him, “Shakey.” But time passed, and then Young broke his toe a year ago and needed something to fill his time and refresh his fortune.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to continue to mainly be a musician forever, because physically I think it’s going to take its toll on me — it’s already starting to show up here and there,” he said. Writing a book, he added, allowed him “to do what I want the way I want to do it.”

“Waging Heavy Peace” eschews chronology and skips the score-settling and titillation of other rocker biographies. Still, Young shows a little leg and has some laughs. Yes, he partied with Charles Manson and tried to hook him up with a recording contract. He admits he saw a picture of the actor Carrie Snodgress in a magazine before he courted her, married her and divorced her. He pleads guilty to having been busted for drugs with Eric Clapton and Stephen Stills. He even has a little fun with Crosby. “I still remember ‘the mighty Cros’ visiting the ranch in his van,” he writes. “That van was a rolling laboratory that made Jack Casady’s briefcase look like chicken feed. Forget I said that! Was my mike on?”

In a separate blog post, Carr describes the process of meeting Young and writing about him:

My pinch-me moment was getting to ride around in a car on Neil Young’s ranch for several hours. Not because I am a Neil Young person per se — I saw the “Rust Never Sleeps” tour, “Trans” and have seen him play with Crazy Horse and solo several other times — but because, well, he’s Neil Young. It’s hard to think of an artist of any genre who has endured so long with as much significance as Young. And over and over, he did it his way, ignoring convention and expectation on general principal.

- Photoshops of Jay Cutler smoking.

- Life imitating art: JFK airport workers are accused of stealing 100,000 mini-bottles of booze. Did Paulie and Jimmy the Gent from Goodfellas organize this heist?

- Awwwwww

Food Porn

Sliced brisket platter at Soulfire BBQ in Allston, MA

Sausage/pepperoni pizza from Charlie’s Place in Dorchester, MA

September 12, 2012

World Wide Wednesday

Deep Routes

In painstaking detail, Michael Wright writes about surviving the WTC attack from the 81st floor:

How do you describe the sound of a 110-story building coming down directly above you? It sounded like what it was: a deafening tidal wave of building material coming down on my head. It appeared to be falling on the street directly where I was headed.

I turned to run back into the building. It was the instinctual thing to do. You’re thinking, If you stay outside, you’re running into it. If you go inside, it might not land there. So I turned and ran into the building, down into the mall, and that’s when it hit. I dove to the ground, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Oh, no! Oh, no! Jenny and Ben! Jenny and Ben!” It wasn’t a very creative response, but it was the only thing I could say. I was gonna die.

The explosion was extreme, the noise impossible to describe. I started crying. It’s hard for me to imagine now that when I was on the ground awaiting my doom, hearing that noise, thousands of people were dying. That noise is a noise thousands of people heard when they died.

When it hit, everything went instantly black. You know how a little kid packs a pail of sand at the beach? That’s what it was like in my mouth, my nose, my ears, my eyes — everything packed with debris. I spat it out. I puked, mostly out of horror. I felt myself: Am I intact? Can I move? I was all there. There was moaning. People were hurt and crying all around me.

An American ex-pat in Shanghai tries to watch college football:

It’s 7 AM Sunday morning in China; time for the Clemson game. The jade green taxi zips past the girlie bars, drunken punters still loitering out front with slick working girls on their laps. One of them waves at me. I’m fairly positive I don’t know her. The cab whips right and we pass a city park already being dutifully swept by a worker in a JINGAN jumpsuit armed with an old straw broom. We roll into the alley behind the Ritz-Carlton and stop in front of Big Bamboo, one of the oldest and most popular sports bars in town. I step inside and am immediately deflated when I notice the staff easily outnumber the meager crowd. There are no Clemson fans, but there is a tiny contingent of USC Trojan supporters frustratedly trying to help the bar manager tune in to their game through an internet feed. Clemson and Auburn are nowhere to be found. It stinks like stale Zhongnanhai cigarettes in here. Four TVs are showing an English Premier League game.

This is college football in Shanghai.

Clay Travis describes his near-death experience on a flight to Kansas City:

Death — or life on a mysterious island – looms.

Still, there is no sound.

As I white knuckle my armrests, I’ve caused my seat to recline.

Suddenly the flight attendant is talking to me from three rows back. “Sir, could you please bring your seat to its upright position?”

There’s no one behind me.

And we’re about to die.

Yet the flight attendant wants my seat brought to an upright and locked position.

What is the flight obsession with the seats being upright? Who or what are we protecting by this rule? And why are flight attendants such fascists about enforcing this rule?

I pull up my seat.

Quick Reads

- Sort of but not really a Breaking Bad (which I have never watched) spoiler: What is a good approximation of how much money Skyler had in the storage unit when she showed Walt how she stopped counting it?

- Should lap dances be a form of tax-exempt art? (No.)

- The beer list at Guy Fieri’s new Time Square restaurant. Eater gets a tour: “This can roast 20 turkeys.”

- Candy Corn Oreos are real and almost certainly spectacular.

- GIF blog! All My Friends are Married…This girl is only 25, is she from the South or something?

- NFL Week 1 in GIFs.

- Before lap band surgery, Cowboys defensive coordinator Rob Ryan used to eat entire pizzas in his van, spend $70 on candy, and eat it within a week.

- In case anyone ever forgets that Chris Brown beat Rihanna, he memorialized the occasion with a classy neck tattoo of the incident.


Ceilii, my friends’ wheaten terrier puppy that I watched for the last few days:

Food Porn

Cheesy pretzel bites at Wrigley Field

My friend Raffi made steak stir-fry:

September 5, 2012

World Wide Wednesday

Deep Routes

On Yahoo, Jason Cole and Rand Getlin go hard after NFL agent Drew Rosenhaus:

But numerous financial professionals who have worked with Rosenhaus and spoke with Y! Sports on the condition of anonymity said Rosenhaus and his employees consistently refused to make referrals to financial advisers who would not send them business in return. This practice continued long after it should have been clear that the reciprocal referral relationship they had with Rubin and his company had exposed their clients to risk.

“Drew’s employees have said to me, ‘Drew likes you, he thinks you do great work for the players, but he said we can’t refer business to you because you don’t refer business to us,’ ” one of the financial professionals said.

Another well-placed financial source said “I asked [a Rosenhaus sports employee] how come they don’t refer clients to me and their response was ‘because you don’t recruit.’ The inference was they wouldn’t send me players because I didn’t recruit to send players their way.”

For GQ, Drew Magary takes a trip to Penn State:

I passed giant frat houses that looked halfway decent on the outside, but it was obvious that the insides were havens of unspeakable filth. You could see the frat brothers pre-gaming out on their balconies. I walked by a collection of brick apartment buildings that a lot of students called home. A drunk chick shouted “WE ARE” from the balcony and a group of guys in front of me offered up a “PENN STATE” in response.

On every window in every shop there was an 8 1/2″x11″ printout that read PROUD TO SUPPORT PENN STATE FOOTBALL. Apparently, a PDF was sent out a few days prior, encouraging people to print it out and tape it to their storefronts. Everyone complied. A few days later, as a way of counterbalancing all that football pride, another PDF was sent out that read PROUD TO SUPPORT PENN STATE ACADEMICS. Only a few of those signs made it up.

Quick Reads

- A video making fun of people who put up too many pictures of food.

- Howard Stern says NBC threatened him for going too hard after Jay Leno.

- A slideshow of web moguls’ homes. Maybe I should become a web mogul.

- Guy Fieri is opening up a new mega-restaurant in Time Square. “Take me to flavor town.”

Food Porn

Nutella stuffed french toast at Frasca Pizzeria

My friends made delicious mango salsa on Friday night:

August 22, 2012

World Wide Wednesday

In the New York Times, Talya Minsberg writes about the great benefits of summer camp:

Staff members don’t work at camp because it’s easy or because they want to hang out with friends. Dan Fleshler’s daughter had it right when she told him that she wanted to return to camp for one more summer as a counselor because it truly mattered.

Job recruiters — listen closely. As a staff member, you are on call 24/7, sleeping six hours a night and spending the remaining 18 outside, running around with your campers, planning programming, catering to every need of your cabin and getting more mosquito bites than you thought physically possible. The dedication to your work, the happiness of your campers and their personal growth is incalculable. You want an easy, restful summer? Go get an internship. You can sleep all weekend long and get paid a lot more, too.

Will Leitch writes approximately 100,000 words about the Barclays Center:

The sides of Barclays Center, with their imposing, metallic, strangely toaster-looking exteriors, are essentially completed. It’s the entrance that still needs the most work. The building’s giant overhang, an immense oculus, is coming together to the point that you can see where the LCD display screen that will flash tonight: heat at nets is going to go. The new subway portal, with an escalator from the Atlantic Avenue–Flatbush Avenue megastation to the building’s main entrance plaza, has taken shape; had I been able to sneak past the security guard at the gate of the construction site, I might have been able to run down its stairs. I just would have had to stomp through a lot of mud to get there. One thing you can see, though, from the street, one thing that’s definitely done: the opulent chandeliers from one of the stadium’s swankier luxury suites. The space looks amazing, and it’s not even Barclays Center’s most famous feature. That would be the Jay-Z–inspired Champagne room called the Vault. The Vault is the exclusive club within the exclusive club that has eleven suites that cost $550,000 a year (with a three-year minimum purchase) but have no view of the court. (You do get eight tickets in the first ten rows for every Barclays Center event, were you to choose to actually leave your suite and use them.) Those luxury chandeliers, you can see them from the street. They’re ready.

Thomas Lake pens an open letter to Michael Jordan:

I heard Pop Herring was in jail so I drove up to see him the other night. You remember Pop, your basketball coach at Laney High in Wilmington, N.C. The man who opened the gym at 6 a.m. so you could work on that jumper. The man who let you borrow his car and had you over to his house and treated you like a son. The man who put you on jayvee in your sophomore year. Didn’t cut you, as you always said after that, although at the time it probably felt like a cut. I guess it still does, or did in 2009, when you were inducted into the Hall of Fame, and you addressed Pop directly without actually using his name and said, regarding his failure to put you on varsity, “I wanted to make sure you understood: You made a mistake, dude.”

Well, it was your mistake. You used what should have been a joyful occasion to call out a man for something he did not actually do. A sick and indigent man at that. As we both know, Pop’s life fell apart after you left town. Not his fault. A disease ran in his family, paranoid schizophrenia or some such thing, and he started acting strange, and he lost his job, and his wife, and his daughter, and pretty much everything else. Took to drinking, as you or I might do in similar circumstances.

Tommy Craggs responds:

This is the monstrousness that makes “magazine writer” a term of disparagement in some circles. The writer believes that his (and it’s most always “his”) attention ennobles and validates the people he’s writing about—and then wants to be congratulated for having done them the favor of writing about them. Pop Herring is a symbol of how much you, Thomas Lake, care about regular people, forgotten people, the people Michael Jordan is too much of a big shot to connect with anymore. And for anyone who wants to buy the feeling of being realer and more righteous than Michael Jordan, you started a “Show Pop Some Love” page on an indie funding-platform website. That’s probably a good idea, since the publication of your “open letter” all but ensures that Jordan won’t lift a finger.

So there’s you, Thomas Lake. To borrow from one dead Irish writer, who’s he when he’s at home? According to this here site, you got your start in newspapers at age 17, writing a story forThe Evening Times in Little Falls, N.Y., about a subscriber on your paper route. You eventually moved on to bigger things, while your old paper entered a bewildered senescence of its own, one might say. The other day, our intern, Dan Gartland, called up your old newspaper. He asked the guy in the newsroom who picked up the phone if you had ever thought to reach out to the paper. After all, this was the place that got you started on the long road to success. Had Thomas Lake stopped by the office? we asked. Had he offered to mentor any young writers?

Quick Reads

- The always-phenomenal, always-over-the-line KSK guide to naming your fantasy football team.

- A TUMBLR FULL OF ANIMATED CALVIN AND HOBBES GIFS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

- Craigslist missed connection: “As the stink grew, you continued to deny your flatulence, but it was evident…You are beautiful and even if you are a liar and fart like a Clydesdale, I’d love to meet up sometime.” Has anyone ever heard of a Craigslist MC success story?

- Fred Durst says Limp Bizkit is done for good. Why now, why not 10 years ago? It’s been one of my pop culture goals for awhile for Durst/LB to make a comeback only to be exactly the same. This is to say that I would want Durst not to have gained any humility or self-awareness during his 10-year exile from the mainstream, for him to come back on the scene as obnoxious and arrogant as ever, and to start dating Miley Cyrus or Taylor Swift. Or, even better, to falsely claim to be doing so.

- The odds of this $62 “nose straightener” actually working are lower than the odds that you will actually click through to see what I’m talking about.

- Teach me how to DOUGie (as in Doug Funnie…)

Food Porn

Meatball slider @ Purple Pig

Bacon/Merkt’s Cheddar Burger w/ Tater Tots @ Will’s Northwoods Inn

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