LeBron James Is An Idiot

Allow yesterday's post about what's positive in sports be an anomaly of sorts, because today we will revert back to identifying all things negative - and what better way to show the ugly side of professional sports than by highlighting LeBron's comments from earlier today.

Anybody that knows me personally or has read this site is aware of my distaste for LeBron James. It's not that I hate the person, but that I hate the fact that he is the most talented and skilled basketball player in the history of the game, but lacks the mental tenacity and killer instinct necessary to place him atop the pedestal of greatness amongst a pantheon of stars.

Earlier today, LeBron and his 'brilliant' manager/homey Maverick Carter released a statement claiming that much of the backlash surrounding his 'Decision' broadcast and the subsequent news was racially motivated. LeBron claims that his decision to take his talents to Miami and the nationally broadcasted hour-long show which he used as a platform was so negatively received because he was black. Let's get something straight here Mr. James - the backlash was not because you are black, it's because you embarrassed the city that raised you and the only team you've known. Identifying something as based on the colour of one's skin is so 1960's and has no place in a sport dominated by African-American athletes.

Perhaps a comparison would help. Indianapolis Colts quarterback and Super Bowl Champion Peyton Manning is arguably his sport's biggest star. He is well-spoken, humorously self-depricating (see Saturday Night Live) and a wonderful role model for children. He is also white. Not just white, but we're talking the love child of L.L. Bean and Betty Crocker white. If he were to entertain the prospects of leaving the Colts via free agency, only to broadcast his decision to leave Indianapolis for greener pastures, you bet your life the city would be pissed and burn his jerseys a la LeBron's #23 Cavs kit.

Their reaction would have absolutely nothing to do with race. The reason the people of Cleveland are pissed at LeBron is because the city is an absolute hole riddled with terrible sports franchises like the Indians and Browns, and he was their saviour. He put the team on his back and led the to an NBA Final. He was a product of nearby Akron, Ohio and the city of Cleveland embraced him as their saviour.

There is nothing wrong with leaving via free-agency, but to do so by embarrassing the place you called home is why you have received such a negative reaction and why your brand image has been hurt in the process. It has absolutely nothing to do with race, and as long as professional athletes cower behind the veil of race relations, many people will not be able to look beyond it. It's your call Mr. James, we're clearly all paying close attention.

2010's Best Moment in Sports: John McDonald's Father's Day Home-Run

A day removed from attending his father's funeral in Connecticut, Toronto Blue Jay shortstop and all-around nice guy John McDonald walked into the team's dressing room with a home run in mind. A home run he had promised to his father Jack in his final days of battling liver cancer. McDonald entered the season with 13 homers in 1,713 at-bats. Needless to say he is not much of a power hitter, but on this day there were greater things than potential and statistics in play.

In the ninth inning of a blowout loss to the San Francisco Giants, ironically enough on Father's Day, Johnny Mac crushed a hanging breaking ball to left for a two-run home run. The video of the home run and post-game interview are a perfect testament of how sports are about more than money, fame and all the luxuries that come with it.

As a child, I recall playing catch in the yard with my father and talking all things baseball with him. It was, and still is a common bond we share that is much more about family than sports. This is way I can imagine and understand the bond John and Jack McDonald shared, and perhaps why I still get a little choked-up every time I watch the video of that day and the way Johnny Mac cries when he laments that all he wanted to do after the game was call his dad.

Things I've Learned From Rap: How To Dress for Winter

Say what you want about hip hop and the urban fashion it inspires, but one thing that cannot be denied is the fact that these dudes are always adequately dressed.

For generations, there has been a constant battle between fashion and function. When these two elements meet in a harmonious middle, the results can be rather outstanding. I don't have the balls nor the income to sport fur coats during the winter months, but if I did, I would take Cam'ron's example below and wear matching fur in ridiculously effeminate colours. I would also throw some punctuation into the middle of my name.

Call these Lemonheads, Ice like Winnipeg

Besides wearing head-to-toe leather, is there another example of fashion that so clearly demonstrates man's place in the food chain. As far as I'm concerned, the squirrel-huggers over at PETA need to rip into a Slim Jim and draw a simple diagram detailing the 'Circle of Life'. Fur keeps its wearer warm, absorbs the smell of that purple kush and stray droplets of Crystal and efficiently insulates somebody slangin' dat rock on tha block. Kevlar vests are well-veiled by the bulkiness of such coats and it's quite easy to hide the firearm of choice beneath the contours of a fur coat because you need to keep that burner hot wardy. Take a clue from the people below and dress properly this winter and avoid the consequences of the com'mon cold.

Polow knows 'bout dat, Jeezy's was in da cleanaz

Humpty ain't tryin' see dem flu symptoms

Puffy and ya boy T.I.P. know 'bout dem chinchillaz

Fitty so insulated he don't need no shirt, but I ain't tryin' to seem dem milk glands wardy!

As a final note, should you not have the resources to afford a fur coat, something else I've learned from rap, and specifically the wisdomatic learning's of Silkk Tha Shocker, is that you can always 'Charge It 2 Da Game'.

What an Idiom! I Bet I Could Drink You Under The Table

Often at night, following a few beers, I am able to have some creative thoughts once I have placed the stresses of the common day in the far reaches of my mind. It's rather paradoxical, since I can only think at night once the moon is out, but I can only write during the day, with the sun legitimizing my efforts as I envision other famous writers honing their crafts at the same time.

Typically at night, often with the assistance of a drink, I will think of something, jot it down in my notebook or on the Word function on the B Berry so that I may revisit it the following morning. Last night, as a female friend and I were sitting beneath the graffiti-littered canope of the gazeebo on Queen Street East, I was informed that she could drink me under the table. No doubt I replied with something along the lines of a 'No Shit', but nonetheless, I was left thinking about the origins of the term.

With a little research, it became apparent that the old adage Drink You Under The Table is an Idiom because it is a culturally specific term and it is not meant to be taken literally. Despite its contextual relevance, it was once a very literal term that now represents the ability of one person to out-drink another, but why Under The Table?

Apparently the idiom originates in the era of horse and buggy and cowboy and indian when men would drown their many sorrows at the local saloon. Originally, to drink somebody under the table meant that the losing competitor of a drinking challenge would actually pass-out and lay beneath the table as a result of the over-consumption of alcohol. This once literal term has been applied to modern-day drinking rituals and is used a the primary means of establishing one's dominance regarding the ability to out-drink a friend.

The More You Know!

NBA Preview: Why Me No Like LeBron.

As I stare at this photo of LBJ about to lock lips with Damon Jones, now I realize why LeBron decided to take his talents to a sexually-liberal city like Miami. Cleveland's state flower is the 'No Homo'.

1) He embarrassed himself, ESPN and the city of Cleveland with that stupid 'Decision' program that left everyone wondering who exactly consults him on such matters. His High School teammate and CEO of his management firm Maverick Carter clearly has one client and will be working at Denny's slinging Grand Slams by year-end.

2) LeBron refuses to marry his baby-mama (the mother of his children for those caucasian readers whose births pre-date the first season of MASH.) She's had two baby giants run-through the confines of her birth-canal, stretching her like a animal hide used to make drums, yet he still will not marry the woman.

3) He named one of his boys Bryce. Quick, imagine you're a black kid - think of another name that screams white-boy more than Bryce? Imagine growing-up with a name like that. I pity the fool.


"Hey 'Bron, while you're down there, BJ for a ring, I've got 5"

4) For all his raw talent and unbelievable physical advantages, he lacks the killer instinct. Perhaps he cannot be faulted for lacking the one element that seperates the Jordans and Kobes from the Wince Carters of the NBA, but don't annoint yourself the 'Chosen One' only to sign with Miami to play second fiddle to Dwayne Wade, who has already brought a title to the city.

5) LeBron is soft. Sure, he's built like an outside linebacker and has the hops of a Leffe Blonde, but his antics before games and his post-game hugs and chats with the opposition make me sick. When Jordan ran the league, he would drop 50 on you, shit in your mouth and maybe throw a half-ass high-five your way post-game. These days, LeBron is the epitome of whats wrong with the league - these guys don't want to embarass each other, they want to discuss their new Hip Hop record labels or where the best place to get laid in Milwaukee is. If I was built like LeBron, I would be dunking on anything that moved and eating their children.

V is for Victory... And Other Things.

As the old adage goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. In this case, many laughs accompany those words.

Things I've Learned From The Kids at Bayside High

Now for something completely non-sensical and absolutely irrelevant that can only damage the pedigree of this website: Mr. Beldinnnnngggg! Damn that picture makes me want to sing 'Faaabbbrrricclaaanndd Fabricland!'

A.C. Slater took Jessie Spano's virginity, and he shoved it in a locker. Boy oh boy did that hurt her image as Bayside's resident feminist. A few years later she got butt-naked in showgirls and has probably shown her vag in an episode of Red Shoe Diaries - I'm not certain because I missed an episode or two. Actually, on second thought, just the one.

Had Spano's virginity not occupied such space in the aforementioned locker, Screech would have likely been forced in such locker by his friends A.C. and Zach. Once a nerd with no future that couldn't even wheel Lisa Turtle, who was clearly ovulating every episode, the real-life Screech a la Dustin Diamond is now a stand-up comic waxing poetic the virtues of sex with hookers and other useful tips for things I'm not above. Apparently he also has a sex-tape.

The point is that in this day and age of people changing careers in their 50's and getting remarried in their 60's, there is always room for a little reinvention. Should any of my readers one day be forced to deal with the depression and despair that goes along with making poor life-choices, just remember that it's never too late to reinvent yourself.

As a sidebar, does anybody else feel that Tiffany Amber-Thiessen is the most underated actress from the 1990's. Every single person with a television and a penis loved Kelly Kapowski, and her character on 90210 was one of the most influential, especially since she was essentially as replacement for Brenda once she moved to England. In hindsight, I thought 90210 was doomed following Brenda's departure after Season 4, but these fears were quickly set-aside once I gazed upon Ms. Thiessen again, this time thankfully outside the hallowed walls of Bayside High with her new surgically augmented acting chops.

The Soap Box

Rants are like assholes. Any moron with a website can compose a few sentences of subjective hatred towards a person, group or object without much effort. Legitimate writers who take pride in their work - even sophmoric columnists (see the entire staff @ The Toronto Star) who are employed to share their opinion – are typically hesitant to have a piece turn into a rant, because complaints have a shelf life and nobody likes a bitch.

While I too am hesitant to rant, there are a few things that have been making my blood boil of late, and I feel better about myself if I group them together in a new feature called “The Soapbox”.

Mexican Reporter Causes A Stir:

In a case of much ado about nothing, hot-as-fuck Mexican sports reporter Ines Sainz did the rounds last week of all the major American morning shows, complaining about her treatment while in the New York Jets locker room. During an interview with Jets quarterback Mark Sanchez (because his parents are Mexican, not because he sucks), several players were heard making comments concerning Ms. Sainz physical attributes. She is quoted as being pretty cool with the comments, however the American media has blow this shit out of proportion.


Perfect work attire: The 'new' pantsuit.

Let’s get a few facts straight; she works for TV Azteca. That same company sent a reporter to the 2008 Super Bowl in a wedding dress to propose to Patriots QB Tom Brady. Talk about legitimate sports journalism. Her ass is amazing and she wears jeans two-sizes too small and blouses buttoned-up to her naval. Standing amongst 53 professional athletes, many of whom are naked and just came off the field where they are trained to be ruthless-sons-of-bitches, I think we can understand where these cat calls came from – the heart. If I’m coming out of the shower after a grueling practice and an ass-so-fat you can see it from the front asks me a question, I’m likely to draw more wood than the Group of Seven and drop that towel like it’s swimming in lice. Shiiiiiiiiit.


2011 Winner of the Edward R. Murrow Award for Excellence in Journalism?

It’s not like Jets cornerback and father of 8 Antonio Cromartie told her he wanted to part the folds of her quesadilla with his hot tamale. The player’s comments were tame in comparison. Consider the shape of that ass, the primary demographic which fancies such asses, and the general make-up of a professional football team. Other female reporters a la Suzy Kolbert don’t dress like skanks, they approach the context and subject matter of their work as professionally and focused as do their male counterparts. If you want to be taken seriously, you must first take yourself seriously, and let’s face it, an ex Miss Mexico who was clearly hired just to shake that massive empanada is nobody’s idea of legitimate sports reporting. The only people that should be offended are any aspiring female sports journalists who strive for legitimacy while their Mexican colleagues continue ask the tough questions and dress like hookers.


Ines Sainz will not be criticized for her 'body of work'

Derek Jeter is a Cheat? Eat a Dick:

He's also had sexy-time with some of Hollywood's elite women. If for nothing else, I like the guy, however following an incident from a recent game against the Tampa Bay Rays, some people's opinions of the man have changed.



During a game earlier this week against an the AL East foe Rays, Jeter was struck by a pitch on the handle of the bat. The home plate umpire assumed it had struck him somewhere on the arm, and awarded Jeter first base as a result of being struck by a pitch. The sound of the ball striking the wooden-nub of the bat is unmistakable, and if anyone is to blame, it is the homeplate umpire. As any competitor should, Jeter took first base following a bit of acting to accentuate the pain of being struck by a pitch. The wool could not be pulled over Tampa manager Joe Maddon's eyes, and he quickly darted out to homeplate to argue the call with the homeplate umpire.


courtesy of ESPN.com - Pete Rose anecdote reminds us of a time when men were men.

The complaints concerning Jeter's actions have been many since his little acting debut, but how can we blame him for doing what many athletes do in many sports - take advantage of the situation. Name a sport other than golf where an athlete does not attempt to squeeze any advantage possible out of any opportunity for the benefit of his team? Winning is everything. I'm so tired of this bullshit about 'it's about competition' or 'it doesnt matter who wins or loses' - like hell it doesn't, the reason sports are played is for the escapist value of winning and the satisfaction it brings. In amateur sports, losing teams are now awarded with trophies for their participation and effort. Are you kidding me? This is how we breed and culture a society of pussies and apathetic douche-bags.

Winning in sports is a template for success in life. Those who find success through the loopholes and nuances of modern sport should be heralded as winners, not lambasted for being a bad role model. Since when has a pro athlete been a good example of a high moral standard? These assholes who are ripping Jeter should worry more about what kind of example they're setting for their children, and not what influence Jeter may or may not have.

The Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF):

For the last two weeks, this city has been enveloped by the film festival and all the major media outlets have become a platform for Hollywood self-promotion. None of these film executives or actors give a flying-fuck about the city. They are here to promote their films in hopes that they get picked-up by a distributor for major release and further pad their pockets.

Why do the people of Toronto care so much that these celebrities love our city. They don't, and even if they did, would they say any less? The entire festival is about self-promotion and posturing for the Hollywood elite.

It's maddening that the local newspapers and television networks go to such lengths to promote foreign talent, while doing so little to encourage our own homegrown actors, directors and writers. Perhaps I'm making mountains out of mole hills, but the Toronto International Film Festival does very little for the city beyong a brief two-week spike in upscale hotel occupancy and local cocaine sales. Everybody needs to get off TIFF's dick and support something that is inherently Toronto - like this blog.Perfect work attire: Dress casual

A Traveller's Diary: Bread & 'Pain'

I stand frustrated and tired following a seven-hour flight from Toronto’s Lester B. Pearson International Airport to Amsterdam’s Schlipol. Gathered with fellow passengers amidst what appears to be a line, but resembles more a hoard of famished people fighting amongst themselves for war-time rationed bread supplies.

Not only has my connecting flight to Paris been delayed numerous times, but I have already been questioned at length by a Dutch customs official who appeared to be 12 years-old about the nature of my stay, and had my skateboard sans trucks and wheels seized for its potential usage as a weapon. Silly me, I must have missed the one about the on-flight terrorist attack that was successfully carried out with the use of an 8” Workshop deck in place of a box-cutter or explosives. This has me wondering what exactly constitutes a weapon. Maybe they should wrap my fists in cellophane or perhaps staple my mouth shut in the event that I inadvertently enter the cockpit and salivate all over the controls.

At customs, I am asked to either throw out the small bottle of mouthwash I have stashed in my carry-on luggage or have it placed with my luggage by walking it to the baggage area approximately one kilometer back in the direction I just came from. I understand in the post-9/11 world that all precautions must be taken to prevent any form of a terrorist attack, but if my Listerine is indeed a bomb, having it detonate in the belly of the commercial jet rather than two-feet above my head in the carry-on compartment seems to be a bit of a redundancy. Either way, the plane will explode into millions of tiny particles while the hundreds on-board vaporize instantaneously and litter the picturesque farms and fields of rural Netherlands with their remains.

Needless to say, my experience with the airport in Amsterdam was not one to remember. An announcement conveniently spoken in a seemingly computer generated Dutch hybrid of English and Navi-speak declares that the flight to Paris will be delayed further as they anticipate the arrival of the plane, and unfortunately, they will not provide us with either their much renowned government-regulated weed or prostitutes as we wait. Honestly, is there a better way to kill time than a quick toke and insert? The answer to that question is a resounding no. The monotonous, computer-like voice apologizes to the throngs in what must be the most insincere declaration of remorse in the history of spoken word. I almost expect to hear the voice apologize for accidentally deleting my hard drive in grade 11 just as I had completed my end of semester essay on the similarities between the War of 1812 and Wrestlemania VI (in the event that you’re curious, both the pivotal battle and the ‘Granddaddy of Them All’ both took place in Canada and featured the eventual winner entering the place of battle to the sounds of deafening heavy medal that had onlookers caught in an unabashed frenzy.)

Several people as frustrated as I am shout-out indecipherable words of anger, while I contain my ire knowing that a plane is most certainly a prerequisite for flight, lest any of us miraculously grow wings or the seemingly inhuman ability to teleport in the meantime. Behind me stands Andrew, a 30 year-old banker with a John Cusack-like dime-sized opening of a mouth from New York City whom I’ve gotten to know whilst standing in this quasi-line. We seem to share a frustration for the lack of order and organization, but remain politely silent until a stubby, rapidly-thinning French man bypasses both Andrew and I to stand directly in front of me. He’s standing so close that I can distinguish the smell of his unwashed, sparsely distributed scalp directly beneath my nose. In amazement, I turn around to face Andrew and we share a moment of complete frustration stemming from this example of line circumvention (see butting). Unable to restrain myself any longer, I tap this guy on his shoulder and ask him as politely as I can with consideration to the conditions, what exactly he thinks he’s doing. The following dialogue ensues:

Me: “Sorry, there’s a line here that I’ve been patiently waiting in for sometime”

Jean-Jacques: “Weell esqueeze me, but there is two lines, one foor the economy class, and one for frequent fleeers and business class travelleurs like moi”

Me: “Well esqueeze me, but I don’t see anything indicating the existence of two lines, therefore I suggest moving yourself to the back of the line, (turning to Andrew) unless there is a complete lack of order on this continent of yours”

JJ: “Trust me you silly Amereeecan, things most certainleee work betterrr heeere”

After this last comment, the man I assume has multiple first names from a country which has civil strikes over social issues but insists that things work better here, seems to sense the anger brewing inside of me and the expression developing on my face, and quickly squiggles his way towards the front of the line like a garter snake escaping the clutches of a famished lion. Conflict averted right? Not so much. After boarding the plane, I sit exhausted in aisle seat 4C on an aged and decrepit French airbus that the Wright Bros may have diagrammed only to notice that across the aisle, sitting directly next to Andrew, is monsieur Jean-Jacques Nut-Saque. Upon realization of his location and his previous exchange with Andrew and me, he squiggles again towards the back of the half-occupied jet to find another seat. What an asshole. Aware of how unfair and narrow minded it can be to base a generalization of an entire people based on a single person’s conduct (see black golfers), I refuse to make the assumption that all French people are like our friend J.J., so I embark on a fact-finding mission to France’s largest city to disprove the myths and create a few of my own.

In hindsight, had I known that my impression of the French would change radically once stepping foot in Montparnasse, I probably would not have been so annoyed with my new multiple-monikered enemy. All it took was one café elongee and a Marlboro Red given to me by a statuesque brunette to quickly change my opinion of the French. And now, I sit here on an overcast and rainy day in Toronto, wishing for nothing more than a spot on a brasserie patio, a café and a half-pint of Kronenbourg with a Marlboro Red.

The Self-Identification of The Douche-Bag

Greetings to my populous following and those who have been struck by a lightning bolt of fortune and stumbled upon this page. To remain consistent with this week’s theme of judging others, I have been traversing the avenues and lanes of this fine city of mine, in search of examples of self-identifying garments and the image they project. As previously mentioned, I am not one to judge and am the first to acknowledge that I have as many, if not more flaws than a first model Apple product or our local transit authority – however sometimes a novice writer must opt for an easy-laugh in hopes of keeping his audience.

Having recently entered the fourth decade of my existence, the image I project, by way of the clothing I wear has become of greater importance to me. I rarely wear shirts that feature a prominent logo or emblem simply as a means of ‘dressing my age’ and am conscious of how others may judge me based on what reflection my clothing may portray. Unfortunately for many, a t-shirt is often an adequate means of understanding a person and their motivations without even having to share a brief conversation.



Ed Hardy is an industry leader in the field of self-identifying its target market. Any person who chooses to wear an $80 t-shirt emblazoned with gold, skulls and the company name dozens of times in calligraphic writing is speaking volumes about the kind of person he or she is. This person has a collection of trainers and tennis shoes, a designated tooth brush that keeps said footwear gleaming-white and eight pairs of Diesel jeans of the exact same shade. The gym, tanning and laundry are all staples of an average day. This person loves mixed martial arts and has either a barbwire tattoo or a Chinese character on the neck which stands for important virtues like ‘strength’ and ‘axe effect’ (Just Google Image search Ed Hardy or Douche Bag and be amazed at the amount of photos depicting such a demographic. I would have posted more but could honestly not stomach the sight of men covered in tan-in-a-can.) I could go on for hours, but the point is that these t-shirts act as a means of self-identification for its wearer.



Like the term ‘hipster’, the ‘douche-bag’ has become a coinage of sorts for a terrifyingly fast-growing membership of the 18-34 demographic. Where the horn-rimmed spectacles and fixed-gear bike is the self-identifier of the hipster, the Ed Hardy t-shirt performs the same function for the d-bagger. Despite the fact that these aforementioned tees are a serious eye-sore, their value as a means of identifying the douche-bag type is unquantifiable, and their contribution to society is immeasurable. We all owe a debt of gratitude to Ed Hardy, however I would still like to see each and every shirt burned in a mountainous pile of filth, redeeming mankind and his common sense and appeasing the Muslim world for the threat of burning the Qu’ran. Or we could send them all to Africa, so impoverished little orphans can run about in t-shirts that cost more than the value of their nations GDP and make mosquito nets to protect the children at night from the malaria-transporting insect.

Being a Dickhead's Cool!

With all my might I fight the urge to be critical of dickheads, more commonly referred to as hipsters, because judging people is not fair. Well actually it is, but I don't wear socks with my loafers either and I have the worst blog in the world - Who am I to judge?

This Week's Winner of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence: Jose Canseco and Danny Bonaduce

This here little blog is really turning into a piece of shit. It appears the novelty of some of my recurring bits and the lack of actual words seem to be offending my reader(s).

What better way to celebrate this than with this here advertisement. I needs to get me one of these Electronic Cigarettes immediately - they look amaaaaazing!!! Jose can you see how much you've shrunk since becoming the moral standard and ditching the performance enhancing drugs for electronic smokes? Even the ginger-midget 'roid freak from The Partridges towers over you.

The only thing that could make this any better is if they were both wearing tight-as-fuck black T's covered in skulls, calligraphy and ultimate fighting iconographic images. Toodles!

That Cursed Fibula

Colorado starting pitcher Aaron Cook was struck last night by a line drive off the bat of Toronto-born MVP candidate Joey Votto of the Cincinnati Reds. The first crack was the sound of a ball sharply hit off of a quality Canadian Maple bat, the second was the sound of Cook's fibula snapping like a dead branch. Enjoy!

Book Of The Week: James Joyce's "Dubliners"

This collection of 15 short stories should be a part of every home library. James Joyce is Dublin's most heralded son, and this set of short stories paints a perfect picture of the city and its people at the turn of the century.

Despite the fact that several of the stories deal with life's more difficult moments and obstacles such as death and illness, very few writers are able to convey ideas with such ease and eloquence as Joyce.

If you have some more time on your hands, try reading "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" by Joyce, considered by many to be his greatest work.

A Great Song:

Subtitled version for my lingustically challenged friends.

MC Solaar Nouveau Western (1997)

Beverly Hills 90210: A Celebration of Greatness

All of this Beverly Hills 90210 retrospection has allowed me to reflect on some of the shows more comedic elements - and of course Simmons and Berry for the inspiration arghh. Has any other show in the history of television been so skilled at providing unintentional comedy? Probably not. There are certain elements of the show that are timeless and transcend genres, however there are several others that are unfortunately dated, hence the unintentional comedy. I could likely sit here all day rehashing some of the finer moments that resulted in a moment of unscripted humour, but I would like to focus on Tori Spelling's character Donna Martin and her numerous unbelievable story arcs.

During season 4, approximately 20 million viewers tuned in each week to witness the trials and tribulations of the students of Beverly Hills High. Albeit, at this point they were in their first year of college and no longer students of the famed institution where for some reason it took the kids three years to complete their junior and senior years (except David, who was a freshman in the first season while everyone else was a junior, and amazingly completed high school in three years.) Among these millions of viewers, the majority were teenage girls who all shared a common bond; the hatred of Donna Martin's character, her gnarley hamburger-patty like cleavage and the jealousy that went along with it.


She doesn't need Glamour Shots, she needs facial reconstructive demolition performed by a skilled labourer and a pneumatic chisel. I am an asshole.

To state the obvious, Tori Spelling is not an attractive woman. Her father Aaron created the show, and thus Donna Martin's character was thrust upon the viewers each Thursday amidst some incredible development in her life/career. I would like to point-out some examples of such unbelievable plot twists to identify just how much unintentional comedy was a result of her character.

There is no chronological order to this list:

1) Donna becomes a children's fashion designer when the daughter of the character played by Hilary Swank finger-paints on some of her designs. Some how, this results in Donna becoming an established pattern maker and seamstress to the children of Beverly Hills.

2) While in Paris visiting Brenda, Donna is approached by a fashion designer who begs her to stay in France to begin a lucrative career as a runway supermodel. Apparently the aforementioned designer was visually impaired, because not only is Donna fugly, but is not the most apt runway walker (see #3.)


As if David now bangs Megan Fox. Look, I don't think she's as hot as most other males in my 18-34 demographic, but it is still an accomplishment for Mr. Brian Austin Green, and a nice step-up from Donna's Belmont Stakes-like appearance.

3) At an inexplicably hugely successful fashion show at the school, Donna not only displays some of her design creations, but she models them too. Watching Donna struggle down the catwalk with the 1990's most known horse-face (Sarah Jessica Parker takes the cake for the post-millennium Seabiscuit look-a-like contest) is an unbearable sight. To say she is awkward would be an understatement.

* As a sidebar, at this same fashion show, which for some unmentioned reason is attended by many celebrities and luminaries, David is discovered by a Los Angeles radio director for his DJ'ing skills. During the fashion show, David is seen off to the side spinning records and providing some inspired hip hop scratching techniques that catch the eye, rather the ear of this radio executive who offers Brian a position at his station. A few episodes later, Brian becomes a talk-radio host, providing his on brand of advice, despite the fact that he has zero experience and it is one of the most coveted positions in American radio. As far as unbelievable story arcs go, David's character was not only a talented DJ and academic prodigy, but an accomplished musician who often performed at the Peach Pit After Dark in the shows later seasons.

4) While in college, amidst one of their numerous fights, Donna and David are approached during a spat and told that they would be the perfect talk radio advice team. Because of this, they do exactly that until their tandem of brilliant words is split-up only to have Donna holding court with her own show during the day, while David jealously continues to slave away on the station's overnight show.

* Advice I would take from Donna Martin; how to have disgusting cleavage that clearly identifies your ribcage and the location of your zyphoid process and solarplex region, how to have the lengthiest face in the history of homosapiens... you know what scratch that, how to have the longest face in the animal kingdom, how to not fuck any of your boyfriends in hopes of maintaining your virginity, only so all of these boys can run-off and bang girls like Valerie (Tiffany Amber Thiessen), etc. How to date the large African American captain of the basketball team (Desean Hardell) only to have him take-off because you wouldn't let him enter the birth canal (which, as far as missed opportunities go, if the script had had Desean take Donna's virginity it would have been a massive moment, especially when you consider the 90's were not as acclimated to inter-racial couples as we are today and the fact that Donna's mom was a huge racist - recall her reaction to the two dancing at the Debutantes Ball.)


With David's 'blown-out' hair and Steve Sanders' use of the word bro, it's easy to see where the inspiration for the cast of the Jersey Shore came from.

5) Donna graduates High School. At first glance, this may not seem that unbelievable, but it is. She was caught cheating and kicked out of Beverly Hills High by Mrs. Teasley (who for some unknown reason was at her staggette party for her marriage to David). While the kids were finishing up their senior years, Donna was at home adjusting the face and the massive rawhide saddle on her back which was irritating her sciatic nerve. Seeing Donna graduate amidst her peers was a moment of pure fiction, and as a result unintentional comedy.

As far as examples of unintentional comedy are concerned, it's hard to match Donna Martin's penchant for being laughed at and not laughed with. Sure, in hindsight Dylan's monotonous one-liners and sideburns (fuck i wish this blog has footnotes, because remember when Dylan is drinking again and Brendan glares at his beer in disgust, Dylan replies with "You want one bro, or you just gonna stare at mine?". Also, another great one-liner comes when Brendan attempts to assist Dylan amidst another booze-ridden binge by informing him that he's the only friend he has left, Dylan replies "Bro, the bridges I've burned have paved my way"... that is genius writing right there!) Also see Steve Sanders clothing choices and hairline, Andrea's age, gut, physical appearance and relationship with Brendan, Kelly's haircuts and choice in men, Ray Pruitt's singing career and the fact that not only did he go on tour without a band, label or record, but he also kicked Donna down the stairs at that hotel. Also, the multiple owners of the Peach Pit After Dark, Valerie's entire character, though clearly the most attractive, was a major source of unintentional comedy, the episode where Luther Vandross performed at the After Dark, Nat's wedding was attended by only two adults, him and his wife, Nat's wife becoming pregnant in her 50's, the racism episode where Brendan and the editor of the newspaper at the all-Black Shaw High run each others editorials, the school dance that caps that same episode... honestly, I could go on for days and days, however I unfortunately have things to do today and just wanted to take a moment to highlight many examples of unintentional comedy on Beverly Hills 90210, namely the numerous exploits of Donna Martin.

Bon Voyage Heath

My favorite skateboarder Heath Kirchart has announced his retirement following the release of his final video part on Emerica's "This Is Gold". Not sure exactly what that means, but from what I've read, I seem to care more than he does and at my age, I probably shouldn't care as much as I do, which is a little less than I expected I would be at this unexpected news.


"The End" Birdhouse Skateboards


"Sight Unseen" Transworld Magazine

heath kirchart - mind field from salpiman on Vimeo.

"Mind Field" Alien Workshop Skateboards

The above three parts are but a few of many from a stellar career. He marched to the beat of his own drummer and was never afraid to huck himself down a massive set. He was elusive, quiet and socially awkward. I'll miss him.

Happy 90210

Friends, readers, colleagues and internet lurkers, lend me your ears. Today is 90210, and to celebrate it I thought I'd post a few of my favorite photos from the show. Also, I find it necessary to point out the fact that I do not support or watch the current incarnation of 90210, and could not be paid a large enough sum to do so. As a sidebar, the best television show in the history of time, The Wire, featured a young boy in its fourth season who struggled to avoid the pitfalls of coming-up in the hood. His name was Michael, and he is now the 'black guy' on the new 90210. Terrible career path.


Man, people really enjoyed hugging on this show. So much ambiguous, borderline sexual touching. And holy fucking denim... Dylan looks gnarley - his style transcends all genres of fashion. Andrea has a gunt, so obviously she was in her 30's and good ol' Steve Sanders (Ian Zeiring) looks like he's about to enter Kelly (Jenny Garth) from the rear.


Had to include one with the Walsh's...Hey where's Dylan? Probably just totalled another motorcycle or perhaps he is off filming a science fiction program with Malcolm Jamal Warner (Theo Huxtable).


The cast really made for a great topographical view. Andrea is a whore.

Guess What Thursday Is? 9/02/10

The cast of the first season of Beverly Hills 90210... if the guy on the end looks a little unfamiliar it's because he shot himself in the head during the inaugural season.

This Thursday, the 2nd day of August, the 9th month in the year of our Lord 2010 is a very special day. Should you list dates in the sequential order month/day/year, Thursday will then be 90210.

No, you are not mistaken - Thursday is 90210 and it only lasts for one day.

Oh sure, I'm gay as fuck for liking 90210. My apologies, but it reminds of a simpler time when life was more fulfilling and lacked all the distractions of today. Recall the first episode of a new season, when the kids would rent a summer home and Brendan and Dylan would see each other for the first time in months and embrace. Remember how awesome that felt? How included you may have felt in the circle of friends? When they graduated, what a mixture of emotions that was. Damn i was proud of Dylan and Kelly for overcoming numerous obstacles in life (reseeding hair-lines, cocaine, moms that did coke, moms that were sluts, being friends with Steve Sanders, etc.)

In the spirit and originality of Beverly Hills 90210 the original, and one of the general themes of this blog, I am just going to randomly list some objects, ideas and concepts that were so much better in the 90's.

I mean, just look at that photo. This is before the age of the hipster, the convenience of the cell phone, the advent of the Internet and the moment when everybody became a little too self-aware and image conscious. You think Brendan would have rocked denim on denim in 2010?

In the 1990's, people listened to music because they liked it, not because it was a means of being cool, or inversely a way of being cool by not appearing to be cool at all. Two years ago it was electro music and skinny jeans, this year it's Tom's shoes, dubstep and rolling-up the legs of those now tattered, perfectly distressed-looking skinny jeans.

I pine for the days when we would ride mountain bikes around the bluffs and down to the lake, sharing cigarettes in hopes of a head rush and listening to early 90's garage rock and grunge. Specialized Rock Hoppers, Sonic Unyon and Sub Pop, Nirvana, Porno for Pyros, Sonic Youth, Thrush Hermit, Hayden, etc, cheap smokes, Value Village, jeans that were ripped because you fell playing red-ass at school, Popsicles that cost a dime, awesome rap music performed by dudes in Raiders jackets or with high-top cuts and wooden Africa medallions around their necks, the original Reebok Pumps, no internet - people learned things by going to libraries and reading, no cell phones - I'll call you when i get home, not as I'm chauffeuring a family of 5 down the Gardiner doing 120 klicks with zero available hands, silk shirts (just joking), denim jackets that never had properly tailored sleeves, Fruit Roll-Ups, Slurpies, penny candies, station wagons, baseball cards stuck in the spokes of a bicycle, no fucking Youtube, skateboards with tiny wheels and skaters with baggy clothes and pressure flips, ball players with shorter shorts, until Corliss Williamson and his Arkansas Razorbacks popularized the baggy, 'round the ankles look, a packed to the tits SkyDome, movies about recreating dinosaurs from a fossilized prehistoric mosquito and sequels to action films that actually meant something, Sly Stallone, Arnold, Dolph and Jean-Claude, Rowdy Roddy Piper's films, wrestling, pornographic films (all these fake titties and weird premises are tired), FUBU (just joking), mothers packing lunches for their kids before pre-packaged processed bullshit took all of the fun and originality out of it, parents staying together and actually attending a PTA meeting and giving a fuck about their children and their schoolwork, after-school programs, Saturday morning cartoons, Pee Wee's Playhouse, Where in The World is Carmen SanDiego?, Kidstreet, the original American Gladiators and a day when children played outside, video games were too shit to be consuming and nobody was allergic to anything.

This is all that came to mind at the moment, perhaps I'll write an update in the coming days. In the meantime, I'm going to skate to the store and grab a freezie, bust a weak pressure flip on my way home and take the dogs for a walk.