The Super Bowl’s Journalism Malfunction
Almost as soon as the Super Bowl came of age as a festival of American excess, thriller writers began to imagine how terrorists might target the game for attack. Thomas Harris published “Black Sunday,” in 1975; in the novel, secular Palestinian terrorists collaborate with a disgruntled American veteran of the Vietnam War to strike a Super Bowl by turning a blimp into a weapon of mass destruction. (Harris went on to write “The Silence of the Lambs” and “Hannibal.”) In 1991, Tom Clancy published “The Sum of All Fears,” one of his Jack Ryan bestsellers. In that yarn, Arab nationalists (whose novel-reading habits happen to include “Black Sunday”) detonate a nuclear bomb at a Super Bowl in order to preëmpt peace in the Middle East (as if).
When the lights went out at the Superdome in New Orleans on Sunday night, at the start of the third quarter of Super Bowl XLVII, it seemed almost certain that an innocent electrical blackout had occurred. A similar blackout disrupted a Monday Night Football game in San Francisco the year before last. Yet surely I was not the only viewer who wondered for a minute or two if some form of Harris’s dark vision had been fulfilled.
Read more: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/comment/2013/02/super-bowl-blackout.html#ixzz2K3xkNdmU
2. Start Making Sense
Stop Making Sense’s opening number establishes it as a concert film like no other
Woodstock has the historical cachet. The Last Waltz boasts Martin Scorsese behind the camera and features The Band’s final performance with Robbie Robertson. Gimme Shelter captures the Stones at their peak, along with a freakin’ on-camera murder. A convincing case could be made for any one of these as the greatest concert movie ever shot—but it would be wrong. I’m not much for categorical pronouncements, but here’s the exception: There never has been, and in all likelihood never will be, a more glorious intersection of live music and cinema than Stop Making Sense. Shot by Jonathan Demme during Talking Heads’ 1983 tour supporting Speaking In Tongues, it’s the only concert film that transcends the genre’s usual function as a permanent record of a performance, and fashions a hybrid work of genuine art. David Byrne’s inventive conceptual ideas, designed explicitly for the stage, serve as a starting point for an experience that simultaneously honors what concertgoers witnessed and creates something new for the screen. There’s truly nothing else like it. Nobody has even tried.
Perversely, perhaps, I’d like to take a closer look at its least typical number: the first, “Psycho Killer.” One of Byrne’s many inspired ideas for this tour was introducing the band gradually, one or two members at a time; it takes six songs for the entire ensemble to appear. At the outset, the audience is treated to Byrne by himself, on an enormous but completely bare stage, playing an acoustic rendition of one of the band’s most jagged (and bass-driven) singles. This stripped-down opening serves as a sly bit of misdirection, since the show as a whole is busy to the point of being overstuffed: nine musicians, multiple slide shows, goofy props, bizarre costume changes, even a cameo appearance by a different band altogether (Tom Tom Club). But this solo “Psycho” is also strangely electrifying—so much so that, as much as I cherish the group energy that explodes later on, I also sometimes wish that Byrne had performed an entire set by himself at that age, when his creative vitality seemed inexhaustible.
3. UCB's Pay Battle
What clubs and comedians can learn from the raging UCB pay war
Many rushed to UCB’s defense, most notably and eloquently Chris Gethard. He argued that the theater has given him far more worth over the years than a piddly $20 per show would allow: the chance to find his voice and take unfettered risks. To him, the issue is less about money and more about respect—feeling like comedians’ art is worth something to someone. He also claimed The Great Debate wasn’t canceled because of Metzger’s comments, but because of poor attendance. The plot thickened.
4. At Least We're Enjoyin' The Ride
Not gonna lie.. got a lil dusty in my cubicle as I read this one..
The twin cruelties of attrition and age aren't about to start doing them favors, and so it would be easy and probably even accurate to declare this latest great era of Celtics basketball as complete, ready for the archives rather than prime time.
Rajon Rondo's season is over, the victim of a torn ACL in his right knee, an injury that could not be overcome by pure stubbornness despite his best efforts that night in Atlanta. Ray Allen left in a snit over the summer, and while the reasons may have been petty, that he's burying 60 percent of his corner threes for the Heat suggest the decision was prudent.
Only Paul Pierce and Kevin Garnett remain from the championship team of five full seasons ago, and while the effort and the savvy are there every night, the ancient legs sometimes don't allow for those old familiar results of big numbers and entertaining victories.
While it's hard for me and perhaps you too to concede that the final buzzer will soon sound on the half-dozen mostly fulfilling and always entertaining seasons of New Big Three era, Celtics boss Danny Ainge isn't about to get sentimental on us now. He busted up the championship starting five with his out-of-nowhere swap of Kendrick Perkins to Oklahoma City in February 2011 for, essentially, Jeff Green, and Doc Rivers isn't the only one in that locker room who still cites from time to time that the KG-Perk-Pierce-Allen-Rondo quintet never lost a playoff series when all were united and healthy.
5. Before She Had Crazy Hats...
A common item of complaint these days is the endless—and some say gratuitous—proliferation of music genres. “Chillwave dubstep nu-gaze whatever” is the type of slam you’ll hear a lot, despite the fact that it only makes the complainer look like a cranky old fuck. I know this because I’ve done it myself, in spite of the fact that I’ve readily used such ridiculous labels as Madchester, screamo, and powerviolence. Amid this constant barrage of taxonomical neologisms, though, it’s worth remembering that the name-game is nothing new. The entirety of the 20th century is rife with musical classifications and re-classifications, some argued vehemently for decades before Pitchfork came along.
Take, for example, soul. The word seems innocuous to today’s ears, one that evokes warm images of Stax, Motown, and those who have followed in that tradition. But it wasn’t always so accepted, nor so easily defined. The term had been in circulation long before the mid-’60s, when it became a catchall term for black music—especially the kind that crossed over to white audiences. Until then, the term R&B had sufficed. But when the sudden success of Motown in the early ’60s began to break down some of the racial barriers in the record-buying public, a friendlier name was needed—one without the seedier connotations (at least to many white sensibilities) of R&B. Soul, then, became not just a newly minted genre, but a way of marketing R&B to receptive white people who needed just a nudge in that direction—and maybe a label that looked slightly more "respectable."
6. Fishman Goes To The Moon
Because cmon, you knew there had to be at least one phish-related topic in here..
Phish’s Jon Fishman on The Who’s Keith Moon: A Beat To Call His Own
The Who appear on the current cover of Relix in a feature that includes an interview with Pete Townshend as well as many musicians’ memories of the group. Earlier in the month we presented Widespread Panic bassist Dave Schools’ thoughts on John Enwistle. Here is what Phish drummer Jon Fishman has to say about Keith Moon and The Who. It is a expanded version of his comments that appear in the magazine.
Many Moons
Keith Moon is not somebody I studied anything from specifically. With Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix and with Zappa’s band—and a lot of the art rock bands like Genesis, Yes, King Crimson and all that—I would learn specific things: specific coordinations, specific grooves and I would learn them beat for beat. And when it came to things like The Beatles and The Stones, I would learn them beat for beat. But from Keith Moon, interestingly when I think about it, I never learned anything of his exactly but his influence was just as great.
The image in my mind that I got when I would listen to The Who, and specifically Keith Moon, was of a guy somehow being able to fall down the stairs in time. It was like someone falling down the stairs with a drum set but landing on the beat. Somehow, this guy would be falling forward and it never seemed like he divided time up in an exact way. It seemed like he was always cramming in the last thoughts in the allowable space provided by the meter of the song.
7. Taking Down Te'o (And ESPN)
Deadspin Rides Manti Te’o Hoax Story to Renown—and Keeps Heat on ESPN
The Manti Te’o girlfriend hoax put the website, once derided as a repository for juvenile jokes, on the map. Editor Tommy Craggs tells David Freedlander the site’s philosophy is not to take sports too seriously—and to keep the pressure on its “death star,” ESPN.
When
Jack Dickey, a college senior at Columbia and a writer at the website
Deadspin, told editor Tommy Craggs he’d heard a tip that star Notre Dame
linebacker Manti Te’o did not in fact have a girlfriend
whose death inspired the Fighting Irish’s undefeated season, Craggs
wrote back in an instant message, “This would be the most amazing story.
This would be fucking amazing.”
“Oh
man,” he added in a transcript shared with The Daily Beast. “I have
such a hard-on. I want this story. I want it I want it I want it.”
When
the story broke a few days later, causing one of the biggest and most
bizarre scandals in American sports—and a bit of soul-searching on the
part of sports reporters who had bought into the story of a young woman
who was twice near death from leukemia and the effects of a car accident
only to insist that her boyfriend not attend her funeral, but play on
in her honor—it was perhaps the first time people outside of
sports-world obsessives had heard of, let alone read, Deadspin.
8. And On A Smiliar Note
and the dangers of the twitterverse...
That's it!
Blow 'em up!
Screw this team and start building for the future!
You heard this from a lot of Celtics fans (and Boston media personalities) in the wake of Rajon Rondo's ACL injury.
You it heard again on Friday after Jared Sullinger suffered a similar fate.
Throw in the towel! These guys are toast!
Screaming!!!
In the meantime, the Celtics have run off four straight wins — all four without Rondo, essentially three without Sullinger — to climb back over .500. And it's not just that they're winning, but how they're winning that's so impressive. The energy. The ball movement. The commitment to defense. The passion and chemistry. It's a welcome development after what they gave us over the first few months of the season.
Of course, we'd be singing a far different tune had they not salvaged yesterday's win against the Clippers. Had they blown that game, like they were so close to doing, we'd be right back on the negative horse. They'd be the same old apathetic Celtics, undeserving of any expectations. But for now, there's hope. There's reason to remain (relatively) optimistic about the post-Rondo/Sullinger Era.
At the very least, it's worth pumping the breaks on the "blow it up" talk. Especially when it's clear that that's the last thing Danny Ainge wants to do.
But that won't stop the rumors. From now until the trade deadline, short of the Celtics breaking off a 20-game win streak, we'll continue to hear rumblings of numerous deals that might be in the works — regardless of how realistic those rumblings are. Why? Because that's the world we live in. No one cares about real. It's all about headlines and clicks.
I'm not breaking new ground here. But that's just the way it is.
For instance, take this latest rumor about a potential deal between the Clippers and Celtics . . .
"Los Angeles Clippers interested in deal for Boston Celtics' Kevin Garnett, report says."
That's the ESPN headline, and when you click on the link, the story starts like this:
The Los Angeles Clippers are interested in acquiring Kevin Garnett from the Boston Celtics, the Sporting News reported Sunday, citing anonymous sources.
While the Sporting News reported that officials from both teams talked about a deal before the Celtics beat the Clippers 106-104 on Sunday, sources told ESPN's Chris Broussard that no trade talks have taken place between the teams.
Look at that again.
It takes ESPN all of two sentences to render the headline meaningless. To blow the rumor out of the water. Honestly, if there haven't been any trade talks, then what's the story? That the Clippers wouldn't mind trading for Kevin Garnett? That's not news. It's an obvious and almost useless piece of information. Of course they want Garnett. Outside of the Spurs, any contender would jump at the chance for KG.
But now it's in the pipeline. Now everyone has to jump in and get their jollies. In this case, ESPN is saying: "OK, so someone else started this silly rumor, but we won't tell you that's silly until we can cash in on the sillyness."
By the way, I don't mean to single out ESPN here. Everyone does it. And everyone will continue to do it. It's a vicious cycle. No matter what happens next, the rumors will keep on coming. In turn, we'll be hit with round after round of stories like this refuting stories that were never stories in the first place.
And finally, our heads will collectively explode, bringing an official end to the human race as we know it. It's going to be a trip. And after it's all said and done, the Celtics still won't be any closer to trading Kevin Garnett to Clippers than they were yesterday or today. It will all be a big waste of time.
Unless the Celtics lose to Toronto on Wednesday.
In that case, FIRE SALE!!
9. And on the Flip Side
Maybe we should just gloss over this one..
This Flaccid Times-Picayune Write-Up Of The Playboy Super Bowl Party Confirms The Death Of The Printed Word
Feb 2, 2013 9:40 PM
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While the most odious piece of Super Bowl journalism was achieved, flagrantly, when Rick Reilly decided it was his place to tell Colin Kaepernick how to run his complicated family life, the silver-medal podium had remained fallow until today. We can all thank the scorched shell of the Times-Picayune to fill the void with Doug MacCash's recap of Playboy's Super Bowl party.
At once vapid, tepid, obsequious, dull, aloof and boner-nostalgic, it
may be everything that's wrong with everything that's wrong.
The piece of journalism [sic] begins with the line "The Super Bowl 2013 Playboy party at the Jax Brewery was a dream come true" and hastens to devolve from there. You should read the whole thing, if you're feeling particularly constipated. Not since the last Gun Appreciation Day rally did a man so fawn over something being sold to him. It's like peering into the mind of a person who is moved to tears by dog food commercials. Indirectly it explains the existence of Branson, Mo. It exemplifies the journalist as a dandruff-nibbling bird on the shoulders of the famous. This is the newspaper version of Lenin's "useful idiots." I mean, for the love of David Foster Wallace, why do you send someone to cover an event as cosmically inane as a Super Bowl party sponsored by Playboy and have your reporter play it totally straight?
The short version is this. Late at night, Snoop Lion (nee Dogg) comes in and causes a stir by walking up a staircase. No one the reporter knows got to hang out with him. Playmates are pretty and they weren't wearing much. Red carpets are great because you see Tom Arnold. Many of the party-goers were rich. And by the end? "Decades old expectations were more or less met." That's the kicker. There is one actual quote in the story, and it is, "Hey, Snoop!" You know who yelled that? "A supplicant" who was "hoping for a nod or a gesture." Seriously, this party was off the chain!
Also, these were sentences:
The piece of journalism [sic] begins with the line "The Super Bowl 2013 Playboy party at the Jax Brewery was a dream come true" and hastens to devolve from there. You should read the whole thing, if you're feeling particularly constipated. Not since the last Gun Appreciation Day rally did a man so fawn over something being sold to him. It's like peering into the mind of a person who is moved to tears by dog food commercials. Indirectly it explains the existence of Branson, Mo. It exemplifies the journalist as a dandruff-nibbling bird on the shoulders of the famous. This is the newspaper version of Lenin's "useful idiots." I mean, for the love of David Foster Wallace, why do you send someone to cover an event as cosmically inane as a Super Bowl party sponsored by Playboy and have your reporter play it totally straight?
The short version is this. Late at night, Snoop Lion (nee Dogg) comes in and causes a stir by walking up a staircase. No one the reporter knows got to hang out with him. Playmates are pretty and they weren't wearing much. Red carpets are great because you see Tom Arnold. Many of the party-goers were rich. And by the end? "Decades old expectations were more or less met." That's the kicker. There is one actual quote in the story, and it is, "Hey, Snoop!" You know who yelled that? "A supplicant" who was "hoping for a nod or a gesture." Seriously, this party was off the chain!
Also, these were sentences:
Nothing quite matches the imagination of course, but the celebrity-centered bash certainly didn't disappoint.
When I first arrived, the playmates stationed outdoors were dressed in shoulder-less outfits. That must be chilly, I said to myself. Isn't it sad that that's what crossed my mind?
One of the young women pointed out that since Playboy is a monthly magazine; there are only 12 of them per year. I'd actually never looked at it that way. That means appearing as a Playboy playmate is probably statistically less likely than appearing in a Super Bowl, right?
The celebrities face a Roman phalanx of cold white television lights and black-eyed Cyclops cameras wielded by hyper-attentive media folk.
I'm here to tell you, seeing celebrities in person is great fun. And when I tell my kids what I did at work that day (or night, as the case may be), they listen attentively.
Everyone was tall, expertly dressed and styled. Many of the younger men looked like fashion-conscious athletes, the older men were gray and handsome like polished granite; the women of every age were glittering gemstones.
Onstage, [Trombone Shorty] is Vesuvius—those Super Bowl numerals make the Roman allusions irresistible. Rapper B.o.B. also put on a spirited show.Gentle reader, are you not transported? It's just like being there when you obviously should be anywhere else.
Here's one non-print-related link.. it's just that good...
A YouTube History of Ben Affleck
Once upon a time, before Ben Affleck was an accomplished DGA Award–winning director with a movie increasingly favored to win Best Picture, he was just another kid-made-good from Boston. He was also a child actor. And maybe you forgot, but he was engaged to Jennifer Lopez for a while there. Ben Affleck has lived many lives, all of them broadcast before us in sometimes excruciating detail and now archived forever on YouTube. So here, please join Vulture for a walk down Ben Affleck Memory Lane to remember just how far he has come. (Warning: It gets rough around the 2004 mark.)in case u dont like clicking links.. here's a sneak peak:
1989: Burger King commercial. Don't miss the wink. The wink is everything. You can draw a line straight from this wink to "Jenny From the Block." PS: 17-year-old Ben looks kind of like a Knight brother, no?
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