Although this blog has sat dormant for much of the year, often receiving little to no attention for months at a time, a top ten list is a great excuse to resurrect it. My Albums of 2009 post from last year is chock-full of stellar releases, accompanied by occasionally humorous descriptions to boot. This year was not nearly as fertile as last, and seeing that I don't incredibly dig on LCD Soundsystem, the National, Arcade Fire, and (gasp) Kanye West, it's safe to say my list should at least differ a tiny bit from the onslaught of lists that are currently bombarding my Twitter and RSS feeds. I did a top 15 last year because I was being overly ambitious. Let's just keep it to a top ten this year. Again, these are (for the most part) in no particular order.
1. Black Breath - Heavy Breathing - I can't think of another album from this year that I've worn myself out listening to more than this Seattle thrash/metal collective's debut full-length. Black Breath are the sonic equivalent to a viciously pleasant swan dive off a three-story building into a swimming pool filled with cinder blocks. They play fast, loud, and they hate God. There are no frills about it. Disfear, Entombed, Motorhead, and Tragedy broken down and carefully reformed into a volatile, pissed-the-fuck-off stick of dynamite. Man, I love these dudes.
2. Maserati - Pyramid of the Sun - My recent interview with Maserati guitarist Coley Dennis focused more on the passing of drummer Jerry Fuchs and the band's uncertain future plans. It didn't go into great depth about the Athens, Georgia's outfit's first album of new material since 2007, but Pyramid of the Sun undoubtedly deserves attention. Hypnotic krautrock rhythms swirling through an eerie, drugged-out soundscape rife with sequencers and synths. The grooves melt into your brain before you even realize what's happening. An album that should come equipped with a fog machine and weirdo back lighting.
3. Sleigh Bells - Treats - Candy-coated crack rocks. This duo is comprised of airy, cutesy female vocals gently positioned atop loud-as-all-hell distorted pop beats created by a former Poison the Well bro. Does that even remotely sound like it should work? Well, it does. The album is just so damn infectious, and "Rill Rill" is one of the best singles of the year. Just try and not like it. The holy hype machine heaved a smothering amount of praise on Sleigh Bells in the early going, and according to that new-ish Honda commercial with a clip of "Riot Rhythm," it was well-deserved and accordingly well-received by the masses.
4. Daughters - Daughters - One of the bigger bummers of the year is that Daughters released this gem and promptly broke up (without touring on it, mind you). The band proclaims it's still together, and it may very well put another album out, but primary songwriter Nick Sadler skipped out to join the pretty OK but not as blistering Fang Island. So, as far as I'm concerned Daughters has broken up until further notice. This album runs alongside the phenomenal Hell Songs with chaotic guitar work and thumping shitstorm drumming backed by the sassy drawl of vocalist Alexis Marshall. Only this time, the whole shebang is complimented with multiple flourishes of straight-up rock. It's more mature and generally more awesome. Way to fuck it up, guys.
5. Beach House - Teen Dream - This album is a summer hammock of sleepy, graceful, and beautifully orchestrated indie rock. Maybe due to its release at the beginning of the year, Teen Dream was forgotten by many top ten lists? If that is in fact true, I'm plain confounded by it, particularly because those same lists didn't forget to include Animal Collective last year. Victoria Legrand's vocals are more sultry and soulful than on 2008's Devotion, creating a mosaic that is as haunting and eerie as it is serene. Wading through the album's uber-haze of barbiturates and pixie dust elicits a perfectly pleasant limbo, orbiting somewhere near the blurred line that separates consciousness from comatose.
6. Ted Leo + Pharmacists - Brutalist Bricks - How can anyone not love Ted Leo? He's an absolutely magnetic front man who writes shining, melodic indie pop/rock songs while maintaining a slightly anarcho-punk aura and finding ways to name drop the Flux of Pink Indians into his often politically-charged lyrics. Brutalist Bricks is yet another Ted Leo-sponsored summer picnic of suspicion, an ice cream social of skepticism. I see no reason why he would even think of slowing down. One of the most consistently solid songwriters working in a terribly clusterfucked genre.
7. Dillinger Escape Plan - Option Paralysis - This video may be from 2005, and the lineup may have changed by a guitarist and drummer, but watching singer Greg Puciato literally run on top of heads never ceases to be incredible. I just saw Dillinger this past year, and they have yet to ease their collective foot off the throat when it comes to performing live. Option Paralysis may be my least favorite album of theirs, but it's still a romp or mathematical hardcore/metal genius that's better than 99 percent of the muck that tags itself to the genre. Utilizing Puciato's range was an inevitability, so bitching about sing-songy asides and plodding melodic dirges is nonsensical. Fact #1: Dillinger will never put out an album that doesn't rip. Fact #2: They will always fucking kill it live. Fact #3: I speak the truth.
8. Buke and Gass - Riposte - Reader contributor Jessica Hopper cleverly wrote that the name Buke and Gass "sounds like an Austrian law firm." She's absolutely right. But the name has a direct purpose--the Buke is a baritone ukulele, and the Gass is a guitar and bass hybrid. The duo of Aron Sanchez and Arone Dyer wield these mutated instruments to create a quirky indie pop that spirals its way from demented to mesmerizing in the matter of a measure. Dyer is the charm and vocal talent, while Sanchez (whose day job involves constructing instruments for the Blue Man Group) is the rhythmic backbone. I love them both.
9. Glasser - Ring - This album gracefully shoved its way onto to the list because I've been listening to it a ridiculous amount as of late and because I am required to pay homage each year to at least one mesmerizing female vocalist. Cameron Mesirow aka Glasser is reminiscent of Bat for Lashes and Fever Ray in that she lulls you into a dreamy yet haunting wilderness of electro-pop through her seductive vocal stylings and quasi-tribal beats. Just being her debut, Meisrow will certainly construct other bewitching tropical wonderlands with her siren-like voice. I'm such a sucker for it.
10. Cleric - Regressions - This spot could have easily gone to any of the artists below, but I reserved it for Cleric because they released quite possibly the most outrageously ambitious album I've heard this year. Out of control crazy 19-minute-long Mr. Bungle-ish schizophrenic metal fits. There's an interlude on the album that is made to mimic the sound of an indescribable beastly entity slowly creeping toward you. It's goddamn terrifying. A lot of ego-driven, yawn-provoking metal bands weave their way through exhausting, derivative songs to prove they can write an epic. These dudes are not bullshitting. It's harsh and fucking inspired madness.
Honorable Mention: Strange Boys - Be Brave, Black Mountain - Wilderness Heart, Fresh and Onlys - Play It Strange, Torche - Songs for Singles, Sleepy Sun - Fever, Damien Jurado - Saint Bartlett, Wavves - King of the Beach, Jonsi - Go
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Thursday, October 7, 2010
15 Years Later.
Note: I'm resurrecting this blog to pay proper homage to the 2010 Cincinnati Reds baseball season. Maybe I'll even crap out a blog post here and there from this point forward. Who can say?
I was 14-years-old in 1995. It was three years prior to my brief "I'm too cool for sports" phase when I attempted to adopt the 7 Seconds song "I Hate Sports" as some sort of anthem. It was a ridiculous and trivial facade. In late elementary school and throughout junior high, I was a sports junkie. I wore a killer Florida Marlins Starter jacket and a St. Louis Blues wool hat as my day-to-day uniform. There was no rhyme or reason to my choosing these teams as articles of clothing. I just wore anything affiliated with sports. I mean, why the fuck did I have a St. Louis Blues hat? Aside from playing NHL '94 on Sega Genesis until my thumbs cramped up, I didn't really hold much affinity for hockey or really follow it a lick, aside from occasionally checking the sports section of the Cincinnati Enquirer to see how the Cincinnati Cylones--a minor league rogue hockey team--had fared the night before. I actually think I still have a signed Ray LeBlanc hockey card tucked away somewhere. But I digress . . .
Baseball was always my focal point growing up. I was a chubby, timid kid with little skill at running and even less desire (or parental consent) to seek full contact. If it hadn't been for a grueling streak of conditioning my freshman year of high school, I may have even stuck through tryouts and made the junior varsity team. It was possible. I swear I didn't suck. Sure, I played the "just stick him there" position other than right field, but I was serviceable at first base and most importantly, I could hit. I never played on shitty teams (a few flirted with state tournaments), always had solid chemistry with teammates/friends, and was raised by great coaches who possessed the rare desire to both win and teach the kids a thing or two in the process.
I remember watching every game of the 1991 World Series between the Minnesota Twins and Atlanta Braves and still legitimately think it was the best seven-game-series I've ever witnessed in my life (sorry, 2004 Red Sox). Aside from two games, every game of the series was decided by one run, and three of them went into extra innings, including a decisive Game 7 that ended in a 1-0 Twins victory with a Gene Larkin single to score Dan Gladden from third (I was actually forced to go to bed and didn't catch the end of the game. You're damn right I haven't forgiven my mom for this injustice). The Reds had swept the A's in four games the year before, and seeing that the Twins' Kirby Puckett was my baseball hero, you can probably see why the two year stretch was a bit of a defining moment for me in baseball terms. Add in a Joe Carter walk-off home run against the Phillies' Mitch Williams to win the Series in 1993, and you have a wicked stretch of baseball that had me digging my heels in.
The strike came in 1994. Already 114 games into the season, the Reds were in the midst of a solid 66-48 season (with the poor Expos at 70-44, believe it or not), quite possibly losing another chance at an extended playoff run. The 1995 season had a delayed start due to the eventually resolved labor dispute and only contained 144 regular season games. So, until this year the Reds hadn't earned a trip to the playoffs following a proper 162-game regular season since the team's World Series run in 1990. That's just kind of fucked, isn't it?
With a roster that included pitchers like John Smiley, Pete Schourek, David Wells, Frank Viola, Dave Burba, and the one-and-only Jeff Brantley and fielders by the name of Barry Larkin, Hal Morris, Bret Boone, Deion and Reggie Sanders, and Ron Gant, the Davey Johnson-managed ballclub found itself in the NLCS against a far superior Atlanta Braves team that promptly swept them on its way to the team's only World Series under the supposedly immortal Bobby Cox.
So, what happened in the 15 years between playoff appearances? Well, aside from the blip in 2000 when the Reds lost a play-in game to the New York Mets, the simple answer is that the team adopted a system that sucked unless you had assloads of money to throw at players that would probably end up heading to New York or Boston anyway.
Now, I was as big a Ken Griffey Jr. fan as anyone. I stood by his side as he never played more than 150 games in any of his nine seasons in Cincinnati. I stood by his side as he played a position he just wasn't suited for any longer and consequently injured himself by forcing his body to do things it couldn't. I stood by his side when he showed obvious disinterest in his team by lazily running out ground balls. Let's be honest, though, Griffey was a massive part of the problem for the Reds between 2000 and 2010.
The Reds built a home run hitters ballpark with a short right field so hitters like Griffey and the epitome of all evil, Adam Dunn, could tear the covers off the balls as we all watched wide-eyed while home run after home run landed in the Ohio River. Actually, check that. The Reds built that ballpark for Griffey. No doubt about it. Maybe the steroid era is to blame or maybe ownership had diluted itself to think that all the city needed was a hometown hero. Regardless, we threw big money at a big name player all the while expecting him to make everything well and good. Like I said before, if you're not the Yankees and can't attract a slew of A-Rods and Mark Teixeiras, this approach is straight bullshit. Living in Chicago, I (happily) watch the Cubs fuck up each year as they heave stupid amounts of money at second tier players (Soriano, Lee, Ramirez, etc) that simply weren't worth the Yankees or Red Sox time of day. They give superstar money to eventual stiffs and wonder what the hell went wrong? Sorry, Cubbies, it's not about any sort of a curse. You just suck as an organization.
So, why has baseball become king again in Cincinnati (well, at least until the Bengals fool the public into thinking they're worth a damn), and why am I so damn excited about the playoffs? It's plain and simple, and you've heard it before--building from the ground up by recruiting some seasoned, hardened baseball players who have been there and done that (Scott Rolen, Orlando Cabrera) and surrounding them with young talent that has worked it's way through the farm system and/or college ball (Joey Votto, Jay Bruce, Drew Stubbs, Homer Bailey, Mike Leake). That's how small market teams like the Tampa Bay (Devil) Rays and Cincinnati Reds become worth a shit.
I've waited 15 years for this. I don't expect the Reds to win the World Series, and I'd probably keel over if they even made it there, but it's nice to see my devotion to baseball, the Reds, and even Cincinnati sports for that matter finally starting to pay off. Now, if we could just rally together to send the Astros to the four-team AL West so all of the MLB divisions will be equally fair with five teams, and abolish the travesty that is the season opener on Sunday night, thus restoring order by allowing Cincinnati to host the first game of the proper baseball season, I'm pretty sure all would be right with the world.
Note: I began writing this the Tuesday evening prior to the opening of the postseason in which we were all treated to a no-hitter by Roy Halladay. It was utterly painful and initially put a damper on this blog post. I said fuck it, though, and finished it anyway. I'm glad I did.
I was 14-years-old in 1995. It was three years prior to my brief "I'm too cool for sports" phase when I attempted to adopt the 7 Seconds song "I Hate Sports" as some sort of anthem. It was a ridiculous and trivial facade. In late elementary school and throughout junior high, I was a sports junkie. I wore a killer Florida Marlins Starter jacket and a St. Louis Blues wool hat as my day-to-day uniform. There was no rhyme or reason to my choosing these teams as articles of clothing. I just wore anything affiliated with sports. I mean, why the fuck did I have a St. Louis Blues hat? Aside from playing NHL '94 on Sega Genesis until my thumbs cramped up, I didn't really hold much affinity for hockey or really follow it a lick, aside from occasionally checking the sports section of the Cincinnati Enquirer to see how the Cincinnati Cylones--a minor league rogue hockey team--had fared the night before. I actually think I still have a signed Ray LeBlanc hockey card tucked away somewhere. But I digress . . .
Baseball was always my focal point growing up. I was a chubby, timid kid with little skill at running and even less desire (or parental consent) to seek full contact. If it hadn't been for a grueling streak of conditioning my freshman year of high school, I may have even stuck through tryouts and made the junior varsity team. It was possible. I swear I didn't suck. Sure, I played the "just stick him there" position other than right field, but I was serviceable at first base and most importantly, I could hit. I never played on shitty teams (a few flirted with state tournaments), always had solid chemistry with teammates/friends, and was raised by great coaches who possessed the rare desire to both win and teach the kids a thing or two in the process.
I remember watching every game of the 1991 World Series between the Minnesota Twins and Atlanta Braves and still legitimately think it was the best seven-game-series I've ever witnessed in my life (sorry, 2004 Red Sox). Aside from two games, every game of the series was decided by one run, and three of them went into extra innings, including a decisive Game 7 that ended in a 1-0 Twins victory with a Gene Larkin single to score Dan Gladden from third (I was actually forced to go to bed and didn't catch the end of the game. You're damn right I haven't forgiven my mom for this injustice). The Reds had swept the A's in four games the year before, and seeing that the Twins' Kirby Puckett was my baseball hero, you can probably see why the two year stretch was a bit of a defining moment for me in baseball terms. Add in a Joe Carter walk-off home run against the Phillies' Mitch Williams to win the Series in 1993, and you have a wicked stretch of baseball that had me digging my heels in.
The strike came in 1994. Already 114 games into the season, the Reds were in the midst of a solid 66-48 season (with the poor Expos at 70-44, believe it or not), quite possibly losing another chance at an extended playoff run. The 1995 season had a delayed start due to the eventually resolved labor dispute and only contained 144 regular season games. So, until this year the Reds hadn't earned a trip to the playoffs following a proper 162-game regular season since the team's World Series run in 1990. That's just kind of fucked, isn't it?
With a roster that included pitchers like John Smiley, Pete Schourek, David Wells, Frank Viola, Dave Burba, and the one-and-only Jeff Brantley and fielders by the name of Barry Larkin, Hal Morris, Bret Boone, Deion and Reggie Sanders, and Ron Gant, the Davey Johnson-managed ballclub found itself in the NLCS against a far superior Atlanta Braves team that promptly swept them on its way to the team's only World Series under the supposedly immortal Bobby Cox.
So, what happened in the 15 years between playoff appearances? Well, aside from the blip in 2000 when the Reds lost a play-in game to the New York Mets, the simple answer is that the team adopted a system that sucked unless you had assloads of money to throw at players that would probably end up heading to New York or Boston anyway.
Now, I was as big a Ken Griffey Jr. fan as anyone. I stood by his side as he never played more than 150 games in any of his nine seasons in Cincinnati. I stood by his side as he played a position he just wasn't suited for any longer and consequently injured himself by forcing his body to do things it couldn't. I stood by his side when he showed obvious disinterest in his team by lazily running out ground balls. Let's be honest, though, Griffey was a massive part of the problem for the Reds between 2000 and 2010.
The Reds built a home run hitters ballpark with a short right field so hitters like Griffey and the epitome of all evil, Adam Dunn, could tear the covers off the balls as we all watched wide-eyed while home run after home run landed in the Ohio River. Actually, check that. The Reds built that ballpark for Griffey. No doubt about it. Maybe the steroid era is to blame or maybe ownership had diluted itself to think that all the city needed was a hometown hero. Regardless, we threw big money at a big name player all the while expecting him to make everything well and good. Like I said before, if you're not the Yankees and can't attract a slew of A-Rods and Mark Teixeiras, this approach is straight bullshit. Living in Chicago, I (happily) watch the Cubs fuck up each year as they heave stupid amounts of money at second tier players (Soriano, Lee, Ramirez, etc) that simply weren't worth the Yankees or Red Sox time of day. They give superstar money to eventual stiffs and wonder what the hell went wrong? Sorry, Cubbies, it's not about any sort of a curse. You just suck as an organization.
So, why has baseball become king again in Cincinnati (well, at least until the Bengals fool the public into thinking they're worth a damn), and why am I so damn excited about the playoffs? It's plain and simple, and you've heard it before--building from the ground up by recruiting some seasoned, hardened baseball players who have been there and done that (Scott Rolen, Orlando Cabrera) and surrounding them with young talent that has worked it's way through the farm system and/or college ball (Joey Votto, Jay Bruce, Drew Stubbs, Homer Bailey, Mike Leake). That's how small market teams like the Tampa Bay (Devil) Rays and Cincinnati Reds become worth a shit.
I've waited 15 years for this. I don't expect the Reds to win the World Series, and I'd probably keel over if they even made it there, but it's nice to see my devotion to baseball, the Reds, and even Cincinnati sports for that matter finally starting to pay off. Now, if we could just rally together to send the Astros to the four-team AL West so all of the MLB divisions will be equally fair with five teams, and abolish the travesty that is the season opener on Sunday night, thus restoring order by allowing Cincinnati to host the first game of the proper baseball season, I'm pretty sure all would be right with the world.
Note: I began writing this the Tuesday evening prior to the opening of the postseason in which we were all treated to a no-hitter by Roy Halladay. It was utterly painful and initially put a damper on this blog post. I said fuck it, though, and finished it anyway. I'm glad I did.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Under Construction.
Does anyone read this thing regularly?
Well, it's going on hiatus until I can redesign and rethink. Needless to say, there haven't been many posts recently. Not to worry, though, because I still have a fuck ton of shit to say and complain about, but I'm just searching for the right context and chasm in which to throw my thoughts. Please stay tuned.
Also, I've had more than one friend tell me to post the shit I write for the Chicago Reader on my blog because they always forget to pick up a Reader, or can't find the time, or live in Cincinnati, or whatever. Aside from being a sad yet perfect microcosm for the dying newspaper industry, the request is valid because I'm always saying, "Hey, pick up the Reader, I wrote up so and so. They're kind of [ridiculous amalgamated genre tag] with some [obscure late 80s/early 90s hardcore band] influence mixed with [random, inexplicable drug reference].
So, here are links to some bands I've recently written up.
Sleepy Sun
Fang Island
Damien Jurado
Them Crooked Vultures
Black Breath
Los Campesinos!
I'll now leave you with the trailer for one of the most unintentionally terrifying films of all time, costarring the venerable 80s icon Jeffrey Jones and Marty McFly's mom.
The fact that Howard the Duck isn't fully revealed in the trailer makes it all the more frightening.
Well, it's going on hiatus until I can redesign and rethink. Needless to say, there haven't been many posts recently. Not to worry, though, because I still have a fuck ton of shit to say and complain about, but I'm just searching for the right context and chasm in which to throw my thoughts. Please stay tuned.
Also, I've had more than one friend tell me to post the shit I write for the Chicago Reader on my blog because they always forget to pick up a Reader, or can't find the time, or live in Cincinnati, or whatever. Aside from being a sad yet perfect microcosm for the dying newspaper industry, the request is valid because I'm always saying, "Hey, pick up the Reader, I wrote up so and so. They're kind of [ridiculous amalgamated genre tag] with some [obscure late 80s/early 90s hardcore band] influence mixed with [random, inexplicable drug reference].
So, here are links to some bands I've recently written up.
Sleepy Sun
Fang Island
Damien Jurado
Them Crooked Vultures
Black Breath
Los Campesinos!
I'll now leave you with the trailer for one of the most unintentionally terrifying films of all time, costarring the venerable 80s icon Jeffrey Jones and Marty McFly's mom.
The fact that Howard the Duck isn't fully revealed in the trailer makes it all the more frightening.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Coming, Going, and Lately.
I just got a haircut. It's short.
Carley Manning skips town next Thursday and heads back to the NKY (that's Northern Kentucky to you uneducated folk). Before moving to Chicago, I hunted her down at the Southgate House in Newport during one of her bazillion visits back home to inform her that we would be hanging out when I moved. We did. She stuck around for three years, and now she's rolling back. She will be sorely missed. That's my girl right there.
This is the last blog post you will see in this format. Shit is getting overhauled very soon courtesy of Adam McIver's brain. Soak in my novice, uneducated layout and design while you still can.
I haven't blogged in like a month. I really have nothing to blame for this. I often convince myself that I'm busier than I actually am. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I generally dislike sitting down, so I keep myself "busy" even while I'm hanging around my apartment. This often consists of doing random sets of pushups, cleaning my bike, listening to records while dusting, or fiddling around in my garage space.
I have too many modes of transportation and too little money. Something's gotta give soon (and I have a feeling it's going to start with a "mo" and end with a "ped").
Running is my therapy, and I've been doing it an obscene amount recently. That's not to say I'm depressed by any means. I've just felt the need to run more and more recently. Interpret that however you want. Actually, I can't wait to go running tomorrow because my hair's short again. Here's to not feeling like my flowing locks are creating a stupid amount of wind resistance and holding me back from reaching lightning speed.
Right arm half-sleeve-ish tattoo on its way. June 19th as a matter of fact. Better late than never (my motto always and forever).
Michael Short and Kenneth Roa are homeowners. I went back to Cincinnati over Memorial Day weekend to confirm. It's true. Each has bought a westside home with windows and working plumbing. My heart is swelling with pride and joy. All I want now is to see each of them cutting the lawn in a wifebeater, cut-off jean shorts, and flip-flops while sipping on a can of Budweiser. I can't imagine anything more majestic.
This blog post has no real theme, and I'm okay with that. Actually, I'm so okay with it that I just mentioned it. You know, like right HERE. Nothing better than a good ramble.
Ken Griffey, Jr. retired. It makes me sad that he never made it as a Red. It makes me sad that he was a walking injury. It makes me sad that the team crippled itself for years because of his contract. But in spite of it all, it makes me sad that he's not going to be playing anymore. Yeah, I'm blind and ignorant, but I don't give a fuck. I was and will always be a fan of Junior. So, check out Justin's blog post on Griffey and help him choose the right point of view concerning the Kid's legacy (if you know what's good for you, lean towards the sentiment I just expressed).
I've begun a quest to become somewhat of a beer connoisseur/snob. I expect to be good at it but never great.
Justin Bragg moves up here this weekend, and Heidi Bragg follows shortly thereafter. It's surreal to see this string of events come to fruition. It's literally been a year since these plans were lightly discussed and even joked about. Who knew that they'd actually materialize? My goal is to make them love this city, even though it wants to slap you around here and there.
Chicago summers rule and negate the winters completely and totally. Justin and Heidi will soon understand.
After two years of riding somewhat illegally, I finally procured my motorcycle license. It was a banner day in the Warwick household.
Don't look now, but the Reds are actually worth a shit (even though they're losing to the Giants as I'm typing this). It's painful that I haven't been to a game this season and even more painful that I'm not able to revel in the optimism and buzz enshrouding the city of Cincinnati at the moment. Baseball hullabaloo far exceeds football hullabaloo.
I'll be going on vacation in early August. I'm thinking Pacific northwest.
Carley Manning skips town next Thursday and heads back to the NKY (that's Northern Kentucky to you uneducated folk). Before moving to Chicago, I hunted her down at the Southgate House in Newport during one of her bazillion visits back home to inform her that we would be hanging out when I moved. We did. She stuck around for three years, and now she's rolling back. She will be sorely missed. That's my girl right there.
This is the last blog post you will see in this format. Shit is getting overhauled very soon courtesy of Adam McIver's brain. Soak in my novice, uneducated layout and design while you still can.
I haven't blogged in like a month. I really have nothing to blame for this. I often convince myself that I'm busier than I actually am. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I generally dislike sitting down, so I keep myself "busy" even while I'm hanging around my apartment. This often consists of doing random sets of pushups, cleaning my bike, listening to records while dusting, or fiddling around in my garage space.
I have too many modes of transportation and too little money. Something's gotta give soon (and I have a feeling it's going to start with a "mo" and end with a "ped").
Running is my therapy, and I've been doing it an obscene amount recently. That's not to say I'm depressed by any means. I've just felt the need to run more and more recently. Interpret that however you want. Actually, I can't wait to go running tomorrow because my hair's short again. Here's to not feeling like my flowing locks are creating a stupid amount of wind resistance and holding me back from reaching lightning speed.
Right arm half-sleeve-ish tattoo on its way. June 19th as a matter of fact. Better late than never (my motto always and forever).
Michael Short and Kenneth Roa are homeowners. I went back to Cincinnati over Memorial Day weekend to confirm. It's true. Each has bought a westside home with windows and working plumbing. My heart is swelling with pride and joy. All I want now is to see each of them cutting the lawn in a wifebeater, cut-off jean shorts, and flip-flops while sipping on a can of Budweiser. I can't imagine anything more majestic.
This blog post has no real theme, and I'm okay with that. Actually, I'm so okay with it that I just mentioned it. You know, like right HERE. Nothing better than a good ramble.
Ken Griffey, Jr. retired. It makes me sad that he never made it as a Red. It makes me sad that he was a walking injury. It makes me sad that the team crippled itself for years because of his contract. But in spite of it all, it makes me sad that he's not going to be playing anymore. Yeah, I'm blind and ignorant, but I don't give a fuck. I was and will always be a fan of Junior. So, check out Justin's blog post on Griffey and help him choose the right point of view concerning the Kid's legacy (if you know what's good for you, lean towards the sentiment I just expressed).
I've begun a quest to become somewhat of a beer connoisseur/snob. I expect to be good at it but never great.
Justin Bragg moves up here this weekend, and Heidi Bragg follows shortly thereafter. It's surreal to see this string of events come to fruition. It's literally been a year since these plans were lightly discussed and even joked about. Who knew that they'd actually materialize? My goal is to make them love this city, even though it wants to slap you around here and there.
Chicago summers rule and negate the winters completely and totally. Justin and Heidi will soon understand.
After two years of riding somewhat illegally, I finally procured my motorcycle license. It was a banner day in the Warwick household.
Don't look now, but the Reds are actually worth a shit (even though they're losing to the Giants as I'm typing this). It's painful that I haven't been to a game this season and even more painful that I'm not able to revel in the optimism and buzz enshrouding the city of Cincinnati at the moment. Baseball hullabaloo far exceeds football hullabaloo.
I'll be going on vacation in early August. I'm thinking Pacific northwest.
Monday, May 10, 2010
There's Bologna in Our Slacks.
So, the gang I run around with up here in Chicago has recently been taken in by old school 80s and early-90s cartoon theme songs. And yes, this of course involved a drunken night of scrolling through Apple TV and consecutively watching as many as we could find on the worldwide Internet computer web.
We grew up listening to these songs ad nauseum. They're seared into our brains. It seems unbelievable, but the tunes weren't candy-coated fluff, but actual songs, complete with 80s hooks and synth movements abound. I mean shit, Mark Mueller, composer of both the DuckTales and Chip 'n Dale Rescue Rangers theme songs, has had three Billboard top ten singles and a number one adult contemporary "hit" during his career (I'm not too sure an adult contemporary song should be called a "hit" in any fashion). Let's face it, Disney straight had its shit down in the 80s.
This post highlights the picks of the litter from my childhood (and maybe early adolescence). Enjoy.
DuckTales (1987-1990) - There's just not a better theme song. Check out the end of this post for cringe-worthy bonus material involving the singer of the original theme song, Jeff Pescetto.
Chip 'n Dale Rescue Rangers (1989-1990) - I was always partial to Monterey Jack myself.
Tiny Toons (1990-1995) - Warner Bros. knew what it was doing as well. Early 90s after-school gold.
Animaniacs (1993-1998) - Another Warner Bros. vehicle. Legitimately witty. I watched this religiously, despite an awareness that I should be growing out of cartoons.
ThunderCats (1985-1990) - Infused with epic, flaming guitar solos. Uh, it's fucking ThunderCats.
He-Man & the Masters of the Universe (1983-1985) - I probably beat my little brother up after I watched this cartoon. You know, to prove my manliness and shit.
Muppet Babies (1984-1990) - I was never the biggest "live action" Muppet fan, but I know that I watched Muppet Babies regularly. This admission discounts the manliness that I previously mentioned.
Alvin & the Chipmunks (1983-1990) - This cartoon series was later raped by a couple of terrible live action movies. I'm sure a third is in the works. Stay tuned.
Bobby's World (1990-1998) - Howie Mandel has always been a pretty big shitbag. This was his show before he became a bald shitbag that wasted your time for an hour with some banker and a bunch of suitcases.
Bonus Junk: Some turd named Josh tracked down Jeff Pescetto and beat around the bush for about eight minutes before he finally asked him to sing the theme song from DuckTales. It's a little sad and painful.
We grew up listening to these songs ad nauseum. They're seared into our brains. It seems unbelievable, but the tunes weren't candy-coated fluff, but actual songs, complete with 80s hooks and synth movements abound. I mean shit, Mark Mueller, composer of both the DuckTales and Chip 'n Dale Rescue Rangers theme songs, has had three Billboard top ten singles and a number one adult contemporary "hit" during his career (I'm not too sure an adult contemporary song should be called a "hit" in any fashion). Let's face it, Disney straight had its shit down in the 80s.
This post highlights the picks of the litter from my childhood (and maybe early adolescence). Enjoy.
DuckTales (1987-1990) - There's just not a better theme song. Check out the end of this post for cringe-worthy bonus material involving the singer of the original theme song, Jeff Pescetto.
Chip 'n Dale Rescue Rangers (1989-1990) - I was always partial to Monterey Jack myself.
Tiny Toons (1990-1995) - Warner Bros. knew what it was doing as well. Early 90s after-school gold.
Animaniacs (1993-1998) - Another Warner Bros. vehicle. Legitimately witty. I watched this religiously, despite an awareness that I should be growing out of cartoons.
ThunderCats (1985-1990) - Infused with epic, flaming guitar solos. Uh, it's fucking ThunderCats.
He-Man & the Masters of the Universe (1983-1985) - I probably beat my little brother up after I watched this cartoon. You know, to prove my manliness and shit.
Muppet Babies (1984-1990) - I was never the biggest "live action" Muppet fan, but I know that I watched Muppet Babies regularly. This admission discounts the manliness that I previously mentioned.
Alvin & the Chipmunks (1983-1990) - This cartoon series was later raped by a couple of terrible live action movies. I'm sure a third is in the works. Stay tuned.
Bobby's World (1990-1998) - Howie Mandel has always been a pretty big shitbag. This was his show before he became a bald shitbag that wasted your time for an hour with some banker and a bunch of suitcases.
Bonus Junk: Some turd named Josh tracked down Jeff Pescetto and beat around the bush for about eight minutes before he finally asked him to sing the theme song from DuckTales. It's a little sad and painful.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Dark Lord Day.
I attended my first Dark Lord Day this past Saturday. If you're unfamiliar with this magical, alcohol-drenched pandemonium, it's a full day of beer euphoria presented by Three Floyds Brewery. Each year, the brewery unleashes its batch of Dark Lord, a Russian imperial stout sold for one day only. With the craft beer revolution in full force, friends have detailed the growth of this beer festival these past few years, and from what I was told, this year marked an exponential growth in attendees and just general pleasantry between craft beer snobs and advocates.
Now, I'm not going to feign to have vast knowledge about craft beer and the culture. To be completely honest, I'm still in the midst of learning. However, I do know that I enjoy beer, and I do know that I generally enjoy those who dabble in the production and promotion of hard-to-find brews.
Dark Lord Day only elevated my interest and subsequent passion for the pigeonhole of craft beer. A few friends and I arrived at the Three Floyds compound in Munster, Indiana around 2 PM on Saturday and were immediately bombarded by a behemoth line of Dark Lord enthusiasts. We assumed the massive line was for the purchase of Dark Lord (the beer has become so popular that you actually have to purchase hard-to-snatch tickets from the brewery's website in order to have a chance to buy Dark Lord). We opted to head into the brewery first to check out a scene in which there was no shortage of beer up for sale. Aside from Dark Lord, I was downing Three Floyds Alpha King (a favorite of mine), Samurai Gazebo (a delicious summertime lager), and Popskull (a hearty and robust collaboration with Dogfish Head).
But what made the festival so awesome was the uninhibited friendliness of the rest of the attendees. After checking out the compound and the stage area (oh yeah, the festival also boasts a solid lineup of bands for your entertainment), we settled in the line for our chance to get at the Dark Lord. The line was ridiculous (we waited in shifts for about three hours), but it didn't even matter. Other attendees troll the lines offering up their own beer for your tasting. Growlers and liters make their way into each nook of the festival as those with tickets patiently wait with their coolers, backpacks, and open arms to haul whatever they can pack away.
I semi-documented the day with my digital photo taking device. Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, I got a tad tipsy as the day wore on and wasn't able to take as many photos as I would've liked. Regardless, here they are in absolutely no order whatsoever.
Now, I'm not going to feign to have vast knowledge about craft beer and the culture. To be completely honest, I'm still in the midst of learning. However, I do know that I enjoy beer, and I do know that I generally enjoy those who dabble in the production and promotion of hard-to-find brews.
Dark Lord Day only elevated my interest and subsequent passion for the pigeonhole of craft beer. A few friends and I arrived at the Three Floyds compound in Munster, Indiana around 2 PM on Saturday and were immediately bombarded by a behemoth line of Dark Lord enthusiasts. We assumed the massive line was for the purchase of Dark Lord (the beer has become so popular that you actually have to purchase hard-to-snatch tickets from the brewery's website in order to have a chance to buy Dark Lord). We opted to head into the brewery first to check out a scene in which there was no shortage of beer up for sale. Aside from Dark Lord, I was downing Three Floyds Alpha King (a favorite of mine), Samurai Gazebo (a delicious summertime lager), and Popskull (a hearty and robust collaboration with Dogfish Head).
But what made the festival so awesome was the uninhibited friendliness of the rest of the attendees. After checking out the compound and the stage area (oh yeah, the festival also boasts a solid lineup of bands for your entertainment), we settled in the line for our chance to get at the Dark Lord. The line was ridiculous (we waited in shifts for about three hours), but it didn't even matter. Other attendees troll the lines offering up their own beer for your tasting. Growlers and liters make their way into each nook of the festival as those with tickets patiently wait with their coolers, backpacks, and open arms to haul whatever they can pack away.
I semi-documented the day with my digital photo taking device. Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, I got a tad tipsy as the day wore on and wasn't able to take as many photos as I would've liked. Regardless, here they are in absolutely no order whatsoever.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
I'm an Adult (Maybe).
It's true that this past Thursday was my 29th birthday, and yes, it's also true that my 30th is hiding in the bushes around the corner waiting to pounce and stab me to death. So, in honor of my newly inherited age, I figured it'd be fun to subjectively list off some of the "adult" qualities I've inherited over the years, as well as many of the "immature" qualities I've maintained and cultivated since birth.
Please feel free to study each list and determine for yourself if it's appropriate and just for me to state that I'm 29-years-old. I mean, I'll stop if you feel like I'm insulting adulthood by being 29 at this moment in time. No worries, I'll understand. But if you do feel like my new age is justifiable, then I guess I'll be out tomorrow buying a new cardigan and finally learning how to play golf.
Adult
I maintain a nine to five job to some degree, meaning I work at least 40 hours a week.
I own a relatively expensive suit and several ties.
I run and exercise regularly.
I make my bed every day.
I dust.
I have impeccable credit and always pay my bills on time.
I have short hair and an expensive pair of glasses.
I take several vitamins a day.
I remember the last time the Reds won the Wold Series.
I own my own knife set and many other kitchen utensils, including an electric can opener.
I am not embarrassed to go out to eat with my mom.
I pretend to read the New York Times, just like every other adult.
I am generally debilitated by a hangover the next morning.
I remember the last time the Bengals were in the Super Bowl.
I generally spend at least $15 on myself alone when eating out.
I watch my diet and am careful to include vegetables, proteins, and what not in my meals.
I don't like PBR, and I truly think Budweiser is a good beer.
I have a coat rack in my apartment as well as a couch from Ikea.
I am obsessively punctual and own more than one watch.
I am meticulous about remembering all of my friends birthdays.
I am a good tipper and care about the specials at restaurants.
I make dentist and doctor appointments simply for checkups.
I can maintain a thoughtful conversation with anyone if it involves sports.
I read novels averaging over 300 pages.
I play fantasy baseball.
I don't understand your haircut because it's too damn complicated.
Not so Adult
I drive a '97 Honda Civic with a cracked windshield and a missing side view mirror.
I don't shower daily.
I wear whatever I want to work, primarily consisting of (skinny) jeans and t-shirts (several with holes).
I don't separate my laundry into color categories.
I still use my college ID for student discounts at the movies.
I have never bought a pair of pajamas.
I am single and not even remotely close to having a child.
I know I am too irresponsible to care for any pet.
I can eat an entire frozen pizza without even feeling challenged.
I don't own my own set of dishes or silverware.
I am reliant on my mom to remind me about daylight saving time.
I have a CD collection devoid of Built to Spill, Modest Mouse, and Beck albums.
I still use milk crates as a prime organization tool.
I want to get more tattoos.
I cannot grow any facial hair, ever.
I can skip town on a whim for vacation or camping without any real consequences.
I cook many of my meals in a toaster oven.
I have a job that encourages me to know a shit ton about music and go to shows for free (all the time).
I don't live in the suburbs.
I have never worn cologne and generally find coffee disgusting.
I will occasionally put potato chips on a sandwich because it's delicious.
I own too many pairs of sneakers and too few dressy, fashionable shoes.
I would play hide-and-seek, laser tag, or enjoy a moonbounce at the drop of a hat.
I spit constantly.
I have framed band posters hanging on my wall.
I have absolutely no idea why Two and a Half Men is the #1 comedy in America.
I love to curse at any appropriate or inappropriate time.
So, what's the verdict? I've offered up two solid lists here, and lord knows there's no gray area in the argument. It's either one or the other (now that I think about it, my lack of wishy-washyness probably could've been added to the adult side of things).
With all that being said, let's completely change gears and take a look at my motherfucking stellar fantasy baseball roster this season. That's a pretty fucking adult thing to do. Don't you think? You're goddamn right it is.
C Geovany Soto
1B Joey Votto
2B Dustin Pedroia
3B Ryan Zimmerman
SS Stephen Drew
OF Justin Upton
OF Carlos Lee
OF Andrew McCutchen
UTIL Ben Zobrist
Bench Denard Span
Bench Chris Davis
Bench Alcides Escobar
Pitchers: Tim Lincecum, Dan Haren, Tim Hudson, Matt Garza, Hiroki Kuroda, Gavin Floyd, Andrew Bailey, Brian Fuentes
Fuck yeah.
Please feel free to study each list and determine for yourself if it's appropriate and just for me to state that I'm 29-years-old. I mean, I'll stop if you feel like I'm insulting adulthood by being 29 at this moment in time. No worries, I'll understand. But if you do feel like my new age is justifiable, then I guess I'll be out tomorrow buying a new cardigan and finally learning how to play golf.
Adult
I maintain a nine to five job to some degree, meaning I work at least 40 hours a week.
I own a relatively expensive suit and several ties.
I run and exercise regularly.
I make my bed every day.
I dust.
I have impeccable credit and always pay my bills on time.
I have short hair and an expensive pair of glasses.
I take several vitamins a day.
I remember the last time the Reds won the Wold Series.
I own my own knife set and many other kitchen utensils, including an electric can opener.
I am not embarrassed to go out to eat with my mom.
I pretend to read the New York Times, just like every other adult.
I am generally debilitated by a hangover the next morning.
I remember the last time the Bengals were in the Super Bowl.
I generally spend at least $15 on myself alone when eating out.
I watch my diet and am careful to include vegetables, proteins, and what not in my meals.
I don't like PBR, and I truly think Budweiser is a good beer.
I have a coat rack in my apartment as well as a couch from Ikea.
I am obsessively punctual and own more than one watch.
I am meticulous about remembering all of my friends birthdays.
I am a good tipper and care about the specials at restaurants.
I make dentist and doctor appointments simply for checkups.
I can maintain a thoughtful conversation with anyone if it involves sports.
I read novels averaging over 300 pages.
I play fantasy baseball.
I don't understand your haircut because it's too damn complicated.
Not so Adult
I drive a '97 Honda Civic with a cracked windshield and a missing side view mirror.
I don't shower daily.
I wear whatever I want to work, primarily consisting of (skinny) jeans and t-shirts (several with holes).
I don't separate my laundry into color categories.
I still use my college ID for student discounts at the movies.
I have never bought a pair of pajamas.
I am single and not even remotely close to having a child.
I know I am too irresponsible to care for any pet.
I can eat an entire frozen pizza without even feeling challenged.
I don't own my own set of dishes or silverware.
I am reliant on my mom to remind me about daylight saving time.
I have a CD collection devoid of Built to Spill, Modest Mouse, and Beck albums.
I still use milk crates as a prime organization tool.
I want to get more tattoos.
I cannot grow any facial hair, ever.
I can skip town on a whim for vacation or camping without any real consequences.
I cook many of my meals in a toaster oven.
I have a job that encourages me to know a shit ton about music and go to shows for free (all the time).
I don't live in the suburbs.
I have never worn cologne and generally find coffee disgusting.
I will occasionally put potato chips on a sandwich because it's delicious.
I own too many pairs of sneakers and too few dressy, fashionable shoes.
I would play hide-and-seek, laser tag, or enjoy a moonbounce at the drop of a hat.
I spit constantly.
I have framed band posters hanging on my wall.
I have absolutely no idea why Two and a Half Men is the #1 comedy in America.
I love to curse at any appropriate or inappropriate time.
So, what's the verdict? I've offered up two solid lists here, and lord knows there's no gray area in the argument. It's either one or the other (now that I think about it, my lack of wishy-washyness probably could've been added to the adult side of things).
With all that being said, let's completely change gears and take a look at my motherfucking stellar fantasy baseball roster this season. That's a pretty fucking adult thing to do. Don't you think? You're goddamn right it is.
C Geovany Soto
1B Joey Votto
2B Dustin Pedroia
3B Ryan Zimmerman
SS Stephen Drew
OF Justin Upton
OF Carlos Lee
OF Andrew McCutchen
UTIL Ben Zobrist
Bench Denard Span
Bench Chris Davis
Bench Alcides Escobar
Pitchers: Tim Lincecum, Dan Haren, Tim Hudson, Matt Garza, Hiroki Kuroda, Gavin Floyd, Andrew Bailey, Brian Fuentes
Fuck yeah.
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