My 20 favorite songs of the year (all featured in my miTunes series), in order. Feel free to light up the comments with your own favorites.

1. “Skinny Love” – Bon Iver
2. “L.E.S. Artiste” - Santogold
3. “Sex on Fire” - Kings of Leon
4. “Bounce That” - Girl Talk
5. “White Winter Hymnal” – Fleet Foxes
6. “Furr” - Blitzen Trapper
7. “Day Too Soon” - Sia
8. “You, Me and the Bourgeoisie” - The Submarines
9. “Time to Pretend” - MGMT
10. “Dreams Old Men Dream” - Cold War Kids
11. “That’s Not My Name” - The Ting Tings
12. “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend…”- The Black Kids
13. “Chicken Payback” - Band of Bees
14. “Ready For the Floor” - Hot Chip
15. “Backwards Walk” - Frightened Rabbit
16. “Sequestered in Memphis” - Hold Steady
17. “Strong Man” - Nino Moschella
18. “Stuck to You” - Nikka Costa
19. “Say Hey (I Love You)” - Michael Franti & Spearhead
20. “Walk on the Wild Side” - Jesse Malin

All that I knew or cared about Slumdog Millionaire before seeing it last week was that Danny Boyle directed it. Boyle, as you may know, is the brains behind Trainspotting, 28 Days Later and Sunshine (one of my favorites from ’07). I love me some Danny Boyle.

However, knowing the man’s catalog, Slumdog didn’t deliver what I was expecting.

I don’t mean that in a negative way, necessarily. While realizing I sound like a pretentious dick here, I’ll simply say it was simpler than I expected. Easier to follow. With Boyle’s past films, you never knew exactly where the movie was headed, weren’t always sure you had everything figured out. His movies have always been difficult, severe, dense. They were heavy as hell, confusing at times, and more than anything, complex.

Not so much with Slumdog. While the story is a unique one –- a Mumbai peasant goes on an inexplicable run on a game show, interspersed with a childhood love story flashback –- and the film offers a deft combo of tenderness and intensity, the plot progresses in a typical, logical arc. What you see is what you get.

Simply put, Slumdog Millionaire is the first of Boyle’s films I’d recommend to my mother. Grade: B

The premise: one CD’s worth of the best songs I’ve heard throughout the month.

The sources: The Current, Pandora, XM and various sites on the web.

The gist: I wade through music’s vast soundscape (listening nearly all day, every day) to discover the hidden pop gems. This is a monthly series devoted to bringing you songs that are universally appealing yet mostly unknown.

1. “Bang Bang” - The Knux
2. “Strawberry Weed” - Caesars
3. “Dreams Old Men Dream” - Cold War Kids
4. “Death” - White Lies
5. “Put it Down” - Mike Doughty
6. “Ulysses” - Franz Ferdinand
7. “Freedom Park” - Marah
8. “The Twist” - Metric
9. “You, Me and the Bourgeoisie” - The Submarines
10. “That’s That” - Cass McCombs
11. “Miracles” - Jeremy Messersmith
12. “The Mountain” - Heartless Bastards
13. “On Board” - Friendly Fires
14. “Valentine” - Festival
15. “Give the Drummer Sum” - Black Milk
16. “Campus” - Vampire Weekend
17. “The Twist” - Frightened Rabbit

Because I am required by blog-law to write a ‘year in review’ post, I’ve decided to link to some of (what I consider) the most memorable and/or best posts on this site. This is for posterity’s sake, and frankly was done more for me than you. Feel free to ignore.

January 8: I kicked off the year by recapping my 2007 resolution: 52 bars/restaurants throughout the year. Local readers might find a recommendation or two.

January 9: The second (and most recent *frown*) in my ‘Rock Bottom’ series: Peter Gabriel.

January 22: I list my ten selections for Songs of the Century, followed by the lists of a few readers. I stand by every one of those songs.

March 19: My friends and I devise a new fantasy baseball game: the Over/Under Challenge. Damn fun. Look for minor tweaks made in time for the ‘09 campaign.

June 25: People I love: Volkswagen apologists. One of my favorite posts of the year.

July 9: I don’t think I’ll ever forget this, The Toenail Incident.

July 16: After procrastinating for what felt like years, I finally wrote my “What is a sport?” theory, to a sadly tepid response.

August 6: I still believe nicecritic.com is a great way to immaturely waste time and annoy friends.

August 18: I still gag when I think of this experience.

August 20: People I hate: busy road cyclists. Another one of my most-proud throughout ‘08. Loved the comments as well.

August 25: My first essay about my involvement in the Big Brother/Little Brother program. At the time, I was worried I’d never hear from the kid again.

September 2: My theory that Craig Finn is the best ambassador in Minnesota history.

October 7: The day I publicly give up on the NFL as anything more than superficial (albeit crazy fun) entertainment.

October 19: I probably enjoyed FireJoeMorgan’ing a dumb Bill Simmons article a bit too much.

November 6: Oh, and there was a Presidential election that almost made me cry and definitely gave me a weeklong boner.

December 1: I crap my pants during my first ‘birds and the bees’ lecture.

December 17: My annual Top 50 Songs list.

———-

That about wraps up this blog’s 2008 memorable moments. Thanks for stopping by throughout the year.

And if you do, you are hereby invited/required to write a guest review on this site. I have to warn you though, it will be tough to top the New York Times’ A.O. Scott’s write-up:

Frankly, though, I don’t see how any review could really spoil what may be among the most transcendently, eye-poppingly, call-your-friend-ranting-in-the-middle-of-the-night-just-to-go-over-it-one-more-time crazily awful motion pictures ever made. I would tell you to go out and see it for yourself, but you might take that as a recommendation rather than a plea for corroboration.

See? Like I said, someone needs to go see this movie immediately, just to confirm it really is that comically, historically terrible. I would do so myself, but I already read the spoilers (for god’s sake, don’t click! Go see the movie! Please!) so I have to disclude myself. Damn.

Okay, this is the part of the day where you get up from your computer and go see a movie. Make it Seven Pounds. Do it for me. Do it for you. Do it for all of us.

Is mine as well. Good choice, kids.

For Christmas this year, my Grandma gave me a booklet filled with some of my childhood drawings and stories. One of them was so strange I’ve decided to reprint it here. Hope you enjoy the glimpse into my childhood, during which I was apparently insane.

I’m not sure the exact date this was written, but I believe it was late ‘91, which would have made me 10 years old. As you will see, my affinity for non-sequitors and pop culture references has been apparent for many years.

I, Eddie Carlson, is gonna tell about the wacky Thanksgiving I had last Thursday, November 27th. When I woke up, my parents left me a note:

Edward,
We went to Grandma’s house. I couldn’t wake you up. Don’t get into trouble. See you at 8:00 pm.
Love ya,
Mom & Dad

Weird parents! It was Thanksgiving and they leave me alone. Groovy!

Ding! It was the doorbell. I went and opened the door. Ta-da! It was a turkey in a sweatsuit! Double groovy!

“Hey whipper-snapper!” he cried. “Let’s have some fun!” I got excited. “Okay!” I yelled. I grabbed my coat and ran after that weirdo.

We went to “Chubby’s Diner.” I WAS gonna get the turkey special, but, well, the conditions just weren’t right! I got a ham sandwich and a large Coke. The turkey ordered the duck. Ick! We waited for 17 ½ minutes. Our food came. M-m-m-m!

1 problem. Toms (turkey) duck’s head was still on! “Excuse me Waitor!” He yelled. “Look at this! My best friend, Darren!” He started crying. And then the waiter took out a butcher knife, cut his head off, and handed it to Tom (the turkey). He bawled, he yelled, he screamed.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go to a movie to calm your nerves.” We walked to the local movie theater. “Now playing!” the announcer called. “Terminator Turkey 2”!

“My favorite!” Tom called. I bought 2. I’m very gullable. As we came in, it was full. We had to lay in the aisles! I fell asleep. When I woke up, Turkey Swartzennegger, a star actor, was saying, “asta la vista, rodent!” as he shot a rat. Then it ended.

I got up and yawned. Tom was still slurping a pop. “I gotta go p.p.” he said softly. “OK, lets go” I said. As we were walking home, I found a $35 dollar bill. A 35 dollar bill? Boy! Weird thanksgiving! Then we saw a 3 legged turkey!? Wacky! Then, finally, we got home.

Wanna watch TV? I asked Tom. “No thank you,” the big turkey said. “Bye” I said. He said the same. Then I closed the door. What a day!

Wait a minute! I suddenly woke up.

“Honey, wake up, it’s thanksgiving!” My mother said.

“Wha? Huh?” I stuttered. Then I realized, it was just a dream! No wonder! I got up and got dressed. Then I went to his grandma’s house and told everybody my dream, or adventure, you could say.

Another update to my 2008 resolution. Happily, I’ve met the objective; all that’s left is to post the reviews. My last few books and movies will be posted soon.

Confetti

A British mockumentary about a magazine contest between three couples to see who can throw the most unique wedding. You’ve got your overbearing couple (think the J. Crew duo from Best in Show, but less awesome), your treehuggers and your musical-yet-tone-deaf heartthrobs. The plot progresses through the wedding planning phases with typical over-the-top gags and missteps, complete with here-and-there laughs. Grade: B-

When We Were Kings

Ninety minutes of interviews and footage from the classic “Thrilla in Manila” fight between Ali and Foreman. Grown men verbally fellate Ali’s aura as if he’s Jesus Christ himself. A decent documentary, depending on your interest in the topic. Grade: B-

Smart People

Months back, when Smart People was in the theaters, I wrote a post about the trailer being the most boring 30-second preview of all time. It was like the fastest-acting sedative known to man; it could have knocked out a coke fiend in a matter of seconds. Unfortunately, I never published it because the trailer was removed from YouTube and I couldn’t track down another and also kind of a lame post right? However, due to the lady of the house controlling the remote on a recent Friday night, I can now report that compared to the trailer, the actual movie is … even worse. Cliche-ridden and horribly devoid of any entertaining moments whatsoever. I am not going to bore you with the plot details. You do not care. Grade: F

Candy

A close runner-up in Most Boring Movie of the Year is … (half-assed drumroll please) … Candy. In Candy, we are treated to a glimpse of a druggie’s life. We see such illuminating activities as: shooting up, lying on the couch, watching TV in silence, buying more drugs, quiet/loopy conversations with girlfriends, walks around the park, silent dinners and general bugged-out silent awkwardness. Awesome. Grade: D-

Miller’s Crossing

Being an unabashed dry-humper of anything involving the Coen Brothers, I am embarrassed to admit I’ve just recently popped my Miller’s Crossing cherry. Selected by TIME as one of the all-time top 100 movies, Crossing is a Prohibition-era noir drama with a hard-to-follow plot concerning a gangster’s right-hand-man playing two rivals against each other. The movie is no doubt superbly constructed and beginning-to-end tense, but the fast-talking characters and commitment to the era made the final product feel a bit too dated, a bit too stylistic, a bit too dense to inch into my Top 5 of Coen films. Grade: B

The Talented Mr. Ripley

My only interest in seeing this one stemmed from a recent conversation among friends about our most hated movies. Incredibly, two people out of the eight chose Mr. Ripley. Now this was clearly a historic level of awfulness that could be ignored no longer. So I rented it and, sure enough, terrible. The combination of long, boring conversations that go nowhere, a totally unconvincing plot, and the strange reality that Matt Damon’s character doesn’t in fact impersonate anyone at all really, which was ostensibly the point of the whole damn movie, make this one memorably bad. Grade: D

Beautiful Girls

An overdone premise (high school reunion) made better with smart dialogue equals a solid movie that still holds up 15 years later. Highly rewatchable, except for the cheesy “Sweet Caroline” scene that made me blush out of embarrassment for the actors in the film and actually even the fake people depicted. Grade: B

Burn After Reading

Burn After Reading is a half-serious mystery drama in the vein of Lebowski, yet far more intricate and nowhere near as funny. Brad Pitt and Frances McDormand play the bumbling strategists believably, but the Coen cleverness just isn’t completely there. At least worth a rental, I’d say. Grade: B

(Reposted from last year, with minor updates.)

My birthday was this past Saturday (28), which means I am following my standard traditional policy by re-posting an old essay by Dave Eggers. Well worth an annual read.

As I’ve mentioned, the following essay has directly and profoundly impacted my outlook on life, my attitude and my decision-making. If I can be more succinct (OK, dramatic), I’ll submit that it has been as inspirational as any piece of art I’ve ever consumed. Not sure what that says about me; don’t know and don’t care.

Mr. Eggers, the floor is yours:

First, a primer: When I got your questions, I was provoked. You expressed many of the feelings I used to have, when I was in high school and college, about some of the people I admired at the time, people who at some point disappointed me in some way, or made moves I could not understand. So I took a few passages from your questions - those pertaining to or hinting at “selling out” - and I used them as a launching pad for a rant I’ve wanted to write for a while now, and more so than ever since my own book has become successful. And the rant was timely, because shortly after getting your questions, I was scheduled to speak at Yale, and so, assuming that their minds might be in a similar spot as yours, I read this, the below, to them, in slightly less polished form. The rant is directed to myself, age 20, as much as it is to you, so remember that if you ever want to take much offense.

—-

You actually asked me the question: “Are you taking any steps to keep shit real?” I want you always to look back on this time as being a time when those words came out of your mouth.

Now, there was a time when such a question - albeit probably without the colloquial spin - would have originated from my own brain. Since I was thirteen, sitting in my orange-carpeted bedroom in ostensibly cutting-edge Lake Forest, Illinois, subscribing to the Village Voice and reading the earliest issues of Spin, I thought I had my ear to the railroad tracks of avant garde America. (Laurie Anderson, for example, had grown up only miles away!) I was always monitoring, with the most sensitive and well-calibrated apparatus, the degree of selloutitude exemplified by any given artist - musical, visual, theatrical, whatever. I was vigilant and merciless and knew it was my job to be so.

I bought R.E.M.’s first EP, Chronic Town, when it came out and thought I had found God. I loved Murmur, Reckoning, but then watched, with greater and greater dismay, as this obscure little band’s audience grew, grew beyond obsessed people like myself, grew to encompass casual fans, people who had heard a song on the radio and picked up Green and listened for the hits. Old people liked them, and stupid people, and my moron neighbor who had sex with truck drivers. I wanted these phony R.E.M.-lovers dead.

But it was the band’s fault, too. They played on Letterman. They switched record labels. Even their album covers seemed progressively more commercial. And when everyone I knew began liking them, I stopped. Had they changed, had their commitment to making art with integrity changed? I didn’t care, because for me, any sort of popularity had an inverse relationship with what you term the keeping ‘real’ of ’shit.’ When the Smiths became slightly popular they were sellouts. Bob Dylan appeared on MTV and of course was a sellout. Recently, just at dinner tonight, after a huge, sold-out reading by David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell (both sellouts), I was sitting next to an acquaintance, a very smart acquaintance married to the singer-songwriter of a very well-known band. I mentioned that I had seen the Flaming Lips the night before. She rolled her eyes. “Oh I really liked them on 90210,” she sneered, assuming that this would put me and the band in our respective places.

However.

Was she aware that The Flaming Lips had composed an album requiring the simultaneous playing of four separate discs, on four separate CD players? Was she aware that the band had once, for a show at Lincoln Center, handed out to audience members something like 100 portable tape players, with 100 different tapes, and had them all played at the same time, creating a symphonic sort of effect, one which completely devastated everyone in attendance? I went on and on to her about the band’s accomplishments, their experiments. Was she convinced that they were more than their one appearance with Jason Priestly? She was.

Now, at that concert the night before, Wayne Coyne, the lead singer, had himself addressed this issue, and to great effect. After playing much of their new album, the band paused and he spoke to the audience. I will paraphrase what he said:

“Hi. Well, some people get all bitter when some song of theirs gets popular, and they refuse to play it. But we’re not like that. We’re happy that people like this song. So here it goes.”

Then they played the song. (You know the song.) “She Don’t Use Jelly” is the song, and it is a silly song, and it was their most popular song. But to highlight their enthusiasm for playing the song, the band released, from the stage and from the balconies, about 200 balloons. (Some of the balloons, it should be noted, were released by two grown men in bunny suits.) Then while playing the song, Wayne sang with a puppet on his hand, who also sang into the microphone. It was fun. It was good.

But was it a sellout? Probably. By some standards, yes. Can a good band play their hit song? Should we hate them for this? Probably, probably. First 90210, now they go playing the song every stupid night. Everyone knows that 90210 is not cutting edge, and that a cutting edge alternarock band should not appear on such a show. That rule is clearly stated in the obligatory engrained computer-chip sellout manual that we were all given when we hit adolescence.

But this sellout manual serves only the lazy and small. Those who bestow sellouthood upon their former heroes are driven to do so by, first and foremost, the unshakable need to reduce. The average one of us - a taker-in of various and constant media, is absolutely overwhelmed - as he or she should be - with the sheer volume of artistic output in every conceivable medium given to the world every day - it is simply too much to begin to process or comprehend - and so we are forced to try to sort, to reduce. We designate, we label, we diminish, we create hierarchies and categories.

Through largely received wisdom, we rule out Tom Waits’s new album because it’s the same old same old, and we save $15. U2 has lost it, Radiohead is too popular. Country music is bad, Puff Daddy is bad, the last Wallace book was bad because that one reviewer said so. We decide that TV is bad unless it’s the Sopranos. We liked Rick Moody and Jonathan Lethem and Jeffrey Eugenides until they allowed their books to become movies. And on and on. The point is that we do this and to a certain extent we must do this. We must create categories, and to an extent, hierarchies.

But you know what is easiest of all? When we dismiss.

Oh how gloriously comforting, to be able to write someone off. Thus, in the overcrowded pantheon of alternarock bands, at a certain juncture, it became necessary for a certain brand of person to write off The Flaming Lips, despite the fact that everyone knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that their music was superb and groundbreaking and real. We could write them off because they shared a few minutes with Jason Priestley and that terrifying Tori Spelling person. Or we could write them off because too many magazines have talked about them. Or because it looked like the bassist was wearing too much gel in his hair.

One less thing to think about. Now, how to kill off the rest of our heroes, to better make room for new ones?

We liked Guided by Voices until they let Ric Ocasek produce their latest album, and everyone knows Ocasek is a sellout, having written those mushy Cars songs in the late 80s, and then - gasp! - produced Weezer’s album, and of course Weezer’s no good, because that Sweater song was on the radio, right, and dorky teenage girls were singing it and we cannot have that and so Weezer is bad and Ocasek is bad and Guided by Voices are bad, even if Spike Jonze did direct that one Weezer video, and we like Spike Jonze, don’t we?

Oh. No. We don’t. We don’t like him anymore because he’s married to Sofia Coppola, and she is not cool. Not cool. So bad in Godfather 3, such nepotism. So let’s check off Spike Jonze - leaving room in our brains for… who??

It’s exhausting.

The only thing worse than this sort of activity is when people, students and teachers alike, run around college campuses calling each other racists and anti-Semites. It’s born of boredom, lassitude. Too cowardly to address problems of substance where such problems actually are, we claw at those close to us. We point to our neighbor, in the khakis and sweater, and cry foul. It’s ridiculous. We find enemies among our peers because we know them better, and their proximity and familiarity means we don’t have to get off the couch to dismantle them.

And now, I am also a sellout. Here are my sins, many of which you may know about already:

First, I was a sellout because Might magazine took ads.
Then I was a sellout because our pages were color, and not stapled together at the Kinko’s.
Then I was a sellout because I went to work for Esquire.
Now I’m a sellout because my book has sold many copies.
And because I have done many interviews.
And because I have let people take my picture.
And because my goddamn picture has been in just about every fucking magazine and newspaper printed in America.

And now, as far as McSweeney’s is concerned, The Advocate interviewer wants to know if we’re losing also our edge, if the magazine is selling out, hitting the mainstream, if we’re still committed to publishing unknowns, and pieces killed by other magazines.

And the fact is, I don’t give a fuck. When we did the last issue, this was my thought process: I saw a box. So I decided we’d do a box. We were given stories by some of our favorite writers - George Saunders, Rick Moody (who is uncool, uncool!), Haruki Murakami, Lydia Davis, others - and so we published them. Did I wonder if people would think we were selling out, that we were not fulfilling the mission they had assumed we had committed ourselves to?

No. I did not. Nor will I ever. We just don’t care. We care about doing what we want to do creatively. We want to be interested in it. We want it to challenge us. We want it to be difficult. We want to reinvent the stupid thing every time. Would I ever think, before I did something, of how those with sellout monitors would respond to this or that move? I would not. The second I sense a thought like that trickling into my brain, I will put my head under the tires of a bus.

You want to know how big a sellout I am?

A few months ago I wrote an article for Time magazine and was paid $12,000 for it I am about to write something, 1,000 words, 3 pages or so, for something called Forbes ASAP, and for that I will be paid $6,000. For two years, until five months ago, I was on the payroll of ESPN magazine, as a consultant and sometime contributor. I was paid handsomely for doing very little. Same with my stint at Esquire. One year I spent there, with little to no duties. I wore khakis every day. Another Might editor and I, for almost a year, contributed to Details magazine, under pseudonyms, and were paid $2000 each for what never amounted to more than 10 minutes work - honestly never more than that. People from Hollywood want to make my book into a movie, and I am probably going to let them do so, and they will likely pay me a great deal of money for the privilege.

Do I care about this money? I do. Will I keep this money? Very little of it. Within the year I will have given away almost a million dollars to about 100 charities and individuals, benefiting everything from hospice care to an artist who makes sculptures from Burger King bags. And the rest will be going into publishing books through McSweeney’s. Would I have been able to publish McSweeney’s if I had not worked at Esquire? Probably not. Where is the $6000 from Forbes going? To a guy named Joe Polevy, who wants to write a book about the effects of radiator noise on children in New England.

Now, what if I were keeping all the money? What if I were buying property in St. Kitt’s or blew it all on live-in prostitutes? What if, for example, I was, a few nights ago, sitting at a table in SoHo with a bunch of Hollywood slash celebrity acquaintances, one of whom I went to high school with, and one of whom was Puff Daddy? Would that make me a sellout? Would that mean I was a force of evil?

What if a few nights before that I was at the home of Julian Schnabel, at a party featuring Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro, and at which Schnabel said we should get together to talk about him possibly directing my movie? And what if I said sure, let’s?

Would all that make me a sellout? Would I be uncool? Would it have been more cool to not go to this party, or to not have written that book, or done that interview, or to have refused millions from Hollywood?

The thing is, I really like saying yes. I like new things, projects, plans, getting people together and doing something, trying something, even when it’s corny or stupid. I am not good at saying no. And I do not get along with people who say no. When you die, and it really could be this afternoon, under the same bus wheels I’ll stick my head if need be, you will not be happy about having said no. You will be kicking your ass about all the no’s you’ve said. No to that opportunity, or no to that trip to Nova Scotia or no to that night out, or no to that project or no to that person who wants to be naked with you but you worry about what your friends will say.

No is for wimps. No is for pussies. No is to live small and embittered, cherishing the opportunities you missed because they might have sent the wrong message.

There is a point in one’s life when one cares about selling out and not selling out. One worries whether or not wearing a certain shirt means that they are behind the curve or ahead of it, or that having certain music in one’s collection means that they are impressive, or unimpressive.

Thankfully, for some, this all passes. I am here to tell you that I have, a few years ago, found my way out of that thicket of comparison and relentless suspicion and judgment. And it is a nice feeling. Because, in the end, no one will ever give a shit who has kept shit ‘real’ except the two or three people, sitting in their apartments, bitter and self-devouring, who take it upon themselves to wonder about such things. The keeping real of shit matters to some people, but it does not matter to me. It’s fashion, and I don’t like fashion, because fashion does not matter.

What matters is that you do good work. What matters is that you produce things that are true and will stand. What matters is that the Flaming Lips’s new album is ravishing and I’ve listened to it a thousand times already, sometimes for days on end, and it enriches me and makes me want to save people. What matters is that it will stand forever, long after any narrow-hearted curmudgeons have forgotten their appearance on goddamn 90210. What matters is not the perception, nor the fashion, not who’s up and who’s down, but what someone has done and if they meant it. What matters is that you want to see and make and do, on as grand a scale as you want, regardless of what the tiny voices of tiny people say. Do not be critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me, and spoke with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them. It is a fuckload of work to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and accepting, but Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes.

I say yes, and Wayne Coyne says yes, and if that makes us the enemy, then good, good, good. We are evil people because we want to live and do things. We are on the wrong side because we should be home, calculating which move would be the least damaging to our downtown reputations. But I say yes because I am curious. I want to see things. I say yes when my high school friend tells me to come out because he’s hanging with Puffy. A real story, that. I say yes when Hollywood says they’ll give me enough money to publish a hundred different books, or send twenty kids through college. Saying no is so fucking boring.

And if anyone wants to hurt me for that, or dismiss me for that, for saying yes, I say Oh do it, do it you motherfuckers, finally, finally, finally.

Some questions, readers. Do you…

Miss baseball? Wish it were spring? Hoping to god your fave team’s front office makes a few savvy moves to position the squad as a preseason frontrunner? Have nothing else to do? Describe yourself as an unrelenting masochist? If you answered yes to all of these questions, then tiger, the Hot Stove League is right the fuck up your alley.

As a Hot Stove League fan, you can do the following three things to pass the time:

1. Visit the popular MLBtraderumors.com ten times a day to check for new posts. After all, what’s more fun than tracking the goings-on of every unfounded rumor on the planet, in one handy place? Furcal is about to sign with the A’s! No wait, now it’s the Braves! Never mind, he signed with the Dodgers! Shoot, I wish I had those three hours of my life back. Oh hey look, more rumors!

—–

2. Check out your hometown team’s beat writers for the cherry-pickingest garbage they can piece together while crossing off the refrigerator calendar days until their flight down south for spring training. One of the hundreds of examples, courtesy of the Twins’ Joe Christensen:

Wigginton does not play third base well enough to be the everyday guy for the Twins. Brendan Harris is a better defensive third baseman and equally versatile. Both bat righthanded. Harris will make about $500,000 next season. Wigginton will make at least $6 million.

Wigginton was a force at Houston’s Minute Maid Park last season and finished with an impressive batting line: .285/.350 (OBP)/.526 (SLG). But after June 17, Harris quietly batted .300/.362/.495.

…

Lyon’s best pitch is his breaking ball. He is not overpowering but mixes his pitches well, not unlike Matt Guerrier. I know some readers will write him off after that comparison, completely forgetting Guerrier’s 2.35 ERA in 2007 and 2.83 ERA through June 7 last year. Why add Lyon if the Twins already have a version of him in Guerrier? Lyon has been a closer and an eighth-inning guy.

…

Through July 18 last season, Lyon held opponents to a .238 batting average

Convoluted comparisons…check! Useless qualities such as “eight-inning guy”…check! Completely random dates that help make your dumb point but give an immediate headache to readers blessed with the skill of rational thought…check! Thanks for the utterly useless report, Joe.

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3. Read online chats between stupid fans and a humorless stat-oriented blogger. Now this, this is the most painful thing I’ve read in quite a while. (Can’t believe I actually read it.) I’ll provide a few great examples from his most recent chat to save you time:

Q: any chance the twins try and sign eric gagne for the bullpen?
A: Doesn’t seem like it.

Q: Which players on the current 25 man roster will be Free Agents after the 2009 season?
A: I believe only Redmond.

Q: Johan Santana or CC Sabathia which one pitches better in ‘09?
A: Santana.

Q: If you were the twins, would you have offered Santana a blank check to stay here?
A: No.

Q: Do you think the Twins should make a play for Crede?
A: Not really.

Q: melvin moore or dan uggla at third base?
A: I believe a question has now been asked about every single bad-defense, OK-hitter third baseman in the world.

Q: Will Kubel have a break out year in ‘09?
A: No.   I think his level of performance has now been pretty well established.

Q: Forget Cuddyer to 3B, why not 2B?
A: Why not SS?

My god, is it like against the law to expand on an answer or show somewhat of a personality at all? Is it physically painful to answer a baseball question without sounding like a glib, curt pain in the ass? For fuck’s sake, guy, some stupid people just want to talk to you about baseball. It’s OK to enjoy yourself.

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Conclusion: God how I hate the Hot Stove League. Wake me up in April.

Cross-posted on Randball.

It was “LeBron James Night” over at the Target Center this past Wednesday as the 7-foot-tall, 15-year-old phenom came into town with his team (the Cleveland LeBronBrons) to take on the Minnesota Timberwolves. A packed house greeted The Pope, oohing and ahhing during his warmups, which consisted of halfcourt swishes and alley-oops to himself using a medicine ball. Adults and children alike cooed with anticipation of watching The Chosen One destroy the evil hometown team. There was excitement in the air. Passion as well. And more than a little sexual energy.

This was LeBron’s night.

James sat out the entire first half in an effort to prove that his team was able to beat the lowly Wolves all on their own. While relaxing on the bench, James knitted an exquisite winter scarf, painted an exact replica of the Mona Lisa, and impregnated two nearby fans simply by making eye contact (one of whom was a dude).

A few seconds into the third quarter, The Pope stood up, removed his fur coat and cashmere warm-up attire, took a bow and strutted on to the court. The 15,000 attendees began hyperventilating in excitement. The PA system cued “Dream Weaver,” the lights turned off and a lone spotlight shone on James as took the inbounds passed, dribbled for a few beautiful seconds and rose at mid-court, doing four slow-motion somersaults in the air while winking at/impregnating fans, before finally slamming the now-solid-gold basketball through the hoop, shattering the backboard and causing a nearby ballboy to spontaneously combust out of sheer joy, which was the first in what would be nearly a thousand joy-deaths on the evening. This was just the beginning.

As the game progressed, LeBron (who scored 175 points in the third quarter alone, wearing a 12-carat diamond eye patch) wowed his disciples time and again. After a no-look pass, Kevin McHale swallowed his tongue and offered The Pope a “call me” hand motion while sensually licking his lips. Immediately following a beautiful give-and-go, no less than 500 men fainted on the spot. And after his patented blindfolded cartwheel slam-dunk, women of all ages threw their underthings on the court and stormed the floor in the hopes of touching just a hem of The Pope’s garment.

None were successful, however, because at this point in the game LeBron was permanently suspended 15 feet in the air, delighting the crowd with pelvis thrust dances that made the ladies swoon and Mike Miller’s sneakers fill with cement. Bron’s teammate would toss the ball up to him in the air, and James, hailing from Heaven on Earth, Ohio, would lazily float towards the hoop, texting Jay Z to let him know he had decided to steal Beyonce from him while simultaneously updating his Twitter account with the most hilarious one-liners ever conceived, before dropping yet another biscuit into the basket.

As the final horn sounded, The Pope touched down on Earth one last time, packed his entire organization on his back and flew up into the rafters, lifting the Target Center roof with a simple flick of his finely manicured index finger, and the LeBronBrons made their way to Denver for their next game.

The remaining attendees who had not either died of elation or curled into the fetal position wiped hot tears of euphoria from their face as they waved goodbye to LeBron and made their way to the exits, knowing full well their lives had just peaked and everything following the LeBron sighting was forgettable and pointless. But that if this was it, if the high point in a human’s lifetime was to witness a fellow man for one glorious evening, well, that was quite alright with them.

Here it is, friends. My latest “top 50 songs ever” list. There aren’t a ton of changes from last year – a few newer songs shot up the list, a few older favorites were deemed not necessary to listen to much more often – but I worked tirelessly on it, so it’s going public. Have a look after the jump, if you wish. Mock away.

Read the rest of this entry »

~For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fello-OH MY GOD NO!!!!!!!!

(Sorry. Not funny.)

My hands-down favorite class in high school was my Broadcast Media course, in which our easygoing goofball of a teacher basically handed out a dozen or so video cameras, pointed us to the editing software and told us to have at it. That was pretty much it. We had a few assignments throughout the semester, but the bulk of our time was devoted to preparing for our final project, which was to be an original movie about the subject of our choice.

A’s were guaranteed, attendance was optional, and the video subject matter was of no concern. We were essentially given a free hour every day to do whatever we damn well pleased, the only pseudo-regulation being that we be sure to record some of it.

For some reason or another, my team decided that our movie was going to be a bunch of vignettes of everyday activities played backwards at regular speed with the help of the editing machine. It sounds lame now, but in 1999 – those halcyon days of Chumbawumba and excite.com – we truly were visionaries.

We dropped tennis balls off the gym bleachers and held our hand in place long after they stopped bouncing, so when played backwards it looked like we were magically summoning them out of the air. We walked backwards down the hallway in between periods, ate mini-donuts while trying to simulate as if we were puking them up whole (not easy), and a bunch of other really bizarre stunts that only make sense when you’ve got a camera in your hand and are amongst equally geeky cohorts. It was insanely fun, and I made friends with some kids I never otherwise would have known (one of my former classmates is a local musician, the other apparently getting the clergy all hot and bothered (he’s the one on the left)).

Anyway, I thought about that class today when a friend sent me this video:

My first thought is, “man, that is exactly the sort of video I probably would have made in my youth, if I had the creativity and spare time.”

Then, realizing how geeky I still am, I immediately got up from my desk at work, walked into the restroom and gave myself a well-deserved, long-awaited swirlie.

DELMON YOUNG APOLOGISTS: Rob Neyer speaks the truth re: Delmon Young vs. Michael Cuddyer:

“Those four outfielders combined for 26 home runs, and that the Twins finished last in the American League with 111 homers. If the Twins had any money to spend, their first priority would (or should) be finding a corner outfielder with real power.

But that’s not going to happen. And while Cuddyer might be that guy, it doesn’t seem likely. Yes, he did hit 24 homers in 2006. And no, he’s not really as bad as his .249/.330/.369 line in 2008 might suggest. But 2006 was an outlier, and Cuddyer just isn’t good enough with the bat or the glove to play every day. In fact, according to both +/- and UZR, Cuddyer is one of the worst defensive right fielders in the majors.

The Twins seem to really like Cuddyer. Fine. But he’s suited for just two roles: platoon DH (with Jason Kubel) and fourth (or fifth) outfielder. And while Delmon Young and Carlos Gomez both have obvious weaknesses, they’re both very young and do have the Twins’ beloved “tools.” Is this a championship-quality outfield? Probably not. But it’s probably the best the Twins can do, and sometimes the kids will surprise you (in a good way).”

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SEXTING: If you really want to hear the sappy story of how my fiancee and I met and fell in love, I’ll say only this: it started with a sext.

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DUSTY BAKER’S LOVABLE IRRATIONALITY: This snippet probably made Mr. Ken Tremendous roll over in his blog-grave:

Baker more or less freaked out when asked about the perception that he doesn’t like young, inexperienced players, bringing up the fact that he has children, nieces and nephews, and godchildren as reason why the theory is off base. Seriously. “They all love Uncle Dusty,” Baker said. “I don’t even want to defend that anymore.”

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TIPS: This is neither here nor there, but since I’ve been using this download like a muh’frakker down at the ol’ nine-to-fiver as of late, I figured I might as well point out, the desktop Post-It note software is the greatest thing ever. There are two types of people in the world, this much I’m sure: those who’ve never heard of it, and those who swear up and down it’s the best invention since the remote starter. Get to know it.

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And with that lame-ass, irrelevant-to-most snoozer of a write-up, I’m out. Sorry. Been a long damn week.