If I Wrote For the Onion Part Deux

Twins GM Bill Smith, sweating through his ruffled shirt, stumbled into his office at noon yet again today smelling of stale cigarettes and broken dreams. "What frickin month is it again?" Smith directed at his receptionist, Tanya. Before she had a chance to answer, however, he was already face deep in a juicy lucy, a favorite among his secret stash of meat.

"He really knows his stuff." noted Tanya while nervously looking from side to side. "He gives 110% to this organization, really does his research," she again reiterated fighting back at her increasingly misty eyes.

After pulling a rack of ribs off of his "Billy's Office BBQ" cookset he recently purchased on the company dollar, Smith began accessing what wry move he could execute to best build a contender next. "Ya know what we should do", Smith yelled in Tanya's direction in between bites, "maybe trade somebody, I don't know, just feels right ya know?"

After whether or not he had bathed in the last week was brought into question, Smith quickly became irate. "I don't have to answer to you or to anyone!" he screamed, demanding a conference call with team owner Jim Pohlad. When informed Mr. Pohlad was out on business, Smith quickly decided to trade Jim Thome to "spite the other Jim." "We got too many damn J names round here anyways," Smith continued as he readied his office cot for a nap. "Stupid... Jims..."

Once Smith fell asleep, an open bag of cheesy poofs in hand, Tanya broke down into tears. "I just feel so bad for everyone in Minnesota", she said while dabbing her eyes with a hankerchief. "I mean Mr. Smith would have never made that awful Johan Santana trade if I hadn't missed his daily 4 oclock gravy bath". She wearily continued, "And Wilson Ramos for Matt Capps? What are the odds his beer rucksack and snicker satchel would both be empty at the same time?" Now quivering and huddled in the corner bawling uncontrollably she went on, "I just want it to stop..."

Now rested, Smith uncinched his belt, leaned back in his Cookie Monster themed chair with his hands resting interlocked together atop his head. "I done good," he noted now patting his protruding belly affectionately. "I mean we had some hot chicks in our line-up today. 2, count 'em 2 Rene's! What other GM would even consider putting two people named Rene in a major league line up?"

Now walking towards the soft serve machine for what Smith simply referred to as "fourthsies," Tanya composed herself, and was found washing off and reapplying her streaking mascara. She redid her hair, tucked in her blouse, and whispered "Tell my story...Please...tell my story," then slowly and reluctantly walked over to aid Smith with his hot fudge ladle.

The Twins have a -144 run differential, 2nd worst the majors, and are 17 games out of first place.

Hot Dogs and Laundry

When all the teams you have ever cared about stink, it makes you re-evaluate.



It was cathartic for me, I hope it's enjoyable for you:



I am watching the Twins collapse before my very eyes. Bill Smith has turned Johan Santana into Jim Hoey, Wilson Ramos into Cat Mapps, and Jose Morales austensibly into a flaming pile of dog sh%t that not even Billy Madison would attempt to light on fire on a cratchety neighboor's front porch. They are taking feeble hacks at the mammoth Michael Pineida's sharp slider and explosive fastball. I can only chuckle to myself in a defensive grinace (combination grin/grimace) to try to deflect the anger and sadness of watching a first place team wither away...


Enter Mark Turgeon. Another in the endless string of coaches to bail on Texas A & M for a larger more prestigeous program, using A & M as a stepping stone. You can't help but feel for the Aggie faithful, cheering for analagous smaller market professional and college teams myself. You hear Turgeon commit himself passionately and feverously to the University of Maryland's credo and ways, college station a distant memory of yesterday.


Enter Rajon Rando. Kendrick Perkins and Rondo are crying after Perkins' inexpicable trade, best friends for years told to say goodbye because a man named Danny Ainge decided the team needed a better swingman, to look towards the future. It's just a business, they say begrudgingly as Perk packs up his things. Nothing personal, just a business.


Enter us. We bond over them with friends. We read about them in the paper, we call in to declare our opinions to people with loud shows and louder egos. We buy tickets. We buy jerseys. We pay taxes. We build stadiums. But in glorification of what?


Enter me. Wearing my Lakers Shaq jersey loud and proud. I wear it not because I love the Lakers. I hate them in fact. I hate what they stand for, casual fans who leave games early, always having big name guys, front runners. But I have always gravitated towards Shaq. He is a freak of nature, but is personable, likable, and created the blueprint for how to market yourself as an athlete that many have followed, some to the nth degree (see Johnson, Chad). I enjoyed watching him dominate games while Kobe awkwardly tried to figure out if he was Batman or Robin. And yet, when I wear that jersey I get called out the Lakers fan I'm not, as I should. I'm in a Lakers Jersey.


But should we see the team and not the player first? Are we cheering for a person or the uniform he wears? It's so much more than just a uniform right? It has to be. It's the memories of you high fiving your dad after he catches a foul ball. It's the smell of hotdogs at your favorite stadium. It's you and your buddies having a beer and yelling at your TV as though you are the ultimate authority on life. It's creating a sports community. Fate and circumstance and injuries and ping pong balls brought these people to Minnesota for us to agonize over, critique and cheer for. We get to know them better than ourselves, watching games intently, analyzing highlights, box scores, advanced stats. Some of us are even foolish enough to blog about them.


Enter Cleveland. A city with 7 years of memories involving one man. Billions of dollars in city revenue and franchise value rest in the hands of that one man. The man is a local boy himself. He understands the psyche of the city better than most. Yet he chooses warm weather, playing with his friends, villification, and watches as his jersey burns in the streets at the hands of those who once worshiped him. Through the flames they try to forget a man that embodied a team hopelessly intertwined with a city, destined to cheer for laundry.

The Hank Baskett All Stars

I have been tinkering with this idea for some time, but in the end I decided it was time to unveil it to the world. Ladies and gentleman I give you the Hank Baskett All Stars:

What is this you may ask? It is a criterium, a basis, a filing system for an inexplicable and unavoidable truth of today's society. Professional athletes who are varying degrees of bad at what they allegedly do for a living are marrying/dating people they should have no business marrying, or so every bitter blogger or male blog reader thinks or should think. Just like a previous, admittedly shallow and unnecessary post regarding women wearing large sunglasses (http://lessrock-moretalk.blogspot.com/2009/07/inconvenient-truth.html), we are breaking this bad boy category style, this time with a little terror alert twist.

Code Green: The Kris Humphries

This category contains an instance where you would typically do a double take when you saw the first picture of the couple together, but quickly rationalize it in your brain to the point where you could accept it and move on with your day, no problems.

So- Kim Kardashian and Kris Humprhies- Sure, there is some personal bitterness towards Humphries leaving the U early to go pro, the fact that he played at Hopkins, and still plays the game like it's one on five. (Seriously, look at this man's assist per game stats throughout his career, go ahead, that second google tab is really tempting you isn't it? I mean I bet they are really really bad, truly embodying his selfishness! I'd be such a shame to not investigate this properly!!..Ok I'll stop)

But he does currently log significant minutes for the Nets, or Nyets as is fun to call them after being bought by a Russian billionaire, was a stud swimmer (second to only some guy named Michael Phelps growing up) and I'm no expert but he seems like a decent looking dude. Couple that with Kim dating around, yeah I get it. Code Green.

Code Blue: The Jeff Garcia

What do you do when you are running sportscenter and it's a really slow newsday? You run a special on Jeff Garcia's life that has no point whatsoever. I didn't find him particularly charming or endearing, nor was the segment engaging. What I saw was a long time floundering CFL/backup QB golfing and doing other pointless stuff with his hot wife. I name the Code Blue zone is his honor just because of how pissed of I get to the this day thinking about how I wasted 5 minutes of my life watching that. Jeff Garcia- You balding annoying irrelevant quarterback, here's to you and your wife Carmella, which, incidently is a top 5 ridiculous name just below Carmelo's bride, Lala.

Code Yellow: The Matt Treanor.

Things are starting to heat up here to the point where I, a sports junkie, had no idea this dude was married to Misty May-Treanor until last year's baseball playoffs despite the fact that she slapped his name onto hers. I just never made the connection between floundering one time Marlins, for fish emphasis, backup catcher (I'm sensing a theme here) and the beach volleyball star.

Code yellow isn't a place for hate. Code yellow is a place where under the strict Hank Baskett All-star/terror alert guidelines, we place people who have the ability to have us hear their name repeadedly associated with their bride and still forget who they are. The fact that they are so incredibly mediocre and plain is what makes them so dangerous. For all I know Matt Treanor could have been my neighboor all my life, or right behind me as we speak. I'm not going to turn around so we may never know for sure. What we do know is that Matt Treanor is a colorless emotionless blob of organic matter and I am on to you sir!

Code Orange: The Casey Daigle

I don't really follow softball, but allegedly incredible pitcher Jenny Finch could have her pick of many a man, and chooses... Casey Daigle. That's right. The Casey Daigle. I...I'm going to save some strength for the inevitably draining Code Red rant that lies ahead but... Casey Daigle? This couple had a kid and named it Ace. Ace Daigle. I really don't know what to do with that. This relationship feels more made up than any of the fat guy with attractive wife sitcoms that have become pervasive post "King of Queens." I'll even include the "Still Standing" couple in that, reluctantly. Oh how I pity Ace Daigle.

Code Red: The Hank Baskett

Let me preface this by saying I don't know Hank Baskett at all. I really haven't heard him speak, but I don't like Hank Baskett. He is a very tall wide reciever that God made in a way so that he should be very good at being a professional wide receiver. He is not. His hands have been described as "Charlie Sheen accidently stumbling onto 10 ounces of cocaine" hard. Remember that brilliant onside kick the Saints executed 2 super bowls ago? Who do you think made that all possible by muffing it. You guessed it! Hank Baskett. Hank Baskett even has a stupid and even ironic name seeing as you cannot serve as a basket if you can't keep projectiles from falling to the earth.

Enter Kendra, the lovable playboy playmate who may or may not be able to look at leather as it still brings back traumatic Hugh Heffner memories... Was she just scarred enough to consider marrying perenneal loser and atrocious Viking (leading to much of this irrational anger) Hank Baskett? Only god truly knows.

How Hank Baskett's child wasn't dropped while in his "steady hands" I'll never know.

The State of the MN Sports Fan Address

The Twins are the Timberwolves of old, making the playoffs only to dash my hopes and dreams in the first round without so much as a wimper. The Timberwolves are the Twins of old, a lovable band of misfits who are as adept at losing as a Bernie Madoff investor. (I'm voting for Sebastian Telfair as Rich Becker, mediocre and annoying and we just can't get rid of this guy...) I really also like Mauer/Garnett parallels.... think about it.


The Vikings are...well the Vikings, and I'm told by people who care about hockey that the Wild (still the most ridiculous nickname in all of professional sports, it's an adjective people) are mediocre, and that Gopher Hockey in this the state of Hockey are more on par with Ferris State. (alleged Hockey burn.) The Gopher's basketball team are proving they still can't win on the road, and I'm not going to acknowledge the Gopher Football team.


All Metrodome roof collapse references/metaphors aside, Minneota sports are a mess right now, and the colder a state is, the more they care about their teams, because if Moorhead is any example, I'd sure as sh** rather stay inside with a brew and watch the game than weather the elements to do...well anything that requires me to weather the elements.


There is hope, but like all things Minnesota sports, this brand of hope is more along the lines of Ellis Boyd Redding's view of hope:


The 1:35-1:50ish part is where I feel Red could be directly talking to Minnesota Sports diehards: (Is Shawshank Redemption not flawless? Really wanted to work it into this one in some way...count it!)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWUfFwoe8ko&feature=related

This dangerous hope of mine lies in dangerous hands. I am blindly optimistic about a team that had 10,000 to 1 odds in Vegas to win the NBA champtionship, the worst by far of any NBA team. Their most recent 3 point loss the Spurs had me not thinking of another wasted road opprotunity for a signtature win, but rather how Love threw up yet another 15-15, how we rallied after Beasley went down, and (gulp) how hard Anthony Tolliver played? I'm fantasizing about a starting lineup next year of Rubio, Wesley who has been a pleasant surprise, Love, Beasley and Insert Center X here. With Martell off the Bench, 2 Utah 1st rounders in our pocket, maybe we can be a playoff team with this very young and very talented Nucleus??

To those who say that our 2012 first round pick is unprotected and Clipper bound after the Marko Jaric incident, that Love and Beasley are going to have to get PAID when their contracts are up, and that Rubio is lukewarm at best to ever come to Minnesota leaving you with the worst draft pick in recent memory, Thabeet aside, in Jonny Flynn-- I respond with (covering ears and closing eyes really hard) Can't hear you!! lalalalalala can't hear you!! Essentially being a Wolves fan requires one to regress to being a preschooler, simply appreciating them for how tall they are for Crunch's antics. (Not too much of a challenge for me thankfully!)

(Picture above is Webster's definition of "Pasty White Hope")

I'll save some of the Twins talk for a later date, but the fact of the matter is that the land of the Randy Ratio, Gary Anderson missing 1 field goal, the Daunte Roll, J.R Rider, Denny Hocking, Torii Hunter relinquishing inside-the-park home runs, begging 41 year old quarterbacks to come back for one more go around, Gugliotta tribal tattoos, Tony Fiore's palmball, Tony Fiore references, Final four's taken away, Courtney James being cuffed and taken away, 12 men on the field penalties followed by interceptions, Rick Rickert, and of course, Jesse Crain, Bennie Sapp and Nick Punto is in dire need of something to truly go its way.

Here's to a genuine hope.

Weezer and Me

I don't know how I have had this blog for so long and not had an extensive Weezer-related post. It seems in the inevitability category along the lines of the Ashton/Demi Moore marriage ending in divorce, or my NBA predictions bursting into flames like Fawkes the Phoenix (sigh).

Warning: This posts gets pretty long. I just have a lot to say about Weezer. Weezer is great.

Weezer is my favorite band. That is to say they WERE my favorite band. I don't listen to them as much as I did in the past, especially not some of the new material, but that's not to say they still aren't my favorite band...because they ARE... because of what they were, and because of what they've meant to me. (I've reread this paragraph about 5 times just now and understand it makes no sense, but upon the 6th reading it might... I stand by it)

Rivers Cuomo and I have a complex relationship despite never having met. It is so strange how people we never meet and who never intended intentionally to impact your life can have such a grip over your mood, your person, your ideals (see Childress, Brad). But, nonetheless I have identified with Rivers's thoughts, dreams, and fears as chronicled through song throughout the years. Blue Album and Pinkerton embodied his plight as a socially conscious neurotic young 20 something Harvard drop out. His outlook on life mirrored my own when I started getting into them during my awkward (whose aren't?)teen years. It made his music so relatable in that it wasn't just empty words and a catchy beat, but rather almost a narrative of his life. As he expressed his dismay over how he felt truly safe alone in his garage writing music, or how he was honestly just tired of sex, you in a strange way were able to pity his struggle and use it to relate to your own.

Chuck Klosterman had an interesting take on Rivers in his book "Eating the Dinosaur" in this same vein that resonated with me. His contention was essentially that Rivers' lyrics are the most literal of any band. He is not trying to have these lyrics be directly relatable to you like other bands (Springsteen comes to mind in terms of blatant pandering) but rather are void of true metaphor or imperonal presence. (I truly only could dissent on "Undone (the sweater song) in that the entire song is a metaphor, but still...his point is solid) Any ability for you to relate is thus not because of Rivers's conscious thought process of attempting to appeal to the masses.

This is most important is terms of how many fans, myself included, have felt increasingly detached to the more recent works of Weezer. I have for some time complained that Rivers is selling out with obnoxious songs like "Beverly Hills" and "Can't Stop Partying". What happened to my Rivers of old?? The answer: He got older. He had different inspirations. He has a family. He has a kid. He is becoming increasingly comfortable in his own skin, and embracing his rock star status.

He is actually doing the exact OPPOSITE of selling out because he is still producing songs that represent his inner most thoughts and feelings. Those ideals and contextualization of the world around him just aren't the same as they once were. We can't expect Rivers to attempt to connect to the Blue Album/Pinkerton fan base with new songs because to do so wouldn't be genuine and wouldn't be Weezer. You can see his increasing confidence throughout Green Album and Maladroit (Keep Fishin/Dope Nose/Don't Let Go/Photograph), with flagship songs decidedly more upbeat and carefree carrying into Red Album and Raditude.

I have seen Weezer twice live and comparing the two performances in hindsight I realized just how black and white they were. I first saw them with PK at first ave when I was a sophomore in high school when they were touring for "Make Believe", which was about to come out in a month or so. It was such a strange band dynamic as Rivers sheepishly would introduce songs with Scott Shriner (bassist) getting revved up to his left, and during songs could be seen bouncing off the walls, and climbing on speakers, and Pat Wilson (drums) keepin' the beat with immense passion behind him. He had a bit of a smirk when many of the members of the audience would sing along with the songs that theoretically hadn't debuted yet, and all the while during the solo's (that usually mirrored the chorus, naturally) he would be strumming so calmly and meticulously, ensuring that he would not strike a note improperly.

I think this was the turning point album in terms of the aforementioned 20-something neuroticism (via the songs Perfect Situation and Peace most prominently) to the new-look Rivers, optimism is tow (via the songs We Are All on Drugs and Beverly Hills). The albums that we see after this one are much more plentiful with songs that could be best categorized with the latter.

The next show I saw with Log/Leah/Kelsey @ Xcel while promoting Red Album had showmanship abound, however. Rivers playfully used Weezer related props, like an old fashioned Weezer radio, and flaunted the bands matching jumpsuits around the stage. Some songs Rivers would play drums, and let Pat Wilson have the sing/lead guitar honors, (He allowed Brian Bell, Shriner and Wilson to all write a song on Red album, they are songs 7-9 on the album I believe, another thing the younger more power-hungry, less about band unity Rivers would not have done). When he soloed, he jammed, and we all jammed with him. He seemed so at peace with himself on stage as he interacted with the crowd, as opposed to almost ignoring them and attempting to pretend he was at a band rehersal.

It's basically taken me all this while to reach this conclusion (To paraphrase the great Denny Green) Rivers is who we thought he is! He is who we thought he is! Maybe Weezer doesn't frequent my "top 25 most played" list on my ipod as frequently as it used to. But that's ok. I will still like a faithful sheep purchase my "Hurley Extended Deluxe Edition" the day it comes out (like I did not long ago) and anything else Rivers throws my way. Because me and Rivers don't have to see eye to eye all the time, I can just savor and remember the times when we did.

It's more than me and David Kahn can say.

Sports (sports) Sports Sports Sports (sports)

I know I'm not alone when I say this is going to be one of the most exciting NBA seasons in...well...ever. The summer of 2010 was unprecedented and has given rise to one of the most hyped teams in..well...ever. I am not at all concerned about who will take the last shot, or how the team will mesh. The only thing that is going to stop this team is if one of the big 2 1/2 (I'm not ready to annoint Chris Bosh superstardom just yet, although I do think he will have a very productive fantasy season given that teams will in no way be able to game plan for him) is injuries.



People seem to forgotten amid "The decision" and the never can be overused line, especially with a tone that implies a less than clean connotation, "taking my talents to south beach", is just how talented the man is. The over under a team that won 61 games last year, that lost its four last games of the year because they rested players/did not care/Mike Brown's corpse was "coaching", having only appreciably lost one player is 30 1/2!! 30 1/2! The astute minds in Vegas whose only job is to analyze this stuff (bless their hearts) say Lebron is worth at least 30 wins to that Cleveland team. Now put that monster on a team with Dwayne Wade (who is admittedly more fragile than Robin Williams in any role that he grows a beard for) and Chris Bosh, who may or may not have came out of that dudes stomach in "Alien." Look Out World!!


Only Boston (because of the Big 3, Rondo, lotta bulk in the frontcourt in the O'Neals) and The Lakers (because of the mamba, and Wallace, Chris) I'm still so upset over the Paul Gasol giveaway- Why Chris Wallace?!? Why?? Did Jerry Buss hurt you? Show us where he touched you! This is a safe place Chris Wallace! (building on previous Robin Williams humor) It's not your fault! It's not your fault! Its..not..your...fault.....

Whew, for that its worth I have a few bold calls:


1) The worst team in the league will be the Raptors. I mean, can you even name a player on this team? And don't you dare say William H Macy because Jurassic Park jokes will not be tolerated!

Plus It's just fun to laugh at Canada isn't it? (I'm not including the Wolves in this prediction, I can't think rationally about them)


2) The Clippers will make the playoffs this year. Just you wait.


3) David Kahn will take off a mask to reveal he is actually a cyborg from the future who had to ensure the Wolves would never win a championship to save the world in 2420.


4) Al Jefferson puts up a 20/10 and the Jazz are a 3 seed in the West. Everyone wonders aloud why "David Kahn" would trade him for 2 future first round picks that will likely be in the 16-22 pick range and a man named Kosta.


5) Greg Oden stays healthy all year. Then reveals he is actually 57 years old to get a discount on his grand slam at Dennys.


And some not-so-bold predictions:

1) Sebastian Telfair and Luke Rindour get into a "who is the biggest defensive liability at the PG position in the NBA" fight. Both win, meaning nobody wins.


2) Darko Milicic panics and starts waving a towel around madly on the bench, until it is revealed he has been brainwashed by Mark Madsen who gets a standing ovation at the Target Center for making Darko borderline useful.


3) Larry Bird and Jerry Sloan get into a "who likes white basketball players more" fight. But end up becoming best friends and crime fighting ninjas. (You'll thank me later Spielberg)


4) A tree will fall in the forest, and nobody will be around to hear it fall.


5)And the least bold call of all- The Timberwolves will be a lottery team, and will not move up in draft position from their projected lottery slot (sigh)

Now, if you'll excuse me Jenn Sterger is expecting a picture message from me any minute now.

Brett Favre does not think Jenn Sterger jokes are funny.

PK's Song

To death do us part, in sickness and health, and for better or for worse. These statements are the backbone of any marriage. I personally took these vows when I was 6 years old and my father took me to my first Twins game. Stuck in the prime of their disastrous run of the 90's (editors note: let's proclaim this the "Jeff Reboulet" era), the Twins became my one true love. Regardless of result, the way they played the game with hustle desire and passion capitivated me and won my respect and my heart.

I stuck with them through the contraction era, where on more than one occasion there were more promotional giveaways than fans to give them to, nonetheless I stood by my floundering team with steadfast adoration. Then, finally, in 2002 my beloved losers made the playoffs and made believers out of a state that had rejected them for nearly a decade. They became a true team at the hands of the "Soul Patrol" and the undying arm of Brad Radke only to fall to the (Editor's censor...involves coitus except with the the anus.... and a few expletives) clutches of the rally monkey and eventual world series champion Angels. For the next seven years I watched the Twins continue to be built around fundamentals and a never-say -die attitude that gave them national accolades. I have never once questioned the attitude or desire of the men in the "Twin Stripes" until last night.

After a thrilling (thankfully only) 162 game season in which they lost an MVP and still battled their way to 90+ wins and a division title, the Twins I have grown to love faltered. After losing two hard fought games at the new Target Field, the Twins ran out one of the most embarassing and gutless performances I have ever witnessed. At Yankee Stadium, one of the most hostile stadiums known to sport, the Twins failed to rise to the challenge of not only representing the State they call home but also themselves. I, like many of you, watched as each Twin complacently took uninspired plate appearances that led to minimal productivity throughout the night.

After Jorge Posada singled in the first run on a (very) poorly located pitch by Brian Duensing, the already deflated dugout collapsed for good. That one run might as well have been ten the way they were carrying themselves the rest of the evening. Every single one of those players should be embarassed for the way they approached that game.

As it were, this love of mine for the Twins can't be broken by another tragic postseason meltdown. The beauty of baseball is that in several months players will report to spring training and that endless pursuit for a title will begin again. But until then each fan in Twins Territory will be left with a sour taste in their mouths, repeating the mantra made famous by the Chicago Cubs, "There is always next year."

-Peter Kelly

If you've seen this man, ask him where he goes during the Postseason