Author Archives: chrisbrockman
This Week In Josh Scobee Badassery
Dare I say that 2012 will be the year of the Scobee. Yes, yes I do indeed dare. Ya’ll better recognize.
LOS ANGELES — Here at The Chris Brockman Website, we think kickers are people, too. Actually, some of the most awesome people in the NFL are kickers. OK, really only Sebastian Janikowski because of his Volkswagon thighs and ability to drink a whole sorority under the table, and Adam Vinatieri, because he does things like drill 45-yard game winners in freakin’ snowstorms and win Super Bowls. But that’s besides the point.
All bow down to the Del Greco.
Rare is a kicker so special he forces you take notice and causes copy writers to make gigantic bold headlines for something other than missing a game-winning kick. Once upon a time, that man was Al Del Greco, recognized internationally as the greatest player in NFL history. But in 2012, someone is coming for him. Someone is seeking to rip that crown from King Al’s dome. That someone: Josh Scobee.
The Jaguars hand-eye and foot-to-ball engineer known for destroying the Pro-Am competition on the links and striking the fear of Zeus into horned and furred wild animals across the globe became one of the highest paid kickers in the game on Monday, inking a 4-year, $14M contract. “There’s added pressure any time you sign a nice deal because people expect you to live up to it,” Scobee said. Off the record, he said he challenges anyone to fight him, because he’ll kill them with his hunting bow and mount their head on the wall in his mancave.
This Jacksonville dame knows who butters her toast: he who goes by Scobee.
OK, he didn’t really say that last part, but you know he was thinking it. If you needed reminding, Scobee is a badass. Not only does he kick 50-yard field goals in his sleep (or in this case, Jacksonville, which might has well be a dream state), he tweets about celebrating the signing with fried chicken. Is that the meal of someone who likes to eff around? I didn’t think so. He’s the only man who knows the real location of Bigfoot, and not that impostor Brian Wilson took as his date to the Espy’s.
So, we salute you, Josh Scobee. Keep doing you, son. And you all keep checking in once the NFL season gets underway for weekly updates on the ass Scobee has kicked and the names he has collected along the way.
Extra Butter — Prometheus & Safety Not Guaranteed
It probably wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a ship like this.
LOS ANGELES — Yes, “Prometheus” is a futuristic sci-fi film about a group of scientists who search for life’s creators on a far-away planet with the help of an android. They encounter much more than they bargained for in their quest for answers, fight some aliens and save earth. However, I almost feel as if this was a piece of art questioning whether or not we should be looking in the first place.
Look, we know why anyone does anything; because they can, and in this world, the owner and crew of the Prometheus can. But it doesn’t always make it the appropriate line of thinking. I could go take a bath in the pond at The Grove, have someone film it and end up a YouTube hit but it wouldn’t be worth it (maybe). It’s sometimes better to let sleeping dogs lie, or shower at the gym. Doc Brown built a time machine out of a DeLorean but even that screwed just about everything up.
I’ll admit, the idea of having an android to help me get through life is pretty sweet. Yes, it would help make my life easier, I’d win a boatload of cash on Jepoardy or yet-to-be-invented game show, but would I actually learn anything on my own, or improve as a man? Probably not. I could just take him to parties, or get stinking rich because I’d be the only with a life-like robot.
All things being even, I’d probably do it, but it doesn’t mean I should. Like looking for the creators of man.
OK, back to my original lede for this review.
Charlize Theron as Miss Vickers.
Since winning the Academy Award for her role in “Monster” in 2003, Charlize Theron hasn’t done anything truly memorable – aside from throwing around a drunk Will Smith in “Hancock” (2008) – until last year’s “Young Adult,” a very well done film in which she plays a successful writer who goes back to her hometown to win back her high school sweetheart. However, Theron is a huge movie star, and thusly, very recognizable. So when I saw her in the trailer for Ridley Scott’s latest sci-fi blockbuster “Prometheus” I was not only confused but figured her inclusion would be quite distracting from what surely was a very deep and interesting film by a very successful and thought-provoking film maker.
I was slightly wrong. Only slightly because after learning she passed on playing the lead, Elizabeth Shaw, because of a scheduling conflict, she later accepted a lesser role as Meredith Vickers, the Prometheus’ guardian, when the film fit her calendar. Theron in this lesser role is much better than as the lead and therefore not AS distracting as it could’ve been. So it’s a win by default. Michael Fassbender (“X-Men: Origins”), not nearly as big a star though getting there, was perfect is his role as the droid David, who assists the crew of the Prometheus in their hunt for the so-called Engineers, the makers of life, on a far away planet.
I’d let Michael Fassbender hang out with me, android or not.
“Prometheus” was originally dubbed as an “Alien” prequel but it’s hardly that; completely separate story line, and there’s only a hint at anything Alien at all, so don’t feel like you need to have seen those films to know what’s going on here, as you don’t. Scott’s special effects on this new planet, a planet which takes two years to get to, are incredible, and I enjoyed the acting, especially by the two knuckleheads, Fifield (Sean Harris) and Millburn (Rafe Spall). Initially, I wasn’t that excited about “Prometheus,” but it’s well worth the 124-minute run time. Just don’t spend the entire duration thinking about if the ship is bigger than Spaceball 1. It’s not. And doesn’t have a cool bumper sticker either.
Oh, and Noomi Rapace is awesome as Shaw. But the film, in my opinion, is all about the performance of Fassebender, who in 7 months, should get some award noms.
Brockman Stamp of Approval: 3.5/5 Stomach Staples.
SAFETY NOT GUARANTEED
Working on a talk show has some cool perks. OK, really just one: you get to meet celebrities (there are a few jokes here, but I’ll refrain some saying them because, well, we’d like more to come on the show). Usually, these aesthetically-blessed individuals are plugging their latest project, which they’ve been trained to tell everyone who’ll ask and listen that it’s the greatest thing since “Citizen Kane.” Admittedly, as these trained memorizers have described their films, I’ve gotten sucked in to thinking they’re right and that I should fork over the cash to go see what their hocking.
Now, when they leave, I exit the vortex of their propaganda and realize what they’re peddling is piece of crap and save my money for more important things like Subway footlongs and dental floss. However, when recent guest Jake Johnson (“New Girl” & “Get Him To The Greek”) stopped by to talk Chicago Bears and his new indie film “Safety Not Guaranteed” I was intrigued more than normal.
A few days later, I checked out the trailer online and decided it’d be work my time. About a group of writers for Seattle magazine who set off on a journey to find out about this kook who put a classified ad for a trip back in time, ‘Guaranteed,’ which also stars Mark Duplass of “The League” and Aubrey Plaza of “The Office,” is a story of hope, belief and letting go of what’s comfortable and easy for something that could be so much more.
Aubrey Plaza and Jake Johnson, along with their Indian intern, make for an interesting investigative team.
A film that entertains you and makes you think. I’m in.
Johnson plays the dick-ish writer who takes the story with the agenda of meeting up with an old flame in the area; Plaza is the inquisitive, boring intern who draws the assignment of getting close to Duplass, only to eventually grow to like him and buy into his plan to actually travel back in time; and there’s an Indian intern whom they both make fun of. It’s an amusing dynamic and a fun 90 minutes.
I was legit surprised by the ending, too. You’ll enjoy it.
Brockman Stamp of Approval: 3.75/5 Cans of Soup
The Crossover — JerseyChaser Sings LeBron’s Praises
LeBron James recorded a triple-double in the championship-clinching Game 5 for Miami.
LOS ANGELES — The Crossover returns after a two-month hiatus and we bring the hoops Heat, as the Brosefolophogus of JerseyChaser.com checks in to talk everything LeBron James and the NBA Finals after Miami closed out Oklahoma City in 5 games, Thursday night. (The Crossover Ep. 25 – click here to listen)
LeBron James can truly say he is No. 1 now.
After calling him out on Twitter and offered him the floor should LeBron come through and win his first championship, I threw up the Bat Signal Friday afternoon and the Bro delivers. He comes into The Crossover and lays down his manlove for LeBron and goes all out after the haters who dogged the King for the 9 long years he’s been chasing this championship. He is unapologetic in his priase and makes some bold predictions for the Chosen One’s future.
We also touch on some of what critics have plagued LeBron for in the past, if he’ll retire with the Heat, where he’ll end up on the G.O.A.T. list, what’s to come of Kobe Bryant and the Lakers, the Thunder’s future and whether or not Kevin Garnett will hang up the sneakers.
It’s a fantastic and frenetically fast-paced hoops converastion with a true legend. Don’t miss it. And as always, thanks for listening, check me out on Twitter (@chris_brockman) and spread the word!
Extra Butter — What I’ve Seen Lately
Everything Nic Cage touches turns to cinematic gold; it was no different for my old film review column.
LOS ANGELES — In my former life, I wrote film reviews for the Journal Tribune. The column there was titled “Extra Butter” because, well, I liked a lot of butter on my popcorn (#FatKidProblems) , so it seemed like a logical fit. The idea spawned one day by merely asking the managing editor if we run any kind of reviews, and when he said “no,” asking if I could do them (sometimes all you have to do is ask, kids). The first film I reviewed was “Casino Royale and I later won a Maine Press Association Critic’s Award for my review of Nicolas Cage’s masterpiece “Ghost Rider.”
Since moving to L.A., my well has run dry. I haven’t written one of these columns in nearly three years; that’s my bad. Every so often I feel like I should get back to it; clearly “The Town” would’ve been a nice return and I did write something about “Social Network” when it came out, but not in this vain, and since I still see a lot of movies, I’m going to make the effort because I always had fun with this column. Of all the ones I’ve written since I started really writing in 2004 – Local Celebrity, Game Point, Extra Butter, BrockAngeles and now this site – the film reviews are the ones I wish I had kept up, but fret not.
We’re back! Enjoy, leave me your thoughts and keep truckin’.
Known as the Godfather of Gangsta Rap, Ice-T took to the street to find out what’s made hip hop what it is today.
From Something To Nothing: The Art of RapThe first time I heard “Regulators” was as I was driving along the main drag in Ocean City, Md. with my family in the summer of 1994. I couldn’t get the beat out of my head all day. Later that night, my uncle asked what I was humming – Doo, doo, doo, doo-do-do-dooo – and I didn’t know what it was, it was just catchy as hell but my interest never went further.
In high school, the East Coast-West Coast war was at its height and a lot of my friends were big Tupac fans. I could never get into it. Leading up to my freshman year at Syracuse I worked at the beach as a grill cook and we listened to nothing but classic rock, so it really wasn’t until I got to college, living with a diverse group of guys, that my musical tastes grew. I became a quick fan of the beats of the day and the old school jams. Sure, I’m as white as a loaf of Wonder Bread but I can appreciate the skill it takes these greats of putting together rhymes. Now, it’s rare a song comes on KDAY that I don’t know.
So, when Ice-T came into the NFL Network studios recently to appear on the Rich Eisen Podcast and started talking about his documentary, “The Art of Rap,” I was immediately interested. The documentary was a hit at the Sundance Film Festival, bought the first day, and hit theaters this past weekend. A meteoric path for a film of this nature. I went on its opening night and left not disappointed. Ice-T is not only the executive producer and director of the film but the interviewer of his subjects. He goes to New York (Melly Mel, Grandmaster Caz, Detroit (Eminem) and Los Angeles (Dr. Dre, Xzibit, Snoop Dogg) to talk to some of hip hop’s legends to find out their thought process and how they wrote their rhymes coming up. Ice-T wanted to get inside the minds of these artists, search for their inspiration, look beyond the cars, girls and jewels.
And he succeeded. It was remarkable to hear their tales, see them put pen to paper and create a story from either nothing or life experiences. Grandmaster Caz wrote a rhyme on the spot. Dr. Dre tried to take the audience inside the mind of a producer and offered some insight on working with Tupac. Eminem talked about being white MC in this game and his struggle. After a while the stories about the process got repetitive, though the highlite was each rapper performing a freestyle or reciting a few bars of another legend’s work.
The film did seem every bit of its 107 minutes and probably would’ve benefited from losing a few of the interviews, as well as some of the on-site, scenic transitions, which didn’t really add much. Though I was left wanting a tour or perhaps an entire “Cribs” episode dedicated to Dr. Dre’s ridiculous Hollywood Hills mansion. Jesus, the rap game has been good to him. KRS1’s story about his first battle is epic, too.
The biggest shock, besides the length of Melly Mel’s dreds, was that my girlfriend really liked it. I figured I was going to have to see it solo, but when I explained to her the premise, she was on board and even laughed a few times. An artist herself, she was really interested in the rappers comments on the process and mindset while preparing and performing. She was encapsulated with Mos Def’s segment.
Bottom line: This is a must-see.
Brockman Stamp of Approval: 4.25 out of 5 Mics.
That’s My Boy
Sixteen-year-old me would probably punch 31-year-old me in the face for saying this, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen an Adam Sandler movie in the theater; “Just Go With It” was getting some run on HBO a while back and I caught the last 3/4ths of it, but I think the last one I paid to see was his revamped version of “The Longest Yard.” It wasn’t great and neither is his latest college try, “That’s My Boy,” which co-stars Andy Samberg and Leighton Meester.
Sandler plays as Donny Berger, who was a child pseudo celebrity for having sex with his teacher and fathering a son (Sandberg) at a very young age. As an adult, he’s a drunken, broke mess, and after his lawyer (played by Jets coach Rex Ryan) tells him he needs to come up with $43,000 to avoid prison, Berger turns to his son, now a successful banker. Though he doesn’t come out and ask for the money, he has a plan involving a hornswaggler of a talk show host (Dan Patrick) and an awkward reunion with his mom (Susan Sarandon) to come up with the cash. Along the way, he realizes he misses and loves his son and tries to do right by him by exposing his two-timing fiance. Of course, everything turns out well in the end but not without some absurdities in the middle.
Bleh. Sandler plays Berger as an ’80s hot mess who constantly has a Budweiser in his hand, is best friends with Vanilla Ice and thinks all the flash-in-the-pan ’90s catch phrases are still hilarious (they’re not). The film is set in Massachusetts, so his over-the-top New England accent is amusing to start and annoying by the end. Unfortunately, you can’t get away from it. I was laughing a lot of the time, however, I think it was more of laughing at the whole thing, not with it. The bachelor party stuff was kinda funny, though. Who knows.
All Sandler film reviews are essentially the same at this point, which is means I’m getting older and he just keeps making the same movie; yet we all keep paying for them, so who’s the dummy? People wonder why he routinely makes “bad” movies these days. The answer is simple: we’ve given him the blank check to do so. It’s our fault. And it’s going to continue.
Brockman Stamp of Eh: 1.5/5 Brews.
Men In Black III
It’s possible I’m at the tail end of my 20-year mancrush on Will Smith. I’m not as geeked as I used to be about his newest ventures or are a fan of him force feeding his kids down our entertainment-enjoying throats, but neither stopped me from enjoying the hell out of the latest installment of the “Men In Black” franchise.
Nobody does $100M movies like Smith, who returns after a 4-year big screen hiatus, and I’d expect this one will join his list of big money makers. It follows the formula of the previous MIB films; Agents J and K (Tommy Lee Jones) get into trouble and have to save the world with their badass weaponry. Only this trip around, J has to go back in time to save a young K (Josh Brolin) from an intergalactic warlord whom he put in prison 30-some-odd years earlier and who wants to kill him.
It has a “Back To The Future II” feel to it, where the future is one way, then the villain goes back in time and changes it, and then they have to go back in time to change the changes made by the villain. Only here there’s aliens and suits and Agent K is likable and it’s set in New York.
I don’t know if there’s going to be another Men In Black movie – I’m sure it’ll depend on box office numbers this time around – but if there’s not, this film was a good way to wrap up the series. We get some insight to J’s past, why he is who he is, and same with K, who as a young agent is lively, jovial and fun-loving but couldn’t be more opposite as an adult. As always, the special effects are really neat and the aliens and weapons keep getting cooler. You’ll really have fun with this one.
Brockman Stamp of Approval: 3.5/5 Ray Bans.
Dark Shadows
I plan to write an entire column on Johnny Depp’s appeal to women in the nearer future – honestly, I don’t get it – but for the time being I’ll stick to his newest vampire flick. Also, what is with every movie these days being about a) vampires; b) bows and arrows or c) zombies? ANYway, “Dark Shadows” is not good, but I saw it recently because the girlfriend is among the millions obsessed with the aforementioned Mr. Depp and for some reason she wanted to see this. I’ll admit the first time I saw the trailer, it looked amusing, but every time after my interest in it lowered exponentially. Actually, this flick made the second JD project we’ve seen together; our first date was “The Rum Diary,” which I liked and just recently found out she did not. So we’re even.
If you’re expecting something like “True Blood” or “Twilight,” you’ll be disappointed. There are some murders but no nudity and I think it’s supposed to be funny, but it’s not. “Dark Shadows,” which also stars Michelle Pfeiffer, is about the Collins family, who owns the town and the fishing industry, only to lose it to another company who just happens to be run by the woman (Eva Green) who puts Johnny Depp’s character in the ground for 200 years. I think she’s a vampire, too, or she’s in love with Depp. Something like that.
The Collins family lives in a Wayne Manor-esque estate and each member has something strangely wrong with them. The girl from “Kick Ass” might be a werewolf, the doctor is a drunk, the dad is a deadbeat and on and on. The family is on the verge of bankruptcy and being run from the town, only Depp, the original Collins, can save them.
What’s worse, is that they’ll probably be a sequel because the family shrink (Helena Bonham-Carter) who’s thrown to the bottom of the ocean is still alive. Dum-dum-dum! Spare me.
Brockman Stamp of Eh: 1.5/5 Fangs.
Disappointment, Controversy Mire Epic Sports Day
LOS ANGELES — Late Spring is arguably the best time for sports. With the unpredictability of the NBA and NHL Playoffs, interleague baseball, the randomness of big boxing matches, tennis and golf Grand Slam tournaments, and even horse racing; if the sports planets all align there’s the chance for something special. So when the Devils beat the Kings last Wednesday to avoid a sweep in the Stanley Cup Finals, and then the Heat beat the Celtics to avoid elimination in the NBA Playoffs the next day, the intergalactic sports Gods set up a potentially epic day like Saturday, June 9.
As it turned out, there wasn’t just two or three of the previously mentioned events planned, but all six. I mean, why wouldn’t there be. It isn’t often you get a horse going for the Triple Crown, a tennis great trying to complete the career Grand Slam, your favorite baseball team playing against the best young player since Junior Griffey, a potential Stanley Cup deciding game, an NBA Playoffs Game 7 and a big-time prize fight featuring who many consider the best pound-for-pound fighter in the world. All in one day!!?! A sports guy’s dream.
I’ll Have Another’s bum leg kept it from a historical Triple Crown, Saturday, in New York.
However, when I’ll Have Another’s trainer Doug O’Neill pulled the horse, who already had a pair of stunning come-from-behind wins in the Kentucky Derby and Preakness, on Friday morning after noticing signs of arthritis/tendinitis in its leg, the Gods proved they had other plans. We now know those were nightmarish ones, especially for those with northeast rooting interests, like myself.
We’ll start with the Red Sox, who are on the precipice of a disaster .500 season (seriously, Adrian Gonzalez, you suck). They got things going in the southern directional with a 4-2 loss to the hotshots from Washington (who would later sweep Boston after Sunday’s win). While I failed to watch a single inning of this contest, I didn’t have high hopes after Stephen Strasburg (6 innings, 2 runs, 13 Ks) and Bryce Harper (3-for-5, 3 RBIs and a HR) dominated the squad the day before. You know it’s a bad sign when I just expect a disastrous performance before a pitch is ever thrown; 2004 and 2007 seem soooo long ago.
Nationals rookie Bryce Harper has lived up to the very high expectations he’s faced.
Shortly there after Boston’s “L,” the rest of the field that would’ve been an asterisk to I’ll Have Another’s historic Triple Crown (he was going off at 4-5 odds as late as last Thursday) took to the track at Belmont Park before a less-than optimally hyped crowd of over 85,000 (who bet over $15M). There was a group of us watching at The Daily Pint in Santa Monica for our friend Joe’s birthday or perhaps I would’ve skipped the race entirely. Back in the day, I wouldn’t have missed a big race. There was a harness racing track near my house in Maine and my buddies and I would roll over and lay some action down; always made it more interesting. Alas, I had zero interest, but the historic mile-and-a-half jaunt ended up being a dramatic race despite the favorite’s absence. Union Rags came from behind to claim the victory but will be a distant memory to what might have been. Legendary trainer Bob Baffert once again had his horse Place, as Paynter came up just short.
After falling in a 3-0 hole, the New Jersey Devils did their best to stave off elimination by forcing a Game 6. The Kings then won their first ever Stanley Cup on Monday.
Now, I’m not a hockey fan, but the hometown Kings being a game away from clinching the first Stanley Cup in the franchise’s history, and with the puck dropping on Game 5 a half hour before Heat/Celtics Game 7, was enough to garner at least 30 minutes of my viewing time. Our now 5-man crew shifted over to Busby’s where we’d be able to watch both events and then possibly the Bradley/Pacquiao fight later on. The move proved to be a smart one as we posted up right in front of a TV with the basketball game on, with the hockey on directly behind us for easy viewing. I turned my head every now and again to check the score; we were updated on what was happening by the groans/cheers from the other patrons. There were mostly groans as the Devils extended the series with a 2-1 win.
Of course, my focus was solely on the Celtics, who were seeking their 3rd NBA Finals appearance in the five years of the Big Three Era and a revenge victory over Miami, which took out Boston in 5 games in last year’s Eastern Conference semis. It was a torridly-close affair but the Celtics managed to have a not-so comfortable 7-point lead at halftime, however, with just 12 minutes left to play it was dead even. The way Miami came back didn’t leave a good feeling in my gut, and as the time on the game clock dwindled it became apparent that the new golden era in Boston was coming to an unceremonious end. The Heat finished off the 101-88 win to advance to the NBA Finals against the youthfully athletic Oklahoma City Thunder and their dynamic and questionably fashionable duo Kevin Durant and Russell Westbrook. What made the loss even more obnoxious, was that suddenly we were surrounded by Heat fans, fans who were noticeably silent for the previous 36 game minutes. All that was left for me to do was lick my wounds, and devour my turkey burger, and prepare for the pugilistic showdown.
LeBron James finally had something to cheer about as he advanced to his second consecutive NBA Finals with the Heat’s Game 7 win over Boston.
I suppose we should have taken this has a sign of weird things to come, but the fight’s start was delayed by nearly an hour as 1) Manny Pacquaio, apparently a huge Celtics fan (finally, something to like about him) refused to get ready until the basketball game was over, and 2) Pacquiao, after getting ready, had to walk on the treadmill for a lengthy period of time to loosen up his calves, which he’s had problems with tightness in throughout his training camp. Meanwhile, the HBO announcing team was running out of things to talk about as everyone waited. It was beyond bizarre. Meanwhile, Bradley was gloved up and ready to go, pacing around backstage while Pacquaio went on with his shenanigans. The whole scene was bizarre, to say the least.
Manny Pacquaio dominated Timothy Bradley for a majority of their bout, Saturday, or so thought those watching who weren’t the judges ringside.
Finally, just after 9pm pacific time — only an hour or so after it was supposed to get underway — the boxers made their way to the ring, Michael Buffer did this overpriced thing (did you know he gets close to $5 million to be a boxing announcer for big fights?) and the dance began. It was clear from the get-go that Pacquiao was there to fight and quell the thoughts his 12-round triumph over Juan Manuel Marquez some months back wasn’t earned. The WBO champ was aggressive and closed rounds strongly, while Bradley tried to fight off Pacquiao’s his flurries. The challenger didn’t do a good job of it. Midway through the fight I tweeted out that a knockout was looming in the coming rounds. It never came.
Timothy Bradley had every reason to be smiling after Saturday’s split-decision win.
Bradley, who we later found out broke his foot in the fourth round, fought admirably to close the bout, but by then most assumed it was a forgone conclusion he was the big loser. When it was finally over and Bradley’s cornermen lifted him up, Jim Lampley commented on the irony, since it appeared he was soundly defeated. It was even reported Bradley told promoter Bob Arum that he gave all he could but even then couldn’t defeat Pacquiao. It wasn’t until Buffer read the first score of 115-113 that I knew something was up. And even though the round went to Pacquiao, that someone could even think the fight was that close was ludicrous was not a good sign if he hoped to continue his 7-year unbeaten streak.
Then Buffer said the second judges scores; “115-113 for Bradley” and you knew right then Bradley was going to win. The final judge’s score of 115-113 for Bradley didn’t even need to be read but when it was there was a good 15-20 seconds of silence inside Busby’s while we all soaked in what we just heard and what that meant for Pacquiao, a sitting-in-jail Floyd Mayweather and the sport of boxing. What it meant for Bradley was a rematch (one that was already predetermined, ironically) and a bigger payday and a still unblemished record. Twitter was aghast with notions of a fix and it was tough to argue. Inside Busby’s, some clown in a LeBron James jersey was running around yelling his outrage to any one would listen. Many did not. On my drive home, I wondered what Mayweather’s reaction must have been when learning of the outcome. Surely a smirk was involved.
Maria Sharapova finally won her coveted French Open championship.
In the end, only Maria Sharapova was able to come through to win the French Open and complete her career Grand Slam. Still, she’s getting married to former Lakers guard Sasha Vujacic so a complete victory is not awarded in my book. On top of all the sports brokenheartedness, it was the first weekend in nearly three months without “Game of Thrones,” and it was the last for probably a year with a Mad Men episode.
So much hope, so much promise when the sun rose that day all for not. Sometimes stars shine bright but their alignment is a little off. Maybe next time.
Seriously, Stop Driving
Jacksonville made receiver Justin Blackmon was the 5th overall pick in this year’s NFL Draft.
LOS ANGELES — This week, another professional athlete joined the not-so exclusive, moronic but ever-growing club of celebrity DUIers; you know, the ones too dumb to call a cab, limo, school bus, agent, bicycle, hipster with a skateboard, groupie, team mascot, SOMEONE to drive them home after a night of boozing.
Justin Blackmon, newly drafted of the Jacksonville Jaguars and the Adonis-like wide receiver from Oklahoma St., recently blew a .24 (three times rhe legal limit) while driving home early last Sunday morning in Oklahoma from wherever he thought was a better place to drink than his couch. It’s Blackmon’s second arrest in the last 20 months and puts the spotlight on himself and a team in much need of a turn in the right direction after an abysmal 5-11 campaign in 2011 for all the wrong reasons. Blackmon was (and still is) supposed to be the new focal point of the Jags’ passing attack with whomever new head coach Mike Mularkey decides to trot out there at quarterback for Week 1 at Minnesota.
The Jaguars, as @AndrewPerloff of the Dan Patrick Show predicted they would on this week’s Rich Eisen Podcast, have a chance to make the playoffs in the AFC South with the Texans weaker, the Colts starting a rookie QB and Titans doing little to improve themselves this offseason. Unfortunately, it all hinges on who wins that starting QB job. It could be Blaine Gabbert, who couldn’t start in my flag football league after his performance last season, or perhaps former Dolphins starter Chad Henne, who’s coming off a season-ending injury a year ago. No matter who it is, they’re going to need Blackmon, as well as Maurice Jones-Drew, who took a beating last year and still managed to lead the NFL in rushing by over 200 yards (and he’s one of my fantasy team’s keepers next year. Cha-ching!)
Blackmon has a chance to be an immediate impact receiver but not if he keeps doing bonehead things off the field. He’ll find himself Charles Rogers’d in no time. For this latest incident he could be fined, though he’s yet to even sign his rookie contract, but it sounds like he won’t be subject to the league’s personal conduct policy. We’ll see.
But this goes to the larger point with celebrities and athletes (we sort of expect this behavior from rock stars, right? how preposterous is that?); why do they routinely get behind the wheel intoxicated when they clearly have the means to avoid situations such as these? Seriously, how stupid are these people? How many before them need to get arrested and have their reputations ruined before someone wisely decides an alternative means? I’m not saying that there aren’t some who probably do this; there might be many and we only hear about the doofuses, but come on. Former NFLer Leonard Little killed someone doing it, then went out and did it AGAIN. Same with ex-MLBer Jim Leyritz.
Just in the last month, actress Amanda Bynes got busted TWICE! And she even Tweeted to President Obama to have the arresting officer fired. Charlie Sheen. Lindsay Lohan. And on and on. That’s what’s wrong with these people; the sense of entitlement. It’s the only explanation on why it keeps happening. Look, Joe Shmoes get hammered at their local watering hole, do drugs, whatever and then drive home all the time, all over the country. It’s reckless, irresponsible and beyond dangerous. But they can’t afford car services or have “people” and “handlers” to see to their every need to ensure it doesn’t happen. So why does it?
The guise of invincibility that’s come from years and years and being told how great you are and how everything is taken care of and nothing wrong will ever happen has these people believing it, that’s why. Look, if I was one of those guys and my life was pearls and caviar for me from a very young age, once I got to be somewhat of an adult I’d pretty much do whatever the fuck I wanted, too. But I hope I’d have the wherewithal to not drive myself anywhere while and after I did it. I don’t even drink and I’d have someone drive me all over creation, even when I was bored. My gym is literally a half mile from my house and I’d call a service to take me there.
Ashton Kutcher and wife Demi Moore split last fall after his reported affair with a San Diego 20-something.
It’s hilarious to me when the public gets shocked Ashton Kutcher had sex with some 20-something, that Allen Iverson is broke and Axl Rose flips out at a show. Why do we think virtually all of celebrity relationships are dysfunctional and fail, or they go broke when their playing days or acting days or rocker days are over or have substance abuse problems? They think the party never ends and nothing sticks to them. They are never told “no” because those who should be doing the telling are invested in their success.
Only John Gotti was the Teflon Don but even he went to jail. And died there. Unfortunately, I don’t think even that will slow this culture down.
Two Cities, Two Playoff Games, One Week: A Recap
Paul Pierce, center, is looking for one last championship run with this group of Celtics.
SACO, Maine — Playoff games, by definition, mean more than regular season contests. First, in the sense that there are less of them (duh), which adds to the anxiety in the building; two, there’s a sense of urgency, at least among the fans, because the end could come at any moment; and finally, if those involved fail to win, they lose their jobs.
The playoffs are a BFD*.
It’s also important to remember all sporting events mean more to “us” than it does to “them.” “Them,” of course, being the athletes (see Beckett, Josh). Coaches probably care as much as we do, at least it appears so, but since I am neither a professional athlete or coach, it was just straight up pretty cool to attend NBA playoff games in both Los Angeles and Boston in the span of a week, recently.
The Celtics and Clippers. The complete opposite of the basketball spectrum. Seventeen championship banners hang in the Boston Garden; Los Angeles’s second basketball team has eight playoff appearances in 42-year history in three different cities. On the drive back to Maine after the 76ers’ 82-81 win I thought about the differences between the two venues, the crowds, the styles of the games themselves and, of course, the teams involved.
I had a parter in crime for each game and how we came to attend both started the same way: a simple IM/text which more or less read “game tonight?” For the Clippers, my buddy Eric and I decided to go at 10 a.m. the day of. It didn’t take much convincing on my part to get him on board. Once we got to downtown Los Angeles, we were full-fledged members of Clippers Nation.
The scene during warmups from The Mo and mine seats on the 200 level.
I’ll let @TheGhostMo take it from here:
Walking into the men’s bathroom at Staples Center, minutes before tip-off, I almost collided with three Orthodox Jewish men. These weren’t your Larry David-esque Jewish men. I’m talking real orthodox, complete with long curly side burns, yarmulkes, and formal suits. I would have thought I was on the corner of Beverly and Hauser, except for one thing: all three wore bright red “LAC RISEN” t-shirts over their suits. 4,000 years of religion couldn’t beat out Clipper fever on this night.
These three gentlemen weren’t the only ones wearing the complimentary garb. The entire men’s room bled red to the point that it wouldn’t look out of place on The Game’s album cover. There was only one person who wasn’t wearing the shirt, who instead had it slung over his shoulder, trying to look cool. That person was me.
I’m from Milwaukee. I grew up thinking it was commonplace to tailgate before every baseball game. I remember seeing a woman wear a Green Bay Packers Mark Chmura jersey…to the courtroom for his sexual assault trial. Every stadium in Wisconsin reeks of barley and hops and that’s the way we like it.
Since moving to LA, I’ve seen the Lakers play at home for every round of the playoffs, save the Finals. For the most part I’ve been disappointed. Everyone at Lakers games wishes (or incorrectly thinks) they’re part of the spotlight, that they’re on par with Jack Nicholson. People dress like they’re going to a club and stay hunkered on their cellphones like Obama is sexting them.
That’s why I hadn’t put on my shirt on yet. Because I figured the Clippers’ playoff scene would be more of the same. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
As I exited the bathroom, an almost certainly intoxicated man grabbed my shoulder. “You’re putting the shirt on, right???” At that exact moment, I felt something hit my shoe. I looked down and saw an empty plastic bottle of tequila rolling past. Smiling, I threw the shirt on with glee and gave the stranger a massive high five. I’ve never felt more at home in this city. #LobCityBaby
That the Clippers won in overtime only added to the hysteria. It almost felt like we were back in the 315, head-to-toe in blue and orange; it was that type of crowd, which hasn’t been said for a Clippers game in, I’m guessing, ever. Sadly, there were no more LA games for us. Baby Brother edged the Grizzlies in 7 games only to be swept at the Spurs’ hand in the next round. Oh to what next year will bring, and if Chris Paul and Blake Griffin stay with the team beyond then, there could be many more years of postseason chances for the Lobbers.
A week later, in Boston, on the other hand, I expected 19,000 Sullys, Tommys and extras from “The Town” to be drunk, loud and drunk. I also didn’t expect to get a free T-shirt upon arrival. Matt, whom I called upon to attend the day before (along with my bro-in-law, who I convinced to call out sick from work) and is as just a big of a Celtics fan as me, said we’d get towels. He was correct. We also got placards with a gigantic “3” on it, presumably to hold up after someone on our team hit a 3-pointer. Fans are such sheep. I grabbed two of each.
@mrouellette and I had seats almost as good for Celtics/76ers Game 2.
It didn’t matter that we were sitting in the upper deck behind the basket, just being part of a legendary Celtics playoff crowd was something to behold. From the “Dee-Fence” chants on big possessions, to “Let’s Go Celtics!” on others, it was beyond loud at times and abrasive at others. A hot start by the home team became a faded memory by the third quarter when the 76ers took the lead. By the time the 4th quarter rolled around there wasn’t a butt in a seat and the roar when Avery Bradley hit a 3 with just over two minutes left to put the Celtics up 1 could be heard all the way in Worcester.
But, in the end, the sea of green couldn’t will the home chaps to victory, as the 76ers eeked out the one-point win — Kevin Garnett drained a meaningless 3 with no time left that surely only the gamblers cared about. I always enjoy the scene after games in Boston; everyone bitching about this and that, and the T-shirt vendors selling rubes at LeBron James, the Heat and my favorite, an homage to Greg Steimsma, the Celtics enthusiastic backup center. They’re cheap, and I’ve bought some in the past after Red Sox games. Matt got a couple and we made our way home.
The 90-minute or so drive back home after game in Boston, especially after a loss, is a lot like driving home from Las Vegas. You and your buddies usually just sit in silence, maybe make a Dunkin stop and it isn’t until you hit the Maine border before someone speaks up. Usually it’s an expletive about the game; kinda like how you curse the tables in Vegas by the time you hit Barstow.
Back in Los Angeles, the games start three hours earlier and those wearing Green are few and far between. With Game 7 vs. Philadelphia set for Saturday, and the Lakers car flags replaced by finger pointing for their early exit, I’ll take solace that we have at least one more game.
I’ll be there in spirit.
* – Big. Fu^king. Deal.
Who Looks At The Cover, Anyway?
This week’s Time magazine cover features skinny jeans, blonde hair dye, carpentry, a child, and boobs. In that order.
LOS ANGELES — In my youth, I subscribed to a quite a few magazines; Sports Illustrated was my first (I’ve been a continuous subscriber since 1996), ESPN The Magazine, Entertainment Weekly, GQ, Details, Playboy, the old Beckett sports card price guide and Time. I’ve always liked to read, to be informed and up-to-date on the latest whatever going on around us. It’s why I only read non-fiction books. There’s something more interesting to me about real events, real peoples’ stories of trouble and triumph. Often, the truth is so unbelievable and captivating there’s no time left for dragons and vampires, wizards and whatever else; isn’t that what HBO is for, anyway?
Part of the fun of being a multiple magazine subscriber (that just sounds dirty) is playing the guessing game of who’s going to be on the cover. For something like Sports Illustrated, you can generally narrow it down to a few stories, since it’s a recap of the previous week (usually). For entertainment rags, if someone has a big movie coming out or it’s near premiere week in television, you can make a solid inquiry as to whom may grace their front page; Playboy, who knows, though there’s generally no complaints, aside from those nine times a man has appeared on the front.
This week, though, Time has shaken the bees nest by putting 26-year old Jaime Lynne Grumet and her 3-year old son on its cover. Except, in a twist, her son has his lips firmly planted on her nipple. Yup, right there on the cover. Mouth on teet. And both are staring directly at you staring at them while it happens. Go ahead, scroll up and look at the cover some more. Click on it, make it bigger and then come back and finish reading, I won’t mind … did you get enough? Do it again. I’ll wait.
Now, what do you think about that?
Time Managing Editor Richard Stengel doesn’t have a problem with it and why should he? His magazine is getting national pub on every channel and local news station from coast to coast. It’s an American thing not to have nudity on our magazine covers or in our commercials, but still, it’s kinda shocking to see, no? I guess I don’t really have a problem with it, I don’t think. The thing is, I’m guessing Time has seen its circulation numbers tanking worse than an NBA team in recent years and figured it had to do something “shocking” to make headlines and get people talking (as if naming the “Protestor” person of the year wasn’t bad enough). Denis Leary tweeted out he was more shocked Time Magazine still existed. Exactly. Consumers don’t really get their news from magazines like Time or Newsweek anymore — that’s what the internet is for — so why not this? At the very least it might bump on-the-rack sales.
MARTIN SCHOELLER FOR TIME
Well, it worked on me, so I decided to read a little about Miss Grumet and find out why she lets her nearly 4-year old’s mouth anywhere near her breasts. As it turns out, she’s a big fan of this thing called “attachment parenting” and even was breast fed by her mom until she was 6 (!!?!). I was learning how to play baseball and conquer Donkey Kong on my Coleco Vision at age 6, in case you were wondering.
Grumet says she remembers breastfeeding (think about your earliest memory … didn’t include your mom’s boob, did it?? didn’t think so) and did it because her parents were nutritionists. “It’s really warm,” she told Kate Pickert. “It’s like embracing your mother, like a hug. You feel comforted, nurtured and really, really loved. I had so much self-confidence as a child, and I know it’s from that. I never felt like she would ever leave me. I felt that security.”
Uuuuhhh. Sure. I have ZERO recollection of sucking on BrockmanMary’s teet and I grew up feeling loved and are self confident. Grumet goes on, saying she feels she can’t reason with those who say breastfeeding her grown children disturbing and unnatural (shocking), and that her hope is the more people see it, the more it’ll be accepted as normal. (Should mention here Grumet also lets her 6-year old adopted son suck the teet once a month or so.)
Good one.
Look, I don’t think this type of parenting is going to catch on but what do I know. I sure hope not. I mean, we’re already raising a generation of pussies (that’s a complete separate post) here in America so it’s not like this is going to help negate that notion. The bottom line is, people raise their kids how they want to raise them. If and when I have kids, I’ll raise them a certain way, too.
I just won’t be on the cover of some no-longer relevant magazine trying to convince people it’s the right way.
10 Years Of Talkin’ ‘Bout Practice
An iconic Philadelphia athlete, Allen Iverson may forever be known for his rant about practice.
LOS ANGELES — It has the two things you want in a season-ending press conference: a memorable line and one of the toughest athletes of all-time. On top of it all, Allen Iverson is wearing a Red Sox cap while repeatedly “talkin’ bout’ practice.” Not the game. Not the game. Not the game that he went out there and died for. But practice.
Has it been 10 years already? What’s funny is that just the other day I was thinking to myself about this very memorable moment in sports history. I was wondering if we’d passed the 10th anniversary, and since I couldn’t remember it being discussed in the last year or so, that I must have missed it. But lo and behold, it’s today; May 7.
Ten years ago, the 76ers were just bounced from the Eastern Conference playoffs by the Boston Celtics. Iverson averaged 30 ppg for the series but much of the talk was how he hadn’t been practicing between games or much of the latter part of the year. He had a meeting with Larry Brown, and then, it happened.
I was always amazed how a guy 5’10” and 150lbs could dominate a game the way Iverson could.
The end of Iverson’s career has been a sad exhibition of an athlete hanging on too long. We’ve seen it before and No. 3 won’t be the last. Stops in Denver, Memphis, back to Philadelphia and even the Dominican Republic; rumors of alcoholism and gambling dwindling his amassed roundball fortune, a terrible way for it all to end for him.
Personally, I’ll always remember A.I. as the skinny kid at Georgetown with a flat top and one tattoo, who would cross over and then dunk on everyone. This after thinking he shouldn’t even be on the same court as these “real players.” His 1995 Big East title game vs. UConn and Ray Allen is beyond epic and I still have on VHS tape the 1996 Georgetown/UMass East Regional Final which featured Marcus Camby.
With the 76ers, who could forget Iverson single-handedly willing a Game 1 win over the Lakers in the 2001 Finals, capped by him hitting a 3 in the corner and then stepping over Tyrone Lue. The NBA All-Star Game MVPs, the fearless drives the basket and, of course, the cornrows, Iverson was the face of the hip-hop generation of NBA players (for better or worse) and along with a few others, ushered in a new era in the NBA.
So, please, pay your proper respects to not only one of the transcendent basketball players of our time, but to the soundbite that will live in our hearts forever.
America Loves A Villain
There is no bigger villain in sports right now than boxing champion Floyd Mayweather, Jr.
LOS ANGELES — What is it about villains that piques our interest as people? Think about your favorite movies or TV shows; all the most complex, interesting and really, best characters are the antagonists. You wouldn’t love “The Godfather” if Michael Corleone didn’t take the family business’ reigns by killing off his competition, and later, even his brother; Sonny sure wasn’t going to do it. Same with “The Sopranos.” Tony Soprano is literally one of the worst persons ever; deceiving, muderous, philandering, but did we want him to go to jail? Did we want him to die at the end. I know I didn’t.
Don Draper, Walter White, The Joker, Eric Cartman, J.R. Ewing, David Caruso in Jade; all evil and deplorable as people, yet we root for them, and if you’re honest, feel sad when they come upon bad things even though they deserve it. At its core, there’s something fun about rooting for the bad guy; the rebel dressed in black. He always walks under cool music, delivers the most memorable lines, and even if he dies in the end, we want to be them. Except Scrooge McDuck, he was just mean and had a tail.
No one is more hated in Major League Baseball than Alex Rodriguez; OK, maybe just by me.
In sports, rooting for the bad guy isn’t as easy — in fact, the easiest thing to do to HATE the bad guy — except when he’s on your team; then you see past what makes him so unlikeable (I’m looking at you, Pistons/Alex Rodriguez/Sean Avery/James Harrison fans). You don his jersey, feed his hype and make excuses for his jerkdom. Admittedly, it’s harder to be a true villain in team sports (I still contend LeBron James should’ve become the ultimate NBA villain, and in a way he sort of did but not on purpose; he still thinks he’s a good guy and wonders why he’s so disliked), but individually both being a villain and rooting for a villain is much easier.
I’ll never forgive Tiger Woods after the scandal for wanting to be liked again; being the villain on the golf course would’ve been 100-times cooler. Think about it. If you’re looking for pub, magazine covers and the ire of the crowd, nothing beats being the villain. It’s why it’s much more fun to cheer against the heel in professional wrestling.
The king on his throne, Floyd Mayweather, Jr. is an perfect 42-0 as he steps into the ring Saturday against Miguel Cotto in Las Vegas.
I’ll again be rooting for the bad guy Saturday when Floyd Mayweather, Jr. steps into the ring to fight Miguel Cotto in the latest boxing “mega-fight” in Las Vegas. The two 150-pounders are set to duke it out in yet another match which doesn’t feature Manny Pacquiao and Mayweather squaring off and will probably disappointment the million-plus who purchase it for $70 on pay-per-view.
If you’ve watched any of HBO’s outstanding “24/7” leading up to the fight, or any of the program’s featuring Mayweather in recent years, or follow him on Twitter, or have read anything about him, you know what the 42-0 fighter is all about. On the show alone he’s bought $300,000 Rolls Royces, closed amusement parks for his family and friends, made six-figure sports bets, referenced dog fighting, went shopping with a backback full of cash, and unapologetically and openly taunted his opponents. He’s traded verbal assaults with his father, talked about his upcoming 90-day jail sentence, his legacy (he thinks he’s the greatest of all-time; shocking, I know), Manny Pacquaio, lit 100-dollar bills on fire, partied with Ray-J and 50 Cent and on and on. It’s amazing TV and completely unscripted. He’s selling himself and his “Money May” brand and he does it better than any athlete alive right now; he’s guaranteed $32 million from his fight vs. Cotto and possibly more.
Here’s the thing, though: I like Floyd Mayweather. I like him despite on the surface he stands for everything I’m against as a person. But as an athlete, he’s what I admire. He’s brash, unafraid (sort of, since he hasn’t yet agreed to fight Pacquiao, though the converse is true as well), extremely confident and performs on gameday with an unmatched gusto. He believes he’s never going to lose. And he hasn’t.
If Floyd Mayweather loves anything more than cash, I haven’t seen it. His nickname is “Money May,” afterall.
I want him to keep winning, too. The more Mayweather wins the more he can keep living his lifestyle and building this “Money May” persona, which means the more people will hate him, and when both he and Pacquiao finally agree to fight each other, more people will care and will shill out the cash for the pay-per-view, only making him richer. Boxing might be dying as a sport (name one heavyweight champ other an a Klitchko or big fight that didn’t include Mayweather) and if you put retired NFL players and boxers in a police lineup you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart; not to mention boxing’s concussion and brain problems leading most young Americans to choose a different sports path, but you have to respect what Mayweather has done and is doing both in and out of the ring.
He’s the last true villain and he knows it. And see him ride in on the black horse Saturday and continue to fabricate his dark legend. Don’t be afraid to cheer him. He’d rather you boo, of course, but doing so on either side will only fuel him to continue on his path away from our hearts. All part of the villain script.
The Chris Brockman Website 
