The essence of existence can be found in a baseball pitch. Every pitch, from the first to the last, is the most important moment in every baseball game, and the outcome of every pitch influences the planning and execution of the next one. Talent, strategy and luck all play equal parts in determining the outcome.
The old adage “it’s only a game” does not refer to professional baseball. That’s what parents tell their kids as a way of hinting to them that childhood failures, shortcomings, difficulties and fears are unreliable indicators of what is in store in their adult life. Children who are told that do not grow up to become professional baseball players.
In baseball, every pitch begins with a pitcher with one foot touching a rubber strip 60’6” from the front of home plate. Except for strategic and psychological help from the manager and baserunners, the batter is essentially alone with his bat in a box beside home plate. The pitcher has eight guys backing him up, but the ball is in his hands. There are a multitude factors for the batter and pitcher to consider on each pitch: the abilities of both players, past encounters between the two, the recent performance of both players, where the fielders are set-up, whether there are baserunners, who they are and where, the batting order, the pitch count, the inning, the score, the mechanics of the pitch and swing, the strike zone according to tonight’s umpire, etc.
The regular baseball season lasts 6 months and, since the early '60's, 162 games. During that time, the best major league batters will fail to get a hit nearly 70% of the time. The measure of a hitter’s percentage of hits relative to at-bats is known as his batting average. Ted Williams, arguably the greatest hitter of all time, managed to succeed in getting a hit just over 40.6% (recorded as .406) of the time in the 143 games he played in 1941, a feat nobody has matched since. That same year, baseball legend Joe DiMaggio set a record for hitting in an unprecedented 56 games in a row. After going one game without a hit, he hit in 16 more consecutive games. Although far below Williams, he finished the season with a very respectable .357 batting average. Baseball’s greatest hitters are notoriously stubborn and arrogant; there are probably no other personality traits that would allow them to retain such focused consistency despite the odds.
On the flip side, out of every nine innings a pitcher pitches, the greatest pitchers give up, on average, 2 earned runs. Baseball statisticians refer to this as a pitcher’s earned run average (ERA). (If a run is accomplished only as the result of a fielding error or a passed ball (a pitch getting by the catcher) it is considered an unearned run.) The average pitcher gives up between 4 and 5 runs per nine innings pitched. In 1973, the American League implemented a new rule, allowing a designated hitter, a player not playing defense, to pinch-hit for the pitcher every time it’s the pitcher’s turn to bat. Since their focus is on pitching and because they do not play consistently enough to get into a batting rhythm, pitchers generally make lousy hitters. The designated hitter rule gives batters more of an advantage in the American League than the National League, so you would expect American League ERA’s to be higher.
The most enjoyable part of a baseball game for me is trying to predict which type of pitch a pitcher will throw next and to which part of the strike zone (an imaginary rectangle bordered by the width of the plate and the batter’s knees and chest) they will try to throw it. Even with all the variables to consider, this can be done with relative success by any observer with an understanding of baseball strategy, awareness of the overall strengths and weaknesses of the batter and pitcher and alertness to the pitcher’s control of his pitches up until the current moment in the game. The latter is accomplished by paying attention to where the catcher sets up in order to know where each pitch is supposed to go and then watching where each pitch actually goes. You can usually discern the type of pitch thrown by its curvature and velocity. As an example of baseball strategy, the pitch counts of 0-0 (meaning 0 balls, 0 strikes), 2-0, 2-1, 3-1 and sometimes 3-0 are known as fastball counts, meaning the pitcher is more likely to throw a fastball and less likely to “nibble” at the plate (cautiously throw at the edges of the strike zone) on these counts. Knowing this, many pitchers, especially those few possessing exceptional control of an off-speed or breaking pitch, will effectively pitch “backwards” by throwing other pitches on fastball counts.
On April 16, 2004, the San Francisco Giants hosted the Los Angeles Dodgers for Major League Baseball’s second greatest rivalry’s first meeting of the season. The game turned out to be a pitcher’s duel. Giant’s ace Jason Schmidt threw well but gave up two runs, both on groundball outs hit by shortstop Milton Bradley that drove in speedster Dave Roberts, who had been moved over by Cesar Izturis. Unbelievably, those same three Dodgers would do the same thing for the third time off relief pitcher Jim Brower (unearned because of a Brower error) in the top of the ninth inning. The Dodger’s starting pitcher Odalis Perez was amazing. He allowed no runs and gave up only two hits, both to Giant’s third baseman Edgardo Alfonzo, and one strategically savvy two-out walk to Barry Bonds in his eight innings of work.
With the score 3-0 in his favor, manager Jim Tracy opted to take out Perez and put in closer Eric Gagne for the ninth and potentially decisive inning. Considering Perez had a low pitch count and was pitching for a shutout, this was a questionable move. However, Gagne, despite being a stocky little guy with goofy goggles, was the best closer in baseball. He was coming off a spectacular season for which he had won the Cy Young Award, baseball’s most prestigious award for pitchers. The classic “power pitcher,” Gagne’s fastball commonly approached 100 mph, making his 78 mph change-up devastating. He had gone 22 1/3 innings without giving up a run and 65 games without losing a save. Also, Tracy knew Barry Bonds was waiting in the hole, and although he was hitless for the day, he had good career numbers against Perez but not against Gagne.
Barry Bonds was coming off a typically incredible MVP year, but during the off-season his trainer dating back to 2000 had been indicted in a national steroids investigation. Now, only ten games into the season, the baseball world was still curious to see if the aging and presumably steroids-free Barry Bonds was going to be a threat. Two games prior, he had reached a personal milestone by hitting his 661st homerun to surpass the career homerun total of his godfather Willie Mays.
Gagne uncharacteristically walked the first batter, Jeffrey Hammonds, but Marquis Grissom flew out to center and did not advance the runner. Barry Bonds strolled up to the plate. The electricity at Giant’s home games was absolutely stimulating whenever Bonds came to bat. You could feel the heart rates of that night’s 42,662 fans increase and imagine the panties of more than a few females getting wet. When Bonds watched the first fastball from Gagne fly past him for a strike at 102 mph, everybody knew that this was going to be an entertaining power-against-power matchup.
With the count in his favor 2-2, Gagne decided to go for the strikeout. He perfectly placed a 101 mph fastball at the lower inside part of the strike zone. Bonds’ only hope was to catch up with the pitch and make enough contact to hit the ball foul down the right field side. But, as only one player in baseball could have done, Bonds not only turned on it in time, he made direct contact, knocking the ball about 500 feet before landing foul. (If Gagne had been a lefty, probably even Bonds wouldn’t have been able to catch up with it, but the only left-hander in baseball at the time that could have even potentially thrown that pitch was Randy “The Big Unit” Johnson.) The long foul ball was exciting to watch, but now Bonds was in trouble. If it were another batter, Gagne could have thrown the same pitch but further inside, hoping the batter would strike out trying to chase it. But Bonds didn’t chase, and Gagne didn’t want the count to go full and risk walking Bonds; bringing the potential tying run to the plate. However, having just forced Bonds’ sightline and mechanics to the inside, Gagne had set up the outside of the plate. He wouldn’t be able to throw a fastball there though, because it was now obvious that Bonds had his fastball timed, and throwing to the outside would effectively straighten out Bonds bat, causing the ball to go fair. However, if Gagne threw his change-up to the outside of the plate, he would throw off Bonds’ balance, and even if Bonds made solid contact, the most likely outcome would be a game ending double-play. This is what Gagne should have done, but he was irritated, because Bonds had just made a mockery of his best pitch. To prove to himself, Bonds and everybody else that that had been a fluke, Gagne decided to ignore sensible strategy and throw the same pitch again. This time, however, the ball was a little more out over the plate, and with his lightning fast but effortless swing, Bonds sent the ball into the centerfield bleachers. Although Bonds had broken up the shutout, Gagne swiftly retired the next two batters and the Dodgers won 3-2.
With that homerun, Bonds sent a clear message to everyone in baseball: “You still can’t fuck with Barry Bonds.” This game was part of an incredible week in which Bonds would bat .733 and homer in six straight games. He would go on to have perhaps the best year of his amazing career. He was walked 232 times, breaking the record he had already set twice. He still managed to hit .362, which was best in the league, giving him a Major League record on-base percentage of .609. He hit 45 homeruns, but had only had 41 strikeouts. He was chosen league MVP for a record setting fourth year in a row.
Eric Gagne would also have a remarkable year, establishing a Major League record of 84 consecutive saves. He finished the season with a 2.19 ERA, allowing only three home runs, including Bonds’. Unfortunately, both Bonds and Gagne would have invasive surgeries in 2005 from which neither fully recovered. Gagne was part of the 2007 World Series champion Boston Red Sox team, but he was now the reliever that made Red Sox fans cringe whenever he stepped on the field. Both Bonds and Gagne were listed as steroid users in the recent Mitchell Report.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Derek Bailey
I accidentally discovered Derek Bailey twice. The first time was in the late 90’s, when a fellow musician told me I should drum more like Paul Wertico. Today I know better than to listen to stupid, even potentially devastating advice such as this, but at the time, as I had never heard of Paul Wertico before, I sheepishly went out and bought some of his albums. By “some,” I mean ten or so. Possibly because of the circumstances under which I was coerced into listening to him, I found Paul’s drumming to be excruciatingly uninspiring. He played on a lot of tedious albums with the soulless guitarist Pat Metheny. Of all the albums I bought, the only one I didn’t almost immediately sell back was a creepy and seemingly anarchic album that I bought not only because Paul Wertico was on it, but also because it was an incredibly cheap 3 disc set that had a Sherlock Holmes theme. The Sign of 4 could be considered a double duet, with Pat Metheny and percussionist Gregg Bendian in one channel and guitarist Derek Bailey and Paul Wertico in the other. Paul occasionally uses egg beaters on it, and that inspiration (egg beaters sound cool!) made the brief study of him worth it, even if it was the only thing I stole/learned from him. The Sign of 4 recordings are bizarre and obnoxious, and I’ll often play them on Halloween to freak out the trick-or-treaters (in honor of one of my earliest memories of refusing to ask for candy at a house because creepy music was emanating from it).
Approximately two years later, shortly after I had moved to the San Francisco bay area, I was rifling through the “experimental” section at Amoeba Music and discovered an album with an intriguingly sparse cover of a naked man leaning on a wall with the title Music and Dance. The name of the artist mentioned on the spine, Derek Bailey, sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.
I immediately put Music and Dance in my car’s CD player (actually a discman hooked into the cassette deck) and listened to it as I drove home. Suddenly, I was having an experience that I’ve had while driving a couple times before, such as when returning from the movie theatre after watching The Matrix and Fight Club, whereby everything becomes blurry, surreal and confused. My entire psyche was being disoriented by this acoustic guitar solo. But it wasn’t a solo, it was a duet with the butoh influenced dancer Min Tanaka, and his presence is very much felt on the audio recording. The disc consists of two live performances inside an abandoned blacksmith forge with a glass roof, and a brief downpour occurs in the middle of the first one. Derek’s interaction with the downpour is probably the most sublime thing I have ever heard.
My life’s trajectory has been altered a few times by chance encounters such as these; accidental discoveries which can never be predicted. There is no way to describe Derek Bailey; one can only listen to his music. He was an absolute master at finding the perfect balance between listening to his environment and ignoring it while playing. Many of his recordings (he was a co-founder, along with Tony Oxley, Evan Parker and Michael Walters, of the Incus record label, which has put out arguably the greatest European music of the twentieth century) are in a duo format, and he preferred spontaneous meetings with truly improvised playing to rehearsed groups. He was an uncompromising explorer of microtones, harmonics, extended technique and discontinuity. He occasionally used sparse electronic effects, such as running a guitar through two speakers and using a volume pedal for swells, and occasionally experimented with “prepared” guitars, affecting the sound of the guitar with tools such as chains and paper clips, but I am partial to him simply playing a hollow-body electric or acoustic guitar with his bare hands or a pick. Derek also started the highly influential improvisational collective Company and wrote an enlightening book entitled Improvisation.
Today, when asked about my influences, I always mention Derek Bailey first, and sometimes exclusively. For a time, my principal goal in playing music was the hope that one day I would be able to play with Derek Bailey. I was crushed when he died on Christmas Day of 2005.
Approximately two years later, shortly after I had moved to the San Francisco bay area, I was rifling through the “experimental” section at Amoeba Music and discovered an album with an intriguingly sparse cover of a naked man leaning on a wall with the title Music and Dance. The name of the artist mentioned on the spine, Derek Bailey, sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.
I immediately put Music and Dance in my car’s CD player (actually a discman hooked into the cassette deck) and listened to it as I drove home. Suddenly, I was having an experience that I’ve had while driving a couple times before, such as when returning from the movie theatre after watching The Matrix and Fight Club, whereby everything becomes blurry, surreal and confused. My entire psyche was being disoriented by this acoustic guitar solo. But it wasn’t a solo, it was a duet with the butoh influenced dancer Min Tanaka, and his presence is very much felt on the audio recording. The disc consists of two live performances inside an abandoned blacksmith forge with a glass roof, and a brief downpour occurs in the middle of the first one. Derek’s interaction with the downpour is probably the most sublime thing I have ever heard.
My life’s trajectory has been altered a few times by chance encounters such as these; accidental discoveries which can never be predicted. There is no way to describe Derek Bailey; one can only listen to his music. He was an absolute master at finding the perfect balance between listening to his environment and ignoring it while playing. Many of his recordings (he was a co-founder, along with Tony Oxley, Evan Parker and Michael Walters, of the Incus record label, which has put out arguably the greatest European music of the twentieth century) are in a duo format, and he preferred spontaneous meetings with truly improvised playing to rehearsed groups. He was an uncompromising explorer of microtones, harmonics, extended technique and discontinuity. He occasionally used sparse electronic effects, such as running a guitar through two speakers and using a volume pedal for swells, and occasionally experimented with “prepared” guitars, affecting the sound of the guitar with tools such as chains and paper clips, but I am partial to him simply playing a hollow-body electric or acoustic guitar with his bare hands or a pick. Derek also started the highly influential improvisational collective Company and wrote an enlightening book entitled Improvisation.
Today, when asked about my influences, I always mention Derek Bailey first, and sometimes exclusively. For a time, my principal goal in playing music was the hope that one day I would be able to play with Derek Bailey. I was crushed when he died on Christmas Day of 2005.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Offensive humor
A lot of children, usually beginning around fourth grade but coming to fruition in junior high, realize that it is very funny to say something which adults would find offensive. It is not that you necessarily know why it’s offensive (often not knowing the meaning of the offensive terms), and it would definitely not be funny to get caught saying these things for which you would certainly be punished, but there is an undeniable mischievous glee in getting away with vulgar or inappropriate talk.
Eventually we get to an age where, at least in this country, we can pretty much get away with saying offensive things without fear of punishment. Without the threat of guaranteed retaliation, some of us find enjoyment in testing the boundaries of how offensive our talk can get and the strategies by which we can offend while intending to be funny. At the height of offensive humor, the helpless desperation and pointless anger with which people respond when they are temporarily offended becomes hilarious to those in on the joke. Unfortunately, it is sometimes difficult to tell when we have gone too far until we really hurt someone’s feelings or get our asses kicked. As a freakish side-affect, we can often get away with saying bona fide offensive things because others choose to assume we are joking.
In a Sarah Silverman interview (for Rolling Stone?) in which she was asked how one could tell the difference between an offensive joke and an offensive comment, she relevantly replied, “By not being retarded?”
There are two basic criteria by which offensive humor works. First, it must be grounded in exaggerated absurdity. Otherwise, nobody will accept the statement as a joke. Second, there has to be an element of reality. Without that, nobody would give the statement enough consideration to be potentially offended by it. The statement can’t be too real or everybody will be offended, and that’s not very funny. The humor in offensive humor depends on the fact that it divides society into two groups: those who think it’s offensive and those who think it’s funny that others find it offensive. Those offended consider offensive humor insulting or immature. Those who find it funny do so because they realize those who would be offended are being overly-sensitive.
There are also two basic criteria by which offensive humor is judged. First, its cleverness is all-important. For instance, Groucho Marx was a genius at saying things to people who would normally find it offensive but in such a way that the comment would go right over their head. On the other hand, Andrew Dice Clay is funny to those who need the offensiveness to be very obvious, such as junior high kids. Second, its daringness must be taken into consideration. Comedy is always a game of getting as close to the edge as you can without falling over. Context and audience are extremely important in the successful execution of an offensive joke. For example, you can say very offense things when there’s no threat of retaliation, such as when you’re with a group of friends who understand your sense of humor, and have it be funny, or you can say mildly offensive or obviously highly exaggerated things when in the presence of those who would be potentially offended and have it be funny, since the offense taken won’t be enough to turn ugly.
You don’t want to offend someone and have it turn into an argument. Often, it’s prudent to leave yourself an “out” when saying something potentially offensive, so any offense taken can be quickly diffused. The “out” should be a way to demonstrate that you are joking with minimal explanation. The degree of obviousness depends on how uptight your audience is and how much you care whether or not they get it. For instance, you can generally make fun of your own ethnicity much more severely than you can another’s, since any audience understands contextually that you certainly wouldn’t be seriously deriding yourself. The hostility and denseness of some people is very revealing, and sometimes to demonstrate how ridiculous these people are it’s cathartically preferable to let them stay mad. If you don’t have an “out,” it’s a good idea to have a safe distance from those offended.
Probably the most unique and intriguing comedian who used offensiveness as a source of humor was Andy Kaufman. Andy’s bread-and-butter were impressions and “put-ons,” in which he would pretend to be serious when, in actuality, he was joking. Often, his put-ons involved pretending to be an idiot, bully or crybaby, or a cleverly interwoven succession of all of the above. Andy would do the most outrageously absurd things and people would still believe it and be offended, simply because his style was so unfamiliar and people tend, by default, to believe things they’ve never encountered before. A frequent gag in his tragically short but brilliant life was telling bad jokes and pretending to be oblivious to being a bad comic. This specific tactic effectively highlights the separation between those who are offended by having paid to see a hack and those who realize that it’s very funny that people are upset because they think they’ve paid to see a hack. Andy was a genius at simultaneously making those offended realize they’ve been had and finding new ways to offend or at least confuse them. Andy figured out, among other things, that he could further provoke those offended by him but at the same time cleverly diffuse their hostility by staging fake arguments (often with Bob Zmuda and famously with Jerry Lawler). His influence on modern comedy is immeasurable; his mark can be clearly seen on everyone from Robin Williams (Andy originated speaking in foreign sounding languages and Mrs. Doubtfire, who was conceived by Andy to be Andy’s pretend grandmother for a performance at Carnegie Hall) to Sacha Baron Cohen (aka Ali G and Borat). Andy was also the original Elvis impersonator.
Another successful and clever source of offensive humor is “gangsta” rap. Although its roots can be found in “hardcore” rappers such as Too Short and Ice T, the group NWA, formed in Compton, CA in 1986, set gangsta rap apart as a unique and legitimate style of music. Gangsta rap combines social commentary on real issues such as oppression and injustice with absurdly exaggerated retaliatory accounts of how these issues should be dealt with and the decadence they create. (It is not a coincidence that NWA and the overtly political Public Enemy began around the same time.) Ice Cube was the primary lyricist for the group, and his acute ability to combine a vivid picture of black male urban street life with hilarity is perhaps unsurpassed. The group was formed after drug dealer turned record label owner Easy-E rapped some lyrics written by Ice Cube about a summary of life in Compton, which involves cars, basketball, theft, guns, murder, spouse abuse, drugs, police violence, court, a shooting spree and prison (called “Boyz N the Hood”), and it was realized Easy’s high pitched delivery could make anything seem hilarious. NWA also included MC Ren, Dr. Dre and DJ Yella (the latter two created the music, which relied heavily on looped samples instead of drum machines or turntables, and essentially invented the “west coast rap” sound). The DOC, a talented rapper whose voice was relegated to a whisper by a car accident, did some ghostwriting for NWA, and went on to ghostwrite much of Dr. Dre’s breakthrough album The Chronic and some of Snoop Dogg’s Doggystyle. Snoop Dogg, whose laid back style can best be compared with cool Miles Davis, is famous for satirizing “ebonics” by creating dozens of ludicrous words. Unfortunately, gangsta rap was irretrievably damaged when it got too real as a result of the senseless murders of rappers Tupac Shakur in September of 1996 and Christopher Wallace, aka Biggie Smalls, six months later.
Lyrics to NWA’s “Fuck Tha Police”
[Dr.Dre]
Right about now, NWA Court is in full effect. Judge Dre presiding in the case of “NWA versus the Police Department.” Prosecuting attorneys are MC Ren, Ice Cube and Eazy motherfucking E.
Order, order, order! Ice Cube, take the mother fucking stand! Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help your black ass?
[Ice Cube]
You're goddamn right!
[Dr.Dre]
Why don't you tell everybody what the fuck you gotta say?
[Ice Cube]
Fuck the police, comin’ straight from the underground. A young nigga, got it bad ‘cause I'm brown and not the other color, so police think they have the authority to kill a minority. Fuck that shit, ‘cause I ain't the one for a punk motherfucker with a badge and a gun to be beatin’ on and thrown in jail- we can go toe to toe in the middle of a cell.
Fuckin’ with me ‘cause I'm a teenager with a little bit of gold and a pager. Searching my car, looking for the product, thinking every nigga is selling narcotics. You'd rather see me in the pen, than me and Lorenzo rolling in a Benz-o. Beat a police outta shape, and when I'm finished, bring the yellow tape to tape off the scene of the slaughter. (He) still can’t swallow bread and water.
I don't know if they fags or what; search a nigga down and grabbing his nuts. And on the other hand, without a gun they can't get none…. But don't let it be a black and a white one, ‘cause they’ll slam ya down to the street top: black police showing off for the white cop. Ice Cube will swarm on any motherfucker in a blue uniform. Just ‘cause I'm from the CPT, punk police are afraid of me. Hah! A young nigga on the war path; and when I'm finished, it's gonna be a bloodbath of cops dying in LA. Yo Dre, I got something to say:
[Eazy-E]
Fuck the police (4X)
[Dr.Dre]
Example of scene one:
Pull your goddamn ass over right now!
[MC Ren]
Ah shit. Hey, what the fuck you pulling me over for?
[Dr.Dre]
‘Cause I feel like it. Just sit your ass on the curb and shut the fuck up!
[MC Ren]
Man, fuck this shit!
[Dr.Dre]
Alright smartass, I'm taking your black ass to jail!
MC Ren, will you please give your testimony to the jury about this fucked up incident?
[MC Ren]
Fuck the police, and Ren said it with authority, because the niggaz on the street is a majority. A gang is with whoever I'm stepping, and the motherfucking weapon is kept in the stash box for the so-called law, wishing Ren was a nigga that they never saw. Lights start flashing behind me, but they're scared of a nigga so they mace me to blind me- but that shit don't work, I just laugh, because it gives ‘em a hint not to step in my path. To the police I'm saying, “fuck you punk!” Reading my rights and shit; it's all junk. Pulling out a silly club, so you stand with a fake-ass badge and a gun in your hand. But take off the gun so you can see what's up, and we'll go at it punk, and I'm (gonn)a fuck you up, make ya think I'm (gonn)a kick your ass, but drop your gat, and Ren's gonna blast! I'm sneaky as fuck when it comes to crime, but I'm (gonn)a smoke ‘em now, and not next time; smoke any motherfucker that sweats me and any asshole that threatens me. I'm a sniper with a hell of a scope, takin’ out a cop or two, they can't cope with me, the motherfucking villain that's mad with potential to get bad as fuck. So I'm (gonn)a turn it around, put in my clip, yo, and this is the sound: [Bang, Bang] yah, something like that, but it all depends on the size of the gat. Taking out a police would make my day, but a nigga like Ren don't give a fuck to say:
[Eazy-E]
Fuck the police (4X)
[Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock]
[Eazy-E]
Hey man, what you need?
[Dr.Dre]
Police, open now!
[Eazy-E]
Oh, shit.
[Dr.Dre]
We have a warrant for Eazy-E's arrest. Get down and put your hands up where I can see ‘em!
[Eazy-E]
Calm down, man, what the fuck did I do? Man, what did I do?
[Dr.Dre]
Just shut the fuck up and get your motherfuckin’ ass on the floor.
[Eazy-E]
But I didn’t do shit.
[Dr.Dre]
Man, just shut the fuck up!
Eazy-E, why don't you step up to the stand and tell the jury how you feel about this bullshit?
[Eazy-E]
I'm tired of them motherfucking jackin’, sweating my gang while I'm chilling in the shack. Him shining the light in my face, and for what? Maybe it's because I kick so much butt. I kick ass! Or maybe ‘cause I blast on a stupid ass nigga when I'm playing with the trigger of any Uzi or an AK, ‘cause the police always got something stupid to say. They put up my picture with silence, ‘cause my identity by itself causes violence- the E, with the criminal behavior. Yeah, I'm a gangsta, but still I got flavor. Without a gun and a badge, what do ya got? A sucker in a uniform waiting to get shot by me or another nigga, and with a gat it don't matter if he's smarter or bigger.
[MC Ren]
Size don't mean shit, he's from the old school, fool!
[Easy-E]
And as you all know, E's here to rule. Whenever I'm rolling, keep looking in the mirror, and there's no cue, yo, so I can hear a dumb motherfucker with a gun. And if I'm rolling off the 8, he'll be the one that I take out, and then get away, and while I'm driving off laughing, this is what I'll say:
[Eazy-E]
Fuck the police (4X)
[Dr.Dre]
The verdict:
The jury has found you guilty of being a redneck, white bread, chickenshit motherfucker!
Wait, that's a lie! That's a goddamn lie!
Get him outta here!
I want justice!
Get him the fuck outta my face!
I want justice!
Out, right now.
Fuck you, you black motherfucker!
[Eazy-E]
Fuck the police (3X)
Eventually we get to an age where, at least in this country, we can pretty much get away with saying offensive things without fear of punishment. Without the threat of guaranteed retaliation, some of us find enjoyment in testing the boundaries of how offensive our talk can get and the strategies by which we can offend while intending to be funny. At the height of offensive humor, the helpless desperation and pointless anger with which people respond when they are temporarily offended becomes hilarious to those in on the joke. Unfortunately, it is sometimes difficult to tell when we have gone too far until we really hurt someone’s feelings or get our asses kicked. As a freakish side-affect, we can often get away with saying bona fide offensive things because others choose to assume we are joking.
In a Sarah Silverman interview (for Rolling Stone?) in which she was asked how one could tell the difference between an offensive joke and an offensive comment, she relevantly replied, “By not being retarded?”
There are two basic criteria by which offensive humor works. First, it must be grounded in exaggerated absurdity. Otherwise, nobody will accept the statement as a joke. Second, there has to be an element of reality. Without that, nobody would give the statement enough consideration to be potentially offended by it. The statement can’t be too real or everybody will be offended, and that’s not very funny. The humor in offensive humor depends on the fact that it divides society into two groups: those who think it’s offensive and those who think it’s funny that others find it offensive. Those offended consider offensive humor insulting or immature. Those who find it funny do so because they realize those who would be offended are being overly-sensitive.
There are also two basic criteria by which offensive humor is judged. First, its cleverness is all-important. For instance, Groucho Marx was a genius at saying things to people who would normally find it offensive but in such a way that the comment would go right over their head. On the other hand, Andrew Dice Clay is funny to those who need the offensiveness to be very obvious, such as junior high kids. Second, its daringness must be taken into consideration. Comedy is always a game of getting as close to the edge as you can without falling over. Context and audience are extremely important in the successful execution of an offensive joke. For example, you can say very offense things when there’s no threat of retaliation, such as when you’re with a group of friends who understand your sense of humor, and have it be funny, or you can say mildly offensive or obviously highly exaggerated things when in the presence of those who would be potentially offended and have it be funny, since the offense taken won’t be enough to turn ugly.
You don’t want to offend someone and have it turn into an argument. Often, it’s prudent to leave yourself an “out” when saying something potentially offensive, so any offense taken can be quickly diffused. The “out” should be a way to demonstrate that you are joking with minimal explanation. The degree of obviousness depends on how uptight your audience is and how much you care whether or not they get it. For instance, you can generally make fun of your own ethnicity much more severely than you can another’s, since any audience understands contextually that you certainly wouldn’t be seriously deriding yourself. The hostility and denseness of some people is very revealing, and sometimes to demonstrate how ridiculous these people are it’s cathartically preferable to let them stay mad. If you don’t have an “out,” it’s a good idea to have a safe distance from those offended.
Probably the most unique and intriguing comedian who used offensiveness as a source of humor was Andy Kaufman. Andy’s bread-and-butter were impressions and “put-ons,” in which he would pretend to be serious when, in actuality, he was joking. Often, his put-ons involved pretending to be an idiot, bully or crybaby, or a cleverly interwoven succession of all of the above. Andy would do the most outrageously absurd things and people would still believe it and be offended, simply because his style was so unfamiliar and people tend, by default, to believe things they’ve never encountered before. A frequent gag in his tragically short but brilliant life was telling bad jokes and pretending to be oblivious to being a bad comic. This specific tactic effectively highlights the separation between those who are offended by having paid to see a hack and those who realize that it’s very funny that people are upset because they think they’ve paid to see a hack. Andy was a genius at simultaneously making those offended realize they’ve been had and finding new ways to offend or at least confuse them. Andy figured out, among other things, that he could further provoke those offended by him but at the same time cleverly diffuse their hostility by staging fake arguments (often with Bob Zmuda and famously with Jerry Lawler). His influence on modern comedy is immeasurable; his mark can be clearly seen on everyone from Robin Williams (Andy originated speaking in foreign sounding languages and Mrs. Doubtfire, who was conceived by Andy to be Andy’s pretend grandmother for a performance at Carnegie Hall) to Sacha Baron Cohen (aka Ali G and Borat). Andy was also the original Elvis impersonator.
Another successful and clever source of offensive humor is “gangsta” rap. Although its roots can be found in “hardcore” rappers such as Too Short and Ice T, the group NWA, formed in Compton, CA in 1986, set gangsta rap apart as a unique and legitimate style of music. Gangsta rap combines social commentary on real issues such as oppression and injustice with absurdly exaggerated retaliatory accounts of how these issues should be dealt with and the decadence they create. (It is not a coincidence that NWA and the overtly political Public Enemy began around the same time.) Ice Cube was the primary lyricist for the group, and his acute ability to combine a vivid picture of black male urban street life with hilarity is perhaps unsurpassed. The group was formed after drug dealer turned record label owner Easy-E rapped some lyrics written by Ice Cube about a summary of life in Compton, which involves cars, basketball, theft, guns, murder, spouse abuse, drugs, police violence, court, a shooting spree and prison (called “Boyz N the Hood”), and it was realized Easy’s high pitched delivery could make anything seem hilarious. NWA also included MC Ren, Dr. Dre and DJ Yella (the latter two created the music, which relied heavily on looped samples instead of drum machines or turntables, and essentially invented the “west coast rap” sound). The DOC, a talented rapper whose voice was relegated to a whisper by a car accident, did some ghostwriting for NWA, and went on to ghostwrite much of Dr. Dre’s breakthrough album The Chronic and some of Snoop Dogg’s Doggystyle. Snoop Dogg, whose laid back style can best be compared with cool Miles Davis, is famous for satirizing “ebonics” by creating dozens of ludicrous words. Unfortunately, gangsta rap was irretrievably damaged when it got too real as a result of the senseless murders of rappers Tupac Shakur in September of 1996 and Christopher Wallace, aka Biggie Smalls, six months later.
Lyrics to NWA’s “Fuck Tha Police”
[Dr.Dre]
Right about now, NWA Court is in full effect. Judge Dre presiding in the case of “NWA versus the Police Department.” Prosecuting attorneys are MC Ren, Ice Cube and Eazy motherfucking E.
Order, order, order! Ice Cube, take the mother fucking stand! Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help your black ass?
[Ice Cube]
You're goddamn right!
[Dr.Dre]
Why don't you tell everybody what the fuck you gotta say?
[Ice Cube]
Fuck the police, comin’ straight from the underground. A young nigga, got it bad ‘cause I'm brown and not the other color, so police think they have the authority to kill a minority. Fuck that shit, ‘cause I ain't the one for a punk motherfucker with a badge and a gun to be beatin’ on and thrown in jail- we can go toe to toe in the middle of a cell.
Fuckin’ with me ‘cause I'm a teenager with a little bit of gold and a pager. Searching my car, looking for the product, thinking every nigga is selling narcotics. You'd rather see me in the pen, than me and Lorenzo rolling in a Benz-o. Beat a police outta shape, and when I'm finished, bring the yellow tape to tape off the scene of the slaughter. (He) still can’t swallow bread and water.
I don't know if they fags or what; search a nigga down and grabbing his nuts. And on the other hand, without a gun they can't get none…. But don't let it be a black and a white one, ‘cause they’ll slam ya down to the street top: black police showing off for the white cop. Ice Cube will swarm on any motherfucker in a blue uniform. Just ‘cause I'm from the CPT, punk police are afraid of me. Hah! A young nigga on the war path; and when I'm finished, it's gonna be a bloodbath of cops dying in LA. Yo Dre, I got something to say:
[Eazy-E]
Fuck the police (4X)
[Dr.Dre]
Example of scene one:
Pull your goddamn ass over right now!
[MC Ren]
Ah shit. Hey, what the fuck you pulling me over for?
[Dr.Dre]
‘Cause I feel like it. Just sit your ass on the curb and shut the fuck up!
[MC Ren]
Man, fuck this shit!
[Dr.Dre]
Alright smartass, I'm taking your black ass to jail!
MC Ren, will you please give your testimony to the jury about this fucked up incident?
[MC Ren]
Fuck the police, and Ren said it with authority, because the niggaz on the street is a majority. A gang is with whoever I'm stepping, and the motherfucking weapon is kept in the stash box for the so-called law, wishing Ren was a nigga that they never saw. Lights start flashing behind me, but they're scared of a nigga so they mace me to blind me- but that shit don't work, I just laugh, because it gives ‘em a hint not to step in my path. To the police I'm saying, “fuck you punk!” Reading my rights and shit; it's all junk. Pulling out a silly club, so you stand with a fake-ass badge and a gun in your hand. But take off the gun so you can see what's up, and we'll go at it punk, and I'm (gonn)a fuck you up, make ya think I'm (gonn)a kick your ass, but drop your gat, and Ren's gonna blast! I'm sneaky as fuck when it comes to crime, but I'm (gonn)a smoke ‘em now, and not next time; smoke any motherfucker that sweats me and any asshole that threatens me. I'm a sniper with a hell of a scope, takin’ out a cop or two, they can't cope with me, the motherfucking villain that's mad with potential to get bad as fuck. So I'm (gonn)a turn it around, put in my clip, yo, and this is the sound: [Bang, Bang] yah, something like that, but it all depends on the size of the gat. Taking out a police would make my day, but a nigga like Ren don't give a fuck to say:
[Eazy-E]
Fuck the police (4X)
[Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock]
[Eazy-E]
Hey man, what you need?
[Dr.Dre]
Police, open now!
[Eazy-E]
Oh, shit.
[Dr.Dre]
We have a warrant for Eazy-E's arrest. Get down and put your hands up where I can see ‘em!
[Eazy-E]
Calm down, man, what the fuck did I do? Man, what did I do?
[Dr.Dre]
Just shut the fuck up and get your motherfuckin’ ass on the floor.
[Eazy-E]
But I didn’t do shit.
[Dr.Dre]
Man, just shut the fuck up!
Eazy-E, why don't you step up to the stand and tell the jury how you feel about this bullshit?
[Eazy-E]
I'm tired of them motherfucking jackin’, sweating my gang while I'm chilling in the shack. Him shining the light in my face, and for what? Maybe it's because I kick so much butt. I kick ass! Or maybe ‘cause I blast on a stupid ass nigga when I'm playing with the trigger of any Uzi or an AK, ‘cause the police always got something stupid to say. They put up my picture with silence, ‘cause my identity by itself causes violence- the E, with the criminal behavior. Yeah, I'm a gangsta, but still I got flavor. Without a gun and a badge, what do ya got? A sucker in a uniform waiting to get shot by me or another nigga, and with a gat it don't matter if he's smarter or bigger.
[MC Ren]
Size don't mean shit, he's from the old school, fool!
[Easy-E]
And as you all know, E's here to rule. Whenever I'm rolling, keep looking in the mirror, and there's no cue, yo, so I can hear a dumb motherfucker with a gun. And if I'm rolling off the 8, he'll be the one that I take out, and then get away, and while I'm driving off laughing, this is what I'll say:
[Eazy-E]
Fuck the police (4X)
[Dr.Dre]
The verdict:
The jury has found you guilty of being a redneck, white bread, chickenshit motherfucker!
Wait, that's a lie! That's a goddamn lie!
Get him outta here!
I want justice!
Get him the fuck outta my face!
I want justice!
Out, right now.
Fuck you, you black motherfucker!
[Eazy-E]
Fuck the police (3X)
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Burritos
I don’t know how to cook. When relegated to feeding myself, I usually prepare cold cereal, eat a diced avocado with balsamic vinegar and asiago cheese, fry an over-easy egg inside a piece of bread (by removing the middle of the bread with a cookie cutter) or make burritos. Consequently, I have become somewhat of an expert burrito maker. I figured I should share how I make them:
First, warm up a can of vegetarian refried beans (traditional refried beans are fried in lard) in a small saucepan. Next, heat some oil in a frying pan. Put a large flour tortilla (I usually use Guerrero brand) flat in the frying pan for a few seconds to warm that side, and then flip it. Cover the entire tortilla with grated sharp cheddar and/or Monterey jack cheese, then with a layer of nacho-sliced jalapenos. Sparsely add some diced habanero. Spoon a generous stripe of refried beans down the middle of the tortilla. The cheese should now be thoroughly melted. Roll the sides of the tortilla up. Now it’s ready to eat. One can of beans yields three burritos.
Enjoy!
First, warm up a can of vegetarian refried beans (traditional refried beans are fried in lard) in a small saucepan. Next, heat some oil in a frying pan. Put a large flour tortilla (I usually use Guerrero brand) flat in the frying pan for a few seconds to warm that side, and then flip it. Cover the entire tortilla with grated sharp cheddar and/or Monterey jack cheese, then with a layer of nacho-sliced jalapenos. Sparsely add some diced habanero. Spoon a generous stripe of refried beans down the middle of the tortilla. The cheese should now be thoroughly melted. Roll the sides of the tortilla up. Now it’s ready to eat. One can of beans yields three burritos.
Enjoy!
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Brad
When I returned to college for the second semester of my sophomore year in January 1996, I found myself all alone. My girlfriend of the semester prior promptly dumped me, my girlfriend from the years before that had dropped out after trying to kill herself, my roommate had deserted me for a girl, my inability to play the drumset had become glaringly obvious (as a result of a tryout with a jazz trio to be in a Christmas concert in which we were essentially the only group not selected and my drum brush playing was solely and unanimously blamed) and I was beginning to realize my God didn’t exist.
During the month of January, I spent my days listening to mostly Led Zeppelin (a needed distraction from my jazz obsession), reading philosophy and receiving crank calls from someone who literally never said anything. (Although it was probably my suicidal ex, I preferred to hope it was my more recent ex, as I was still in love with her but knew I couldn’t call her.) I spent my nights reading poetry anthologies. I couldn’t sleep.
Eventually I had had enough of eating in the cafeteria alone. I had met and occasionally hung out with two guys, Phil and Cullen, who lived two floors above me the semester before. I went up to their room to ask if I could eat dinner with them, but they weren’t home. A passerby told me they were in room 921.
Timidly, I knocked on the door. There was a whole group of people crammed into this cigarette-filled room, watching “The Young and the Restless.” When the soap ended, we played some hockey on the Sega and then all went and ate together in the cafeteria. This became our daily routine for the rest of the semester, except I quickly learned to go up to room 921 after the god-awful soap opera had ended.
The undisputed leader of this group was Brad. He was smart, cocky and judgmental. He let me borrow his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor E. Frankl. I don’t think he’d ever read it. I think I read it twice. Me and another guy Eric, who later would become an extremely important person in my life, would stay up nights and pick Brad’s brain as they picked mine.
By the end of that semester I was a whole new person. This was verified to myself on the Saturday before finals week, when I finally ran into the ex from the semester before. I looked at her through my blue-tinted John Lennon-style sunglasses, hiding my new contacts, with my hair to my shoulders, wearing Skechers and holding my not-quite-broken-in hacky sack, and realized I had no feelings for her anymore.
We all left for the summer. I missed the whole crew, but especially Brad. I looked forward to more late night philosophical talks when the new semester began in the fall. But they had all changed. Brad became singularly interested in drugs, and most of the rest of the crew followed suit. I was much too curious about the nature of existence and motivated to explore the possibilities of existence to lie around doing nothing all day. I continued to hang out with them, especially at night, but as a self-aware observer. I spent my days reading the Existentialists….
During the month of January, I spent my days listening to mostly Led Zeppelin (a needed distraction from my jazz obsession), reading philosophy and receiving crank calls from someone who literally never said anything. (Although it was probably my suicidal ex, I preferred to hope it was my more recent ex, as I was still in love with her but knew I couldn’t call her.) I spent my nights reading poetry anthologies. I couldn’t sleep.
Eventually I had had enough of eating in the cafeteria alone. I had met and occasionally hung out with two guys, Phil and Cullen, who lived two floors above me the semester before. I went up to their room to ask if I could eat dinner with them, but they weren’t home. A passerby told me they were in room 921.
Timidly, I knocked on the door. There was a whole group of people crammed into this cigarette-filled room, watching “The Young and the Restless.” When the soap ended, we played some hockey on the Sega and then all went and ate together in the cafeteria. This became our daily routine for the rest of the semester, except I quickly learned to go up to room 921 after the god-awful soap opera had ended.
The undisputed leader of this group was Brad. He was smart, cocky and judgmental. He let me borrow his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor E. Frankl. I don’t think he’d ever read it. I think I read it twice. Me and another guy Eric, who later would become an extremely important person in my life, would stay up nights and pick Brad’s brain as they picked mine.
By the end of that semester I was a whole new person. This was verified to myself on the Saturday before finals week, when I finally ran into the ex from the semester before. I looked at her through my blue-tinted John Lennon-style sunglasses, hiding my new contacts, with my hair to my shoulders, wearing Skechers and holding my not-quite-broken-in hacky sack, and realized I had no feelings for her anymore.
We all left for the summer. I missed the whole crew, but especially Brad. I looked forward to more late night philosophical talks when the new semester began in the fall. But they had all changed. Brad became singularly interested in drugs, and most of the rest of the crew followed suit. I was much too curious about the nature of existence and motivated to explore the possibilities of existence to lie around doing nothing all day. I continued to hang out with them, especially at night, but as a self-aware observer. I spent my days reading the Existentialists….
Monday, January 21, 2008
Kris
Kris, possibly more than anybody else I’ve encountered, single-handedly forced me to accept not only the reality, importance and influence of my own basest desires, but also the predominately illusory nature of the object of those desires.
Kris was a waitress at my first job. She was pretty; but more importantly she was fun. I spent my shifts scheming ways for us to goof off without getting fired. We undeniably had crushes on each other, but that was irrelevant. We were both in relationships and she was a mature 14 year old, two years younger than me.
In the fall I went off to college, but we promised to keep in touch, and we actually did. We wrote each other long, soul-baring letters, filled with unfulfillment and discontent.
Several years passed. On Valentine’s Day in 1998, we both found ourselves single. I had never been to her house before. I drove for two hours down to Des Moines with a dozen roses, getting a speeding ticket on the way.
I arrived at a run-down little house down a dirt road on the north side of town. In it was Kris, her ex-boyfriend and her future boyfriend. Kris and her ex were screaming and throwing things at each other. He finally left, and we went out for Chinese and rented movies. In an effort to choose a movie reflecting my mood, I suggested we rent Deliverance, which I had never seen before. Hamlet would have been proud.
This was to be my introduction to a lifestyle hitherto fore unfamiliar to me that I can only call “white trash.” Sure, I was white and poor and lived in a little two-bedroom apartment with three roommates who had dropped out of college, worked dead-end jobs, drank Busch Light and smoked lots of weed. But we never communicated violently, talked about football, worked on cars, subscribed to Playboy or used the “n” word. This was very far from my beat-style comfort zones at the time of listening to jazz, playing chess and philosophizing.
I sat uncomfortably on a couch and watched Deliverance. Kris and her future boyfriend left, and I eventually fell asleep on the couch.
We never kept in touch in the same way after that. Now she has a husband, a career, a house in the suburbs, a kid and two little dogs. She still lives in the Des Moines area, a place I never could have stayed in and she never could have left. I imagine she has an SUV, a white picket fence and a king-sized Sleep Comfort Sleep Number bed.
I spent the subsequent years pursuing other dreams and usually finding them just as wanting. Thankfully, I am very content with my personal life and priorities today. If I wrote her a letter now, I wouldn’t know what to put in it. I suspect if she wrote me now it would have the same content as it had back then.
Kris was a waitress at my first job. She was pretty; but more importantly she was fun. I spent my shifts scheming ways for us to goof off without getting fired. We undeniably had crushes on each other, but that was irrelevant. We were both in relationships and she was a mature 14 year old, two years younger than me.
In the fall I went off to college, but we promised to keep in touch, and we actually did. We wrote each other long, soul-baring letters, filled with unfulfillment and discontent.
Several years passed. On Valentine’s Day in 1998, we both found ourselves single. I had never been to her house before. I drove for two hours down to Des Moines with a dozen roses, getting a speeding ticket on the way.
I arrived at a run-down little house down a dirt road on the north side of town. In it was Kris, her ex-boyfriend and her future boyfriend. Kris and her ex were screaming and throwing things at each other. He finally left, and we went out for Chinese and rented movies. In an effort to choose a movie reflecting my mood, I suggested we rent Deliverance, which I had never seen before. Hamlet would have been proud.
This was to be my introduction to a lifestyle hitherto fore unfamiliar to me that I can only call “white trash.” Sure, I was white and poor and lived in a little two-bedroom apartment with three roommates who had dropped out of college, worked dead-end jobs, drank Busch Light and smoked lots of weed. But we never communicated violently, talked about football, worked on cars, subscribed to Playboy or used the “n” word. This was very far from my beat-style comfort zones at the time of listening to jazz, playing chess and philosophizing.
I sat uncomfortably on a couch and watched Deliverance. Kris and her future boyfriend left, and I eventually fell asleep on the couch.
We never kept in touch in the same way after that. Now she has a husband, a career, a house in the suburbs, a kid and two little dogs. She still lives in the Des Moines area, a place I never could have stayed in and she never could have left. I imagine she has an SUV, a white picket fence and a king-sized Sleep Comfort Sleep Number bed.
I spent the subsequent years pursuing other dreams and usually finding them just as wanting. Thankfully, I am very content with my personal life and priorities today. If I wrote her a letter now, I wouldn’t know what to put in it. I suspect if she wrote me now it would have the same content as it had back then.
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