Showing posts with label Sports - Opiate of the Masses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sports - Opiate of the Masses. Show all posts

Monday, November 29, 2010

Kentucky Fried Buffalo 66

I heard the funniest sports news story today that is right out of *Kentucky Fried Movie. Apparently, a professional football player, (Buffalo Bills Wide Receiver Steve Johnson), missed a catch that would have won the game for his team. As funny as that is, the really funny part is that he blamed God for it.

I'm surprised that everyone is so offended by Johnson's ignorant attitude. How many times have you heard some dumb athlete give credit to God for a touchdown, World Series, new record, etc.? How is Steve Johnson's comment any different? Do you really think that God would care about something as meaningless as sports?

I wonder if God wants credit for this one...
Congratulations to the United States of America who has been at war in Afghanistan longer than the Soviet Union was. We show'd those yeller red Ruskies who's got real stayin' power. Go Team America!

and... Way to go WikiLeaks! Too bad the truth will be your undoing.

* RIP Leslie Nielson

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Superbowl daZe

So far so good anyway. I'm speaking, of course, about the super bowl and the fact that I still haven't found out who the competing teams are this year. I don't know because I'm not at all interested in the big distraction and do my best every year avoiding what has become the climatic opiate of the masses.

While talking to my dad on the phone earlier today, he couldn't understand why I didn't know who was playing and attempted to inform me, but I quickly stopped him before he could say anything more than the Saints. Fortunately I've stayed aloof from the sports scene long enough to not know where the Saints hail from. The only Saints I know about, are the Latter-day Saints I know from Utah, but I doubt that the Beehive State has a professional football team. They wouldn't call them something stupid like the Saints if they did.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Got Gumption?

Gumption. That's one thing I don't have an abundance of at the moment... at least when it comes to writing for my blog. Sure, I've already begun writing many of the upcoming posts including, but certainly not limited to:

When in Morm - Do's and don'ts and insightful tips for visitors to Utah

Mighty Mo names the spiders that live in our house

My simple answer to the gang problem, (and it isn't dynamite)

Phrases and terms I have coined

A walk down rememory lane to the old Blue Mouse Theater in Salt Lake City

A recollection of the Bucket of Bernie Brains show at the Catalyst in Santa Cruz

A book review of Paula Phelan's 1919

Examples of literary structures in ancient texts

Hale Bopp

Plus many more Xtra Files

But I'm going to take a nap right now instead of writing. I'll listen to some Lawrence Welk for inspiration later on. Meanwhile, take a gander at this pretty bottle brush that Mighty Mo photographed last week.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Fight Club Training

You can't grow up in Tooele without learning a little something about fighting.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Disc Golf Ace @ De Laveaga

I play disc golf every Thursday, weather permitting, and today was no exception. What made this particular disc golf Thursday different from all the others before and after it, is that I got my first ace today... the equivalent to a hole in one in ball-golf. The big throw happened on basket #6 at De Laveaga* Disc Golf Course at 5:03 pm. As I took the pad, I turned to Olin and held up my brand spanking new hot pink Innova Road Runner 175 gram driver I had just purchased with the DJ's Market gift certificate that my friend Aaron had given to me when I turned half of ninety recently. "This is the basket I had in mind when I bought this disc," I said as I turned and eyed the chains positioned almost four hundred feet away at the end of the fairway. It was only the second time I had thrown the sleek new driver which exploded from my hand with precision and power. The disc passed five feet left of the power pole pitted with thousands of impact dents, (some of them mine), and pitched slightly right before flattening out for a mostly straight flight. As the disc reached its highest point, it was kissed by the last light of the sun, illuminating the bright pink flyer as the solar wind urged it toward the target. As Ms. Pinky began to give up her energy and lose altitude, she faded slightly left, and passed over the five foot tall dead Y shaped tree, barely missing it, and splashed spectacularly into the chains. An eruption of hoots, hollers and applause from a host of witnesses at various locations on the course ensued.

I've hit a basket with drives six times in my disc golf history, (15, 12, 27, 3, 8a, 19 all at De La), but lucky number seven stayed in the basket, and became my first ace... and it only took ten years to do it. I hope I don't have to wait another ten years to get another one.
* The most difficult disc golf course in the whole wide world... so I hear.

Monday, November 26, 2007


I learned to ski at Alta. That says so much.... but I'll say a little more about this resort located at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon, a handful of miles South East of Salt Lake City.

I wasn't allowed to ski until I was capable of doing it without any parental assistance. My dad was adamantly opposed to skiing, and has always said that, "There are two kinds of skiers... those who have broken their leg, and those who will break their leg." and there was no way he would be party to that, but he did allow me the freedom to go skiing, as long as he had nothing to do with it. So, when I turned sixteen, I could drive myself to the ski areas, but I didn't own any ski equipment. Fortunately, I had a friend who could help me with that. Merlin had been skiing for several years already. He rented his equipment from Tooele Army Depot. Since both his parents worked there, he could rent all his gear for five bucks. Neither of my parents worked at the Depot, but not to worry... Merlin's mother decided to adopt me... so to speak. She claimed me as her son, and I was issued a photo ID with my new claimed surname. Perfect! Now I could ski cheap. There was a large assortment of the newest and best skis to choose from, which afforded an opportunity to rent a different brand every week, and test a variety of equipment. We even obtained coupons for half-off lift tickets there. Good old government excess.

My first time

It was twilight as I began loading my skis, poles, and boots into the back of my dad's red and white Chevy pickup, still surprised that he had allowed me to drive his truck to a ski resort. I was glad. I started the engine and allowed it to warm up as I brushed off about an inch of light fluffy snow. The powdery whiteness easily brushed away like feathers. I brushed off a bit of the feathery substance from the red and black Indian-rug style seat cover, and scooted my rear end into driving position. I picked up Merlin and Trujillo, and we were on our way. Looking westerly acrossTooele valley, I could see Deseret Peak illuminated by the first rays of the sun.

There were already gaggles of vehicles in the parking lot when we arrived. Alta! The majestic mountains towered over me. Somewhat intimidated by the spectacle, I put on my boots, which I had rehearsed at home. Then, fumbling with the awkward skis, I did my best to carry them like Merlin who made it look so easy. I could barely control my skis, and they weren't even on my feet yet. We made our way to the ticket booth, and presented the cashier with coupons and cash. In return, she gave us our passes, a bell shaped wire, and a sticker. I watched Merlin thread his wire through a zipper loop on his coat, then peel and fold the sticker in half over the wire. He made it look easy, like he had done it a thousand times. I did my best to emulate his performance, but mine didn't look nearly as neat . My fold didn't match up perfectly, therefore sticky portions of my pass were exposed around the edges, and had to be folded over in an visually untidy manner. But that was the least of my worries. Now it was time to strap on the skis.

I had grown up embracing winter and was no stranger to snow dynamics. I had plunged down steep hillsides on inner-tubes, sleds, and Snerfers. I had hooky-bobbed behind automobiles, bikes, motorcycles, snowmobiles, etc. Nothing prepared me for the experience of strapping boards to my feet and flying down a mountain. When I finally locked in, (which was no easy task), it was worse than learning how to walk all over again. I knew how to walk, but those rules no longer applied. I pushed myself along with my poles, my arms doing 99.97% of the work, (there was a slight breeze), and grabbed hold of the tow rope. I grappled with the cumbersome contraption, and steadily maintained balance as it pulled me across the base of the resort. Ahead, I could see that people were skating away from the tow, and then ascending what seemed like a steep grade which led to a lift. I still hadn't fallen down, and barely maintained balance as I slowly made my way up the grade. It was cold, but I was hot, sweaty and out of breath by the time I made it to the top. As we stood in the long line, I watched closely how the chair was being boarded. I stood sandwiched between Trujillo and Merlin and it was our turn to slide into position. As the chair ahead of us quickly hoisted two passengers away, we made our way to the red line where we were to wait for the chair to come around. It was there before I knew it and scooped us up into the air. As I peered about the canyon from my perch high above the slope, I beheld a beautifully sculpted snowy landscape. Branches of fir trees were weighted by snow as skiers made their way proficiently down the mountain. They made it look so easy. I figured that if all these people could do it, surely I could. After all, I was a natural born athlete capable of incredible things.

Ahead I could see the top of the lift. Merlin instructed me to keep the tips of the skis pointed up as we approached the exit station. I hadn't been afforded the opportunity to observe others exiting, so I was basically on my own to figure it out as the snowy ground met the slick undersides of my skis. Merlin turned away to the left, and Trujillo to the right as I continued straight ahead and came to a stop without falling.

"OK, what do I do now?" I asked, hoping for some expert instruction. "You just ski" Merlin proclaimed. Then he turned and began skiing down the mountain, swooshing back and forth and finally fading into the plethora of proficient skiers. Trujillo was soon gone in like manner, and I was on my own to learn how to ski. I stood motionless pondering the techniques of the others around me. Small children scooted past me skiing away effortlessly. Before me was an incredibly steep slippery slope, and an excessive amount of gravity. It looked so easy, and I hadn't fallen yet, but that was about to change. Down the mountain I plunged with barely any knowledge of how to turn the planks attached to my feet. Knowing I would die, or worse, break my leg, I fell over and tumbled to a stop. One ski had detached from the boot in the fall, so after getting back on my feet, I struggled for a few minutes to click the boot into the binding. Then I was off again, this time, out of control, I lost balance and began to fall over onto my left side. Naturally, I attempted to catch myself with my right leg, but the attached ski prevented the move and I tripped and fell spectacularly. My knee hurt terribly, and in my head I could her my Dad saying, "There are two kinds of skiers... those who have broken their leg, and those who will break their leg." Fortunately, it wasn't broken, but had been twisted unnaturally, and hurt quite badly. But it didn't stop me from trying again. I spent most of the rest of the morning learning how to fall and get back up again. We met up at the truck for lunch. Merlin had a peanut-butter-pickle-banana-tuna sandwich, and Gatorade. After washing down my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of Lay's potato chips with an ice cold Coca Cola, we returned to the slopes, and by the end of the day, battered and bruised, I could ski.

Opiate of the Masses

Are Sports Cathedrals The Opium Den of This Generation?

This is the first in a series of sports oriented posts I have entitled, Opiate of the Masses, a term used by Karl Marx to describe religions narcotic effect on the populous. In the twenty first century however, religion plays only a minor role in the lives of most people. Sports, on the other hand are what is important, (even to most religionists), and the primary focus and concern to the majority of the population. Our world is bombarded with sports imagery and allusion. Nearly one-third of the nightly TV news is dedicated to sports, where they present the facts of the day's games, lending credibility to the other stories presented as facts. Billions of tax-payer dollars are appropriated to the construction and maintenance of sports' cathedrals where the masses can go to get their fix.