And The Award Goes To...
My body bounces back and forth in a nearly hypnotic motion as the train tumbles down the track. On my way to work, I begin to harbor on my distaste for my current situation. Stuck and worthless, I am nothing more than a drone in the corporate system who could probably count paper clips all day or make murals out of staples and notebook paper and still get a raise.
Realizing I’m not the only one in the car, I begin surveying the passengers in my immediate view. I make up stories about them and paint mental pictures of their immediate situations. There is a man, two children, and an elderly lady, all in separate rows.
The man is eating his breakfast, a strawberry Pop-Tart. Not two, just one, because he can’t afford to eat both today. He is wearing what appears to be a fancy suit and paisley bow tie, making sure to keep up his appearance, as he believes it’s the key to success.
The child closest to me is a boy, age 10, with brown hair and a giant band-aid on his right knee. I’m guessing he got that booboo from slipping off his bike as he rode in tight circles in the cul-de-sac outside his parents house on a cool, rainy day in October.
The second child, also a boy, looks to be 14 or 15. He seems troubled, like he just got into a fight with his kind of, not so sure, things-are-awkward-because-they-are-too-young-and-scared-to-talk-about-it girlfriend after she skated with another boy during couple’s skate at his friend Paul’s birthday party.
And the elderly lady, she’s wearing a new pair of beige walking shoes, equipped with both velcro and laces and has a fresh pair of white socks on over her pantyhose. She appears elated, possibly headed into the city on a fantastic sightseeing adventure.
There are four of them, and I take each person in one at a time. Three out of the four of them appear more than miserable, which makes the elderly lady’s smile even more apparent. Apart from her obvious dentures, it is perfect. And it brings me joy.
This joy doesn’t come from the fact that it’s perfect in an aesthetic sense, because it’s not. It’s perfect because as the other three passengers begin to look up and make the rounds with their eyes, scanning from passenger to passenger, assuming things about others’ lives that they have no right to assume, their gazes rest upon the elderly lady. And as they stare at her just as I did, each of them begin to appear slightly less than miserable.
What a culture deems worthy of an award can be quite revealing. Who we vote to the top our public meritocracies is often an indicator of who we are as a society.
All of that being said, the steroid scandal in baseball is like the Band documentary The Last Waltz.
Allow me to explain.
Both events were a pinnacle of performance in the respective arenas, paragons that subsequent generations would have to live up to. Both of them were also enabled and fueled by heinous, copious amounts of drug use.
Let’s look at the characters in this piece of comparative culture.
The Sosa-McGuire race to 61 is exactly like the subtle, but ever-present, on-stage lyrical duel between Band frontman Robbie Robertson and Bassist Rick Danko that took place throughout the night. Danko, like McGuire, took the title late in the game, when he sang a cocaine fueled belting of the fourth stanza of the Weight with, “Crazy Chester followed me and he caught me in the fog.” Sosa relates to Robbie Robertson in this case because he lost the title, did it with good humor and was also not a citizen of the United States.
Ken Griffey Junior was like Joni Mitchell because they didn’t do drugs and both of their performances revealed this to us.
Roger Clemens was like Neil Young because they both did drugs and it was very obvious.
A-Rod was like Van Morrison because he, too, came on the scene late, had been doing drugs longer than most people, had an unbelievable performance and left under the escort of police.
Bud Selig compares perfectly to director of the documentary Martin Scorscase because they both allowed the whole thing to happen, asked a lot of questions and made other people feel nervous.
Bob Dylan, the leader of The Band before they set off on their own, compares best to non other than Jose Canseco. Their godfather roles are not to be denied. They also both looked completely different than everybody else during both occasions. Dylan’s most memorable solo performance of the evening is thought to be Forever Young. Jose Canseco sought to do exactly that. They would both go on to do interviews with 60 minutes.
Barry Bonds is like Levon Helm because he was in the background of everything.
Then, there are the events themselves. In the seventies, rock and roll was being overshadowed by the painful fad of disco. It was suffering and miserable. In the nineties, baseball was suffering from terrible ticket sales and a lack of fan support. It too, was suffering and miserable. Both events pulled their respective cultures together to celebrate the glorious, synthetic ability of human potential. One group would be celebrated for the ages, while the other would be publicly humiliated for the rest of their human existence. Two stories that left us with one feeling: what a show.
//
Junky
By
Tristan Smith .
07.03.09 //
And The Award Goes To...
// Junky
By
Tristan Smith .
07.03.09 //
And The Award Goes To...
There was a modern art exhibit in Germany recently (hang with me, this isn’t going towards fecal matter) called ”Triumph”. The piece occupied a single, huge room, and consisted of nothing but trophies. Just hundreds upon hundreds of trophies. Bowling trophies. Swimming trophies. Cake-baking trophies. All stacked and piled like the hoard of some dragon that lived near a summer camp.
So what does the exhibit actually say? I believe it’s a commentary on the pointlessness of human ambition. In context, a trophy can be meaningful. It signifies the thousands of hours of dedication and focus that were required for someone to be the best. Piled together, it’s like you’ve gone to the trophy factory. None of them mean anything. The bigger, more gaudy pieces don’t make you think higher of someone. It’s just some junky metal.
And here comes the existentialism (Germannnnyyyyyyyy!): once all the metal has become junky, one asks “is all achievement junky too? Is anything actually worth pursuing? Or is man’s competitive drive just some pathetic urge that doesn’t have a greater significance.
Just something to consider next time you’re reaching for those junky, metal stars.
//
I Guess I’m A “Playa Hater”
By
Joey Camire .
07.01.09 //
And The Award Goes To...
// I Guess I’m A “Playa Hater”
By
Joey Camire .
07.01.09 //
And The Award Goes To...
I hate awards, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. I’m a firm believer in the adage “give credit where credit is due,” but I’m afraid that isn’t what awards and ceremonies successfully accomplish.
Aside from keeping caterers in business serving stale cookies and cubed cheese (which I’ve never really understood), award ceremonies don’t offer much positive contribution. Now, you might be slamming your fist on your desk as you read this yelling “My ‘Lifetime Achievement Award’ from Blockbuster Video was well earned!” You know what? Maybe you’re right, and maybe the award for ‘Best Cubicle Decorator’ is undisputed as well, but that’s neither here nor there. The point I want to make is that awards cause far more strife than positive emotion.
If you’ve ever won an award, you are familiar with that incredible rush of hollow emotions that washes over you when they call your name out. The excitement of being handed a piece of paper with your name on it, signed by someone important… Well, rubber stamped by someone’s important secretary anyway. The sheer elation of taking thirty seconds, time permitting, to give obligatory thanks to people who didn’t really help, but you feel the need to thank someone as not to seem unappreciative. This is, clearly, an incredible time for the award winners, but what about those award nominees or as they will undoubtedly quietly call themselves after the ceremony, “Award Losers?”
You see, while the victory from awards isn’t all that sweet, the taste of defeat is all too bitter. As an Award Loser you get to see, in a completely public setting, your inadequacies laid out on the table. In case you had ever wondered if Steve was better than you, now you know, unequivocally, that he is. Because he is, as the 
Award Winner, going home with a little piece of paper he can show his kids that says he is the best. You, as the Award Loser, are going home with a cheap wine buzz and clearly your kids have seen that before.
Now the important thing here is that nothing has changed. If Steve really is better than you, he was before the entire world recognized it. And you are not suddenly less gifted at what this award is celebrating – you were always an incredible gift wrapper, you were built for speed, you are just not as good as Steve… It’s like he has ribbons coming out of his finger tips.
But there are three other people that feel as bad as you about not winning this award, and their kids hate them even more than yours hate you. So you have to ask yourself, what has this award accomplished? Steve always knew he was the best and didn’t really care either way about this award, but four people are now left feeling like shit about themselves and there is a ridiculous catering bill. Begs the question, do we even need awards at all? You be the judge… Get it, cause awards need judges. I get the pun award. Losers.
//
This is gonna be a close one
By
Alex Aloise .
06.30.09 //
And The Award Goes To...
// This is gonna be a close one
By
Alex Aloise .
06.30.09 //
And The Award Goes To...
//
It’s All Subjective
By
Jake Dubs .
06.29.09 //
And The Award Goes To...
// It’s All Subjective
By
Jake Dubs .
06.29.09 //
And The Award Goes To...
On the drive up to San Francisco this weekend, my friend and I occasionally tuned into a Michael Jackson Tribute station on Sirus—literally invented this week to do nothing but play his songs and talk all things MJ.
At one point one of the DJ’s remarked to the other how Michael Jackson is noted in the Guinness Book of World Records, as “the best musician of all time.” When she said that, my friend and I exchanged obligatory ‘WTF?’ looks, and each asked the obvious question: how the eff do you quantify ‘best’ (especially in a reference book so objective and reliant on fact as Guinness)?
Obviously Michael Jackson was an incredible artist whose influence on pop culture is immeasurable, but do selected record achievements like the ones below constitute him as the best musician of all time?
-”Thriller” is the biggest selling album ever, with over 50 million copies sold worldwide.
-Most No. 1 Hits in the 1980′s
-The “Bad” world tour brought in a record gross revenue of over $124 million
-”The Making Of Thriller” is the biggest selling video to be released by an artist.
-Billboard “Hot 100″ Singles Chart, Most No. 1 Hits by a Male Artist (13)
-World Music Awards, Best Selling Pop Male Artist of the Millennium
Hearing the DJ ask that question made me think not about awards, but about what awards symbolize. What does it mean to be the best? To be No. 1? We live in a society obsessed with who is the “best” in his/her respective fields. Who is the best painter to ever live? The best President? The best writer? The best filmmaker? The best slam dunker? Who is the best pop star? By giving out awards and creating little lists, we think it helps organize who is the best and brightest in our world, one intuitive number at a time.
But somewhere, there is someone(s) out there who thinks MJ wasn’t the best. He/she/they think Elvis/Tupac/Kenny G/someone you’ve never heard of was. And you know what?
They’re just as right as anyone else.
Because the truth is, there is no truth when it comes to No. 1.
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