Heated disappointment

June 20, 2006


Wait a minute. This is not how things were supposed to end. It was supposed to be classier. Prettier.

But no. The pre-ordained winner has been pushed to the side. The cocky owner, the one that’s been trying to change the game for years, is forced to wait yet another year. The team that was supposed to usher in a new style of basketball – one that was palatable to the public, high-flying, hot-shooting, tall, lanky, and offensive-minded – has been knocked to the floor, forced to watch a bunch of bully heavy-weights hold the title aloft for yet another year.

Never before has a more hated group of players formed a team and defeated all comers. The 1988 Pistons? The 2002 Lakers? No. The 2006 Miami Heat. This is not how things were supposed to end.

A week ago: Dallas was planning their victory parade. Mark Cuban was getting fitted for a championship ring. I was applauding this new NBA – the one that supports fast shooting and little defense, a style as opposite from my personal team than any. Now? I’m watching the television, disappointed and with dreams dashed. If Dallas succeeding when many thought they’d choke was the best thing that could happen, this Miami team – one filled to the gills with undeserving champions – is the worst.

Yeah. I’m disappointed. The season’s over, and this is the finale? This is like the final episode of Cheers. Of Seinfeld. A great series, ruined at the end by a less than great finale, a legend tarnished by an unexpected, yet completely boring sub-plot.

Pat Riley may have done what he could to force his predecessor out just months into the season. Gary Payton has pranced around the league with a smug demeanor for the past four seasons, assuming a championship was owed to him. Jason Williams, who’s never seen a shot he hasn’t wildly missed, has a ring, while true point guards like Jason Kidd and Steve Nash don’t. Alonzo Mourning – sure, he’s overcome kidney disease, but he’s also pushed his way out of two franchises and perfected the art of crying to the refs.

And don’t get me started about Antoine Walker. That he has a title under his belt after carpet bagging around for five years is a travesty to this league.

Nothing against Shaq and Dwayne Wade – the only two deserving players on the team – but this Miami Heat championship has left a very bad taste in my mouth. Everything I thought was changing has halted. It has gravitated towards the utterly unwatchable days of Riley-ball, of endless Heat vs. Knicks games where the total score barely reached 140.

But what can we say? We watched a team in total control through 11 quarters piss a completely winnable title down their legs. We watched a prospective MVP fade. We watched two promising young stars foul up the simplest of plays. We saw horrible calls, both from the refs and from Avery Johnson.

We watched the Dallas Mavericks lose this championship just as much as we saw the Miami Heat win it.

This is all very disappointing. After a playoff bracket that saw the resurgence of quality basketball – the reawakening of a burning phoenix that hadn’t fully lived since 1997, rising from the flames of Jordan, Bird, and Magic – we get the lowest common denominator of teams – a brutal, brawling team with a bevy of under deserving veterans and two superstar players.

We thought the team concept was coming back. Instead, we’re back to watching the Kobe and Shaq show. Except this time, Shaq’s taken another young man under his wing. Riley is the next Jackson. Walker the next Horry. It all about makes me sick.

But the worst part? At least watching the Heat was watching the NBA. Now I’ve got nothing. We all need something to hate, but we never expect that foil to actually succeed.

This was not how things were supposed to end. But it’s ended. And I’ve got six months to stew about it.

I love this game.

Tags: Basketball, Sports |

3 Comments

Refinishing school

June 16, 2006


It pains me to say this. Wait, maybe that pain is from sleeping on our air mattress in a basement corner last night. No, don’t worry, we did it on purpose.

Anyway, you’ll see light posting for the next couple days. And unfortunately (to some) there’s no Steinbeck on Random today.

We’re in the process of refinishing our floors. It’s quite a task. Still, it’s something we need to do ourselves — $6-8/sq. ft. is not a price we want to pay, especially with 550 square feet to refinish.

This will be the biggest project we’ve ever taken on, and we’re going into it with high expectations and little hands on knowledge. Power tools, yes. Knowledge, barely.

So forgive the slow movement of posts over the next couple of days. We expect to start moving stuff back onto the hardwood by Tuesday. I may be back by then. Who knows.

This is what our empty room looks like, a “before” picture, if you will.

The Floor, Before.

And where did all of that furniture go? Where could we possibly fit three rooms full of beds, tables, chairs, knick knacks, and one large sofa?

Well, in the dormer…

The Dormer, Full.

…and, the kitchen.

The Kitchen, Unusable.

Our house is as functionless as possible right now. We’ll sand, we’ll vacuum, and we’ll lay down a layer of poly that will keep the elements away from our precious floors. At night, we’ll be in the basement.

Home Sweet Home.

During the day? Well, Kerrie and I have already discussed drinking an 18-pack of Pabst. You know, just to get through the stress.

We were kidding. You know that, right?

See you Tuesday.

Tags: Vilhauer |

6 Comments

A Worldly possession

June 14, 2006


“There are many beautiful things about being an American fan of World Cup soccer—foremost among them is ignorance. The community in which you were raised did not gather around the television set every four years for a solid, breathless month. The U.S. has never won. You have not been indoctrinated into unwanted yet inescapable tribal allegiances by your soccer-crazed countrymen. You are an amateur, in the purest sense of the word. So when the World Cup comes around, you can pick whatever team you like best and root for them without shame or fear or reprisal—you can spend the month in paradise.”
Sean Wilsey, The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup

Yes. The World Cup is here. It has been for nearly a week now, though I’ve been counting down for quite some time. And thanks to The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup, I’m ready for it. My thoughts have been focused. My knowledge, honed. I’m more excited this year than I was four years ago – that would be World Cup 2002, my first foray into World Cup soccer – because the team I’ve arbitrarily picked (England, of course) has a chance to win.

Yeah. A real chance. Of the 32 teams that qualified for the World Cup, England sits as the club with the second best chance to win (after the Yankees of international soccer, Brazil). Wayne Rooney. David Beckham. Michael Owen. I should break out the old Liverpool FC jersey, though I’m not sure if Stephen Gerrard is playing. He’s nearly 45 by now, I’d guess.

In 2002, I watched England lose a tight game to Brazil in the quarterfinals. I woke up at 2:30 am, laid in bed as I was bathed in the glow of Korean grass on the television, and watched England lose. It was heartbreaking. I thought they had a chance. I’ve gotten use to my professional sports teams-of-choice choking in the playoffs – if they even make it – but this was a new hurt. The type that comes from realizing great potential, yet not being accustomed to seeing that potential squandered. Foiled by the very team that took England’s invention and turned it into the “beautiful game.”

I will never admit to knowing a lot about the World Cup. But am fascinated by it. I’m from the United States, and there’s no bigger freedom than being a World Cup fan in a country with little to lose. There’s no need to root for the United States. For the most part, I’m an England man. Call it a little bit of Anglophilia. Listen, Kerrie’s adopted the country of her distant heritage – the Czech Republic – and rooted against the U.S. in their meeting with the Czechs. Of course, beating the States 3-0 in international soccer might not be much of a feat.

As Sean Wilsey says in the intro to The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup, we don’t have to root for the U.S. because our country simply doesn’t care enough about the sport to create any sort of vested interest in our national team. We know their names. They’ll go on Wheaties boxes if they win. But they won’t, so why bother?

It’s kind of nice having a competition, whether it is war, economy, or sport, where the United States isn’t the prospected winner – the leader for all time. It’s nice to see us fail at something. I’m not being anti-American. It’s just that there’s a swagger involved in rooting for the U.S. in everything, all the time.

And it’s a simple fact that since our nation isn’t good at soccer, we’re not going to bother with paying attention to it. We consider it a secondary sport. Not worth our time. Not even worth the smallest bit of energy. Sure, every single other nation on the Earth loves the game, embraces it and uses it as a form of unorganized religion. But not us. Why would we? We’re not that good at it on an international level. We have better things to spend our nationalistic energy on – war, for example.

(end political rant, please)

Here’s the deal – soccer is simple. It’s basic. It’s pure energy, at all times. It’s a lot more difficult than it looks, but it’s a lot easier to imagine yourself being a great player while watching on television. It’s fans are rabid – completely involved. There’s a real buzz when you watch soccer.

There are a lot of people that don’t care for it. That’s fine. I’m not going to pretend that a sport that’s barely on the radar in our country should suddenly become the nation’s sport of choice. It will never be that way. It’s constantly made fun of in the United States. It’s too slow, and it doesn’t have enough scoring, blah blah. Oh well – I’ve found it to be incredibly subtle. Exciting even without a score. I gave soccer a chance because it was a very European thing to do. But it hooked me. For those of us that really get the fever, the true nationalistic fervor that far exceeds anything the Olympics or the World Baseball Classic could ever come up with, this is a time where anything is possible.

Brazil could, and probably will, win it all. They know the game well, and they’ve held the trophy five times in the past century. Germany’s at home, ready to lock down with excessive defense and raise the temperature with an entire nation backing them up. England is nearly always downtrodden, but they’ll surely make it to the quarterfinals (and, as always, be beaten by the eventual champion.) Of course, we can only hope for an Argentina/England match up – The Falkland War has nothing on Beckham’s kicks (the one that lost the game in 98’ and the one that won the game in 02’) and Maradona’s “hand of God.” Anguish vs. Beauty. Andres vs. Corey.

Some teams (Cote d’Ivoire) stopped a war because of the World Cup. Others are making the trek for the first time (Angola, Ghana) instead of the continent’s usual heavyweights. These are the ultimate in underdog stories. Not just Major League underdogs. We’re talking entire countries. Angola vs. Europe. And South America. And Asia.

Once the ball is kicked off, all teams are on equal footing. No monetary means will secure your team a victory. Rich soccer teams can buy all the talent they want – AC Milan, Barcelona, Manchester United, Chelsea – but only citizenship will get you a World Cup championship. Just the allegiance to your country. Every country can build a team. All you need is a soccer ball and a flat pitch.

It’s called the beautiful game because it’s the joining of athletics and the pure will to win. Sure, there will be 0-0 ties. Sure, the most goals a team will score in a game will probably be the four that Germany put up in the opener. But the defensive stops, the fight to get to the goal, the sheer determination that leads to a cross pass that is beautifully set up by some guy that wasn’t even there ten seconds before and then kicked into the back of the goal – that’s sport.

I’m ready for the World Cup. Even if I don’t see a single game, even if I have to monitor the proceedings through an Ethernet connection on my Mac at work, even if England fails to make it out of the Group Phase and I’m forced to root for France or Spain or the random long-shot of a small country that somehow blasts their way into the tournament, I’ll still enjoy myself.

It’s one team against the world.

Welcome to the World Cup.

“The joy of being one of the couple of billion people watching thirty-two nations abide by seventeen rules fills me with the conviction, perhaps ignorant, but like many ignorant convictions, fiercely held, that soccer can unite the world.”
Sean Wilsey, The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup

Tags: Soccer, Sports |

5 Comments

Embracing power

June 13, 2006


Stereotypes – at least, the ones that are truly stereotypes and not just baseless biases – are oversimplified versions of the real thing. They take all of the people in a specific group and lump them together on the basis of a perceived common trait. Ultimately, there is some noticed fact about one member of a group that slowly develops into a stereotype. Something (regardless of how true) is generalized, tagged onto the rest of the populace, and considered fact.

I’m sure that there are studies on the connection between a stereotype and a self-fulfilling prophecy. To what point does an assumed notion of character end up changing how a person thinks of themselves – to the point where the person starts living out the stereotype, taking it on as if it was a logical step.

So now, after being expected to be one way, and slowly morphing into that “one way,” what can be said about stereotypes? Are they real? Are they natural? Are they logical?

I don’t know. Ask Kerrie. She was there Monday night when I took the stereotype of “male homeowner” into a loving embrace and purchased not one – not two! – but three power tools. And I was a little excited about it.

Bah. Who am I kidding? I was ecstatic.

I’ve slowly become more and more of the type of person my grandfather would have hung out with – by which I mean, I’ve got my own tools and I have some semblance of how to use them. I can drill, and I can saw, and I can grind. I feel completely confident in my abilities to refinish a wood floor. I’m light years ahead of that clueless young man that had never used a cordless drill before. Now I have my own cordless drill. And grinder (for sharpening my own lawn mower blades). And palm sander. I’m set. I just need a Skil saw and an acetylene torch and I’ll be prepared for life.

With a bevy of upcoming projects – from gate reconstruction to floor refinishing, wall painting to garage clarification – I’m looking forward to being productive and impossibly “handy-man-esque.” Stand back. You don’t need that hand screwdriver! *whirring noise*

Prepare yourself: the next two months will be filled with hilarious stories of the Vilhauers refinishing a floor with little first hand knowledge of how to do it. You’ll hear about the trials and tribulations of moving furniture upstairs, then downstairs, then back upstairs. You’ll have a front row seat for the first ever Vilhauer Rummage Sale.

Wait. Is this what it means to grow up? Buying tools and getting excited about it? What’s next? Children?

Nah. They smell. And they’re not able to cut through plywood until they’re at least 13 or 14.

Tags: Vilhauer |

3 Comments

Finally, the Finals

June 12, 2006


I’ve just finished watching Game two of the NBA Finals. And I’m glad to be seeing what I’m seeing. I’m thrilled to be watching Antoine Walker going down in flames. I’m ecstatic to have the chance to see Jason Williams take 35 shots a game and ultimately miss 25 of them.

Here’s my little secret. I hate the Heat. I always have. I don’t know why, but they’ve always rubbed me the wrong way, for reasons that aren’t fully understood. It probably harkens back to the late 90s, the dark ages of the NBA – when the top teams were grinding out 80 points per game in a cloud of uber-defense with Jeff Van Gundy and Pat Riley pushing the idea of “scoring” out of the league with their half-court slowdown. I hated it then. I hate it now. And the Heat, who (along with the Pistons of 03-05) kept the dream of defense and horrible shooting alive, personify boring basketball.

Wait. That’s not entirely true. They don’t anymore. But that ugliness is still hanging over their black and red uniforms, an albatross of mammoth size. And I hate them for it. Sure, seeing the Heat in the Finals is better than seeing the Pistons again, but that doesn’t mean I have to root for them. It’s a classic case of self-hate. I’ll forever root for the Pacers and will stand behind Eastern Conference basketball, but the truth of it is – it’s horrible. It’s boring. It’s not as good.

So for me, it’s great to see my least favorite Eastern Conference team in the Finals. It’s grand because, well, I don’t have to blindly root for the East. I can let loose and acknowledge that the Mavericks (and the late Suns) play basketball that I enjoy. There. I said it. Go Mavs.

For me, the cards were stacked against the Heat to begin with. Even without my background in Heat hating, their roster currently holds up some of my least favorite current NBA players. Gary Payton? Walker? Williams? Udonis Haslim and his super-injury scowl? Alonzo Mourning and his off again, on again kidney (and his history of the painful “ref shrug”)? How could I not root against the Heat? Shaq’s got his titles, so there’s no need to push for him. Dwayne Wade’s young, amazing, and will play for the highest bidder as soon as he can jet, if he knows what’s good for him.

So really, it comes down to this: as long as Antoine and Gary can retire title-less, I’ll be happy.

After this last game, I don’t see how they can win one anyway. The Mavs took the Heat apart, dismantling them – seemingly scoring at will with four (yeah, four!) of my favorite players in this year’s playoffs: Dirk, Howard, Stackhouse, and Terry. They drive. They hit threes. They play (gasp) defense. They’re a different team from what I remember, and they’re not going to stop with this title, this year. Yeah, you read that right. They’re not losing this title. In fact, I’d be surprised if they even make it back to Dallas. Three games in Miami, and they only need to win two? Start making space for that trophy, Mark Cuban. It’s yours.

Dirk’s got that MVP air about him. He’s proven himself. But, like Eric mentioned during our rambling MVP argument, you can’t give someone the MVP based on the playoffs. I refuse to enter into that discussion again because – and you’re hearing it here for the last time – Steve Nash won the MVP, would have been my vote, and there’s nothing that can be done about that now. But, I will admit, if I had a vote now, after the playoffs and Dirk’s sudden explosion, I’d change my tune. I’d vote for Dirk. I’d be stupid not to.

Along with Dirk’s explosion, we’ve been witness to redemption for Jason Terry, a third chance for almost-superstar Jerry Stackhouse, and a coming of age for future-superstar Josh Howard. This is exciting. This is the face of basketball, I hope. Gone will be the days of slow-down, grind-it-out, defensive battles that end with a total score under 160. We’re getting closer to some single teams scoring 160 in an overtime battle. I watched Reggie Miller play his way to the hall of fame, and I can say that I love the long ball. I’d watch it all day, every day.

I don’t care what anyone else says – you give me this Dallas team (only a year older) and next year’s Phoenix Suns with a healthy Amare Stoudemire, and you’re watching the true 2007 Finals during the Western Conference Championships.

I hate the Heat. I love the Mavs. And the Mavs haven’t shown any sign of letting up, while the Heat have looked exactly like what they are – a team full of aging veterans that couldn’t get along with their former teams. You’ve got an owner/coach who pushed his former out of the way for a chance at glory. You’ve got a center that doesn’t bother to give his all until game 70 of the regular season. Sure, you’ve got one of the best young players, but you’ve also got three guards – Payton, Williams, and Walker – that have bounced from team to team, can’t play a team game, and have never admitted fault in any aspect of any loss.

How could anyone root for the Heat in this series?

And if you do, how can you sleep at night?

Tags: Basketball, Sports |

8 Comments

Pressing “reset”

June 11, 2006


It’s been brought to my attention by numerous loyal readers that I’ve been lax in keeping up my blog content. I’ve been slacking. Mailing it in. Goofing off. I’ve seemed uninspired, full of contempt for the writing process, utterly unable to engage that person staring at my maroon and cream website in any sort of logically intelligent thought. What’s with the lack of writing? What’s with the incredibly slow trickle of quality words?

What has happened? That’s an answer that can’t be summed up with just one definitive reason. But there are three things that have contributed to this sudden shut down of non-“random link” posts and an unfortunate uprising of YouTube videos.

First, there’s a lack of time – the recent synching of my schedule with Kerrie’s has actually given us less time for extra curricular activities. We come home, eat dinner, and –boom!- it’s already seven. The summer is always filled with excuses to waste time, and each excuse has been realized in full. A garden will need to be planted. Then, a basement redone. After that, a floor refinished. Mix this together with the usual laundry and lawn mowing, and you’ve got little left.

And little left leads me to the second reason: the lack of motivation to make time. I am lax. I am mailing it in. I’ve been unable to convince myself to make time for blogging – time to write anything, really. I don’t have the usual drive because, well, I get paid to do it now. Before, it was a need – a disease. Now, it’s just an extension of what I’ve done at work.

Finally, there’s a lot of missed opportunity. I’ve become accustomed to traveling without my Moleskin, a note-taking book of miniature proportions and my old stomping ground for dictating anything I had possibly wanted to say. Now, when inspiration strikes, I find myself trying to store it away, pushing it further back in an effort to recover it later. It never works. I always forget. And for that reason, some of my most brilliant work (if I do say so) has been locked away in my subconscious only to reappear in dreams.

I’ve tried, over the past few months, to write less about myself, to touch upon other things – life, politics, sports, and the like. I’ve hit sparse areas for both. When I’m happy, I’ve got nothing to write about. I’ve got no motivation. I’ve got no stress, no need for a release.

Along the way, I developed some notion that this blog was for the public, that I needed to cater to the grand populace and create work that would be revered on a national level. Unfortunately, I mistimed this notion – I should’ve waited a few years, when a grand mass of people actually gives a damn about what I’m writing. For now, I’ve only got you – the reader who keeps posting comments, the friend who uses BMOWP to check in with the household happenings, and the random somebody who loves to sneak inside someone else’s head and see what makes things knock around.

Things are going to change around here. As much as I enjoy writing copy for advertisements, I still need to express what I’m thinking and write the way I love – this way, person to person, from my overflowing head to yours. I need to develop some thicker skin and a more relaxed opinion of myself. I need to try harder (more about this later in the week) and not worry about what I’m writing about. Just write, dammit. Just write.

So Black Marks on Wood Pulp is going back to what it originally was meant to be – a personal journal. The musings of some South Dakota kid with his own web space and a flair for spilling his guts. My new goal is to write more – more sports commentary, more political musings, more musical ramblings, personal viewpoints, and dull (yet strangely universal) ideas on living life at 27, owning a house, building a career, and loving friends and family. Greg Veerman will be very upset with me – after all, there’s nothing worse than bloggers blogging about blogging – but I’ll take all of the open pooh-poohing I can take. I will embrace it. I will consider the pooh-poohing my own, place it on a silver platter, and arrange it as a centerpiece.

It’s all because I’ve created something I enjoy, something that many do but few perfect. This shtick is my niche. Other people might write better. Others might be able to ramble off about their day to strangers with little regard for their own personal image. Still others might be able to combine the two in a delightful little shell and offer it to the Web 2.0 Gods like a slaughtered sheep. But nobody I know does it as well as I do. And even though I don’t know many people, I’m going to consider it a feat to be proud of.

So with that, you’ll have to excuse the down time previously experienced. Lots of stuff has happened over the past six months. But now, I’m ready to turn to corner and get back on track. More about myself (hooray!), my insecurities, my thoughts, and my reaffirmations and self-indulgence. More about how I don’t try enough, or how I can’t understand something, or some sort of mini-ramble that sounds old-manish and yawn inducing. And yes, Eric, more about the Finals. The World Cup. Steve Nash as Most Valuable Player.

I haven’t missed any of these things. In fact, I love all of it. I should be talking about it. From now on, I will. Starting today, I’m a new blogger. Call it Black Marks on Wood Pulp 2.0. Call it Blacker Marks on Wood Pulp. Call it a revolution.

Well, no second thought, don’t call it that.

Tags: Blogging, Meta, Writing |

1 Comment

Sam Jackson: My bro

June 9, 2006


Thanks to Adrants for posting this brilliant movie. Take Samuel Jackson, the horribly horrible looking Snakes on a Plane, and a faux-Bono, put them together, and you get a beautiful song: “Tell Sam Jackson He’s My Bro.”

It’s a little long, but persevere. It’s brilliant.

I love the line “I know you can’t talk without cursing it up.”

“You’re the reason I swear — you’re the reason the profanity is in me.”

Tags: Movies, Random YouTube |

2 Comments

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