Casey Anthony’s Acquittal: As Outrageous As America Gets

When I heard a verdict had been announced in the Casey Anthony trial, I breathed a sigh of relief. It had only taken the sequestered jury two days to deliberate before they reached a unanimous decision — more than enough time to establish that Anthony murdered her two-year-old daughter, Caylee, and assign guilt to her. Then, I read the verdict: not guilty. Not guilty? Not guilty of what? No one has been this clearly guilty of murder since OJ Simpson. Whoa…that’s weird.

 As it turns out, a lack of physical evidence against Anthony was compounded by blurry lines drawn up by her defense team. Even though this vile woman was seen drinking and dancing while her daughter’s corpse rotted in the trunk of her car, her attorneys managed to paint her as a victim of unfortunate circumstances. Despite a documented history of crack addiction, Anthony was depicted as a caring, devastated mother whose pronounced grief had been misinterpreted as drug-crazed indifference. We had all been unfair, counsel reasoned, to characterize this ‘victim’ as a demonically amoral slut that was capable of the worst crime imaginable.

 I stand by my judgment. There was no aspect of this trial that caused me to doubt her culpability in little Caylee’s death. Her ‘alibi’ consisted of a string of excuses, held together with nonsensical logic. She didn’t report her own child’s ‘abduction’ for nearly a month, simply because she wasn’t concerned. When her parents confronted her about Caylee’s absence, Casey claimed that the girl had been missing for 10 days. Her body was recovered in a forest six months after she disappeared, and though police suspected the little girl’s body has sat in the trunk of her mother’s car prior to its disposal, they couldn’t pin anything on her.

Clearly, a grieving mother.

Casey Anthony is either the luckiest murderer in the world – or the smartest. I’m not too keen on saying it’s the latter, though. It seems quite clear that her behavior following Caylee’s killing certainly did not rule her out as the murderer. If anything, this conduct merely exacerbated the notion Casey was guilty. What kind of a woman would ever entertain the idea of partying while her only child was missing? The answer, of course, is a sociopath – which is exactly what Casey Anthony is. How did these twelve individuals collectively fall for her crocodile tears? Well, the defense earned their paycheck during the jury selection.

Speaking of these lawyers – I can’t decide if I feel loathing or admiration for them. Casey Anthony is a free woman (for now) because of their efforts, but they were just doing their jobs. Doing the hell out of them, in fact. Defense lawyers have a slimy reputation, and it’s somewhat deserved in many cases but ultimately it’s unfair. At the very least, the same attribute should be ascribed to prosecutors. When the wrong man is convicted, aren’t the district attorneys responsible for injustice that is comparable to setting a guilty person free? It’s a funny world we live in, where men and women make a living – and a good one at that – by placing obstacles along the path toward justice and equality. This is certainly not true of all lawyers, or even very many – they know who they are, let’s say.

I had a discussion with a good friend today – one who earned a Bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice. The way he put it was, yes, Casey Anthony is probably guilty of murder, but the same system that has enabled her freedom is also ultimately the catalyst for countless others that receive exactly what’s coming to them – no more, no less. Anthony represents the unfortunate exception to the inherent fairness provided by our judicial branch. OJ was another. I argued that these two are pretty large exceptions. Sure, I can tell people that my car is designed to keep me safe, except for that one time the brake line snapped and I plowed down a family of five at a crosswalk. Of course my car is designed to keep me safe, but what about the family of five? What about Caylee Anthony? Are we truly all right with just calling them collateral damage and moving on?

I respect my friend’s opinion – his opinion on these matters is much more informed than mine – but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Here’s why: simply put, if our court system is unable to punish a woman as clearly guilty as Casey Anthony, then how can we say it’s legitimate? If a crack whore is able to circumvent our legal process, then the waters must be pretty easy to navigate. Now, reportedly, Anthony is writing a book – about her triumph in the courtroom, no doubt. Well, OJ wrote a book called If I Did It. Maybe Anthony could call hers Why I Did It. How I Did It. I Couldn’t Find A Babysitter. I Let My Daughter Decompose In My Trunk And All I Got Was This T-shirt. It practically titles itself.

I have no doubt that Anthony’s lifestyle will take care of her in the same – albeit, much more tragic — way it took care of her daughter. Sometimes, problems handle themselves. I listen to Curtis Mayfield, I know how it works – though it doesn’t seem like that’s enough, does it? When Casey Anthony spends her final moments lying on a pile of trash while a bad batch courses through her bloodstream, it’s pathetic – but it doesn’t right any wrongs. This woman should spend the rest of her life in prison – and on suicide watch, for that matter. When she comes down from her high, it’d probably be good if she didn’t have shoelaces readily available to her. Realizing you killed your kid and losing a buzz is a pretty rough combination – and you’re in a locked cell, to boot.

This one is really hard to swallow, for me. In fact, I’ll even say that you should be as angry about this as I am. It’s all right to get mad when people like Casey Anthony are allowed to walk the Earth in the same manner as you and I, without any sort of barrier that deprives them of our generous, Earthly bounty. Ripe peaches, Bose headphones, jet skis, sunny days, good sex — all the lavish benefits to freedom that, incidentally, will never be experienced by Caylee Anthony.

Here’s a test: if this one fails, I’m moving to Canada. Today, in California, a teenage boy named Larry McInerny, 14, appeared in court for the first time. He is accused of killing Lawrence King, a gay 15-year old classmate by shooting him twice in the back of the head (that’s execution-style, if you didn’t know). His reasoning for the crime is rooted in white supremacist ideology, which he had exposed himself to in the month’s preceding his crime. McInerny’s defense attorney has implicated the victim as the instigator, pointing to numerous unwanted sexual advances toward his killer. What I’m proposing is that, if McInerny is found not guilty – and King is vilified as a sexual predator – we throw out the whole doctrine and start from scratch. The insanity needs to stop.

 Enough about that. Caylee Anthony needs to be honored, first and foremost. We should all mourn her in the way her own mother never did, and remember that children are a blessing – not a burden. Hug your kids and tell them how much you love them – that’s my plan, when I’m fortunate to have my own. It’s the best way to memorialize the boys and girls who were never given a chance in hell to be happy.

A Lesson To Be Learned From The Life And Death Of Ryan Dunn

Along with the rest of his Jackass cohorts, Ryan Dunn built a career on allowing himself to be placed in harm’s way. He ran from stampeding bulls, walked across a river using alligators as stepping stones, stuffed a balloon containing a race car into his rectum and traumatized his testicles no less than a couple dozen times. His pain was our entertainment for the better part of a decade. Now, he’s dead.

Dunn was killed on early Monday morning after his Porsche left a Pennsylvania highway going approximately 140 mph, soared into a wooded ravine and crashed headlong into a tree. His passenger, a stuntman named Zachary Hartwell, also died in the wreck. When firefighters arrived on scene, the vehicle was engulfed in flames — and the bodies were so charred that only tattoos, teeth and hair could be used to identify the victims. Today, a toxicology report was released: Dunn’s blood-alcohol content was .196, more than twice the legal limit. This came as no surprise — less than an hour prior to the accident, Dunn tweeted an image of himself, Hartwell and a third individual consuming drinks inside a bar.

It goes without saying that Dunn, who was only 34 at the time of his death, should not have been behind the wheel that night. Certainly a television personality of his stature could afford a cab, at the very least — though it’s possible that such a move would have hurt his street cred among fellow daredevils. However, he’d still be alive. I’ve done some bungee jumping and I owned a motorcycle for a few months once, but to call me an adrenaline junkie of any level — let alone Dunn’s — is an exaggeration. Which is why the ‘movement’ has always fascinated and confounded me. I mean, how do you turn it off? When you spend your days riding skateboards over oncoming traffic and batting beehives around like a tetherball, is it difficult to extricate feelings of invincibility from your psyche? Every young person (especially the guys) believes they will live forever, but when nothing seems to kill you — or even slow you down for very long — can you make intelligent decisions with regard to your own personal safety?

I remember when Jackass first got big — I was a senior in high school, a prime age to witness (and potentially fall victim to) its dangerous influence. I remember one time that two other friends and I rode a shopping cart down a moderately steep hill — man, we felt cool. It wasn’t just the risk — it was the mischievous sense of doing something we weren’t supposed to. A lot of kids behaved in similar fashion. One of them, a 13-year old from Seattle named Kelvin Wu, soaked himself in alcohol and set himself ablaze as cameras documented the stunt. The end result was a trip to Harborview Medical Center, where Wu was treated for first degree burns on his face, arms and torso. The show’s producers offered a heartfelt apology and made a pronounced announcement on the show: these stunts were not meant to be recreated. They still kept the show’s logo, though — a skull hovering above a pair of crutches.

I’m not trying to assign any blame to the Jackass cast and crew, because inspiring children to emulate the mayhem contained within the show was never their intent. However, the outcome begs a question: what did they expect? Kids are impressionable, and known to mimic those they see on TV and in the movies. I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t mention that I greatly enjoyed watching the show — and still do to some extent, though the more hazardous stunts always cause me to flinch a little when I imagine others trying to recreate them. The same is true of Wildboyz, Viva La Bam! and all the other members of the Dickhouse canon. What can I say — Johnny Knoxville & co. know how to entertain.

Well, I hope every kid in America is tuning in now to see what happens when one chooses to drink and drive. It’s a graphic disclaimer, but it may work. Nobody is immune to the effects of disaster, especially one as preventable as an alcohol-fueled car crash. Dunn always seemed like a nice kid on the show, but he had a dark history with this sort of thing — he was cited for DUI six years ago, and God knows how many times he pulled the same nonsense with no repercussions. The same is true of many other drunk-driving victims, and though nothing good comes from such a tragedy, there is a positive lesson to be learned — especially for all the kids who have steered shopping carts down hills and what not.

Ryan Dunn, you will be missed. It’s a shame you left us in such an unnecessarily grisly way, but your highly publicized death will hopefully stop a countless number of American teenagers from getting behind the wheel after having a few too many.

Let’s Hope Krokodil Is As Bad As It Gets

Hey, what can we say — people like drugs. Our willingness to exchange health and prosperity for a few fleeting moments enhanced by their euphoric effects truly says something about the collective ennui that has befallen our modern society. One could argue that humans have always used drugs as a coping mechanism, pointing to the tribesmen that munched on cacao leaves and Chinese scholars who puffed on opium pipes. Well, it may be a storied pastime, but I’d retort that narcotics have never been as extreme as they are today — and most shockingly of all, it appears they will continue to get worse.

How much worse? Well, it seems the Russians could tell you. For the past few years, that nation’s youth has been ravaged by a synthetic designer drug known as krokodil. An ugly variant of morphine, krokodil is derived from codeine and cut with such substances as paint thinner, gasoline, iodine and red phosphorous (the material used to ignite match heads). The drug is injected into the veins like heroin, which produces a deadening relaxation among users in the most literal sense — the average life span of a krokodil addict is two to three years. In 2010, it is estimated that up to one million Russians were actively using the drug — a 23-fold increase over the course of just one year. It would seem that methamphetamine has found an Eastern European counterpart.

The similarities to meth don’t end there. Krokodil — whose medical name is desomorphine — is prominent in isolated rural communities where work is sparse and residents are starved for healthy activity. Historically, these same people have turned to vodka or other narcotics to relieve their boredom. Now, according to Viktor Ivanov, head of Russia’s Federal Drug Control Service, krokodil “has practically pushed out traditional opiates.” In case you’re wondering how desomorphine got its nickname, the injection sites on a user’s body — anywhere from the toes to the forehead — become green and scaly after just a few doses. Virtually all addicts succumb to the drug; reported causes of death have included pneumonia, liver failure or burst blood vessels. If one survives the addiction, a medical miracle is proclaimed.

Russia’s solution to the problem has been highly scrutinized. Victims are ‘rehabilitated’ by extricating them from their homes and placing them in isolated, rustic cabins known as banyas, which essentially function as throwback detox wards. During their stay, these young men and women are inundated with evangelism. I’m no proponent of using the scriptures to fix the world’s problems, but if it stops people from killing themselves with drugs like krokodil — well, then bring on the prayer circle. Unfortunately, these measures don’t seem to be working. Relapse rates fall between 80 and 90 percent, and since the drug is made from everyday products, familiar places such as pharmacies and hardware stores become triggers for vulnerable recoverers. Oh, and plenty of krokodil recipes are available online — so anyone with a computer can conceivable gain access to the drug via the information highway.

The face of meth

I haven’t been exposed to much krokodil firsthand — that I know of — but I have seen the effects of meth up close, courtesy of my time with the US Forest Service. The jittery hands, vacant stare and erratic speech patterns have become a hallmark of my weekends spent working in the woods. It’s easy to write these people off as lost causes, since meth overtakes its user’s life in such a devilishly obsessive fashion. However, as usage of the drug has reached pandemic proportions in virtually every corner of our country, a dismissive, blind-eyed attitude toward the crisis may not be the most pragmatic approach. Since the ingredients are all readily accessible — and addiction is all but untreatable — the solution must be an extensive, preemptive educational outreach. As animalistic as most meth addicts become, none of them deserve the grisly fate that awaits them at the end of this short, monstrous cycle.

Furthermore, to classify meth as a “rural problem” is not only offensively elitist — it’s also highly inaccurate. Every major city in the United States has seen a pronounced increase in the use of this drug throughout the past decade — and thanks to krokodil (and God knows how many other forms), the issue has reached a global level. That kids constitute the lion’s share of users makes it all the more tragic — and preventable. So, how do we educate our children? Well, a dose of realism is a start. We warn the little ones about the dangers of drug use all the time — yet rarely do we concede that, yes, drugs are also quite fun. It’s a fair point to make to young people who might rightly wonder why so many people are giving up everything for something so terrible.

Moreover, we are quick to draw the line between acceptable drugs (alcohol, marijuana, et. al) and the other, ‘bad’ ones. Sure, as adults, we can differentiate between smoking some grass or taking a shot and mainlining black tar heroin into our arm, but it’s not feasible to expect our youth to exercise the same discretion. To them, a drug is a drug is a cool thing that you shouldn’t tell your parents about — and since kids are impressionable and eager to please their peers, it’s only a matter of time before they take the plunge from ‘good’ to ‘bad’ narcotics.

I hope it ends here, though I doubt it will. It’s foreseeable that, in 20 years, krokodil will seem as benign as marijuana and cocaine are today (which should tell us something right there). I worry for the children I plan to have, just as I’m worried for the kids that are already alive and exposed to this kind of filth. It’s no way to think about the world around me, but there it is.

RIP Clarence Clemons

The Big Man has left the building. That’s how Bruce Springsteen and the rest of the E Street Band referred to Clarence Clemons, anyway. The native of Norfolk, Virginia was arguably the most prominent member of the Boss’ group — he did stand at 6’4, after all. His music helped him stand out, as well — Clemons’ sax can be heard on many of Springsteen’s most beloved songs, including ‘Born to Run,’ ‘Badlands,’ ‘Thunder Road,’ ‘Dancing in the Dark’ and ‘The Promised Land.’ For more than 40 years, he made beautiful music with one of America’s most iconic performers.

On Saturday, Clemons passed away — six days after suffering a sudden stroke. ”It is with overwhelming sadness,” Springsteen wrote on his Web site, “that we inform our friends and fans that at 7:00 tonight, Saturday, June 18, our beloved friend and bandmate, Clarence Clemons passed away.” the Boss and the Big Man went way back — all the way to 1971, when both men were struggling musicians in Asbury Park, New Jersey. They met in a night club, and Springsteen asked his tall new acquaintance to sit in for a set. “The door literally blew off the club in a storm that night, and I knew I’d found my sax player,” the Boss later recalled. “But there was something else, something happened when we stood side by side.  Some energy, some unspoken story.”

Clemons’ own story prior to 1971 was interesting enough — and probably surprising to some. The young man learned to play the sax as a pre-teen, but he was also a born athlete, especially when it came to the football field. He was a star high school lineman, going so far as to arrange a tryout with the Cleveland Browns in 1968. Tragically, the day before, the accelerator in his Buick jammed as he was cruising down the street and he struck a tree going faster than 100 mph. When he awoke, doctors informed him that his athletic days were over.

Undeterred, he turned to music as a form of physical therapy. At age 18, he visited a studio, where he recorded sessions with a then-unknown guitarist Eddie Hazel — who would go on to play in Parliament-Funkadelic. He also laid down a few tracks with Nashville crooner Daniel Petraitis. Shortly thereafter, he enrolled at Maryland State College, where he and some buddies formed the Vibratones — a James Brown tribute band. Upon graduating, he found work as a counselor for disturbed youth in Newark — a position he held until the early 1970s. The rest, as they say, is music history.

His role in E Street was a pronounced one — which was fitting, since Springsteen often introduced him as “the biggest man you ever seen.” Yet, he had a life outside of the band, which is evidenced by his extensive solo career. He played alongside Aretha Franklin on “Freeway of Love” and Jackson Browne on “You’re a Friend of Mine.” He also jammed with the Grateful Dead, Lady Gaga and Ringo Starr. He also proved to have acting chops, as well. His range can be seen in two of his roles — as one of the ‘Three Most Important People in the World’ in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure and his cameo as a Baltimore youth counselor on HBO’s series The Wire.

Even if you’ve never heard of Clarence Clemons, you’ve no doubt heard him play on any of the numerous Springsteen singles to hit the airwaves. My personal favorite is “Spirit in the Night,” a raucous tale of urban life from Bruce & E Street’s debut album, Greetings from Asbury Park (take a listen below).

So long, Clarence, and thanks for making such wonderful music for so many years! The E Street Band won’t be the same without you.

Why My Father Is A Great Man (And An Excellent Dad)

As we all know, today is Father’s Day — the annual celebration of that special guy who pats us on the back, toughens us up and teaches us how to do and make all sorts of cool stuff. This is certainly true of my dad, known as either Ranger Nehring or Chief Warrant Officer Nehring (depending on where he’s working that day). He’s retiring from both the National Park Service and the US Coast Guard in a matter of months, and I wanted to do something special for him — so I wrote the following article and submitted it to Ranger Magazine. That it was published less than a week prior to Father’s Day made it all the more special.

Uwe Nehring to Retire 

Ranger Uwe Nehring will retire this summer after 20 years in law enforcement with the National Park Service. Throughout that time, he has amassed a vast collection of acquaintances, collaborators and dear friends in the Park Service family. I have a rather unique relationship with him: I’m his oldest son.

I’ve never worked directly with my dad, but I imagine he’s a pretty good ranger. I can’t speak as to how he handles himself during budget meetings or his adherence to office protocol. I just know the man has a lot of qualities that coincide with the duties and oaths required to be an effective ranger. I know this because he passed several of them along to me, and the ones he has kept for himself are among the qualities I admire the most in him.

Uwe Nehring always wanted to be a national park ranger. When he was a young boy, he discovered his profession in the pages of a National Geographic and was instantly enamored. He didn’t follow a direct path to Park Service law enforcement; fittingly enough, he used a series of rough, wayside trails to get there. He even traded in mountaineering for adventures at sea, as he joined the U.S. Coast Guard; incidentally, he retires from the Coast Guard this year, too, having earned the rank of chief warrant officer.

Dad began his parkie career as a seasonal ranger at Olympic. His first law enforcement appointment came as the backcountry permanent ranger at North Cascades in 1991. He later held the position of wilderness district ranger at Crater Lake from 1993-96. For the last 15 years, he has been employed by Mount Rainier and will retire as the East Side district ranger.

I estimate that few people treasure the outdoors as much as my dad. According to him, there are no “bad weather” days, just variable conditions. If it’s raining, well, cinch up your hood and keep on moving. If there’s lightning, well, I guess we’re skiing without poles for awhile. This toughness has enabled him to properly perform his job in a variety of climates and conditions — an important characteristic for a good ranger.

The man also had an encyclopedic knowledge of the flora and fauna, all of which could rightly be called his workplace associates. He can identify everything from bird calls to mossy growth and everything in between — and pretty quickly, for that matter. If you listen to the tone of his voice whenever he names a tree species or tells us whether a mushroom is edible or not, he’s almost bragging.

Perhaps most importantly of all, my father cares about people and wants to help them whenever trouble strikes. Every year brings him a slew of unfortunate situations involving visitors to his park. Thanks to the quick thinking of his team, many of them have happy endings. It’s reassuring to know people like my dad are there to help others in their time of need. I don’t know exact figures, but I imagine he has fixed a lot of “boo-boos” over the years.

Let it be known that Ranger Nehring will never truly retire. He loves the mountains and forests too much to just “quit them.” So, he’ll settle for a pay cut instead. We should all be so lucky as my dad when it comes to the careers we choose.

[Photos were not included in the published article]

Happy Father’s Day — to not only my dad, but all the other good ones out there, as well!

Excellent Tunes, Part 2

…[Continued from yesterday]

De La Soul — Keeping The Faith

In my opinion, it’s a little insensitive to use the word ‘underrated’ when describing a musical act; sure, the band in question might not have gotten as much radio play or album sales as their collective talent warranted, but just think of all the worthy performers that never received any attention at all. Well, if we’re going to make a case for any mainstream group being wrongfully overlooked, then may I suggest De La Soul. This trio of Long Island MCs has been making music since 1987 — which feels like a century in rapper years — but they’re not exactly well-known members of the hip-hop community. Music aficionados point to 1989′s Three Feet High and Rising, but for my money, 1991′s De La Soul is Dead is their finest recording — and the final track, “Keeping the Faith,” is the best cut on it. It’s a perfect old school jam for a cool summer day — sort of like the ones Seattle weathermen keep assuring us we’ll have at some point this year.

Lucinda Williams — Still I Long For Your Kiss

Best break-up song ever? Superlatives aside, Ms. Williams is one of the most dynamic women in rock and roll today. She got kicked around by the merciless music industry during the early years of her career — not to mention a number of male companions, as well. She finally got respect in 1998, when her album Car Wheels on a Gravel Road was released; it was named Best Album of the Year by Village Voice Pazz & Jop, won a Grammy for Best Contemporary Folk Album and eventually sold over a million copies. These days, Williams is more confident than ever — thanks to the success of saucy ballads like this one. I’m sure being married to her manager helps, too.

Isaac Hayes — Walk On By

Or is this the best break-up song ever? Let’s call them dual sides of the same groovy coin. Obviously, I’ve known the name Isaac Hayes for a long time — much longer than I’ve been actively listening to his soulful tunes. However, in the past two or three years, I’ve discovered what a true composer this man was — and “Walk On By” was the track that did it for me. His tempo shifts and use of background noise are what set him apart from his contemporaries. That, and his bulldog voice — which, for some reason, makes his ballads seem all the more heartbreaking.

DJ Cam — Underground Vibes

Listening to modern jazz is kind of like watching the remake of a Hitchcock film — why settle for the inferior new stuff when the old mastery is still so satisfying? Even so, Laurent Daumail — AKA DJ Cam — is worth a listen. This French mixmaster has spent his career melding hip-hop and jazz, but the results are neither pretentious nor incoherent. A contemporary of Daft Punk, Air and Bob Sinclar, the guy knows how to create a captivating melody. If only all instrumental tracks were as interesting as his.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOj-RLnfpGI

Wolfmother — In The Castle

If you’ve been following Wolfmother as closely as I have for the last few years, you’ll know how far they take the concept of esoteric arena rock to the next level. If applying psychedelic motifs to three-chord riffs is a talent, then this Australian quartet deserves a blue ribbon of some weird sort. Every one of their fantastic cuts deserves a very loud speaker system on which to be played — a rule never truer than on “In The Castle,” a monumental single from their Cosmic Egg EP that incorporates every great element of Zeppelin’s technique. You can’t help but raise an index and a pinky to this jam.

Excellent Tunes, Part 1

Hello all! Since my girlfriend and I will be moving into our new apartment this week, I’m going to be tied up for the next few days. However, I’m not one to willingly break a streak — and my blog is no exception. So, I’ve decided to feature some of the music that has caught my…ears…in recent weeks/months/years. I hope you enjoy these tunes as much as I have — and if you have any recommendations of your own, please pass them along. I’m bound to be “too busy to blog” again.

Powderfinger — My Happiness

You may have caught this Aussie group around the turn of the millennium, when their Odyssey Number Five was released. The band — whose name is derived from a classic Neil Young ballad — had been together since 1989, but their 2000 record ended up becoming their biggest hit both domestically and abroad (it received eight platinum certifications). A fluid blend of surf rock and melodic balladeering, Powderfinger was always much more popular Down Under than anywhere else — and it’s a shame. The boys were also quite philanthropic. They played WaveAid in 2005 to benefit victims of the catastrophic tsunami that struck the Indian Ocean one year earlier, and they also played a breast cancer benefit at the Sydney Opera House in 2007.

Oddisee — Propa

Good hip-hop isn’t too hard to find — you just need to know where to look. Case in point: Oddisee, AKA D.C.-based MC Amir Mohamed. The son of a Sudanese father and African-American mother, Mohamed grew up in a household that greatly encouraged musical ability. He was on track to attend the Art Institute of Philadelphia, but a friend introduced him to the idea of hip-hop producing, instead. His lack of formal education is our gain — Oddisee’s beats and lyrics qualify the young man as a highly talented rapper. This was never more evident than on 2006′s Foot in the Door, which was produced by DJ Jazzy Jeff (yeah, this is what he’s been doing with himself — not as bad as you thought, right?) The album is a 34-track opus, featuring a slew of brilliant instrumentals that are punctuated by worthwhile singles (such as “Propa”). Simply put, you always get your money’s worth with an Oddisee record.

Lucero — Raising Hell

Forget Kings of Leon for a second. Lucero, a four-piece Memphis outfit, has been making some of the best alt-country/punk/rockabilly tunes out there for the past decade — and I bet you still haven’t heard of them. Since 2001, these guys have played between 150-200 shows per year, and are rightly considered festival darlings — thanks to their gifts in the realm of live performance. These days, vocalist Ben Nichols can be found on MTV as a cast member on $5 Cover, a semi-fictionalized account of the Memphis music scene. “Raising Hell,” from their 2001 debut (and self-titled) LP, is my favorite track of theirs — though I imagine these guys have something for just about everyone.

Cody ChesnuTT — When I Find Time

Cody ChessnuTT may very well end up becoming the J.D. Salinger of R&B. The Atlanta native shot to fame in 2002, following the release of his debut double-album, The Headphone Masterpiece — which he recorded in his home (it shows). The release was hit or miss, but the ambitious style — an eclectic blend of funk, jazz, hip-hop and lo-fi rock — was praised by critics. “When I Find Time” is one of the album’s best singles. Another noteworthy track, “The Seed,” was later used by The Roots on their hit, “The Seed 2.0″; ChesnuTT appeared in the video with Black Thought and his crew. Since ’02, ChesnuTT has released two original albums and a live compilation, though the artist has somewhat faded into obscurity. Perhaps he’ll make a comeback — then again, maybe not. Still, Headphone is worth a listen by anyone who appreciates neo-soul stylings.

Ben Watt — You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go

Today, Ben Watt is known as the silent half of Brit-pop’s Everything But The Girl — alongside silky-smooth vocalist Tracey Thorn. The duo released numerous hit singles between the late 1980s and mid 90s. However, prior to this union, Watt released his own solo album, North Marine Drive — a brilliant collection of jazzy little ditties that suggest he is (or was) a great singer in his own right. The standout is “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go,” covering the beloved Dylan ballad from 1975′s Blood on the Tracks. Today, Watt works as a producer — his Buzzin’ Fly and Strange Feeling Records labels are pretty popular in the British underground circuit. He also wrote an autobiography, Patient (1996), which detailed his struggle with Churg-Strauss Syndrome, a rare auto-immune disease.

Roky Erickson — Two-Headed Dog

A guitar player since age 10, Roky Erickson was a pioneer of the psychedelic rock movement. He first made waves in 1965, when he co-founded 13th Floor Elevators — a group that, at one point, Janis Joplin considered joining. They released their first album the following year, and the single, “You’re Gonna Miss Me” was a modest hit — praised for its grungy dynamic and subsequently categorized as one of the first successful forays into garage rock. Two years later, Erickson hit rock bottom when he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. However, his career barely stalled. In the mid-1970s, he released “Two-Headed Dog,” his first attempt at writing a rock song that incorporated horror movie-inspired lyrics. This style would have a monumental impact on the budding punk and alternative rock movements; The Misfits, Tool and Metallica are among the groups most influenced by Erickson’s idiosyncratic take on songwriting.

“Tune” in tomorrow for Part 2!

Why Straight Judges Are Needed For Gay Marriage

Today saw an interesting turn of events, where gay marriage is concerned. In California, Chief US District Judge James Ware ruled against arguments that one of his colleagues was unfit to preside over the case regarding Proposition 8. You see, Prop 8 — as the locals call it — is a legislative gay marriage ban and this aforementioned colleague, one Chief Judge Vaughn Walker, is a homosexual. Walker’s opponents charged that, by being able to legally marry his male partner, the judge would directly benefit from his own decision — and many of them called on him to recuse himself. Well, Ware came to Walker’s defense by declaring such reasoning unconstitutional.

“The presumption that Judge Walker, by virtue of being in a same-sex relationship, had a desire to be married that rendered him incapable of making an impartial decision,” Ware wrote in his 19-page deposition, “is as warrantless as the presumption that a female judge is incapable of being impartial in a case in which women seek legal relief.”

Yeah, it’s a fair point. I’m sure Ware’s report is full of them. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that there is more sense made in those 19 pages than in the previous decade’s entire discourse against the idea of gay marriage. Walker has every right to sit in on this case — at least, as much as any heterosexual who has an opinion about the topic, one way or another. A judge’s role is one of impartiality, and if this one can reach a decision without bias or favor, then he has performed his professional obligation to the utmost degree. What, are his critics concerned that he’ll pound his gavel, remove his robe to reveal a Hawaiian shirt and denim shorts and pump up the house music, declaring the gay-ification of America in full swing? When you think about it, that’s exactly what many of them are probably expecting.

The issue here, though, is that Walker’s very presence belies the entire pro-gay marriage movement. Hey, I’m no homophobe — so don’t kill the messenger when I say that this judge should recuse himself. Not because he’s incapable of performing the requisite duties of his position, but merely because it’s fodder for those who disagree with him. Suppose Prop 8 is overturned. There will always be a caveat attached to the decision — you know what I mean. “Oh yeah, we have gay marriage now,” neo-con Californians will grumble, “but only because of that homo judge and his imbalanced ruling.”

It’s all so ludicrous. Here we have our largest state, in terms of both population and economic prosperity, that is virtually crumbling as a result of ineffective leadership. The Golden State has so many issues with which to contend — and debating whether or not two women/two men belong in a legal union together rests at the forefront of that state’s social politics. In my opinion, gay and lesbian Americans should be relieved of paying taxes as long as they are denied the fundamental right of marriage — but that’s an unrealistic notion, so I won’t push it too far. You know what else is unrealistic? Believing that Prop 8 will ever truly be overturned at the hands of a gay judge. It’s not fair and it’s not sound, but sadly, that’s where we’re at as a civilization. The Bible-thumpers will never accept it — their inherent ignorance precludes any sort of rational reasoning.

Maybe I’m wrong — I hope I am, in fact. The truth is, however, that any clear-thinking heterosexual judge could reach the same conclusion as Walker — and this time, the hard right wouldn’t have a reason to complain. Well, they’ll still cry foul — but at least they won’t be able to say there was some sort of gay conspiracy afoot. Prop 8 is one of the most bigoted documents to reach the state senate floor — and if Californians want to be rid of it once and for all, they should make sure there’s no room for backtalk. Not that the gays are known for giving a rat’s ass about what fundamentalist Christians think or anything. Still, there are a lot of stubborn people out there, and I’d hate to see Prop 8 be overturned — only to see it resurface in the coming years when the anti-gay marriage movement regains some momentum. It’s a perfectly viable outcome — after all, regression is the new progression these days.

It goes without saying that Walker should be able to stand before his assembly and essentially tear the legislation in half. What an empowering moment for the LGBT community that would be. Unfortunately, this disenfranchised group may have to let a straight person do the job. No one wants to settle for second best, but I imagine most of them just want this whole ordeal to be over with, anyway. At the end of the road, they’ll still remember that Walker laid the foundation — even if he didn’t place the final brick. It’s not his fault that so many Americans are too stupid to let him do his job.

 

All Hail, King Dirk

Yesterday, many pro basketball fans had much to celebrate. Since their inaugural 1980-81 season, the Dallas Mavericks had come up short in the NBA Playoffs, having won only three division titles and two conference championships. The team has been the butt of many a joke for the last three decades, but in Game 6 of the 2011 NBA Finals — well, they showed us as they soundly defeated the unfairly stacked Miami Heat. Their victory was a proud moment for all those who cherish fair play and good sportsmanship.

Many Mavericks played quite well during the championship run. Guard Jason Terry, who — perhaps unwisely — acquired a “2011 Champs” tattoo prior to the finals, scored an average of 18 points in the six games, as well as two steals and 40% shooting beyond the arc. Center Tyson Chandler — long touted as a mediocre player — averaged double-double figures for points and rebounds. Point guard Jason Kidd — who had played in several losing runs at the championship level as a member of the New Jersey Nets — finally earned a ring at the age of 38, largely in part to his gift for assists and steals.

Yet, the man of the series was the venerable Dirk Nowitzki — that gargantuan German who is as skilled on the glass as he is shooting behind the 3-point line. Nowitzki’s last trip to the Finals was in 2006, when his Dallas squad lost to the Heat in six games. To say he was undeterred is an understatement. The following season, Dallas achieved the NBA’s best record with 67 wins, and Dirk himself earned MVP honors. He’s only gotten better since, and his continuous improvement definitely culminated last night as he scored 21 points, amassed 11 rebounds and, deservedly, was awarded the title of NBA Finals MVP. The big, blonde German delivered an emphatic, yet somewhat humbled, acceptance speech to the crowd of thousands at American Airlines Arena in Miami. Lebron James wasn’t there — he sulked off to the locker room as soon as the buzzer rang. However, Nowitzki’s father Jörg-Werner — a celebrated handball player in Germany — looked on proudly, and even wiped a tear away at one point.

The big blonde German has reason to be content. Throughout the playoffs, sports analysts had been unfairly critical of his playing abilities. Sure, they praised him when the Mavs won — but when losses occurred (and they did more often than they should have), Nowitzki found himself on the receiving end of some harsh words. “No Larry Bird,” read one headline — perhaps the first time two white basketball players have been racially pigeon-holed. Many were also quick to point out that Dirk had previously let down the Mavericks during the finals — which is somewhat fair, considering that he only scored 20 of 55 points in the final trio of losing matches against Miami. Even Heat players mocked Dirk; a viral video showed James and Dwyane Wade coughing and speaking in a German accent, mimicking the big man as he suffered from the flu. Never mind that his best performance in the series came on a night when his temperature reached 101 degrees — maybe that’s why he played so ill. This is where Charles Barkley could say, ‘man…shut up!”

Nowitzki and Co.’s victory is almost as satisfying as Miami’s defeat. Ever since the announcement that Lebron James and Chris Bosh were traveling to Miami to essentially load the Heat with championship-caliber talent, the squad has been vilified by sports fans around the country — and for good reason. Did they really believe earning a ring would be as easy as they did when they braggingly guaranteed it last October, in the middle of a live press conference? Wade should have known better — he had his championship win, and he must have had some inkling that the team was jinxing itself. As for James, well — we’ve been over how I feel about him, so I won’t be redundant. I was delighted, however, by a tweet sent out by Cleveland Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert 15 minutes after the game ended.

“Congrats to Mark C.& entire Mavs org.,” Gilbert wrote. “Mavs NEVER stopped & now entire franchise gets rings. Old Lesson for all: There are NO SHORTCUTS. NONE.”

He’s right: it is an old lesson. The Yankees know it. The Patriots know it. Now, hopefully, Coach Mark Spoelstra and his stunned Heat players understand this very simple notion, as well. I won’t go so far as to call the Heat ‘cheaters’ for the maneuvering and under-the-table dealing that allowed them to acquire so many skilled players, but it certainly went against the spirit of the game — and any other game, for that matter. Well, Miami might have had the roster of talent, but the Mavericks only needed one player to ultimately put the Heat’s disgraceful season out of its misery.

Congratulations to owner Mark Cuban, Coach Rick Carlisle, and the Dallas Mavericks team — for ye hath slain the vile Miami beast. Perhaps most importantly of all, though, is the big shout to all the Mavericks fans out there. It must feel great to see your team take the top prize — and by just playing their asses off, no less. That’s how you win a ring, by the way.

Movie For The Weekend: Slap Shot

Many great comedies imbue the laughs with a sense of poignancy and introspection, and the result is a balance between the humorous and humane. Slap Shot‘s not one of them. It’s about hockey, hockey players, hockey fans and beer — and yeah, pretty much in that order. It’s got boobs in it, too. It’s also arguably the greatest sports comedy of all time. With other fine candidates, such as The Longest Yard, The Bad News Bears and White Men Can’t Jump, that’s a considerable honor. Having Paul Newman definitely helps, but what made the movie so fantastic when it was released (I’m speculating, mind you) is the same quality that allows it to be so damn funny today — its utter disregard for good manners or respectable behavior.

We know what we’re in for from the very start when bleary-eyed Reggie Dunlop first stumbles into the frame. For such a handsome leading man, Newman sure had a gift for playing irascible scoundrels — and he never did it better than here as the grumpy player-coach of the Charleston Chiefs. Of course, part of the problem might be the alcoholism that runs rampant throughout his squad — a microcosm, of sorts, for the depressed town in which the team plays its home games. The only other player with talent is Ned Braden, a Princeton graduate who plays out of affection for the sport — meanwhile, his wife feels neglected and takes to day-drinking.

I could describe the plot, but it’s not that crucial. Like MASH, Animal House, Caddyshack and other great comedies of the 1970s, Slap Shot does not rely on a zippy screenplay. Instead, the story is merely carried along by a series of often disconnected punch lines. Between the opening game sequence (in which one player is so drunk that he urinates all over himself) to the booster club that has a rather impolite way of cheering against the opposing team, there’s no room for sophisticated humor here. It’s a good thing — we all need a little raunch in  our lives every now and then. Just consider, though, that this movie was written by a girl!

The movie was directed by George Roy Hill, who directed Newman in two of his other great films — Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and The Sting. It’s interesting that these two made a pair of classics before trying their hand at such a lowbrow comedy — though I have a feeling this one was more fun to make. Newman himself called Slap Shot his personal favorite of his films, which should say something about the actor’s true character right there.

If you’ve never seen Slap Shot, there’s no better time to make your introduction than now — as the Stanley Cup winds down and the zambonis power off for the next six months. Even after all these years, it’s still the funniest sports movie around.

[Slap Shot; 123 Minutes; English; 1977]