Collectively, as a sports culture, we love to hate. From the deeply-held Red Sox-Yankees rivalry to the obscenities shouted at the television set when a wide receiver drops a big pass, disdain comes naturally and it comes far more easily than love does. Especially in a society as technologically advanced as ours, anger is instantaneous.
Ah, the first date — so exciting, yet often so nerve-wracking. Maybe you've been asked out, gotten up the courage to do the asking yourself, or perhaps it's just the follow up to the cup of coffee you grabbed after class last week.
I've got something to say to some close personal friends, and this is obviously the appropriate forum. Sorry, Kanye West and Serena Williams. I just had to say it before the three of us meet up for our weekly "Mad Men" viewing party. Phew. What a load off my chest.
We're not big fans of witty, ironic t-shirts. You have to be pretty insecure if you feel the need to supplement your personality with a shirt made from cotton and the tears of emaciated Cambodian children. However, there's one shirt sold on Threadless that we enjoy. This manila T's simple yet witty slogan — "I listen to bands that don't even exist yet" — means a lot to us. The phrase makes us think of the people who roll their eyes when you list your favorite recent movies. You know these people as bullies or jerks or Angelica Pickles, but we have a technical term for them — Indie Elitists.
Everyone likes to gossip. If you say you don't, you're lying. Come on: Nothing is more exciting than news about other people. It's like intellectual people-watching. We let loose and judge people, laughing and sneering at our friends and, sometimes, family.
In the search for immortality, some of the most successful people have been those who have managed to live on through their names. Iconic talents and heroes lend their names to film genres, battlefields and schools of thought. Less talented people with lots of cash to spare lend their names to plaques and auditoriums. And then there are those who really aren't looking for fame or immortality at all but somehow make their way into the English dictionary.
When I saw last week that Brandt Andersen, owner of the Utah Flash of the NBA Developmental League, wanted to see Jordan battle Russell one-on-one, three successive thoughts popped into my head.
From chili dog runs at Ben's Chili Bowl to the menu at the Inaugural Ball, I've waxed poetic about the food choices of our First Family too many times to count. A friend of mine who is well-versed in my First Foods fascination introduced me this summer to Obama Foodorama, an Obama-centered food blog that tracks everything from new policies in the Food and Drug Administration to what restaurants Michelle frequents. (My latest obsession is the Michelle Melt at Good Stuff Eatery in Washington, D.C. — a turkey burger with an herbed mayo inspired by the herbs grown in the White House Kitchen Garden.)
I haven't eaten in nine hours, and it's got me thinking.
In the wave of dating conversations I've had since last week's column, about 90 percent have ended with me exclaiming, "So why don't you just ask him/her to grab coffee on Friday and get it out there?" only to stir up a myriad of excuses.
Hockey. A sport usually reserved for toothless, bearded men whacking each other with sticks and clumsily ripping off their shirts for the amusement of the 100-or-so fans in the stands. But now, it seems that followers of hockey in my hometown of Washington D.C. have multiplied like bunnies. My theory for such a spike in Capitals followers and attendance?
There are very few college-age Boston sports fans that can feel my pain. They can try to empathize, but any comforting words they might have to offer are eventually unveiled as hollow and meaningless. "Hang in there," they say. "It'll get better."
Like many of you, we saw Quentin Tarantino's bloodstained epic "Inglourious Basterds" (2009) this summer. We've followed this movie since it was a wee little script back in 2004. Ever since its premiere at Cannes this past May, we've been subject to a promotional "blitzkrieg." Everywhere we looked we saw Brad Pitt's cheeky grin. As excited as we were, we left the theater slightly underwhelmed. Why? We felt misled. We went into the theater conditioned by all the trailers to see the Basterds kill some "Nat-sees." Instead, we only got about thirty minutes of the Basterds. All that build-up, but hardly any payoff.
I can no longer be surprised by what the New England Patriots do. If I woke up tomorrow morning and learned that the Patriots had traded Tom Brady for first- and third-round choices in 2015, I'd probably be convinced to spin that into a positive.
The past two months have been very emotional food-wise for me. Two of my foodie mentors have been in the national spotlight for two very different reasons: one has received critical acclaim, while the other has reached the end of his tenure. Of course, Anthony Bourdain and Frank Bruni are fully unaware of their formal mentorship positions, but that's a moot point.
On a Friday night, it's pretty common to see students tossing back a couple of drinks and sizing up the guys and girls at any given party. Hookups are considered the norm on campus, but it's a rare event to plan out a date, agonize over the perfect cute-but-not-trying-too-hard outfit, and worry about keeping the conversation going for an hour or two.
Summer, for most college students, is spent relaxing. Beach trips, late nights under the stars and the occasional beer consume the hot hours for Jumbos spread out across the world. But beneath those seemingly carefree hobbies is a wealth of understanding and knowledge.
My life is a mess, and I insist that pop culture is to blame. I've been referred to as a pop culture junkie, but I disagree — the term "junkie" implies a dangerous addiction, a chemical need that must be satisfied in order to function, even as the substance harms you.
Today, I found out my girlfriend is pregnant and then decided to break up with her. Why? We're lesbians. FML."
"And a big 3-2 pitch coming here from Eckersley. Gibson swings, and a fly ball to deep right field. This is gonna be a home run! Unbelievable! A home run for Gibson! And the Dodgers have won the game 5-4! I don't believe what I just saw!" — Jack Buck
