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The Setonian
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Jeremy Greenhouse | Follow the Money

Over the summer, there was this guy who won a bunch of gold medals, broke a few world records and became the focus of the nation.     Yeah, Michael Phelps might be better at swimming than anybody else has ever been at doing anything.     The Olympics have a short period of relevance, but Phelps appears to have transcended the Games in America. He has become one of the more popular athletes in recent memory, but who stands to profit from his success?     After winning a measly six gold medals in Athens in 2004, Phelps pulled down $5 million a year in endorsements. In 2008, Phelps finally made something of himself — he won eight golds and as a result stands to earn an estimated $100 million in career endorsements. Phelps' current endorsements include Speedo, Visa, Kellog's, AT&T, Hilton, Rosetta Stone, Omega watches, Power Bar and PureSport beverages. The amounts that they are paying Phelps are unknown, but they are almost surely seeing a great return on their investments, considering Phelps's rise to stardom.     By winning eight golds, he garnered a $1-million bonus from Speedo. Phelps' deal with Speedo ends in 2009, when he might jump to one of the apparel superpowers like Nike to begin his own swimwear line. This marketing strategy is very feasible, as Mark Spitz demonstrated in 1972. Spitz had worn Speedo in Munich when he won a then-record seven gold medals. He retired from swimming the next year but nevertheless became the front man for a brand new swimwear line, Arena, which was branched under the Adidas family. By the world championships in 1975, two-thirds of swimmers were wearing Arena. Some say that Phelps could be worth up to $50 million to Nike.     So what exactly are Phelps' medals worth? The actual value of the ore to make a medal is a bit over $200. That's a start. The United States Olympic Committee gave out 25 grand bonuses to athletes for each gold medal they won, which was actually chump change compared to Singapore and the Philippines, which doled out hundreds of thousands of dollars for each gold. It's hard to estimate how much a Phelps medal would auction for, but $100,000 would be a conservative guess.     Phelps' daily expenditures are much greater than the average person's. When he trains, Phelps must inhale food faster than he swims the 200 free. He spends well over a Benjamin on meals per day. His typical breakfast runs about $50 at an IHOP.     When he doesn't train, he makes it rain. I don't know much about the guy, but I know two of his vices are clubbing and gambling. Both are costly. Of course, those expenses are on his own time, and as Bobbie Barrett says, "Being a big shot means you don't have to pay." He's been paid $100,000 to swim at a party and makes upwards of $50,000 for speaking engagements.     Since the completion of the Olympics, Phelps has remained prominent in the news. He appeared on just about every late-night talk show and started the Michael Phelps Foundation, a charity to promote water safety and youth swimming. For hosting SNL, Phelps pulled down $5,000. He made a cameo on Entourage and that Guitar Hero commercial he filmed with Kobe, A-Rod and Tony Hawk will probably be aired plenty. It's even been rumored that there will be a Michael Phelps reality show.     Will Phelps reach LeBron or Tiger territory? I doubt it. He'll never get to be known by one name, since there already is a Michael. But he hasn't done so badly for himself, considering he's only 23. Phelps plans on swimming in London in 2012. Financially, he doesn't need it, and I'm already tired of him. I don't think we need four more years of the same.


The Setonian
Columns

Jessie Borkan | College Is As College Does

I don't consider myself a particularly vain person. Yes, I've e-mailed the Daily nearly every week asking them to please change the picture above my column, and yes, I cried my eyes out when I got red house paint all over my hair and ended up with Peter Pan's haircut, but nine times out of 10 you'll find me in my morning class having rolled out of bed and directly into one of those chair-desks, no makeup involved. I think it's also worth noting that about 70 percent of my wardrobe consists of men's T-shirts and the same Converse sneakers I've had since sophomore year of high school.     That's why I was shocked at the symbolic and retributive nature of what happened to me on Thursday night. On my way out to dinner, I ran upstairs to grab a pair of gloves, and as I bent down to pick them up, the full length mirror mounted on my wall fell and shattered over the back of my head. Talk about God trying to send me a message.     I felt dazed, but I still knew how to spell my own name, so I figured I was good to go and proceeded to have the most hilarious train ride of my life, due mostly to the influx of unmistakably tipsy behavior on my part. It wasn't until I could not decide what to order at the restaurant — I could barely concentrate enough to read the menu — that I realized that I might have more than a headache from my run in with my own vanity. Sure enough, I was diagnosed with a mild concussion Friday morning.     The next couple of days were a confusing blur of me doing really stupid things. I found myself throwing my dishes in the garbage when I was done eating and riding my bike around Powderhouse Square several times before it occurred to me to get off at my street, and I consistently called my little sister when I was trying to call my dad. My brain couldn't take the cornucopia of electronic beats and slutty Pocahontases on Halloween, and don't even get me started on how confused I was over Daylight Savings.     I wondered how long I was going to be like this? So I called my mom, fully expecting her to have an answer to this unanswerable question, and she made a simple but profound statement that left me feeling a bit better.     "Like what?" she said. "You're always like this."     She is so right.     I am absentminded and have a terrible sense of direction. My wallet is a mess, I don't really know how to use my cell phone and there's nothing I hate more than a slutty Pocahontas. Okay, so maybe my concussion did make me legitimately woozy and unable to handle loud noises, but it didn't manufacture any insane behaviors in me — the crazy was already there.     The moral of the story? Diagnosis can be a dangerous thing. Without my mother's voice of reason, I might still be blaming the Jessie in my life on my concussion next week, when I accidentally call my teacher "Mom" (at least 85 percent of you have done this, I am sure of it), or next month, when I get into the shower with my socks on.     Apparently, I am more vain than I thought, seeing as my subconscious had no qualms with letting my minor head injury take the rap for all of my less than sterling qualities. Nevertheless, thanks, God (and Mom) — lesson learned. Personality happens. Personality flaws happen. And so do concussions.


The Setonian
Columns

Mikey Goralnik | Paint The Town Brown

Someone once told me that seeing Tom Waits in concert is like meeting God but not having to pay for the DMT or LSD. I've seen Tom Waits twice, and I'm going to tell you that if this sage-like analysis is true, then seeing Leo Kottke is like discovering the Holy Grail in Atlantis surrounded by intelligent extraterrestrial life who are boys with Amelia Earhart — and getting free DMT or LSD while you're there.     I tend to get really worked up about performances by young-gun electronica producers and high-energy bands with standout rhythm sections. Kottke, the 63-year-old Oklahoma-raised guitar veteran, is neither of these things, but his was still the best show I've seen all year. Musically jaw-dropping and emotionally sublime, the guitarist reminded me (as if I could forget) why he will die one of the most significant figures in both American music history and my life.     So much has been said by more knowledgeable people about Kottke's guitar abilities that I really have no place talking about it again, but whatever — it's my column, I do what I want. I know and have seen a lot of guitar players and even played for a spell myself, so it's hard for me to really wrap my head around how much better he is than virtually almost everyone else I have ever heard.     Simply watching his hands and seeing these painfully intricate phrases take form in front of my eyes, I felt much the same as I did seeing LeBron James beat the Detroit Pistons in game 5 of the 2007 Eastern Conference finals: Either I'm watching some kind of elaborate hoax, or this is a display of skill and creativity more incredible than any I've ever seen.     With the 12-stringed "Gewerbegebiet," it was the composition: part black dirge, part multi-colored flamenco-esque; the song waltzes, then explodes in two totally different but somehow similar sections. With "Ants," which he prefaced with a rambling, hilarious review of his favorite illustrated ant biology textbook, it was the left hand, frantically running along the fretboard and precisely pressing on the disparate notes with spidery dexterity. Other times, it was his open or unorthodoxly dropped tunings, his battered, baritone voice, or his commanding presence on stage. Whatever it was, every single second of the show coursed with an elite level of technical prowess that I'm neither the first nor the last to geek over.     Kottke's skills aside, on an autobiographical level, I haven't been as moved at a show as I was at the Sanders Theatre. Not only is he the endearing grandfather figure that I always wanted, but he's also a powerfully pathological force for me. When I was 12, my parents took me to see Kottke at the Sheldon Concert Hall in St. Louis. Ever since, his music — particularly his voice — has evoked not only that night, but my parents, my city and my adolescence as well. Seeing and hearing him in that beautifully intimate room brought all of that rushing back in a swell of nostalgia, and for a Midwestern boy who has never been that comfortable in New England, that's a pretty powerful and important effect.     But even if you don't share my personal attachment to the man, Kottke gave his legion of fans many, many other things to smile about on their way home. Personally, I left both knowing beyond a doubt that I just sat second row center away from one of folk music's ageless legends, and having taken a poignant trip through the more treasured areas of my pathos. And I wasn't even tripping! --


The Setonian
Columns

David Heck | The Sauce

With the baseball season coming to an end and the basketball season just beginning, this feels like a time for a significant, meaningful column.


The Setonian
Columns

Michael Sherry | Political Animal

Almost two months ago, when John McCain plucked Sarah Palin from obscurity to be his running mate, I wrote that the choice had sent the 2008 presidential race into "uncharted territory." Palin was such an unknown figure to most of the national political media that nobody was quite sure how the pick would play out or what effect she'd have on her party or the country at large. And when I say nobody, I mean nobody -- even McCain had only met her twice, briefly, before deciding "McCain-Palin '08" had a nice ring to it.




The Setonian
Columns

Jessie Borkan | College Is As College Does

What is it about Halloween that somehow makes everybody get it on? Maybe it's the intense sugar high combined with the anonymity of wearing a costume. Maybe it's the fact that it falls right on the two-months-at-college mark or that the weather is just cold enough for people to get cozy. Whatever the reason, Halloween hits, and suddenly campus becomes "The Real World: Medford." We all start finding out what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real, and this generally translates into a lot of making out.


The Setonian
Columns

Jeremy Greenhouse | Follow the Money

This year, the World Series is getting some of its worst TV ratings ever. Networks can blame it on Boston and New York not making it to the Series, since those cities contain the largest audiences. But those teams also have the most national appeal, and that can be attributed to the networks' coverage of them. FOX shows every single Yankees-Sox game and markets "The Rivalry" above all else. Even though more words have been penned on the Rays than on anybody else this year, they were scant found on national TV during the regular season. I still don't think Tim McCarver even knows who Andy Sonnanstine and Carlos Peña are. The networks essentially dug their own graves there.


The Setonian
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Mikey Goralnik | Paint The Town Brown

When I saw The Egg next to stellar acts like The New Deal and !!! on the Camp Bisco VII bill last summer, I assumed that festival organizers/namesakes the Disco Biscuits were trying to save a little money by filling out the excellent schedule with crappily named bands from their local Philadelphia.     Not the case. It wasn't quite the British Invasion, but it was apparently a gigantic deal when the Biscuits managed to snag similarly techno-jammy London band The Egg for their annual summer festival. The notoriously passionate Biscuits nation no doubt collectively soiled themselves when it was announced that this longtime runner of the UK live-band electronica game was coming to the United States.     Luckily, I was not one of these incontinent folks as, like most of the nation, I had never heard of this stupidly named band. But trusting the Biscuits' tastes, I decided to use the magic of the Internet to track down some of its recordings and see what all the fuss was about.     Not much. Though the group has some stellar moments, on record The Egg is pretty average — it kind of sounds like the Disco Biscuits if the Disco Biscuits didn't like to party, or conversely, Air if the Frenchmen partied like hedonists. So when I saw that the band was coming to town, I didn't exactly have to reach for my Depends. But, being a certified painter, I figured some show is better than no show, so I went back for round two.     Now I know what all those Biscuits kids were geeking about on the Internet last summer — The Egg is awesome live. Funkily electronic but not passé, housey but not cheesy, The Egg combines professional cohesiveness with Ben Cullum's filthy bass playing, catering to a rowdy dance party and doing the Disco Biscuits proud.     None of this is to say that the group didn't indicate why its records are underwhelming. Except for Cullun, no one in The Egg is that good. The keyboards are repetitive, largely un-improvised, and technically un-wowing. The drumming is all of these things but more so, with Maff (lol) Scott ceaselessly banging out the same rhythms song in and song out — like the Energizer bunny, only with much worse teeth.     That said, The Egg performs with the savvy and cohesiveness of a band with nearly 15 years of touring experience. Effortlessly segueing between songs and visibly communicating transitions to each other on stage, The Egg may not have displayed impressive chops, but it definitely maximized its abilities. The criminally small but obviously appreciative "crowd" seemed to enjoy the limited lag time between songs — I haven't seen the Middle East's wooden floor so covered in sweat since that nightmare I had a few years ago where the club was turned into a sauna and I sat around sweating with Chris Matthews and Pat Robertson.     As impressed as I was with the group's professionalism, I was equally impressed with its bassist. Ben Cullum can play — anything from groovy funk rhythms to propulsive house to relaxed noodling, he got the crowd's collective booty shakin' almost right away and never really stopped. While the drums were mindlessly interminable, Cullum's sustained bass rhythms shifted rationally, creatively and dynamically, and, at points, threatened to steal the show from the whole band.     More often though, The Egg's whole was substantially greater than the sum of its parts. The Egg might not be amazing, but it's professional, smooth, and polished (obviously — the band's from the same country as James Bond), it has a killer bassist, and it throws down live. If the Egg ever comes back to Amurrica, I guess I'll need those Depends after all. --


The Setonian
Columns

Poll reading 101

Today I'd like to talk about something that's near and dear to my heart: polling.  No other subject in politics is more widely discussed with less understanding than the numbers polling firms spit out like clockwork.  Cable news is especially guilty of this: Their breathless reports that "Obama's up 6 in New Mexico!  McCain's up 2 in Florida!" absurdly oversimplify the actual science of measuring public opinion.  The truth is, accurately reading polls is a blend of art and science that requires a bit of knowledge, a bit of history and a dash of humility.  So if you want to really understand the state of any given race, read on.


The Setonian
Columns

David Heck | The Sauce

The World Series hasn't quite lived up to the grandeur that comes with the name over the past few years. Quite honestly, the matchups just weren't that exciting. I mean, Red Sox-Rockies? Was there ever any question? Most of the October drama in the past few years has come in the LCS, as the World Series hasn't gone past five games since 2003.


The Setonian
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Jeremy Greenhouse | Follow the Money

For fans, a championship brings brief euphoria followed by lasting peace of mind. Maybe even some pocket change if you had bet on the Rays to win the Series in April at 150:1 odds.


The Setonian
Columns

David Heck | The Sauce

I had a hard time figuring out what to write about this week. I haven't written anything about football or my Giants, and with six weeks of the season in the books, it's finally starting to get a little interesting. At the same time, the baseball season is approaching its climax, as the World Series is only a few games away.     So which am I going to talk about? Both.     Let's begin with the Giants, who looked like their old, familiar selves on Monday when they got pounded by the Browns 35-14. They looked so bad with Eli throwing three picks that I'm sure the telephone lines have been jammed all week for Mike and the Mad Dog — er, I mean, just Mike.     But I'm not upset that they lost. Not even a little bit. And there are two reasons why.     First, it's still early in the season. Really early. Everyone in New York had been dreaming of a repeat championship through the first four games of the season, with the Giants outscoring opponents by an average of 32-12, but four games are not enough to judge a team. A few years ago, the Chargers started the season 4-0 and then didn't even make the playoffs. At one point last year, the Redskins lost four straight games, and they did make it.     But hey, I don't even need to draw on other teams. The Giants themselves lost six of their last eight games in 2006 and eight of their last nine in 2004. So even though they've looked like a commanding, confident team this year, I'm not penciling them in for the Super Bowl — or even the playoffs, for that matter — just yet.     The second reason I'm not angry is overconfidence. So what if the Giants lost to a pretty bad Browns team? Sometimes it's good to be humbled; just look at the Patriots last year.     Is there any question that they got too confident at the end? Check out Tom Brady's response to Plaxico's 23-17 Super Bowl prediction: "We're only going to score 17 points? [chuckle] OK. Is Plax playing defense?"     No, Tom. It was Osi, Strahan and Tuck playing defense. I think you met them ...     But wait, there's more from the mouth of the golden boy: "I wish he'd said, like, 45-42 or something like that. At least he'd give us a little more credit for scoring a few points."     Oh really? Your offense deserved more credit, hmm? Perhaps it would have been wise to give some credit to the Giants' defense.     The Patriots were so caught up in who they were and what they'd accomplished that they didn't take their opponents — even their Super Bowl opponent — seriously. It was literally unfathomable to Tom Brady that he would be knocked on his ass a few times. I never want the Giants to be that way, and after getting shredded by a quarterback about to lose his job, I think they'll remember how to work for a win.     So how does all of this relate to baseball? Because four games in baseball, just like in football, constitute a small sample size, and overconfidence is a flaw that can plague any team. While the Rays look poised for the Series, it's still anything but certain.     All the Red Sox have to do is win three straight games. Do you know how many times the Sox won three consecutive games (not including overlap, so a four-game streak doesn't count twice) this year? 17!     The Rays are a young team that's scored 31 runs in its last three games. Do you think maybe they're already giving themselves a bit too much credit? With Dice-K, Beckett and Lester on the mound — and the Red Sox' résumé of historic comebacks — they had better not be.


The Setonian
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Mikey Goralnik | Paint The Town Brown

I generally consider it a bad thing for musicians' performances to sound like their records. Why would I leave the house to see and hear something I already paid for when I bought the record, especially when there are so many witty pictures on the Internet that I could be looking at instead?     I like my concerts like I like my medical procedures: experimental. I want to see a band explore its material, fleshing out the synchronicities that lie hidden in the mix and adding dimensions to the songs that I like on record. I want obscure covers. I want improvisation. I want something more than what I already paid for (or illegally downloaded).     Les Savy Fav's show at The Middle East made me reevaluate these priorities. Though the Brooklyn band devoted their hour-long set to precise renditions of their reams of recorded material, I left knowing that I had seen both an elite live performance and a potentially legendary live band.     One of the reasons LSF can crush a live show while carbon-copying their material is that their material is so good. I don't like their second album, "Go Forth" (2001), but the rest of their four LPs play like greatest-hits compilations. When my town-painting companion leaned over to me midway through their set and informed me that LSF were only playing their "bangers" for the spoiled Boston crowd, I agreed before I realized that their entire catalog is made up of "bangers."     Then again, I don't think I'd say that the peculiarly abrasive LSF writes "bangers." At times, like during the dynamic "The Sweat Descends," Harrison Haynes' sharp rhythms brought to mind dancier bands like LCD Soundsystem, and watching Boston's hyper-hipsters wile out during this tune and other high-tempo numbers was definitely a highlight of the show (for the lulz). More often than ‘bang,' though, LSF's songs alternately stab and stomp in ways that, frankly, few other bands' music does.     Most of this stabbing-stomp mechanism comes from the mesmerizing guitar of Seth Jabour. With a crisp, saber-sharp tone completely of his own, he's one of the few guitarists that I know of who so clearly stands out despite almost never soloing. "Rome (Written Upside Down)," where Jabour cleanly breezes between precisely syncopated licks, displayed Jabour's penchant for subtly, ever-so-slightly dominating a song.     Alternately, during songs like "The Equestrian" and "Tragic Monsters," Jabour played rhythm guitar in his singular tone until the bridge, where he went off on finger-spraining fret board maneuvers that were somehow catchy. In addition to being a rousing live guitar player, I'd also rank him near the top of my underrated-guitarist list.     I think one of the reasons he goes relatively unnoticed — and the other reason LSF can kick ass live just by playing their songs well — is because he's in a band with Tim Harrington. ‘Charismatic frontman' does not begin to describe LSF's lead singer/jester, the wittiest (and bawdiest) between-song banterer around. Not only does his costume-changing, crowd-infiltrating energy wear off on the audience, but he has an absolutely incredible voice.     Part animal howl, part screed, he can make anything sound infuriating, or by channeling his female doppelganger on songs like "Patty Lee," maniacally sexual. His energy — primal, creative and genuine — is unlike anything else on stage anywhere.     Harrington's anima is what sets LSF apart as an elite live band. Nonetheless, it is crucial to remember that behind the bald, bearded man wearing a wedding dress and sweating profusely is an incredible band playing incredible songs — songs that I'd gladly pay to see and hear over and over again.


The Setonian
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Michael Sherry | Political Animal

Last night marked the final debate between Barack Obama and John McCain.  I jotted down my thoughts as I watched.  For the full experience, cut out this article and read it while you watch a recording of the debate.  Bonus points if you actually do that and are not my mother. 9:10 - A feisty discussion on the traditional Democratic Achilles heel: taxes.  Obama sticks to his "95 percent of people will get a tax cut under my plan" mantra.  McCain is extremely aggressive, in keeping with his do-or-die situation. 9:15 - Bob Schieffer joins a long line of doomed debate moderators bravely trying to pin down the candidates on the inevitable cuts they will have to make because of the huge expense of the federal bailout plan. Neither, of course, will name specifics, fearing to offend constituencies which have come to depend on the money. This question will never be answered point-blank by any candidate within a month of Election Day, ever.  They straight up ignore Schieffer.  McCain names a few subsidies and tariffs, which is at least something, but they are not really government programs. 9:20 - McCain finally responds to the "just like Bush" charge. If he had confronted it that aggressively two months ago, the polls might have been a lot different today. 9:22 - The look on McCain's face while he waits for Obama's response, pen in hand, is like a bird of prey waiting to strike.  He has never been this aggressive before, and it's alternately effective and off-putting. 9:26 - McCain repeats his old canard that if Obama had agreed to do town hall meetings with him back in June, the campaign would not have taken such a negative turn.  It's a bizarre argument.  But McCain's attacks on the Obama campaign's negativity are forcefully argued. 9:35 - It all comes out: Ayers, ACORN, "the destruction of the fabric of American democracy." Obama tries to downplay the connections, then shifts to his more respectable associates. The way McCain tackles this topic makes it seem almost cathartic for him. 9:43 - If I hear one more time about how great it is that Sarah Palin has a special needs child, I'm going to scream. 9:53 - Obama, who has seemed off his game in the face of McCain's strong showing, slips back into his usual self-assured form in responding to McCain's attack on a Colombian trade agreement.  "Actually, I understand it pretty well." Cool as a cucumber again. 9:59 - "Joe the Plumber" is the most catered-to voter in American history, beating out Joe Sixpack and Hockey Mom. 10:06 - Ah, a question on the Supreme Court, where both candidates must pretend they would consider nominating a justice who disagrees with them on Roe v. Wade. Never, never, never. 10:24 - Oh sh-t, he mentioned Palin's kid again. Sorry everyone, I can't watch the rest of the debate as I've thrown a brick through my TV.     My verdict?  McCain had his strongest debate showing so far.  In the first half, he was dominant, but Obama regained his cool as the discussion moved into the last half-hour or so. If McCain's other debate performances had been this good, he'd likely be a lot closer to Obama in the polls.  McCain's forceful separation of himself from the president ("Senator Obama, I am not George W. Bush.  If you wanted to run against President Bush, you should have run 4 years ago.") will be the clip of the night and will be quoted by every newspaper and pundit in the next three days. The McCain campaign has reason to smile tonight, but it may be too little, too late. --


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Caryn Horowitz | The Cultural Culinarian

I met my idol this Sunday at Caesars Atlantic City. I have been following this man's career for the better part of a decade. I've read all of his books multiple times. I watch all of his shows. I love his snarky, sarcastic, I-don't-give-a-damn attitude. My idol is Anthony Bourdain, aka Tony — we're on a first-name basis.



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Mikey Goralnik | Paint The Town Brown

Right up there with democracy, fallen heroes and Oprah, America loves talented young people. I actually remember an episode of "Oprah" dedicated to kids who had memorized pi to over a hundred digits or something like that.


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Michael Sherry | Political Animal

It is very likely that Barack Obama will be the next President of the United States. It was always a possibility, and at certain points during this 18-month extravaganza, the odds were better than 50-50 that Obama would pull it out.


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Caryn Horowitz | The Cultural Culinarian

There is something about October that makes me sick, literally, not figuratively. The combination of the temperature drop and the rising amount of schoolwork has, without fail, landed me in bed with a cold during October since grammar school. This year seems to be no different. I have been sipping tea and popping vitamins for the past week trying to prevent my sniffles from turning into a full-blown cold nightmare.