On August 2, 2024 Aerosmith announced they would retire from touring, due to an irreparable vocal cord injury sustained by one Steven Tallarico. The ensuing year saw Aerosmith’s shambolic reputation restored with the power of hindsight, and a triumphant, albeit appropriately brief, return to the stage on July 5. During that evening’s Black Sabbath tribute concert, Tallarico roared through Led Zeppelin covers for an appreciative crowd, received glowing reviews and got to bask in one final spotlight. Like so many things Aerosmith (and Tallarico) have had throughout the years, it fell short of what they deserved (a farewell tour and mass adulation from their most rabid of fans), but was, at least, a fond farewell and a moment of glory for the much-maligned and self-inflicted-wounded band. Tallarico got to go out on top.
I sat down to write this diatribe as the beginning of a sort of series of tributes to the band, going back through their catalog and praising the Boston quintet for their (mostly) underrated and enduring contribution to the world’s greatest art form, rock n’ roll music. I cracked my knuckles, then navigated swiftly to Aerosmith’s Apple Music page. That’s when I saw this:
Wait, what? They just so happened, on the day that I intended to do my level best to enshrine them as Mt. Rushmore of Rock figures, to release a preview for a new EP, co-performed with YUNGBLUD (who I admittedly do not recognize at all), in 2025? At first, I thought I had clicked on the wrong artist by mistake. I gave myself a moment to absorb what I was seeing. Was it real? Maybe it was just a remix of some old Aerosmith music, highly skippable and largely inconsequential? My Only Angel. Maybe some 2025 remix ofthe most triumphant of power ballads from 1987’s Permanent Vacation? I had to know. It’s probably nothing, but of course, I listened to it immediately. Goddamit, Tallarico. Here comes Steven Tyler.
It’s new material. It’s awful. It’s auto-tuned and embarrassing.
Be that as it may, I am not new to this art of Aerosmith apologetics. Despite the band’s own best efforts to embarrass and demean themselves, I will not be swayed. I intend to carry on with my planned tribute, and I intend also to never hear My Only Angel ever again. I carry on in the hopes that, after November 21, 2025, Aerosmith makes no further efforts to… I guess.. revitalize their image, and will let this (which they are certain to read) stand as the absolute love letter I originally intended it to be. To put it bluntly: please, do not perform that new song live. Ever.
Now, as Steven Tyler would say: Good evening, people, welcome to the show…
I will not be including compilations in this career retrospective. Still, I will probably mention the outtakes contained on those compilations as songs that stand alongside the music that was included on albums, or as suggestions of what Aerosmith could have included instead of what they chose to include. Still, if I actually wrote a record review for every single iteration of Greatest Hits that the band released, I’d be practicing a demonic level of redundancy.
Aerosmith – January 5, 1973
Take a long, lingering look at that album cover. For the next decade of Aerosmith’s existence, this would be as bright and colorful as things would get. This is the photo of a band in their “fake it ’til you make it” era. It isn’t hard to understand why music critics at the time wrote the band off as second-rate Rolling Stones rip-offs; it was low-hanging fruit to attack Steven Tyler’s lips and Joe Perry’s disheveled indifference, but aesthetics aside, the critics (as they almost always do) missed the point.
Aerosmith was never anointed in the way The Beatles, Stones, or Led Zeppelin were. It is true that the press also savaged Led Zeppelin, but Zeppelin had the privilege of containing hip and already well-known members. The press levied at Led Zeppelin didn’t matter. Aerosmith spent 2 years bashing these songs out as unknowns in Boston’s Orpheum Theater, absolutely a garage band in every sense of the word, with the exception of the fact that they couldn’t afford a garage. A decent write-up might have helped Aerosmith considerably, although it ultimately turned out that Aerosmith did not need the press’ help. This music is not for the hip London swingers, it’s for the kids.
I don’t think I could describe the vibe on Aerosmith better than Dan DeWitt, who reviewed the record for Creem Magazine, back in ’73: “We all had to suck somebody’s tit, and what a bunch of tits these chubby-lipped delinquents have gone after.”
The record is raw in a way the band would never recapture, and Steven Tyler’s voice is intentionally nasally. In his autobiography, Tyler mentions that he did like the way his natural voice sounded, so he adopted this affect for the recording of his debut album. If you’ve heard “Dream On”, you know precisely what I’m talking about. I tend to believe that the rawness of this album went the way of Steven Tyler’s vocal affect because Aerosmith were too ambitious to not find a way to be grandiose in the future. I’ve got no beef with grandiose, why would I be an Aerosmith fan otherwise, but I wish more of this vibe and sound permeated more of Aerosmith’s later catalog.
“Make It” is the opener and the grungiest track on the record. Producer Adrian Barber correctly puts Joey Kramer’s drums up front and thunderous, and the lyrics are basically the narration of the photo on the cover. “Make it, don’t break it, if you do it’ll feel like the world’s coming down on you… You know that history repeats itself, what you’ve just done, so has somebody else.” Aerosmith is not trying to innovate; they are just smashing out some music. I do not know why the group chose to sandwich “Somebody” onto the record in between this magnificent song and “Dream On” (I would have chosen “Major Barbra”, an outtake that later appeared, oddly, as a studio track smack-dab in the middle of Live Classics!), but it is likely due to Tyler’s presumed affection for the song, as it was originally written and performed by Chain Reaction, his first group.
“Dream On” stands as Aerosmith’s magnum opus. In 2025, it is absolutely overplayed, Aerosmith’s Stairway to Heaven (as in, should be forbidden in guitar shops), but if you can bring yourself to remember the first time you heard it, it is jaw-droppingly great. Likely, you didn’t realize it was Aerosmith (due to Tyler’s vocal affect and the fact that you almost definitely heard “Walk This Way” first).
“One Way Street” is fine, another ode to the struggle of trying to make it as a band. Actually, it’s kind of odd how many of the songs on this record are about Aerosmith’s drive to become rock stars, and how dirty and nasty the work is. The band, particularly Tyler, has always understood that if you pretend to be something long enough, you become that thing, and they have always ran at full speed towards being grand rock stars, so the confession that they are not is unique and fleeting.
“Mama Kin” was so beloved by the group that Steven Tyler got it tattooed on his arm, and was so beloved by others that none less than Guns N’ Roses covered it 10 years later, and it’s a solid slab of hard rock, but nothing particularly unique in 1973.
“Write Me A Letter” sounds like a Joe Perry riff, but it is not. “Movin’ Out” is a Joe Perry riff, the first that he contributed to Aerosmith, and his sole writing credit on the record. Yet another lyrical ode to the struggle of a fledgling band, “Movin’ Out” stands above the other similarly-themed songs because of the middle breakdown (“level with God and you’re in tune with the universe, talk with yourself and you’ll hear what you wanna know”) and Joe Perry’s inimitable style. The song stands as a contender, for me, of Top 10 favorite Aerosmith songs.
The record closes with a cover of Rufus Thomas’ “Walkin’ the Dog”, although honestly, the version found here is probably a cover of the Yardbirds’ cover. Aerosmith has certainly never shied away from wearing their influences on their sleeves (…”what a bunch of tits these chubby-lipped delinquents have gone after.”), and none so egregiously as the Yardbirds.
Best Songs:
Dream On
Movin’ Out
Make It
I’d give this record a strong 7/10. It’s a blueprint for a very solid rock band, but oddly, not a blueprint for what Aerosmith became. There are some stone-cold classics on this record, and I really love the production (Kramer’s drums haven’t sounded this mighty ever since, in my view). What is oddly missing, for such a raw production, is the glam and grunge that Aerosmith combined to perfection in the ensuing years. Only the New York Dolls (who coincidentally, shared a management team with Aerosmith) could come close to mustering up the sort of whiskey-soaked, cocaine-fueled glitterati bait that the Boston quintet was conjuring up next.
Below: the aforementioned outtake, “Major Barbra”, as it sounded during rehearsals for the record, and the album version of Joe Perry’s first collaboration with Steven Tyler, “Movin’ Out”.
I’m not entirely sure if there aren’t actually two bands called The Body, and I’m a fan of them both, or if a single band is so f’ing eclectic that my mind cannot comprehend it. The Body entered my psyche with their 3-song, 18-minute EP, Master, We Perish — a bleak, operatic drone metal record that also happened to be perfect music to study Philip Converse’s “Michigan Model” by. Since then, I’ve seen/heard other releases that were so dissimilar that I thought Spotify was combining more than one band called The Body into my algorithm. They’ve dabbled in classical, dub, and new age, or maybe they haven’t? Are there two of them? A cursory internet search implies there is only one The Body, and I guess it makes sense, in a world where music created by Mike Patton is a thing.
The band’s new album, All the Waters of the Earth Turn to Blood, continues the theme and sound I encountered so many years ago on Master, We Perish: operatic, drone metal. The opening track’s first 8 minutes are the sound of Petra Haden dipping Imaginaryland in blood and holding a dark seance. When the track finally rips into full, demonic speed, the Earth opens up and swallows all the light in the world. “Speed” is perhaps the wrong word for what happens, though, because The Body is absolutely crawling on their bellies, dragging an anvil behind them. It might be too risky to move any faster, since it is pitch black as far as the eye cannot see.
Eventually, the group decides to lighten it up a bit. On Empty Hearth, they just might be having some fun and speaking gibberish, or they are casting a malevolent spell. Are they channeling the Boredoms or Satan? Either way, what a fantastic spirit to conjure.
There is a track on this record called Ruiner, which is not a cover of the NIN song, and is somehow darker than Trent Reznor was ever able to muster.
This is not music for mixed company; it will not get the party started or inspire your buddies to turn up the car radio. Your children will invariably start wildin’ out in the backseat if you try to play this record on a road trip. It is perfect for driving alone, studying political science, or taking a moment to shout into the abyss, which is likely happening more frequently these days, given the current political and economic realities. To put it simply, the new record by The Body is awesome. In case you didn’t notice, and of course you did, because you’re brilliant and beautiful, I have embedded it at the top of this post, and I’m certain The Body would appreciate your support. Check it out now.
More cool stuff:
The new Superman film: Have you seen it yet? A likable, golly-gee willikers Man of Steel who is just a good guy. He’s not complicated; the world around him is. I confess, I was destined to like this movie no matter what (I liked the first three Donner films and the Snyderverse), but David Corenswet’s portrayal is perfect.
Duster: Apparently, this show has already been cancelled by Netflix, but I was very happy to see JJ Abrams and Josh Holloway collaborating on the show again. Holloway will always be Sawyer, to be sure, but I guess on the bright side, Duster being cancelled means it cannot stick around long enough to jump the shark and end horribly. I might finish the season, despite knowing it has been cancelled, which kind of takes the fun out of it, but I really did like it that much.
FUBAR: A Netflix show starring the greatest actor of a generation, Arnold Schwarzenegger. I’m still finishing up season one (season two has been released), but the only way to describe this fantastic piece of programming is an episodic version of True Lies. What higher praise can there be?
Undead Unluck: An anime about a girl who puts a curse on everything she touches and a (usually nude) guy who cannot die. Revealing more about the premise of this show would be to spoil its magnificent gonzo-ness.
Dodgers 58-40 after play today (7/18/25), and about to get Blake Snell and Shohei Ohtani back on the mound. Also, as much as I hate the Worms, my heart sincerely goes out to Ketel Marte.
What I’m playing:
Bayonetta – PS3
Mario Kart World – Switch 2
The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom – Switch 2
Mega Man X Legacy Collection – XBox Series X
Asto-Bot – PS5
Just finished The Last of Us II, finally ready to dive into Season II of the show, and anxiously anticipating the arrival of Donkey Kong Bananza. In my efforts to support physical media, I have delayed my gratification and forced myself to wait for delivery. Thanks for being so on top of it, Gamestop.
Until next time, lovely readers (and it might be a while, your boy starts student teaching in a month), Be excellent to each other, and party on, dude.
This is not an ode to the outfielder who traded blows with teammate Phil Garner and was placed on the DL for “general soreness”. Tommy Lasorda believed he was soft. That Mike Marshall once instigated a brawl at Candlestick Park on April 22, 1987, and sat out the next day. To be fair to that Mike Marshall, those two incidents (brawl and general soreness) were were not correspondent, and no one less than Kirk Gibson once called him an “outstanding teammate”, without whom he couldn’t have accomplished what he did in 1988.
This is the only footage I could find of that Mike Marshall instigating said brawl at Candlestick. If anyone has video footage of the event, please, holla at your boy. As you can probably glean just from this photo, the Giants did not appreciate that Mike Marshall hitting a go-ahead, 3-run home run in the 10th inning, but they really didn’t approve of that Mike Marshall doing that thing. That Mike Marshall also once completely obliterated Duane Kuiper in the field, as the future play-by-play man attempted to field a bouncer to second. You know, now that I think about it, maybe I should create an ode to that Mike Marshall.
The Mike Marshall I am immortalizing in prose today is the Mike Marshall who won the Cy Young Award in 1974. From this moment forward, if I refer to Mike Marshall, I am referring to this Mike Marshall.
Check out this stat line: 15-12, 2.42 ERA, 21 SV, 208 IP, 106(!!) games pitched, ZERO starts.
These are video game numbers. I dream of a pitcher like this existing in 2024. For nerds, his WAR was 3.0, which wasn’t even his best single season WAR posting (that was in 1979, with the Angels, when he pitched in 90 games, saved 32, and went 10-15 at the age of 36).
All this is impressive, but not one of those stats are as impressive as his swarthy mustache and sideboards.
And yet, his mustache and boards are still not his most impressive accomplishment. While Marshall was an active pitcher in the Major Leagues, he completed his PHD at Michigan State. He became a doctor of kinesiology in 1978, while holding down an active roster spot on the Minnesota Twins. Doctor Marshall. Here is his dissertation.
Dr. Marshall would not sign autographs for children because he believed it encouraged them to admire the wrong sorts of people. Children should admire their teachers, not jocks. Dr. Marshall also served as a consultant (whatever that means) to Minnesota Vikings quarterback Fran Tarkenton.
After winning the Cy Young Award in 1974 (the first reliever to do so), Marshall was involved in one of the oddest sports trifectas that ever chanced to exist.
Marshall entered Game 2 of the 1974 World Series with a 3-0 lead. Modesto/Oakland A’s legend Joe Rudi singled into center field to score both of Dr. Marshall’s inherited runners, bringing the tying run to the plate in the form of reigning October hero Gene Tenace. Marshall struck him out.
Oakland manager Alvin Dark made a move to replace Rudi at first base with Herb Washington. Washington was a world-class college sprinter. Oakland owner Charlie O. Finley signed him to be a “designated runner”. Indeed, Washington played two full seasons in the major leagues and never had an at-bat. Finley had fantasies of Washington leading the world in stolen bases, but the man had never set foot on a baseball field prior to signing with the A’s. He stole 29 bases in 1974, but got caught 16 times. Washington had no instincts, Marshall had a Cy Young Award and a philosophy. Watch and listen, as Vin Scully expounds:
The trifecta of the moment was observed and expressed, to Washington, by Dodgers first baseman Steve Garvey. Marshall, Washington and Garvey were all Michigan State alumni. What Garvey may not have known, though, is that Washington and Marshall were at MSU at the same time, and Marshall was an adjunct professor for a kinesiology course in which Washington was a student.
A Doctor of Kinesiology with a Cy Young Award in his pocket. It’s mind-boggling that Dr. Marshall was never called upon to coach. He wanted to, but he was never the kind of guy to toot his own horn. Dr. Marshall’s reputation as a curmudgeon may have had something to do with his lack of job offers. He would not be cowed, he knew that he had the answers. After all, 106 games pitched should speak for itself. If we choose to look at Marshall’s stats through a modern lens, the question we must all ask is: how did Marshall turn his arm to rubber?
Dr. Marshall was eager to share with us, if we would just listen. No one would, so Dr. Marshall did exactly what the type of guy who gets his doctorate while playing baseball would do: he started his own school.
Get a load of these analytics, narrated by the doctor himself:
Dr. Marshall passed away in 2021. We may not intend to, but we will always honor his genius.
MAD props to Jason Turbow and his book, Dynastic, Bombastic, Fantastic: Reggie, Rollie, Catfish, and Charlie Finley’s Swingin’ A’s. Also, Bill Plaschke, Jeff Passan, Fangraphs, and Baseball Reference.
I like Paul Thomas Anderson films; at least I’m pretty sure I do. I like all the characters in this movie, particularly Alana Kane (Alana Haim). I was legitimately entertained. I’m not sure I liked this film, though.
Licorice Pizza unfolds almost episodically, although no hint is ever given that this is intentional. Protagonists Gary Valentine (Cooper Hoffman) and Alana Kane find themselves in one wacky predicament after the other, escape in a comedic way, and come back and do it again next week. The passage of time in this movie is almost irrelevant, except thats it ends up being crucial in its nebulousness during the final act. Like a TV sitcom, it’s never really explained how our characters get from one situation to the next. We just kind of accept it because we enjoy the characters. Trouble is, this is less acceptable in a narrative film. At least three times during the film, I wondered how everyone got where they were and filled in the blanks myself, with both timeline and story.
But…the characters are great. Gary seems off-putting at first, but he grew on me, at about the same rate that he grew on Alana. He’s a hustler, but not a charlatan. He’s a child actor, wealthy, but not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’s overconfident, like any 15 year-old would be, but also a try-hard. His ambition is not a turn-off, but an admirable quirk. Alana Kane is one of my favorite female characters I’ve seen in a while; she transforms from a sheltered, slightly insecure, rudderless homebody into the Hollywood Butterfly of cool indie chick who changes the boy for the better. She does this without ever being annoying, which is quite a feat when dealing with this particular trope. Not only was I rooting for her, she inspired a minor crush. Speaking of tropes, Anderson nails the Jewish family trope fairly accurately, without resorting to plucking the low hanging fruit (not a word of yiddish is spoken). The same cannot be said of John Michael Higgins’ Jerry Frick and his Japanese wives. Deeply unfunny, and recurring, at that? A bad choice that falls at the feet of the director. Bradley Cooper and Harriet Sansom Harris are scene-stealers during their “episodes”, and there are not many scenes in any film that are as epic and head-scratching as Sean Penn’s time on screen with Tom Waits. Two renaissance men, indeed.
All of this is true. There is some phenomenal stuff in this movie. I still felt dissatisfied at the end. The plot just isn’t much to get excited about. As fun as the characters are, they never face a situation that demands anything of them, so I didn’t feel very invested in them. Gary has no moment of self-reflection, and faces no adversity that money (which he has plenty of) can’t solve. The whole cast is fun to watch, but I didn’t really care about them.
Oh yeah, and that ending. Are we really meant to root for this? An odd choice. I get that it’s the 1970s. I realize things happened in the 1970s that are frowned upon now, and I even understand portraying things that 21st century sensibilities may be squeamish about in a film, but portraying it in a way that implies I should root for it? Flipping the genders around does not make it more acceptable.
Final score: 5.5 out of 10. I want to give it a 6, but that’s too close to 7.
Now, with Licorice Pizza under my belt, I have viewed the entirety of P.T. Anderson’s film library (not including his early short films like The Dirk Diggler Story). I considered him a favorite director for a long time. I adore Boogie Nights, Magnolia and Punch Drunk Love: absolute cinematic perfection. I’m less crazy about his other work, including a sacrilegious opinion on There Will Be Blood. I didn’t think much of The Master and couldn’t wait for Phantom Thread to end. Inherent Vice is on my list to rewatch, as I feel like I’m not remembering it accurately. Anderson is currently working on another film, due in August of 2025. I’ll watch it, of course. As of now, I’ll say this about PTA’s films: he could use an editor. Keep it to 90-100 minutes.
Somewhere in the infinite multiverse, Mikey from Swingers (Jon Favreau) never discovers the delight of swing dancing with Heather Graham, ditches his buddies Sue and Trent, and takes off to the open road. The only things Mikey, in this case, a character called Wes (True Blood’s Ryan Kwanten) takes with him are some old belongings, some photographs of his now ex-girlfriend, and a talking Teddy Bear said girlfriend gifted to him for their anniversary. It is not clear initially whether Wes is mourning her death or simply the end of the relationship, as both are implied. He ends up at a rest stop fire pit, chugging whiskey and burning his belongings, including the pants he was wearing, and his wallet.
When morning creeps in, Wes wakes up dazed, confused and very, very sick. He rushes into the restroom to throw up, where he encounters Ghathanatoa (embodied by an always awesome JK Simmons), a demigod created for the purpose of destroying the world, who asks him for a favor.
This is an absolutely gonzo plot, and I went into the viewing with great expectations for a gory, dark comedy. It’s not that I didn’t get exactly what I was expecting, but it took a long time to get to the good stuff, and the film is only 79 minutes long.
The length of the movie should be a selling point, a run time that implies a story that cuts to the chase, but somehow, this movie plodded towards the ending. Director Rebekah McKendry was/is a director of short films, and may have been better off keeping this one in the 30 minute range.
That is not to say this film is completely unworthy of a session. Skin-crawling practical gore effects, a way outside-the-box story, and plot twist that genuinely surprised me (maybe I’m a dumb-ass for not seeing it coming) might make it worth the short amount of time you’ll commit to this little buddy. It will just feel like longer.
I must commend JK Simmons for taking this role. This curious bit alone makes the film worth starting. He continues to add to his eclectic collection of work (Whiplash, Ladykillers, the Spider-Man films), and is always excellent, or at least pretty close. I found myself wondering how much of this performance was ad-libbed, as it certainly was ripe for improv.
There are some themes about heroism and how everything is not always what it seems, but there is nothing deeply philosophical and thought-provoking. That’s okay; not all movies need that.
The Boston Celtics are now 2 games back with 4 games to play after making venison jerky out of those wimpy deer, 140-99, in Milwaukee. The C’s have a road game against Philadelphia, two in a row at home against Toronto (!!), and close out at home against Atlanta. The Bucks have a road game Tuesday against the Wizards, then two at home against the Bulls and The Grizzlies (not a team I’m excited to root for), and finish on the road against the Raptors. The Ringer’s odds machine says the Celtics have an 18 percent chance of pulling it off. I like our chances considerably more.
Max Fried lasted 3 1/3 innings before exiting with a hamstring injury, and Keibert Ruiz most certainly did not go 4-4. James Outman had a monster game, and currently, Miguel Vargas has 8 walks, 1 double, and only 5 official at-bats. Let’s keep that pace, for sure. Trayce Thompson tread all over that snake, Madison Bumgarner, for 3 HR and 8 RBI, while Kershaw struck out 9 in 6 innings, exerting his dominance (as if there has ever been any actual comparison between Bumgarner and Kershaw).
The Diamondbacks are truly a bunch of glorified worms, so leaving a home series with a 2-2 split is not exactly ideal.
It’s hard to feel disappointed, though, when baseball is commencing and it is WrestleMania weekend. I’ve decided not to address the unfortunate news regarding Vince McMahon’s return to WWF creative (except to let you know I’m not going to address it), and focus on the in-ring competition. Although, can I take a moment to ask what is going on with Vince McMahon’s face?
I could preface all of this with some cliche’ about good, bad, and ugly, but that would be cheap and easy. Instead, how about an abrupt transition?
John Cena v. Austin Theory (United States Championship Match):
I must mention that I had a room of 7 year-olds with me the first night of ‘Mania, and this match, specifically, is catered to them. As the one who wasn’t my son mentioned, John Cena was “too old to wear those shoes.” Cena has always dressed like a “cool dad”, but now he just kind of looks like a dad trying to be cool. His hair is longer and sparser than it has ever been, an impressive feat. It’s somewhere on the baldness scale between young Arn Anderson and Hulk Hogan.
Austin Theory dispatched Cena after the referee was knocked out. Cena had him locked in a STFU, and Theory wisely tapped out (without the referee to call it) so that Cena would break the hold. Meathead Cena didn’t see the referee go down, and started celebrating (prematurely) his victory. Theory nailed him with the A-Town down to successfully retain his title.
7 year-olds go apoplectic. I feel sublime. The run of having all champions I like will continue…for now.
Braun Strowman & Ricochet v. The Street Prophets v. Alpha Academy v. The Viking Raiders:
Nothing to see here. Alpha Academy’s Chad Gable is the greatest thing to happen to pro wrestling since Kurt Angle, and everyone is very jealous that Otis Dozovic gets to hang out with beautiful ladies thanks to a successful hand modeling career. Strength, talent, and beauty… no wonder everyone is booing him. I would think that a place as glorious and beautiful as Los Angeles would appreciate a man of Otis’ considerable gifts, but heavy is the head that wears the crown. This sucked, but at least it was short.
Seth Rollins v. Logan Paul:
The entire building, all 80,947 of them, are correctly booing Logan Paul. Because this is WrestleMania and not the douchebag olympics, Logan Paul will not emerge victorious. Logan Paul is the kind of guy who will never get to the “find out” section “f*** around/find out” graph, because the more we hate him, the stronger he seems to get. Logan Paul lost, but he wasn’t even the biggest loser in this match. There were 3 bigger losers:
Seth Rollins, for having to soil his hands with this obnoxious social media star. Here is a guy who has headlined past WrestleManias, held the Universal Championship on multiple occasions, and deserved a match that would at least move him up the rankings for a future title shot. Instead, he’s wrestling against a goon and a guy dressed up as an energy drink. Really.
The fans that had to sit through this match.
Any wrestler who did not have a match on WrestleMania’s card. There is a roster full of kids who have been breaking their back all year, or for multiple years, to get a shot on wrestling’s grandest stage, who were sitting in the back watching a YouTube celebrity take a mid-card spot. Bobby Lashley, Killer Kross, and Dolph Ziggler, to name a few, are skilled veterans with championship pasts that were relegated to pre-show Battle Royals that no one actually cares about, despite the sizzle reels Vince keeps producing to convince us otherwise.
Logan Paul is absolute garbage.
Becky Lynch, Trish Stratus, and Lita v. Damage CTRL:
Time for a slice of pizza, an edible, and a bathroom break.
Rey Mysterio v. Dominik Mysterio:
I have never, ever liked Rey Mysterio. If I was Rey Mysterio, I would also hide my face behind a mask. How could I have the temerity to show my face in public, after unleashing over 20 years of this spot-monkey flea circus act on the masses?
That said, I was legitimately heartsick watching him fight his own son. Overall, I was pulling for Dominik, on a macro level. I think getting out from under your old man’s shadow to hang out with the smoke show Rhea Ripley is a fantastic choice. It’s the rite of passage to manhood. No one can just be their father’s smiling, goofy, baby-kissing sidekick forever. But geez, you can’t call your old man out. The crowd seemed to be on Rey’s side, which I understand, but cheering for this at all just seems to be in bad taste. Rey won, Dominik lost, so really, no one wins: Rey had to beat up his kid and Dominik lost to an old man, leaving him with few prospects to get out of the WWF cellar.
Charlotte Flair v. Rhea Ripley (Smackdown Women’s Championship):
Charlotte Flair has been the best the company has to offer, man or woman, for a few years now, especially after she kicked her own embarrassing father to the curb. Rhea Ripley won the women’s Royal Rumble in January and has a dominant championship run under her belt. This is the kind of stuff I love: a match with no obvious favorite.
The story leading up to the match was simple: Ripley wins the Rumble, and chooses to compete against Flair for the Smackdown Women’s Championship at WrestleMania. The championship is the storyline. Two women with mutual respect and mutual dislike for each other, vying to be the best, on pro wrestling’s biggest stage.
Rhea Ripley emerged victorious after a grueling wrestling match. Counter moves and the catch-as-catch-can style, where each competitor is keeping a tight circle around their opponent, are the ingredients for the kinds of matches I really enjoy watching. If you do nothing else, make sure you see that german suplex Ripley unleashed on Flair. Ouch.
My only complaint is that Charlotte hung around after the match, smiling like she was proud of Ripley. It seemed a little spotlight-hogging or belittling to Ripley, but I guess if Ripley doesn’t feel that way, who am I?
Pat McAfee v. The Miz:
Oh, what’s that? Time for another slice? Football announcer versus “Real World” participant. Hard pass. This is the kind of stuff that makes pro wrestling hard to defend, and it is happening in the shadow of a Logan Paul match. No thanks. Oh yeah, this match was added to the card by Snoop Dogg. Phew, that’s a horrible smell.
The Usos v. Sami Zayn & Kevin Owens (Undisputed Tag Team Championships):
Kevin Owens and Sami Zayn first came across my radar as Kevin Steen and El Generico in ROH in the early-mid 2000s. Kevin Owens has been a gross slob, wrestling in a doublet that was too small or his pajamas since those days, and Zayn/Generico wore a luchador mask, until he dropped said mask and started coming out to the ring dressed like a1990’s ska dork. His entrance music sounds like a bad teenage movie soundtrack from 1997. I half expect Stiffler to show up and accompany him to the ring. They’ve been on-again, off-again friends many times over, usually with Steen/Owens doing the backstabbing and the dumb puppy dog Zayn/Generico winning his friend back in the end. I’ve never liked either of them, so I cared little about their bromance.
Then, Kevin Owens got smart, dumped Zayn what seemed like for good, and started a new best friendship with Chris Jericho. Finally, I could get behind Owens, who despite appearances to the contrary, is a pretty good athlete. My appreciation was short-lived, as Owens turned his back on Jericho on live TV during what was supposed to be a “celebration of friendship”. If I learned one thing under the Randy Savage learning tree, it is that we never forget, never forgive something like that.
Zayn, meanwhile, toiled deservedly in opening match hell as recently as last year’s WrestleMania, where he “fought” Johnny Knoxville of Jackass! fame in a match that included a giant mousetrap. Putrid tripe, but at least he wasn’t asking me to take him seriously. It seemed like Zayn was sick of that career path, himself, and made the wise decision to endear himself to the Bloodline, of which the Usos, Jimmy and Jey, are an integral part.
When the time came for Zayn to finally show his appreciation to the Bloodline for dragging him out of wrestling purgatory, all he had to do was hit the treacherous Owens with a steel chair. His ascension would be complete. Zayn revealed his own treachery by refusing to comply, choosing instead to throw his lot in with Owens. Keep in mind, this is the same Kevin Owens who power-bombed Zayn into the ring apron in the middle of the latter’s first championship match, leaving him unconscious. The man has no low to which he will not stoop, and Zayn decided, once again, to trust him. I hope they both catch fleas.
I sincerely hoped the Usos would exact revenge on their tormentors this evening, but it was not to be. The crowd seemed to have forgotten how loathsome Zayn and Owens are, as well, as they were firmly behind the pair. I cannot understand what people have against the Bloodline, but as with Otis Dozovic, I can only chalk it up to envy. My dream of having all champions I like has died. Long live the Bloodline.
Night 2
Brock Lesnar v. Omos
It isn’t often Brock Lesnar is dwarfed by an opponent, but that was certainly the case here. This match was mercifully brief, and I really can’t think of anything interesting to say about it. Lesnar wins, now we won’t see him until SummerSlam or so. Rough start to night two, let’s move on.
Liv Morgan & Raquel Rodriguez v. Natalya & Shotzi v. Ronda Rousey & Shayna Bazler v. Chelsea Green and Sonya Deville
That’s a mouthful. The notion that they found time to put this match on the main card but excluded the aforementioned talent that got flushed for McAfee/Miz is mind-boggling. This match was meaningless, as two of the four teams are not even full-time teams, so there is no ranking at stake. Just a boring showcase of subpar wrestling (all due respect to Rousey and Natalya).
Drew McIntyre v. Gunther v. Sheamus (Intercontinental Heavyweight Championship):
The line of wrestlers who have held the Intercontinental Championship reads like a who’s who of my favorite guys: Randy Savage, Mr. Perfect, Shawn Michaels, Chris Jericho, Randy Orton, Kurt Angle, and CM Punk, just to name a few. As announcer Corey Graves mentioned last night, it has always been a “workhorse” championship. My anticipation for this match was high, and I was not disappointed.
Gunther and Sheamus have already had a show-stopping match, my personal pick for Match of the Year in 2022, at Clash at the Castle. Drew McIntyre is not far removed from a World Championship reign that nobody got to witness, thanks to Covid. It’s great to see him coming for the IC title. Sometimes, a three-way match can become a bit of a chaotic mess, with sequences that stretch the suspension of disbelief. Guys who would normally stand toe-to-toe in combat find themselves flailing out of the ring after one knife-edge chop, and sometimes they can run a little too long.
That was not the case here.These guys started off trying to bloody each other’s chests, fighting each other over the chance to beat the third one up. Gunther, the ring general who has expressed his intention to save the sport of professional wrestling from clowns like the New Day, managed to hold on to his title, but the story of the match was really how far friends McIntyre and Sheamus were willing to go to earn the championship from him. Watching friends brutalize each other over a championship raises the value of that championship. Gunther has climbed up the leaders’ list of longest, uninterrupted IC championship reigns, already holding the record for the 21st century and creeping up on Randy Savage and the Honky Tonk Man for longest all-time. I love this stuff, and regardless of what happened with the tag team championships, at least I still have Gunther.
Asuka v. Bianca Belair (Raw Women’s Championship):
I like both of these girls, and they both deserve to be in the title picture (much like the two ladies who competed for the Smackdown championship the night before). Asuka has a special place in my heart, because she’s the one my daughter roots for, but I could do without the face paint and magic mist. Bianca Belair is just likable (that ring entrance!), and she brings a big match energy with her every time she sets foot in the squared circle. Becky Lynch gets a lot of recognition for being the complete package, having solid ring work and strong mic skills, but I just don’t see how Bianca Belair isn’t better than her in every single way.
I’ve seen/heard people complaining that this match didn’t have enough build-up to make it interesting, but I guess those people don’t like pro wrestling. The championship is always reason enough to fight, and if you weren’t interested in this match within the first five minutes, you don’t actually like wrestling, you like something else that shares aspects of wrestling, but rings are not necessary. Well, maybe engagement rings, but not places where gladiators gladiate.
Snoop Dogg v. The Miz:
Normally, I would have been grabbing a third slice, but that was Shane McMahon’s music! Oh crap, in the words of Jim Ross, I think Shane may have just broken in half. Good luck finding footage of it, but I hope Shane recovers fully. What is it with McMahons and non-contact injuries?
So now, I get to watch Snoop Dogg drop the People’s Elbow on Miz. Awful.
Edge v. Finn Balor (Hell in a Cell):
I’ve normally got no use for Edge and his belt-licking ways. The guy looks like a katydid and used to pretend he had vampire powers. No thanks. I’m also usually not impressed by ring entrances. Yeah, they’re cool, but they aren’t usually a reflection of how cool the wrestler is. In this case, though, I make an exception:
Yep, that’s Edge, entering the ring to Slayer. Corey Graves took the words right out of my mouth when he said he never had Slayer being played at WrestleMania on his bingo card. In fact, quick shout out to Corey Graves for consistently being the best part of any announce team he’s on. Yes, the bar is imperceptibly low at this point (Monsoon and Ventura ain’t coming through that door), but he’s great.
Finn Balor, with all his airbrushed bodypaint, just didn’t measure up. Dude, Edge had Slayer.
Hell in a Cell has also never really been my thing. Yeah, Foley v. Undertaker was a hell of a thing to see, but that’s because things went wrong. Hell in a Cell usually means two quality wrestlers, main-event guys, will be putting on an absurd stunt show. I can’t sit and watch people throw each other into a chain-link fence for very long.
We’ve come along way since chair shots and cage matches were considered heinous. Now they are routine. When is the last time someone didn’t go through a table? I’m just not impressed.
Sure enough, Balor was split open in the first few minutes of the match. Unexpectedly, the camera panned away and the medical staff quickly stitched him up so he could continue. Normally, they let the blood flow for cinematic effect, but I think I actually prefer it this way, as it is what would happen in a sanctioned athletic contest. Overall, nothing I would write home about, but people are into this sort of thing, so…
Edge won the match, and I don’t care.
Cody Rhodes v. Roman Reigns (Undisputed Universal Championship):
I could go on and on about why I dislike calling the championship the “universal” championship, but honestly, Roman Reigns has been delivering the goods for so long now, he just might be the champion of the universe. There is a certain irony with Roman Reigns. First, wrestling fans booed him because they felt, perhaps justifiably, that he was being shoved down their throats and hadn’t earned his stature in the sport. No matter how hard Vince & Co. tried to make fans love him, they just would not. He was criticized on everything from work rate to mic skills, and even a leukemia diagnosis didn’t buy him admiration.
Roman Reigns responded by earning everything. He beat the Undertaker at WrestleMania, he defeated Brock Lesnar multiple times, he acquired the services of Paul Heyman, united both world titles into one, and hasn’t lost a match since December of 2019. Roman Reigns has held the pinnacle championship in professional wrestling for 944 days as of this WrestleMania, and still, the fans boo him.
They cheer for a weasel named Cody Rhodes. Cody Rhodes was formerly employed by WWF, until he requested his release in 2016. At the time, it was understandable. He had been saddled with a horrible gimmick, and rightfully wanted no part of that obscene spectacle. When he left, he was critical of the WW”E” and their stubborn commitment to “sports entertainment”. He would become a world traveler, going on to hold championships in TNA, NJPW, and the NWA, the latter being especially poignant due to the accomplishments of his old man, “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes. His match against Nick Aldis at All In was not only an instant classic, but the germination of a new company that Rhodes would help create: AEW.
Rhodes even went so far as to crush, with a sledgehammer, on live TV, a throne that looked very similar to the one Triple H had taken to sitting on during his ring entrances. It was a not-so-subtle shot at the tired direction the WWE was taking, and loud pronouncement of how the Rhodes family saw themselves in the hierarchy of the sport. Cody was not going to allow himself to be ridiculed or buried. He would make his own legacy, without Vince’s entertainment machine behind him.
And, by god, it was working. AEW is now a successful wrestling promotion, with a primetime TV slot, sponsors, and a touring apparatus. Most importantly, AEW is markedly different from WWF in that wrestlers have some agency in how they are represented and used.
Cody Rhodes returned to WWF in 2021. After all of that, he crawled back.
His expressed reason is that he wanted to accomplish something that his father never could. He wanted to be Universal Champion. This is the company that gave Dusty Rhodes polka dot ring gear, and that Dusty himself fought tooth and nail against for years as booker for WCW. The company that went out of their way to humiliate Cody just a few years ago.
Worst of all, Cody left AEW, the company that he founded and mutually benefitted from, scrambling to explain why their CEO had left for WWE. They were supposed to be in this together.
Cody earned the fans’ respect when he fought Seth Rollins inside a cage with a complete tear in his pectoral muscle. Then, he left to nurse his injury. Reigns managed to stay injury-free while Cody was gone for nearly a year, competing in each main event on every major card and defending his championship. Yet, for some reason, the crowd still chose Cody at WrestleMania. The injustice of it all could bring a man to tears.
But not Roman Reigns. He shattered the dream of the “American Nightmare” last night and successfully retained his championship. He pulled out all the stops necessary, understanding the importance of the championship, that it goes beyond serving as a trinket to make a father proud. It is a lifestyle, it is a legacy, and if you have to stoop to underhanded tactics to retain it, then that is what you do. If you don’t care enough to cheat, you don’t care enough.
Cody Rhodes can take some solace in the fact that he did accomplish something his father never did: he lost in the main event of WrestleMania.
As Andy Williams mistakenly sings about December (a time when there is no baseball), it’s the most wonderful time of the year!
Join me, as I ponder, predict, and pontificate about what is sure to be am amazing day. I have laid out herein a timeline for those of us who are not impartial, who know there are heroes and villains, heels and baby-faces, decency and obscenity. Perhaps these will not be the most storied matchups, but they certainly will demonstrate if there is goodness left in this world. I will always root for goodness to prevail, and I invite those of you who care about peace, justice, and rational thought to join me on my viewing/rooting journey.
The day begins at 10:05 am PDT: San Francisco Giants at New York Yankees
Sometimes, the villain is easy to recognize, and any case in which the San Francisco Giants are involved, you’ve got your villain. If the Giants are playing baseball, we have a moral obligation to root against them.
There are many decent and rational people who would argue that the New York Yankees are just as villainous, if not more so, than the team from the Bay, but they are simply misguided. If I may make a comparison to the situation at hand: In 1992, The Ultimate Warrior and “Macho Man” Randy Savage were embroiled in a bitter feud over the WWF Championship. Enter Ric Flair, an entity so horrendous, so vile, that the first two men were forced to set aside their difference and focus on eliminating Flair. In this instance, you might consider your team to be the Ultimate Warrior and the Yankees to be Randy Savage, but certainly, you recognize the value in joining together, however briefly, to terminate the affronts to morality that are the San Francisco Giants. As the saying goes, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
The Yankees do something that all professional sports teams should do: they f’ing care about their fans and about winning. They will spare no expense to put the best team on the field, year in and year out. They always have a plan. Teams and fanbases with shoddy ownership get upset, or cry poverty, but it doesn’t faze the Yankees. They play for their city and their team, and let the haters keep on hating. I respect it.
It is almost always fun watching the Giants because of how loathsome they are. It is easy to get hyped up to watch a villain fall. However, I strongly recommend the New York Yankees audio feed, as Michael Kay is a warm breeze for the ears. ESPN is carrying this game, so you’ll probably get Karl Ravech, but you’ll also have to deal with A-Rod. Which will make it difficult to cheer for the Yankees.
Not for nothing, but Gerrit Cole is pitching for New York. He’s a bit of a hero, himself, since he is a long-time rival and ethereal tormentor of Trevor Bauer, and is usually a Cy Young favorite. Aaron Judge will be playing in the Giants game for the first game of 2023, but hilariously, he’ll still be playing for the Yankees. Here at AFSL, Jon Heyman is well-loved. Logan Webb is going for SF, and he looks like Scott Farkus from A Christmas Story.
On paper, the Yankees are heavy favorites, but the Giants always seem to get that big hit they need it. It’s annoying, and even though I am heavily biased (because I care about justice), I have to admit they always play better when they are up against the MLB standard-bearers (Yankees, Dodgers, Cardinals, Red Sox).
Also at 10:05 AM: Atlanta Braves at Washington Nationals
I haven’t liked the Braves since 1991, when they had the temerity to go from worst-to-first and play against the Minnesota Twins in one of the most legendary World Series matchups of all time. Save for Minnesota’s Kirby Puckett, there was no star power in that series, and it was still riveting. I felt sick each and every inning, watching these milquetoast, nouveau riche’ underdogs annoyingly tomahawk chop their way to game 7, only to fail mightily. That spot, that Game Seven (in which to emerge victorious), should have belonged to Darryl Strawberry, Orel Hershiser, Brett Butler, Eddie Murray, and Tommy Lasorda, but nooooooo…. the Braves just had to win on the last day of the regular season to finish with 94 wins. The Dodgers were thwarted by that eternal enemy from the Candlestick Park, the Giants, finished with 93 wins, and had to watch from home as the Braves blew it. Why were the Braves even in the NL West!?
After winning the West again in 1992 (thwarting the Pirates and a young MVP named Barry Bonds), they were rightfully removed from the NL West, signed Cy Young Award winner Greg Maddux, and went on to dominate the National League for the next decade. It was excruciating.
After falling off the map for a few years, the Braves roared back in 2021 and won the World Series, and rewarded their players with the tackiest, most nauseating, flip-top championship ring I’ve ever laid my sore eyes on:
The Braves square off with the Washington Nationals, another hateful underdog that had gall to win the 2019 World Series, after a miraculous NLDS victory led by the odious Howie Kendrick.
This is not a fair fight, though. The Braves have Ronald Acuna, Matt Olson, Austin Riley, 2022 Rookie of the Year Michael Harris, and a fully healthy Ozzie Albies in their lineup, not to mention Cy Young runner up Max Fried taking the mound. The Nationals have… my fantasy catcher, Keibert Ruiz.
The Nationals are not good at all, and given the history of the two teams (the Nationals were FKA the Montreal Expos, the most likable baseball team not based in Los Angeles, and the Braves were everything mentioned above), we should probably be pulling for Washington. However, speaking of fantasy baseball, let me just check my lineup for tomorrow here… yep, that says Max Fried is pitching not only for the Braves, but for me. So, the outcome that does the most good in the universe would be for Keibert Ruiz to go 4-4 with 4 RBIs after Fried leaves the game with a 5-0 lead in the 7th. Quality start, W, 7 IP for Fried, maximum points for Ruiz. It’s the right thing to hope for.
At 1:10 PM PDT: Pittsburgh Pirates at Cincinnati Reds
When Tommy Lasorda took over as manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1976, he banned his players (and their wives) from wearing the color red. The Cincinnati Reds were coming off back-to-back World Series victories, and Tommy needed his players to get used to hating them. It worked, the Los Angeles Dodgers thwarted the Cincinnati Reds in back-to-back seasons (1977, 1978) to reach the World Series as the representative of the National League.
In 1995, The 85-win Cincinnati Reds swept the 78-win Los Angeles Dodgers (Peeee yooooou) in the first ever LDS, an absolute bloodbath.
While these two instances are not examples of a full-fledged rivalry, if Tommy says we need to hate the Reds, I suggest we do so.
This might be the worst game of the day, as far as on-field talent, but there are three things that make this game worth watching:
Hunter Greene is pitching for Cincinnati. Hunter Greene was listed as the Reds’ top prospect last year, and after getting called up on April 10th, got absolutely roped his first few games. However, he finished the season with 164 strikeouts in 125 innings, and he’s only 23. This young man throws flames. That’s the kind of thing I love to watch. Go get ’em, kid.
For the Pirates, Mitch Keller takes the hill. Keller is not the pitcher Greene is (a career whip of 1.57 isn’t bad, per se, though he doesn’t miss a ton of bats and has a career era of 5.00), but it might be impossible to better summarize why we love baseball better than Keller did when he was told he would be Pittsburgh’s 2023 Opening Day Starter.
The Pittsburgh Pirates are owned by Bob Nutting. Nutting is one of MLB’s top 10 richest owners, and runs the Pirates like he can’t afford to pay the peanut vendors. The Pirates rank 27th out of 30 in payroll, and Nutting has consistently complained that the CBA (and the profit-sharing aspects of it) do not benefit the Pirates enough. The Pirates have stunk for almost 3 decades. Essentially, Nutting argues that he should get paid by the rest of the league for intentionally running a franchise badly and cheaply. Perhaps the worst owner in baseball, if not for Oakland’s John Fischer.
So today, we root for Cincinnati (sorry, Tommy) in the hopes that Greene shows and proves, and that Nutting keeps losing so badly that he gets the Frank McCourt treatment.
At 4:00 PM, we turn off MLB in protest of the Astros ring ceremony. Sickening, awful, terrible, vile, horrendous. We watch the Boston Celtics battle the Milwaukee Bucks as the Celtics attempt to take their fate into their own hands and win the Eastern Conference. A day on which we can honor Tommy Lasorda and Larry Bird is a wonderful day, indeed. Bonus points for showing the Astros our backs. Pigs.
Finally, the main event, the creme de la creme, at 7:10 pm:
Arizona Diamondbacks at Los Angeles Dodgers
Ah, the Arizona Diamondbacks. The jerks who built a swimming pool in their ballpark and got upset when people went swimming in it. The insecure little brothers who make Dodgers fans take off their jerseys if they are sitting in good TV seats behind home plate. The Worms. The place where Madison Bumgarner’s career has gone to wither up and die, and to a nicer guy, it couldn’t have happened. This red-assed hick must be living a miserable existence, as he gets vewwy sad when people have fun playing baseball or score off him, but he carried an ERA of 4.88 last season, so it’s happening a lot.
Look, I do not expect the Dodgers to win 111 games again. They were playing unbelievable, video game baseball last season. A regression is inevitable. Losing Trea Turner might cost them 8-9 victories, alone. So that knocks the Dodgers down to 103 wins. The absence of Gavin Lux, who was scheduled to take over for Turner until he went down with a season-ending knee injury in Spring Training, might cost them 3-4 more games. 99 wins? Even if we factor in regression after all that, the Dodgers are still hovering around 90 wins. Walker Buehler is also out for the year, but is being replaced by Noah Syndegaard, a development that would normally not inspire confidence if the Dodgers didn’t have a fantastic track record of turning pitchers around. If they can coax All-Star seasons out of Tyler Anderson, Alex Wood, and Rich Hill, surely they can expect a significant contribution from Syndegaard, who was a co-ace on the Mets just a few years ago. Dustin May is back for a full season, and if you don’t have confidence in Urias, Gonsolin, and Kershaw at this point, you might be an anti-Dodger.
How could you not root for the Dodgers? The franchise gave us Jackie Robinson, Sandy Koufax, Roy Campanella, Tommy Lasorda, Steve Garvey, Fernando Valenzuela, Orel Hershiser, and Yasiel Puig. They’ve developed back-to-back Rookies of the Year twice since moving to Los Angeles, and in fact, had 4 in a row from 1991-1995. This year, they’ll be throwing two more rookies out to prove themselves, Miguel Vargas and James Outman, revealing the lie that the Dodgers only buy their talent for the farce that it is. It is fun to root for the next generation.
When they do buy talent, it is top notch. Mookie Betts, an American hero due to his performance in the WBC, and Freddie Freeman are each top 10 players. Like the Yankees, the Dodgers respect their fans and treat them with a reverence normally reserved for royalty. They care about winning, and will pull out all the stops to build the best team money can buy, without apologizing for it. There is no better place to be than the confines of Dodger Stadium with 56,000 of your closest friends. It is a pilgrimage.
Since the dawn of the modern era of baseball (1958; the Western expansion of the league, new rules creating the modern game), only the Yankees have won more World Series.
It is good for your health to root for the Dodgers; it increases happiness and helps purge jealousy, envy, and anger. Lord knows, there is enough of that in the world today. Join the bandwagon, and live a fuller life.
Yes, I most certainly am biased. I want goodness to prevail. I cannot stand idly by while dark forces lay siege to righteousness. So I will follow this rooting schedule on Opening Day. I invite you to join me. Play ball!
Aaaaahhhh. Charlton Heston. The man may reside in the George Washington spot on the Mount Rushmore of Unintentionally Funny Performances in Acting. Only William Shatner threatens his primacy, and Bill was in on the joke, while Heston remained gloriously unaware until his last day.
This film was released in 1971, the first one released after Mr. Heston made his transition from historical drama (Ben Hur, The Ten Commandments) to science-fiction (Planet of the Apes). The premise is bonkers: war has broken out between China and the United States, and when the planet is destroyed through chemical warfare, Colonel Robert Neville, M.D. is the lone human survivor. How convenient he is both an army colonel and a medical doctor. Neville rides around in a convertible during the day, carrying a machine gun, siphoning gas (although it isn’t immediately clear why travel is necessary) and “sneaking” into an abandoned movie theater to watch the last movie that was shown during civilization, the concert film Woodstock.
Can I say that the image of Charlton “pry-it-from-my-cold-dead-hands” Heston watching Woodstock is magnificent in its absurdity, a glorious gift of hindsight.
Neville must be home by dark every night, because he is being hunted by an evil cult of infected people who possess no supernatural abilities and have an aversion to technology. They do not succeed in their attempts to capture and sacrifice the heavily-armed Heston.
Heston’s Robert Neville is slightly (or perhaps not-so-slightly) crazed. He talks to himself, he’s deeply paranoid, and he hears phones ringing. I do not know if this insanity was intentional, because it is very Heston, but it does make sense. Heston is impossibly macho in a 1970s, man-of-the-house, whiskey-soaked way. It’s easy to see why a guy like him, very WASPY (“160 proof Anglo-Saxon, baby”, as he nauseatingly refers to his own blood) would be so non-plussed about the disappearance of the rest of humanity. They were all just inconveniences to him, anyway, except when he needed to trade in a convertible for a newer convertible. What some people might call chauvinism, he would just call a clever quip.
Which brings us to Rosalind Cash, the female lead. Wait, there are more humans? Don’t ask. This chick had style, man. Unfortunately, she is saddled with some very dumb lines. At one point, she is handed a gun by Heston and demands to know what it is for, despite the fact that she was holding his ass at gunpoint on the back of a motorcycle 10 minutes earlier. I think I was supposed to find her badass. I found her… not.
Here is Ms. Cash. How did she acquire that opulent necklace and sexy, low-cut silk robe in the middle of a dystopia? I told you: don’t ask. Just drink it in, man.
But wait, I have these, and other questions!
Questions:
How come this disease killed most people but turned those few into wimpy vampires? Even Robert Pattinson thinks these guys are dorks.
Wait, this is the biological warfare the Americans were developing?
Is the cult leader, Mathias, the news anchor from the beginning of the film?
If this cult is so opposed to the use of the wheel, how did they get the catapult in front of Neville’s building?
Did this vaccine-expert doctor just have a test tube full of antidote sitting on a desk, at room temperature, in his office?
Did he just flick that test tube and shout “how the hell should I know?”
This film, it just isn’t good. I didn’t expect it to be on par with Ben-Hur, but hoped it would be at least as good as Soylent Green. While being infected with a disease that turns you into a powerless albino with green eyes doesn’t seem fun at all, I can understand why the evil sect did not want to go back to the world favored by Charlton Heston. At one lull in the action, I had a fleeting notion that guys like Heston, Clint Eastwood, and Ronald Reagan really thought this is how life should be, exceedingly average white guys rescuing us all. Then it occurred to me : this film was made in 1971. I should try not to look at it through a 2023 lens and just enjoy it. Problem is, this film isn’t that enjoyable.
These are the infected. Scowling seems to be their only real power.
I told myself that if I liked this movie, I would jump forward and watch the Will Smith film, I am Legend, which is based off the same source material. Maybe it is unfair, but after watching this barely entertaining film, I solemnly swear to flush that notion from my mind. Omega Man is a mega turd.
22 years ago, this album came out and changed everything.
Joe Preston is Thrones. Before Joe Preston was Thrones, he was a founding member of drone metal pioneers Earth, and spent 1992 as a member of the Melvins, carrying out 4-string duties on the album Lysol and the DVD release A Salad of One Thousand Delights. After leaving the Melvins (depending on who you ask, he was either kicked out for being lazy and not recognizing how great of an idea the three-album-solo-record set based on the KISS records was, or he was excluded when the Melvins signed with Atlantic because Buzz and Dale didn’t want to share the advance), Joe Preston became Thrones, a one-man stoner metal band. Sperm Whale is actually the combination of two EPs, White Rabbit and Sperm Whale, smashed onto one LP and released in September of 2000. When I heard the record some time in 2001, it completely flipped my lid. It sounded like a continuation of the Melvins’ work on Lysol, and demonstrated how important Preston was to the Melvins’ sound during his time as a member. He would go on to form, or be a part of, bands like Sunn O))), Harvey Milk, High on Fire, Men’s Recovery Project, and the Whip. An absolutely superb lineup of credits, a veritable who’s-who of excellent experimental metal bands. I strongly recommend checking out all of those projects, but I absolutely insist that you take the time to listen to Sperm Whale right now. This is the record that changed it all for me, it is almost solely responsible for convincing me to become the Brown Note, but do not hold that against it.
It’s just that Rolling Stone Magazine keeps rehashing/revising their “Top 500 Albums of All Time” list. Rolling Stone, the magazine that panned Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith in the 1970s, that could be using their considerable heft and publishing power within the industry to break new bands instead of waxing nostalgic about Fleetwood Mac, and the owner of which, for all intents and purposes, decides who enters the odious Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. They should be ashamed of themselves.
That said, anyone who even intermediately calls themselves a fan of music has a soft spot for these sorts of lists. Some may be too hip to admit it, but they are just lying because they are hip. They say they hate it, but they read it so they can shit on it. This is why Rolling Stone keeps publishing it (also because critics take their own opinions too seriously).
There is a 100 percent chance that some of the records that appeared on Rolling Stone’s list will appear on this one, too. There is also a 100 percent chance that many of the albums I yelled at the inanimate pages of said magazine for being overlooked will appear here. There is a 100 percent chance that I will never, ever, wax nostalgic in any way about the horrendous Fleetwood Mac. Spoiler: They will not appear and they will not outrank the Beatles in way, shape or form (which should be evidence of how much better this list is than RS’s).
So, without further adieu, and without the pretense of 500 albums (as if there is really any distinction between, say, nos. 473 and 498), I present the newest, revised-est, hopefully last Top 100 Albums of All Time List:
100) Foo Fighters – Foo Fighters
Courtesy of Roswell Records
It would be inaccurate to say that Dave Grohl was not a huge rockstar when this record was released in 1995 (given his previous employment), but he wasn’t touring-around-the-world-on-a-literal-throne-of-guitars huge. It’s easy to look back at this record and wonder WTF happened to the Foos, but when it arrived on the scene, I was positively smitten. I spent so many hours with this album that the cover insert was a mangled mess before it was eventually lost, along with the plastic cover (CDs FTW). I studied the “I’m OK, Eur-Ok” MTV concert intently, “Weenie Beenie” seemed liked the coolest and most cathartic song ever, even if Grohl was the only one who knew the words. “Alone + Easy Target” and “For all the Cows” always made the cut when mixtapes were being assembled. This record begins so perfectly, you can see it. Grohl walks into the room, plugs in, adjusts his volume knob and begins: “visiting is pretty, visiting is good, seems that all they ever wanted was a brother…” and off we go. This album is earnest without being ambitious, fun without being silly. Sigh. What have you become, Foos?
William Goldsmith, dude.
99) Deee-Lite – World Clique
Courtesy Warner Bros. Recordings
From the global village in the age of communication came Deee-Lite. Deee-Lite was both 20 years behind and ahead of their time. This album would be a guilty pleasure, but there is nothing to feel guilty about. They introduced a certain white, suburban 9 year-old to Bootsy Collins and Q-Tip with “Groove Is In the Heart”, a song which is still defiantly joyous 25 years later. Everyone loves it, and those who don’t are lying. “Try Me On, I’m Very You” was the first song that pissed my parents off, and “E.S.P.” was completely over my head. Lady Miss Kier, I do deeply dig. How do you say Deee-Lite?
98) Weezer – Pinkerton
Courtesy of Geffen Records
This is where I must call out some bulls***. If you go to Rolling Stone’s website today and look up the review for this record, you will see that it is rated a five-star masterpiece. I do not disagree; the problem is, they didn’t bother to change the article they originally wrote in 1998. This bit of retconning is shown for the hogwash it is when someone actually reads the review. Writing of “El Scorcho”, the author states that “the song’s infectious chorus proves to be a slim reward,” and says that “Tired of Sex” is “as aimless as the subject’s nightly routine.”
In reality, “Tired of Sex” is one of history’s greatest album openers. Yep, it’s kinda dumb, but rock music is supposed to be dumb. Are “Buddy Holly” or “Undone (The Sweater Song)” super serious artistic statements? “Pink Triangle” and “Across the Sea” are undeniably ranked as nos. 1 and 2 as the best songs ever shouted into the night by a carful of twenty-somethings driving up Highway 17. Do not get confused: This is Weezer’s best record. Ironically, just like the drive home on Highway 17, it was all downhill from here for Weezer, as everything that followed was revoltingly pungent. This (correct) point of view is captured beautifully in a SNL skit that was too accurate to be funny. Leslie Jones FTW.
97) Jackyl – Jackyl
In the throngs of a nation’s obsession with grunge, Jackyl dared to be the raunchiest band with the biggest hair. Jesse James Dupree is an absolutely absurd individual, a prerequisite for the frontman of a band as glorious as Jackyl. The man plays a chainsaw “solo” on stage, in the nude. The band exhausted their entire catalog of quality music on this record, but there is not a single gelding in the bunch. This record is positively loathsome: boobs, beer, and bad behavior are celebrated with joyous disregard for who might be offended. “I Stand Alone” sounds like Guns N’ Roses if Axl didn’t take himself too seriously. “Dirty Little Mind” stands as a rock n’ roll nursery rhyme, guitarist Jimmy Stiff (see?) practically says “neener neener” with his guitar.
Classy.
“Down On Me” (double entendre alert) is another highlight. I confess that “She Loves My Cock” is too much, even as I celebrate the complete chauvinism this record revels in. I absorbed some very uncomfortable moments when my mother and I unwittingly saw this band live together, opening for Aerosmith. That song is so very cringeworthy that it hurts the overall package. Yep, this record will piss your parents off, but isn’t that what it’s all about? Jackyl was so disgusting that this record was banned from a K-Mart in Georgia, so the band set up a stage outside the store and played the record in its entirety. That kinda puts Jackyl in the same league as the Beatles and Rage Against the Machine, right?
96) Ten Foot Pole – Rev
Epitaph Records was, in the mid 90’s, for me, the tastemaker. Ten Foot Pole was preceded into my psyche by Pennywise, NOFX, and the Offspring, but Rev was the perfect record at the perfect time.
Often, “angsty” is used as a pejorative to describe music that angry young men enjoy, but Ten Foot Pole’s angst was wrapped in a rebellious hope. The music was uplifting and exhilarating. The lyrics to “My Wall” hit me right in the gut; they were the truth. Ten Foot Pole had summed up the suburban struggle that we aren’t allowed to complain about. “Old Man” is nostalgic for a time that we never really experienced, only heard about. “Broken Bubble” starts off with jangly guitar and ends with Ten Foot Pole handing you the script for speaking truth to power. Every song on this record is skate punk 101, but there are interesting musical twists and chord changes that send this album onto a different plane (check out “Final Hours” for a perfect example).
Fun fact: Former Dodgers’ reliever Scott Radinsky (credited as Scott Pulmyfinger) is the vocalist and lyricist in Ten Foot Pole. This certainly had no bearing on my appreciation for the band.
95) Pearl Jam – Vs.
It would be silly to go on too long about Pearl Jam. We all feel a familiarity with the “Seattle Sound” narrative and band incest that produced Pearl Jam. Mother Love Bone, Green River, Mudhoney, Red Hot Chili Peppers (a decidedly non-Seattle band) and Soundgarden all boast of having a Pearl Jam member in their ranks, or springing from the same tree. Eddie Vedder and Co. have outlasted all of the other bands that may have been more famous, original or impactful, and become deservedly respected elder statesmen.
Vs. finds them early on, coming off the massive success of Ten and getting a little nastier. While Ten was atmospheric and anthemic, Vs. was weird and heavy. I’m sure there were many articles written about how Pearl Jam was trying to measure up to Nirvana, but that’s both impossible and a misguided take. Pearl Jam shunned MTV, hardly a move of a band that is trying to court stardom, and created a record full of classics. “Animal” was “Evenflow” drunk on whiskey. PJ was kind enough to write the chords to “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town” in the liner notes and inspired 10,000,000 kids to give it a shot. “Rats”, “Rearviewmirror” and “Daughter” are just exactly what you want from Pearl Jam, even if you are sick of “Jeremy”. It would get even weirder with Vitalogy, and then, like Weezer and the Foos before them, it got a bit corny. Vs. is where it all just clicked. They are the mighty Pearl Jam. So mighty, in fact, that their record label has blocked the sharing of their videos.
94) Soul Coughing – El Oso
Soul Coughing vocalist Mike Doughty started off as a music critic. He decided to quit flapping his gums (or dancing his fingers, as it may be) and give it a try, and the results were positively fantastic. I wish I had that in me. Anyway…
“Rolling” is jaunty and haunting simultaneously, huge Casio drones and bass notes mix with a number of beats per minute you’d have to take off running to dance to. “Circles” is a laid-back middle finger to middle management, with one of the coolest guitar riffs (if you can call it that) ever, and a charming music video that I’m pretty sure was exclusive to Cartoon Network. Doughty isn’t a singer and he isn’t a rapper. He’s a guy with a megaphone, expounding outside of city hall, or he’s an unpretentious coffeeshop poet. “Monster Man” calls back to Wings’ Uncle Albert, but sounds like what would have happened if McCartney’s titular character needed to be summoned from the darkness beyond. Just a cool, creative record.
Wonderful.
93) Mothers of Invention – We’re Only In It For the Money
Man, Frank Zappa. We need you bad right now.
Imagine having the temerity, in 1969, to lampoon the Beatles. Furthermore, to appear on The Monkees TV show when the glitterati hipsters were just too cool for that. Frank Zappa did it. He also testified in front of Congress in opposition to Tipper Gore’s PMRC (along with Dee Snider of Twisted Sister) and generally disregarded norms of what music or art was supposed to be… Which is what music and art are supposed to be.
We’re Only In It For the Money is definitely an album that contains music, but it’s really so much more. It’s a blueprint for not giving a f*** and being so good at it that no one can give you any s*** about it. “Who Needs the Peace Corps” contains the lyrics “every town must have a place where phony hippies meet/psychedelic dungeons popping up on every street,” and Zappa takes the piss out of not just the hippies, but the cops, too. “What’s The Ugliest Part of Your Body?“ is a 63-second anthem to the modern American, both in 1969 and 2022. The whole record seems put together in pieces, like the band had a bunch of cool snippets of songs that they weren’t sure what do with, but that is selling Zappa short. He definitely knew what the hell he was doing, and seemed to revel in others not getting it. Frank Zappa was a savant and a prophet. Bow your head.
92) Nirvana – Nevermind
It’s likely that this record has been dissected in ink more than any other on the list. People have been searching for meaning in Kurt Cobain’s lyrics since 1991, and especially since 1994. I tend to believe the vast majority of his lyrics are Melvins-level nonsense, as Cobain stated in so many words, himself, multiple times. That said, I also think Kurdt would and did deeply appreciate that people are spending so much mental energy (see: love) hearing him out.
What can I even say about this record? That maybe I’m rating it too low, based on the sheer cultural power it possesses? Should I talk about the childish-joy-and-primal-scream, therapeutic power of “Lithium”, a song with a chorus consisting of the single word, “yeah”? Maybe Krist Novoselic’s wonderful rendition of the Youngbloods’ “Get Together” to open “Territorial Pissings”? I could point out that, as far as I know, Nevermind was the first record with a deeply hidden track, “Endless, Nameless”, that scared the holy hell out anyone who let the CD play and went about their business. 35 minutes after you thought the record was over, it pummels you with cacophonous stoner metal that stuns you into scrambling around, trying to figure out what that is and where it is coming from. “Drain You” is Nirvana’s best song. The version of “In Bloom” featured on Nevermind is not nearly as sludgy as the Sub-Pop single issued a year earlier, but it is hard to argue that Dave Grohl’s cleaner drumming is not an improvement. “Smell Like Teen Spirit” is Nirvana’s “Stairway”, I could never hear that song again and be perfectly fine, and maybe the ubiquity of that song hurts this album’s rank. It’s hard to explain the nostalgia and connection I, and people of my generation, have with this record, but if you are a member of that generation, you get it. Enough said.
91) Rolling Stones – Sticky Fingers
If anyone was actually paying attention to this list, they would probably already be upset that I ranked Nevermind so low, and now they are really apoplectic.
Not pictured: the functional zipper
Honestly, I wouldn’t disagree with your anger, even though I do. The Stones were in their absolute prime when they put this record out, this the 4th in a string of 5 or 6 records (culminating, according to popular opinion, with Exile on Main Street) on which they absolutely were the world’s best rock n’ roll band. Brian Jones’ (RIP) replacement Mick Taylor kicked the bluesy swagger up to 11, replacing Jones’ experimental psychedelia with pure raunch. The first five tracks are absolute gold: “Brown Sugar” is questionable content in 2022, but in 1971, served as a perfect vehicle for Mick Jagger’s sinewy lasciviousness. “Sway” is the song that people are talking about when they say the Rolling Stones were the darker, grittier side of British rock, especially if you consider that the other side of that coin, the Beatles, were walking down that long and winding road and letting it be. It’s bleak, continuing the Stones’ invocation of the devil that started out as sympathy. “Wild Horses” is pristine, and probably the soundtrack to a thousand weddings. “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” sounds like smuggling drugs into the US from Colombia (Martin Scorsese hears it, too), and is followed by “You Gotta Move”, road-weary and hungover from the decadence it just witnessed. The thing is, after those gems, the album feels a little… long? I choose to believe it is a testament to just how good those first five songs are, there is no way the Stones had it in them to maintain that level of chemical excellence. Sticky Fingers is indulgent, and maybe the last time the Stones weren’t kind of a rooster-strutting singles band. Then again, Keith Richards still walks upright, so maybe there is no level of chemicals that can stop the Stones.
Speaking of indulgence, thanks for indulging me and checking this out. The fact that you care about my opinion makes me feel like Mick Jagger. I hope you’ll come back for the next, what, 8-9 parts? I also hope you’ll share this, even if it is to show others what a fool I am. See you soon, be excellent to each other, and party on, dude.
A Fool Speaks Loudest 