Mourning sincerity: Why Americans don't care about the victims of mass murderers

Dressed in dark clothing, Steven Kazmierczak walked into a lecture hall at North Illinois University on Thursday and opened fire on a crowd of innocent people. In the moments before he committed suicide, he left five dead and 16 wounded in his wake.

It was an alarming event, a tragic occurrence that has left many wondering what the role of firearms should be on a college campus. More importantly, it is symptomatic of a startling trend: Increasingly, young people have gone on shooting binges at the schools they attend. Even in Spokane, a nearby-Lake City High School boy drove to his former school in the morning hours and sat in his car for an extended period of time. When police finally checked him out, they discovered a weapons cache in the trunk. 

This problem is for real.

And you can think what you will about it. Maybe students should carry guns. Maybe we should raze the conventional schooling system to the ground and implement an an intricate home-schooling system. Maybe the sky really is falling.

It's not my job to pick the best solution. Hell, I don't even have a job where I can pick solutions. But I will tell you this: The way Americans deal with tragedy is disgusting.

It is both natural and appropriate to respond to a tragic situation with emotion. It's OK to cry, to call your mom, to talk to a friend. It's OK to donate money to a victim, or to show your support by giving your time and energy. It's OK to write a legislator about laws that would prevent future destructive behavior. That's fine.

But it's pathetic to act like you care if you are unwilling to act, and care. 

You remember the horrific events of 9/11, and you remember the thousands who died and you remembered (past tense) them by sticking an American flag on your windshield. Some of you remembered (again, past tense) the slain by flying suspiciously obnoxious USA paraphernalia from your moving automobile. 

You only remembered the victims because the flag-fad fizzled and you were only left with a reminder of how shallow you really are.

You're shallow because someone who really cared would have given their money, given their time, they would have given something tangible of themselves. And they would have made a concerted effort to ensure those who were affected by 9/11 knew that someone in Squim, Wash. gave a damn. 

Someone who really cared would not have appended a dorky flag to their Dodge Dakota. Why? Because a message attached to a moving object only says this: I am too afraid to stand up and make a statement. I would prefer that others casually gaze at my half-hearted statements when they drive by.

You remember the heart-wrenching details of Virginia Tech.  A troubled student studying English directed the angst and depression  of his pathetic private life to the unknowing public. He found a gun and he went on a killing spree.

So what did you do? You put a cute "Remember the Hokies" decal on your profile pictures. You did it because you thought you were showing support. But you weren't showing support, instead you were only evidencing your own callowness. "People will see this and think I care, right? I do, care — don't I?" 

You put the decal on your profile, and when the trend died like the innocent VT students, the picture can tumbling off. "I'd rather people know I was at the kegger last week," you thought. 

At Gonzaga, I would estimate that 100s and 100s of students put the aforementioned message on their Facebook accounts. But do you know how many donated to a GU-led fundraising campaign for V-Tech?

You would be appalled.

Less than $500.

This behavior is sad, and it's almost as sickening as what these gunmen have done. It's sad because it's selfish, and it perpetuates empty and insincere behavior. If you truly care about the victims at NIU you wouldn't randomly plunk a "Remember Northern Illinois" picture on your Facebook profile because its meaningless. It's sloppy. And in the end? It's not genuine. It's just a self-centered attempt to manipulate others into believing you care.

If you really care, then care. Do something. You don't need a public stage to fulfill a private goal. That's what these murderers did. 

Do you want to assassinate your own sincerity and credibility?

That's a hot caucus: America and its ongoing bout with political incompetency

I realize I'm re-entering dangerous territory by talking politics again, but I guess I have some things to get off my chest. Some caucus things.

I visited the Washington state precinct caucuses on Saturday. For those ambitious folks out there, I wrote an article for the school paper that is allegedly on-point. So if you don't know what a caucus is, well, please refrain from reproducing offspring in the next decade and then read my piece. 

Anyway, the particular caucus I visited was an accurate reflection of how the rest of the Great Apple State voted Saturday: Obama mashed. It was also a pretty accurate reflection of how American voters operate: very poorly. By and large, everyone at the caucus was really, really confused. 

I know this is old news, but I want to (again) propose that the current political process is designed — whether intentionally or not — to disorientate and, ultimately, exclude. For my last blog I wrote that. For this blog, I lived it.

Before I begin, I have to give credit to the voters my age. We are young and dumb, and we come to these sorts of events overly caffeinated. If selecting a presidential candidate was not at stake — or something — we would mainly just be looking for a member of the opposite to get on. That's what we do. That's what bars are for. 

I'm just sayin'.

 Anyway, a big, old, disabled woman named "Janice" was really excited so many young-dumbies were at the caucus Saturday and remarked that she had not seen a turn-out this high since, like, the Ulysses S. Grant caucus or something.

The point is some of us were there, and that's good. But it's what we did when we were there that wasn't good. And I'm here to say we looked stupid because the process is thoroughly and, perhaps eternally, demented.

Young people, who primarily comprise the "Gonzaga" precinct, began streaming in the Jepson doors at about 12:45 p.m. Chaos immediately ensued. 

Do I have to sign in? OK, I do — but I don't need ID to prove who I am? Do I have to select a candidate on this piece of paper here? OK, turns out I do. Where is my precinct? What is a precinct? Is that like the early stages of being "succinct?" Man, I wish Thomas Hammer Coffee was open right now...

Some poor young girl thought the caucus was "an informational session about the presidential candidates or whatever," which is like saying going to strip club is educational. You learn about it, though it's not really the expressed purpose.

By the time everyone pulled their act together, Janice strolled in aboard her wheelchair and reported several voters were representing the wrong precinct and several more had neglected to endorse a candidate on their voting sheet. And it wasn't even like these people appeared to be imbred knuckledraggers. There was just a bunch of really, really confused Americans. And when Americans get confused, they get bored. And then it's over.

The rest of the proceedings played out predictably enough. Obnoxious political-zealotry abounded. Obama/Hillary rhetoric was spewed. Tin-faced acne-mongers promoted themselves as delegates. And most people my age looked on, as they texted their friends about the bar tab that night for the Gonzaga basketball game.

You know, the stuff that matters.

Primary school

On the eve of Super Tuesday last night, I sat in the family room of my college pad with a housemate. We were talking about the magnitude and excitement of this day, and we pined for the impending political climate. Will Ron Paul finally drop out? Will Barry Obama finally get caught smoking a stress-cig? Will Hillary finally reveal herself as a Fem-bot?

It was Monday, only a day after the Super Bowl, but Tuesday — to us — was full of more intrigue and drama. 

 

And then another, less politically aware roommate, entered the fray. 

"What are you guys talking about?" He asked, innocently enough. We explained we were discussing Super Tuesday, and we said we were excited for the event and we assumed he understood.

"Super Tuesday..." He said with a pause. "Is that like Big Monday? Is it basketball?"

The point here is not to degrade my fellow Americans, or even my fellow housemates. In fact, I want to hold this housemate up as an accurate portrayal of many citizens in the United States: We don't know anything about politics.

Nothing.

And you know what? It might not be our fault.

Do you know what a caucus is? How do Obama and Hillary differ on the "issues"? What are the "issues"? What are delegates? How are candidates elected? What is an "endorsement?" What is the electoral college?

Believe it or not, your humble narrator (me) does know the answers to these questions (Well, mostly enough — that is). I got here via an obsession (and near fetish) for information. I have attacked Slate.com, CNN.com, Salon.com, the New York Times, and the Washington Post (you get the picture) with the paranoid energy of a suspicious ex-boyfriend.

But do you know the answers to these key questions? And if you don't, would you know where to find them? Are the answers readily available?

My point is that, more often than not, politics seems like an exclusive club available only to information-elites. It is a competitive and morally depraved legion, one where information-oneupsmanship runs rampant. You must endure a grueling initiation process, but once you're here, you're family. You're part of the mob. And if you're not one of us, you're one of them.

And what about them? Aren't they cast-off, and forced to politically-starve? Don't these people account for at least three-quarters of our society? Some may be informed, but couldn't they be even more educated? Isn't it our responsibility to offer the basic information? Won't this affect the future of our country? Or our children's country?

The media has a tendency to gloss over the foundation of politics, the nuts-and-bolts, the "yeah, no shit!" information. Why? Because information elites are unwilling to put their political capital on the line by offering remedial information. We see brief, watered-down explanations to some of our questions, but they're still ambiguous, or buried in the paper. 

Bottom line? The important information is shrouded in a cloud of mystery. When it's too difficult to access, we give up. And when we give up, everyone suffers.

So instead of focusing on voting records and "the issues," we start to focus on the personality traits of the candidates. Don't get me wrong, turn on Fox News and chances are great a genuine political report will be airing. Turn over to MSNBC, and perhaps Obama is defending his honor by pointing out he voted against the Iraq War. But are the people who matter most, and know the least, are they watching these shows?

No, no, no. All of a sudden, we are talking about John Edwards' haircut, or Obama's marijuana use. Or Hillary's tears. Or Romney's baby-thirsty Mormonism. How about Huckabee's Chuck Norris? We live in a gossip-culture. The sordid, seemingly unimportant details overshadow what really and truly matters.

And, slowly enough, the poison creeps into the fabric of our society. We all want to get the dirt. 

We get the dirt, and we sleep with the dogs and we get fleas. The fleas fester and we really get nowhere. So the problem remains: There's a big fat elephant at the party, and God knows it isn't campaigning. It's waiting.

I've got a package for you: stimulation!

Valued readers, today we face a crisis. Actually, according to the beloved media, we face a crisis every day. In Spokane, we are mired in a snowstorm that will probably kill every last one of us. That is, after it leaves every man castrated, and every woman and child without access to television or their iPod, or something else equally necessary for survival.

But this crisis is different (they all are). It's a special and unique snowflake. And, no, it doesn't involve the anti-christ who is conveniently cloaked in a man-suit. And it does not have to do with a primary election set in the worst state in the Union. 

I'm talkin' bout stimulation packages.

We are allegedly on a crash-course for a recession, and governmental officials have decided giving the American people gobs of cash is the best way to pull the U.S. out of the looming economic gloom. But I posit the proposed initiative will only hurt us before it helps. Why? Because Americans are just too dumb. 

Let's not get this twisted. I will not try to deliver impassioned rhetoric regarding the economy because I'll admit that my knowledge of the subject probably stops with supply and demand (I told you we're dumb!).

But I know a few things. I know I'm American, and I know how we operate. Sometimes we make really, really stupid choices. We vote more for American Idols than we do for American presidents. We really, really like unprotected and underage sex. We love our American past times: baseball, apple pie and drunk driving. And we hate to make rational financial decisions.

If you give us an inch, we'll take a mile. And that goes for the government, as well. A financial stimulation package is proposed to jump start the economy.  Great, a couple hundo-billion dollars will do the trick — right? Not so fast. The Senate (naturally) wants to tack on billions more dollars for the elderly and working poor so they can buy more Pinochle cards and flannel clothing, respectively. 

Brilliant.

Ahh, yes. America, home of the "stimulation package." Not a form of male enhancement. No, instead, evidence of our government's ongoing bout with mental retardation.

Dave Chappelle did a wonderful skit on his show (I can't link the video because Youtube is tyrannical) about similar monetary compensation (reparations), before he lost his mind and after he realized how illogical American consumerism really is. And although he only offers commentary on minority spending habits, the piece really is a remarkable observation on America as a whole. Chappelle facetiously ponders how blacks would use their financial compensation: on SUVs, watermelon, alcohol, etc. 

But is the rest of our country much different? Isn't irrational consumerism colorblind? 

We want clothing and televisions and shoes and video games other "necessities." We want products that are manufactured overseas and therefore benefit other countries, too. 

Reports estimate the average American would receive between $800 and $1,500, depending on their specific income bracket and the amount of children they have. Since I am relatively financially independent and, therefore, poor, I expect to receive about $900. 

So what to buy? How about a new pair of basketball shorts (the ones I'm currently wearing are made in Indonesia)? Maybe I should upgrade my Nokia phone (Finland)? Oh, I know!  How about a flat-screen TV (unless its a Zenith, pick any Asian country, literally).

For this package to fully experience the fruit of its loins, Americans need to buy locally. This seems like a dim observation, but sometimes simple people need simple directions. If you've had car trouble lately, please go to a local auto shop for repairs. Yes, some of the parts they use are from overseas, but the labor (which is what costs the most) is American (...usually). Use the money to stock up on groceries (from American farms, please). Get ahead on your rent, mortgage or utilities bills. Buy a Dodge Stratus. But hold off on the PSP or boots made of Italian leather. If you need to be impractical, at least buy some Jack Daniels whiskey or something.

You get the picture. Hopefully. 

Most domestic services are married to foreign goods — its almost unavoidable — but buying domestically from a domestic service is better than just purchasing a product from China or Taiwan. The idea here is to spend, and to use the money on our national products. Do not save the money for a rainy day. Your $867.53 check is not helping our slumping economy when its hidden underneath your mattress. 

I understand the idea behind the strategy our noble representatives are trying to implement. And I shouldn't have to repeat it, but I will: Invest in the economy, and hopefully it literally pays off. But in order for it to work, you must spend (although you won't have to ask most of us twice) and you have to buy U.S. products and/or services. 

Here's hoping this blog was as stimulating as your financial package should be.

...Also, I will put my political chops to the test when I blog about Super Tuesday. I know I could offer my thoughts on today's apparently decisive primary in Florida. But I won't. I hate the state that much.

The press pass: behind Gonzaga's Big Monday basketball scene

I covered the Gonzaga men's basketball game last (mid)night to little excitement. You can check out my story here. For those of you who weren't looking for a cure for insomnia, the game was overshadowed by a man who brought a renewed meaning to the chant "drive home safely" and is "selfishly" seeking a milestone 800th win (the Spokesman-Review's John Blanchette's words, though I agree — to a degree). It was truly a devastatingly boring game, and the Zags phoned in  a victory in the closing minutes of the contest, instead of stamping out a convincing win in this, the final tune-up before they face No. 1 ranked Memphis on Saturday.

Since you're probably like me and you don't care about Eddie Sutton, a basketball game played way too late on the Worldwide Leader or any of the other garbage that is attached to what amounts to a meaningless conference game, I will try to give you a glimpse of what happens behind Gonzaga's college basketball scene.

I sat next to scouts last night from the Suns, Raptors and Rockets on press row. I exchanged only a few words with the gentlemen, and nearly lost my ability to communicate (shocking, I know) when a large man with bananas for fingers who was representing the Phoenix Suns asked me for "the first name of that Daye kid's father."

"Uhh... Darin?" I sputtered.

So the suits were apparently there for Austin Daye, who has been a media darling of late. It's probably deserved: his silky jumper, the "upside," the NBA pedigree... it makes sense for the Jay Bilas' of the world (read: those obsessed with potential). And they may have been there for Josh Heytvelt, who disappointingly only managed a handful of points. After the game, I overheard him remark to an unidentified friend in the stands that it "was probably the worst game I've ever played." 

And maybe they were there for Jeremy Pargo, who dished six assists and committed only one turnover. Or maybe it was Matt Bouldin, or maybe the ghost of Adam Morrison. Or maybe they were just looking for a long weekend in tropical Spokane.

Whatever the reason, it almost certainly was not for starting freshman guard Steven Gray, who has flown under the radar of the national media, most of Gonzaga's fan base and even opposing coaches. Eddie Sutton's Dons did not seem prepared for the kid, who dropped a career high 16 points. It wasn't exactly Mayo-esque, but it was impressive. The Dons did not seem to have a answer for his length, explosiveness and basketball IQ.

It may seem like I'm making a big deal over a kid who seems to already have a big future ahead of him. But I'll tell you one thing: Steven Gray is the real deal. I'm a true believer in Daye, and I think he has the potential to mature into one of the best scorers Gonzaga has seen. Once he starts eating, like, hamburgers and lard and the fat off John Bryant's oversized body, I think he'll see his abilities soar. 

For Gray to continue to improve, I think he has little more to do than staying healthy and continuing to work hard. I spoke to him after the game, and he is one of the most approachable guys on the team. I waited for Howie Stalwick and a reporter from the AP to clear out so I could have the chance to talk to him, to level with him on a student-to-student basis. I expected a nervous kid, one who would negotiate the ennui of a post-game interview by relying on the crutch of cliches.

And he did use some of the "one-game-at-a-time" B.S. that has come to define sports-talk. "We weren't looking ahead to Memphis..." Yeah, whatever. 

But I respect that. On this Gonzaga team — on any team coached by a competent leader (Mark Few) — media declarations make for unwanted distractions and bulletin board material (see: New England Patriots). But I was impressed with Gray's composure and the genuine-nature of his words and body language. He made eye contact through the duration of our conversation, and smiled at my questions in between signing autographs. 

Toward the end of the dialogue I had a human-to-human moment with the kid, instead of a journalist-to-human moment:

Me: "So are you nervous to play Memphis next Saturday? You will be starting, right?"

Him: "No... I'm not nervous."

Me: "Really?"

Him: "...Not yet anyway," he admits while still grinning.

Look, if I were him I would have already talked to my pharmacist about prescription drugs for anxiety. The no. 1 team in the nation! He very well could be guarding Derrick Rose or Chris Douglas-Roberts. And as I called his bluff, he handled the situation with moxie.

As a journalist, roboticism runs rampant through the industry. Stories have a format, interviews learn an "arc of progression" in which they are encouraged to ask difficult questions, interviewees have a carefully planned strategy to dodge those questions and readers have a mechanized resistance to reading computerized crap. But Steve was approachable, sincere and polished. 

Here's to hoping he can remain as composed next Saturday.

Tell 'em: Charting the happy decline of the music industry

I have a special place in my (black) heart for really bad music. As a matter of fact, the first CD I ever purchased was Harvey Danger's "Where have all the merrymakers gone" if only to listen to his masterpiece "Flagpole sitta" ad nauseam. Looking back on the financial decision, I probably should have used the $8 to buy a crack pipe or pregnancy test or something just as useful for a 12-year-old.

But Harvey's seminal classic ultimately failed because it was unable to create — or at least sustain — the minimal momentum it had originally conceived. Obviously, we have seen this problem with other one-hit wonders too: the Spice Girls were hot but their music sucked, Chumbawumba's "Tub-thumping" sounds like a distant cousin of the donkey punch and I don't even need a one-liner to embarrass Vanilla Ice. The point is that the music industry — the entertainment industry, really — transforms so often and so dramatically, that artists are learning they must devise innovative and progressive ways to sell their work. Or they go down in history as one-hit wonders.

For journalists, we see them in newspapers, but we also (some of us) read their blogs, look at the pictures they took for their story and watch the occasional video they shot. For movie stars, we see them at the cinema but we're also subjected to their tone-deafness on the airwaves, we laugh with them on Leno and Letterman and we cringe at their futile attempts to produce autobiographies and similar filth.

But where does this leave musicians? They are a lot like the movie stars I already mentioned, but one big problem: music is becoming ubiquitous (if it already wasn't) and it's becoming free. The same cannot for said for (most) newspapers and movies. 

This means musicians need a game plan. For some, they simply blow off the promotional stunts and focus on their passion. But for others — and this is most prevalent in the rap game — the passion is fame, and many hip-hoppers can be found pushing their own clothing lines, appearing in video games and producing really, really bad movies to, ultimately, promote their music.

One particular hoodie has caught my eye, and if YOU! aren't aware of Soulja Boy, well, then, welcome to consciousness. Soulja burst on to the scene months ago, and his music really, really sucks. But there is a curious strategy lurking here — one that our Soulja Boy is probably not aware of — but one he is certainly capitalizing upon. Not only does he have a catchy jingle that even athletes love and adore (predictably so), he has created a literal movement. What's more, thanks to Youtube there are countless remixes available for immediate consumption (as egregiously evidenced by this blog). In effect, Soulja Boy has found a way to unite a myriad of people through a song. In fact, he even unintentionally incorporated Jerry Rice, Spiderman and Dora the Explorer into his campaign.

Wait. Run that back:

Arguably the world's greatest receiver, arguably the world's most bad-ass superhero and arguably the world's most lobotomized cartoon child have been allied on one front? Indeed. Soulja Boy has created an army of followers, a legion of clueless males and females from nearly every demographic eager to dedicate their time and energy to a song so simplistic and demented, Carrot Top is literally in tears as I type these words. Soulja has accessorized himself brilliantly, marketing his product instead of himself, though he has attained personal fame as it was the byproduct of his successful tune. Our Boy's  15 minutes may be running out, but Soulja has stayed way past his welcome.

I knew the song was a hit when it even made it to Spokane. Back in November, the men's basketball team trotted onto the floor and proceeded to ceremonialize a song that celebrates what can best be described as "vengeance," among other favorite past times. Since the song even made it to 509 (ask someone here what a "faux-hawk" is — I dare you), I was convinced it would eventually infect every man, woman and (mostly just) teenager that came within a restraining order's distance of it. We had an epidemic on our hands.

But then I got drunk, and it was still all over the bars. And then I checked Billboard, and it was still atop the charts. And then, I went home and was charged with watching remix after remix (For the record, I felt like "A Clockwork Orange's" Alex during the Ludovico Technique. I've since recovered).

And I've mentioned Youtube at length. Soulja should probably just cut the YT guys a check for a million bucks, and then he can call it good. That's how valuable the site has been to his song. Youtube has become a gold mine for artists from all genres of the music industry because it allows them to post their music videos for free. But I predict we may begin to see some morally-depraved artists begin to brand their songs better and more creatively, exploiting the obvious benefits of the net. We've already heard the ringtones (Crank Dat, incidentally, was wildly downloaded onto phones, too), but perhaps the "dance-move" approach may be pursued more vigorously. Perhaps the remix-strategy perfected by "Crank Dat" on Youtube will become more prevalent. The point is the Internet has allowed you, me, your mom and my mom to be a part of the action. We like being able to re-create a song, or a music video and we like learning how to do the dance moves Michael Jackson once impressed us with. We like toys that we can declare ours: iPods, iMacs and iPhones (and Iraq, Mr. Bush). So by extension, we like popular items that we can give our own creative touch.

In the end, Crank Dat is painfully bad. It's embarrassing. The song itself is leading a long death-march the music industry has been parading in for a little more than a decade. But Soulja Boy's marketing strategy is so intoxicating, we have all been left drunk with bemused joy. For now, the hangover is not in sight.

Trim Boss

Every great ego has an alter-, and mine has apparently made its debut on the Interweb.

Check out trimboss.blogspot.com to read the latest blasphemy and libel regarding yours truly. The blogger, who I will refer to only as Ian A. Nimrod, is a very angry, round man who breast-fed well into his teens. He is also very jealous and seeks his revenge through tawdry attempts at defamation of character.

The blog is obviously poorly written and clearly an insult to humanity. Please read it, so you can be reminded of my verbal superiority. 

Weight... was she a great big fat person

A distraction, I know. But a catchy pun, and a question that apparently has no answer. Let's proceed...

The musing you are about to read has been festering in the recesses of my brain for, well, years. And perhaps it is an age-old rant, or — at best — a tired and misogynistic assault on gender politics.

Whatever:

Kenny George is 360 pounds. And at 7-feet-7-inches tall is the tallest basketball player in the NCAA, although that fact is of little consequence to this posting. Anyway, our boy George probably has a terminal pituitary gland problem and in the coming years will go the way of Gheorge Muresan, the Dodo bird and tamagotchis: gone forever. It's a shame, too, because the man is a spectacle. 

Witness: 

-

and

On the second link, you'll notice Tyler Hansbrough, of North Carolina fame, posterizing our boy George. What's interesting, though, is the size disparity between the two and how emaciated — or diminutive — George makes Hansbrough seem.

Because, according to the Tar Heels' official Web site, Hansbrough is 6-9 250. Or, more relatively, approximately twice my weight (that's a joke, for you haters).

The point to all of this is that we know how much Kenny George weighs because it's information available on UNC-Asheville's official athletic Web site, on Wikipedia and in his team's media guide. Same goes for Hansbrough.

But what about the women? 

On the UNC-Asheville Web site, the UNC-Chapel Hill site and even Gonzaga's official Web site, www.gozags.com, the "weight" listing is MIA from the players' information. Apparently it's more important for the viewing public to know the miscellaneous information included in the player's biography page, though, which includes such gems as "cousins played soccer at the University of Hawaii..." or "National Honor Society" in high school. Please, just don't waste my time.

In this age of "gender-sensitivity," why aren't women afforded the same opportunity to display their weight? It's obviously relevant — every men's college basketball roster I've seen offers the information — and from playing basketball, I can tell you that even a 15 pound difference between two players can make an impact. You would think people would want this information.

But, alas, no. According to Title IX, women deserve the same athletic opportunities as men (and for the record, I agree) but they are not subject to the same rules. They don't include their weight — "because a woman's weight is a touchy subject!" — hell, they don't even play with the same ball (although that is another diatribe).

Look, I'm all for equal chances. I like women. My mom's one. But there needs to be some semblance of consistency. I will admit there are some sports where weight probably isn't a factor, like cross country or track... Great, at gozags.com men's weights are not listed (neither are their heights, for that matter) and neither are the women's. Same goes for soccer, golf (even though it's not a sport) and rowing. 

But this basketball problem is a discouraging manifestation of contrasting principles, especially in the college ranks.

In the REAL world of women's professional basketball, the WNBA, we know Sue Bird weighs 150 lbs and center Janell Burse rings in at 199 (www.wnba.com/storm/roster/). 

Why not hold college athletes to the same standard? 

MEdia

You have arrived at the br0ssbl0g. If you don't know what it is by now, or who writes it — congratulations. You are as dumb as half of America's population.

Now, please do us all a favor and turn off the Dancing with the Stars, put on your Boston Red Sox baseball hat and introduce your reproductive organ to the business end of an industrial strength vacuum cleaner. Trust me, it's for the best.

...So that felt great. There is something about an out-of-line and undirected insult that really gives me an exhilarating sense of belonging. Anyhow, I guess I'm probably a sociopath.

While I have your attention, I might as well cut to the chase. And I will admit that divulging my "mission statement" is clunky and sort of presumptuous. No matter: My vision for this blog is that after reading it, you will feel a little worse about yourself. And after you think about how bad you are, you'll enter a deep and dark depression. And while you're in that depression, your brain will have its own New Deal (if you will) and then you'll make improvements and someday, maybe MAYBE you will be as impressive as me.

Man, this is great.

On a serious note, I will try to share with the free world my thoughts and commentary on politics, sports, popular culture, music and youtube. Yes, youtube. Occasionally I'll post links, or pictures or something else. But what I REALLY want to do, and what I'm REALLY good at is making fun of people and telling stories. 

So that's what I'll do.

Stay posted...