Transparent Brings the Pain, Beauty

Transparent gives us Jeffrey Tambor as a woman.  Actually he is not pretending to be a woman, he is pretending to be a guy, who pretends to be a woman.  This is not a black face moment.

When you see the digital ad for Transparent recommended on your Amazon Prime, you think: Tambor, cross dressing, Arrested Development, laughs.  Think again.  This show is not funny.  Transparent is sad.

It is about the pain of wearing your false self, the pain of shedding your false self and then ultimately the pleasure that comes from wearing your new skin.  The primary vehicle for showing this theme is a divorced father of three who likes to wear lady's clothes.  Can you relate to this character?  Yes, everyone has had the same experience, doing something that causes you the pain of standing out and the pain of being different only to find the sweet release of being your true self, of feeling lighter for having done it.

The complimentary characters are equally as unique yet universally relate-able.  You can relate with the middle-aged queer daughter who initiates an interracial three way on psychedelic mushrooms because you've ordered pizza with white sauce.  Sure, it doesn't actually taste better than real pizza but now you know.

Check it out, there's a lot going on in the world; violence in Paris, violence in San Bernadino, 21,000 people dying of starvation everyday but reading about those things doesn't illustrate a life lesson.  You already knew the world was fucked up, the various daily manifestations of that are as uninteresting as they are tragic.  What is interesting is the personal notion that in order to experience pleasure you must experience pain and although something may have been eating at you for a lifetime, it only takes an instant to destroy it.  So smash a printer, wear a dress, try the white sauce.  Whatever you do, don't read the news.

-Locomotive

Fear the (Well-manicured goatee) Beard

When it comes to Brian Sabean my guru tells me I shouldn't hate anyone, it gives them too much power, too much time in my head. But my guru is a pussy. I tried the Zen approach, and it failed miserably. I used to imagine Sabean as a good natured, beer league softball manager. A work-a-day guy who puts in long hours at the job to take care of business and his family. But on game nights He likes to let his proverbial hair down in the parking lot of his local rec league softball field, getting schlitzed on Coors Light and the occasional puff of reefer from his friend Bill, a freelance graphic designer.

There's an interesting mix of players on Brian's team because he's a welcoming man, as long as you have "solid league experience" and no discernible athletic gifts, you're on the team! After-all, the game's not that hard...

Abandoning my beer-league softball narrative of Sabean I have increased my understanding of the man greatly and now can only assume one of two scenarios: A) He is an aging buffoon, trying to rid himself of a festering awareness of his own mortality by signing (himself metaphorically) in the form of a steady stream of aging middle infielders who will show they world they still got it! Or B) He suffered PTSD from Bonds' retirement in 2007, inciting anterograde amnesia which has compelled him to think it is perpetually 2007...Edgar Renteria is an All-Star short-stop for the St. Louis Cardinals, Carlos Beltran (also an All-Star) just hit 33 home runs, drove in 111 and stole 23 bases, Pat Burrell hit 30 home runs, Barry Zito won 16 games, Miguel Tejada hit .296, Aaron Rowand blasted 27 home

runs...and Sabean lost his mind.

If the Giants want to win another World Series (while Tim Lincecum is alive) they have can either fire Sabean, or, save up for a time machine...

-Locomotive

Of Greetings and Goodbyes, And SunChip crumbs

Apologies to our faithful audience (in my case, Murph, and in his case, me) for the eerily similar performance to Plaxico Burress that's been put into the site lately (not to be confused with the '07 version).

Really, like Emilio, we've surely had some great ideas to return to the limelight. Typing 150 words or so and slotting in a hip/ironic picture is often times more difficult than the quadruple deke or rounding up Fulton and the old crew.

For now, just trust that our intentions to write more are pure, and that our next real post has a solid chance to come out before D4: Running Afowl. So until then, maybe write into your neighborhood movie exec to get this baby fast-tracked, or green lit, or what have you:

Coach Bombay (i.e. me) is skating on a frozen pond in slow motion, sort of reflecting on his life like he always does, and then the ice cracks and he falls in. For a second it looks like he's going to drown, but then you see someone extend this hockey stick into the ice-cold water, and the camera zooms up, and it's Charlie (i.e. Charlie Conway, my protégé). He saves me. He's old now and has a beard. And he says in this really gravelly voice "Ducks fly together" and I nod at him and then the team gets back together to play in the Olympics. Then "Whoomp! (There It Is)" starts playing.

How about a slow quack, for old times sake?

When Life Gets You Down... [The Onion]

Stalking Chase: An Admirer on Tracks

Dear Chase Utley,

Thanks for ripping twenty eight homers with your short, jerky swing. Your VORP is like that of John Lennon, there is only one.

It’s time for you to find a Hollywood publicist and a public vice. Spend your nights outside Philly’s finest strip joints with Stephen Jackson, firing automatic weapons into the air, slurping Grey Goose on the rocks and snorting cocaine off Destiny’s backside. Let your hair down Chase, we wanna see your dark side.

The way you flick those wrists makes me wonder if you’re into S&M.

-Locomotive

Favre Faxes Dulcolax Prescription

Quinn Contemplates 'Catching' Professionally

LBMS Book Club

The struggling American economy is slowly eliminating the high school sports landscape, leaving one Pulitzer winner in search of a new game, and a new breed, to exploit. That man is, of course, Pulitzer Prize winning reporter H.G. Bissinger.
Secular religions are fascinating in the devotion and zealousness they breed, and in Oregon, under-eight soccer has its own "rabid" hold over the faithful. H.G. Bissinger, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, enters into the spirit of one of its "most fervent shrines": Cedar Mill, an upper-middle class suburb in the comfortable confines of Northwest Oregon, where the Brockman D.D.S. Tooth Fairies have managed to compile the most smiles and least on-field urine stains in state annals. Indeed, as this breathtaking examination of the town, the team, its coaches, and its young players chronicles, the team, for better and for worse, is portrayed as the town; the communal health and self-image of the latter is minsinterpreted as being linked to the on-field success of the former. The 2007 season, the one Saturday Afternoon Orange Slices recounts, was not one of the Tooth Fairies' best. Bissinger's effect on the community--and the players--was explosive. Written with exaggerated style and unnecessary, borderline libelous, passion, SAOS offers an American snapshot in deeply blurred focus; the picture is not always pretty, but the image is hard to forget.