Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Jersey Boys Part 3: Return of the Man-Children

(The End Draws Near)

The existence of such fairweather fans, while not forgiveable, is understandable. Why watch a struggling sports franchise when you could be enjoying your next door neighbor's star-making appearance on "Cops"? What is utterly incomprehensible to me, however, is how a so-called adult could willingly rock the uniform of a team he is not a part of while watching a sport he doesn't play.

There are t-shirts, hats, sweatshirts, sweatpants and a myriad of other options that display your team's emblem, sir. These items politely showcase your affection while still conveying that whole "grown-up" vibe that everybody seems so keen on these days. Give it a shot. You might find yourself looking remotely employable as a result.

The addition of these jersey boys to any social setting is much akin to the addition of the Ewoks in "Return of the Jedi"; although they're intended to be endearing, they're actually just really, really annoying. Children love Ewoks. And jerseys. And that's ok, because they don't know any better. Imagine if one of your friends told you that they realized as they got older that "Jedi" was their favorite "Star Wars" installment because of the Ewoks. How would you view your friend after that kind of comment?

Anthony Kiedis wears a Lakers jersey to games. Jack Nicholson doesn't. Case closed, amigos.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Jersey Boys Part 2: The Bandwagon Strikes Back

(Our Epic Saga Continues)

So here we have morons of every shape, size and color sporting a specific piece of athletic wear dyed in regal purple and brilliant gold. Although their surnames all differ, the handle on the back reliably reads, "Bryant"; the 2 and the 4 displayed prominently just below are also a given. Are they diehards? Kobe cultists? Over-enthusiastic supporters of the mesh tank-top? Our sideline reporter Amy Winehouse says no, no, no... then nods off in a junk-induced tv time-out.

What they are, in fact, are members of the Lakers Playoff Bandwagon, which unlike migratory birds, cannot be counted upon each spring. Their presence is as erratic as their gameday behavior at the local watering hole, and about as enjoyable to experience as a kick in the mouth with a golf shoe. You'll know them from true Laker fans when you see them, and you'll probably hear them calling Pau Gasol, "Paul" before that. These are the same residents of this fine city of angles that have no problem rooting for USC football and UCLA basketball simultaneously, because you can't have a favorite college team if you never went to one. These are the "proud" fans at Dodger stadium who throw beers at fathers and sons who happen to be wearing the visiting team's hat. They are, besides their beloved Kobe Bryant (who demanded to be moved so much and so often last summer that some people mistook him for Al Davis), the real reason why fans in every NBA city learn the "Beat L.A." chant at birth.

But never fear, faithful Laker supporters. Their joy, like their fanaticism, is fleeting. For how can you appreciate the success of a team if you've never experienced the sorrow of years past?
How do you rejoice over Robert Horry or Derek Fisher's three pointers if you've never witnessed a Van Exel brick? How do you delight in the grace of Pau Gasol when you've never cringed at the dreaded Divac flop? How can you chant "Kobe" when you've never cursed Kwame?

You cannot. Anyone who endured the Del Harris years will tell you that. So we will have our memories of the good, the bad, and the Vlade, and they will have their sleeveless shirts.

Jersey Boys

(A Bigmouth Special Report/Scintillating Sociological Discussion in Four Parts)

On a recent trip to Baja, my friends and I delighted each other by 1) Purchasing wrestling masks
2) Passing out Otter Pops to vendors as we waited at the border ('tis better to give, people, and infinitely more amusing,) and 3) Laughing our asses off at the Grownups Gone Wild shenanigans witnessed at the world famous Papas N Beer cantina in Ensenada. (Big Mouth Note: If your girlfriend goes on one of those 3 day cruises to Mexico, break up with her before she leaves. It'll save you both a LOT of trouble.)

My laughter came to a grinding halt, however, when I realized that 97% of the Sir Perv-a-lots in attendance at that god-awfully entertaining establishment were rocking Lakers jerseys and/or Dodger hats. I was initially perplexed as to the lack of Padres paraphernalia, given the proximity to San Diego, until I realized that all those idiots were probably attending a home game for said team in said city.

Then last night, while I was at the gym (rare occurence alert!) sweating my bald little brains out (everyday occurence alert!), I noticed many a meathead, broseph, and dude-brah sporting the legendary purple and gold as well. Now perhaps, beloved Big Mouth enthusiast, none of this strikes you as odd in the least. Fair enough. But to me this brings about two very disturbing trends, which will be discussed in a four-part post-ravaganza.

The bandwagon has rolled back into Los Angeles, and a bunch of neolithic man-children are celebrating it's arrival in uniforms for a sport they don't play.

Friday, April 4, 2008

I Love Dick

It is safe to say, dear reader, that I am a rather complicated man. One would only have to peruse the menagerie of topics and obsessions contained within these digital pages to figure that out. But the human dichotomy that is your narrator never gets weirder than this: Of all the lovable rogues in this strange and wondrous world of ours, none has a softer spot in my heart than the modern Darth Vader himself. Ladies and gentlemen, I am in love with Dick Cheney.

It sounds insane, I know. How could he, you ask yourself, and you would have every right. How could I indeed. Me, a Bush-hating, hemorrhaging-heart liberal whose brain has nearly blown a gasket after the last eight years of lies, war, torture, wire-tapping and other imperial nonsense of which Dick is the primary architect. But hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, and seeing as how I was previously obsessed with Saddam Hussein ( and Genghis Khan before that), it's pretty clear that I've got a thing for the bad boys.

Because if you play helpful co-dependant to Dick's abusive tyrant, he comes out looking like a badass. Let's review. He's had four heart attacks and is still alive. He talks in a kind of drunken Donald Duck voice where the first syllables of any answer he gives go "whah, whah whaaaaah". He was evacuated before the president on 9/11. The place to which they evacuated him is some kind of secret bunker that I'm fairly sure has a stripper pole and a bevy of flat screen tv's that show old John Wayne movies on a continuous loop. When told recently that 85% of the country currently opposed the war, his answer was, "So?" And finally, HE SHOT A GUY IN THE FACE, and THE GUY APOLOGIZED for HIS FACE being in the way of CHENEY'S GUN. The guy makes Chuck Liddell look like a Backstreet Boy. He should change his name to Dick Dreamy. Seriously.

So as happy as I am that Governor Bush and his cronies will be off drinking near-beer and snapping towels at each other far and away from our country's seat of power, I'm honestly gonna miss old Dick. Because the villain is always cooler than the hero, and Cheney is as skull-numbingly stone cold eveeeeeeel as we'll ever get in the White House. I guess I'll have to find a rebound dictator to help me get over it. Anybody have Kim Jong Il's number?