An Open Letter from a Steelers Fan

Everyone who knows me knows I am one of the most die hard Steelers fans alive. That said my fan-dome is today in serious jeopardy. My values come first. The amount of work I have done to combat date rape exactly like what Ben Roethlisberger attempted recently says it all. In college I missed Steelers games for activism, probably while in one of his shirts. His is the only jersey my wife has.

I am ashamed of the number of times I have worn my Ben Rothlisberger jersey in public. If the Steelers don't heavily punish him, I will lose all respect for the organization and the ownership and give up my fan card. I don't know what I'll do then. Maybe I'll stop watching the NFL entirely because I don't think I can pick up another team.

Sadly, I don't know if a 2 game punishment is enough to make me feel like I can still root for the team. It certainly won't let me forgive the man. Let's look at this logically, Michael Vick, suspended for a year plus jail for killing dogs. Big Ben uses Little Ben on an underage drunk girl while his security barred the door and he may get 2 games or... rehab.

Unless Ben joins Womens' organizations and becomes a huge anti-rape-anti-sexual-assault advocate I will never be his fan again, and unless the Rooney family and Mike Tomlin come down on him hard I will never root for the Steelers again.

If it comes to that, I guess my 27 Steelers shirts, 2 superbowl balls, Jack Ham autograph, and multiple terrible towels go up for grabs.

I love football but I love respecting myself and what I stand for more, and ever wearing my Roethlisberger jersey, or a Steelers jersey at this point would be an exercise in self loathing.

I hope that the Steelers organization cuts Roethlisberger soon. I hope they draft a qb and plan for a future without him, and I hope Big Ben decides that real men respect and love women and don't see them as playthings to vaginally bruise in the bathroom.

This is an open letter from a Steelers fan...a Steelers fan that hopes to raise his kids as Steelers fans just like he was raised. However, first I will treat my kids how to treat other people.

Before people tell me I'm wrong and he was let go, remember the DA himself said it was simply because he didn't have enough evidence to criminally try Ben, but that Ben was pretty Morally bankrupt. At this point I'd rather have Plaxico and Michael Vick than Ben. One shot himself and the other hurt dogs. Neither pushed our cultures horrible views on sex.

So until this is sorted out, I will not put on a jersey.

I'll just say Go Pens and Go Penn State and wonder what next year could be like without an NFL Team...

To see what prompted this, here is the latest...

http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=5094224

The sick idiot.
Sexy Bob

So this is clearly the closest thing to a rap you'll ever see me write...
I went on a long walk today and ended up sitting in Laurelhurst park (a park in Portland modeled after Central Park) writing while listening to the Jurassic Five.



This was the result. Read it out loud and it's fun. One of the few long things I written lately that I'm kind of proud of.


Press Repeat

My head is full of words to songs I don't even like
wasted space, compressed beats from another man's mic
all on repeat with a huge play count, the boom box is out for the
count just musical software remains when they dissect my remains,
it contains a brain built from scratch scratch scratched cds
painted with album jackets and sleeves some of which have never
been played since track three, autopsy shows what my compound eyes
see color painted by rhythm and you put the needle on the rings under my eyes.
Second ring down, my greatest one hit, Wonder
if you recognized my fifteen minute burst of fame before you
quit paying attention to my chorus. I never once stopped
listening so DJ bartender, pour us another glass full of pap-art,
punk rock,and soul then throw us out onto the crowded concrete urban street
to roam, Fuck going home, arm and arm we strut to the guitar, drums, and occasioanl trombone, tenor saxaphone. Then all of the sudden we're one once again, you see,
you and I merge to become just me, music cuts out and the song's over
crowd restlessly mills about but I can't hear shit, so alone
All I can hear is the groan of someone try to play
an mp3 on the old seven inch jukebox. And I hear my favorite album
played backwards secret message in my ear, It's time to split, I need someone to talk to like you. Disorder, my ass, that's just a myth.
My split personalities come naturally like Journey at karaoke and make-up with Kiss,
so no matter how many times those damn songs are played,
If I know the words I've always got someone to serenade.
I'm no individual, I'm a population, I'm a team,
I'm a generation, the king and queen. Acoustic, folk, big bands,power chords and bass,
I'm Side A and Side B, I'm a band and my own biggest fan.
None of this has gone ass I planned, but I've loved the beat, always tap my feet,
If I ever get the chance I'll press repeat.



Here's a taste of what was making me def while I was writing.

A Genetic View of Miss America (hosted by Mario Lopez)

We watched the Miss America competition tonight. This was my reaction...


A Genetic Viewing of Miss America

There she is, Miss America
a prize given for liking make up,
taught to pose young,
and getting lucky,
genetically speaking.
Mendel content in his grave
that his pea pod can be used
to explain how women
parading across a Las Vegas
stage In Bathing suits
with rare bodies,
denied by independent assortment,
to most children's wildest dreams,
is going to be a positive influence
on little girls...
......and Darwin chuckles at their stilettos.

Regrets

Regrets

I wish I'd done some drugs, cause I'm too old to start,
I wish I'd had more sex, and had partied in high school,
I wish I'd had more crazy night and more stories to tell,
I wish I could relate to my favorite rock and roll songs,
I wish I'd caused more trouble and raised a bigger ruckus,
I wish I'd broke some windows and gotten in a fight.
and now I'm pushing thirty and my tales are all exaggerations,
I wish I'd gone camping more often and knew how to light a fire,
I wish I'd smoked a few cigarettes to I wouldn't look so boring,
I wish I'd been more impulsive, reacting without thought,
I wish I'd failed a class and even had detention.
Instead I was just a goody goody and I still don't have a job,
so what was it all good for, when to I get my reward?
I don't believe in heaven and no ones keeping score.
I can't believe I'm sitting here in my underwear with regrets,
when the suns out outside with a sinking feeling in my chest.
I've better get moving and start to rock this out,
I may never have wild sex or do drugs but that's not what my best stories
are about.




(I wrote it in the bath tub)

Maybe a kid's story later. Going to go drink tea and finish it and my genetics homework.

Red, White, and Blue Lasso's

So I think before finishing the Cable Knit Commute full zine. I am going to compile a lot of Haikus that I've written into a really tiny booklet. I think they're fun and simple. Anyone can do it, it's a great controlled therapy session. I got the idea a while ago from this book: http://www.haikuyear.com/.




Here's a poem I just wrote while sitting here listening to Neko Case with a touch of a red wine headache. Just before this I ate a cheese steak. Is that necessary knowledge, no, do I like it, yes.




Life is Like Making a Rope

Life is learning how to make a rope,
I learned that in Houston Texas, at the Rodeo,
in the Astro-Hall where livestock, fattening foods,
and crafts were for sale.
The actual show was in the dome with Bill Cosby
as a special guest.
A man in full cowboy get up was selling
handmade ropes, and you even got to help.
What second grader could resist?
I held one end and the man braided
the strands into a patriotic red white and blue
Rope that was around 6 feet long and surprisingly
non-flexible.
I’m sure my parents handed the man a twenty and shook
their heads at the poor quality of their purchase
as I immediately began pretending I was lassoing
a wild bull and pulling it down to the dirt ground.
I wasn’t allowed to have toy guns so I just used my fingers
to stop the bandits from robbing my He-Man fanny pack.
I’ve lost the rope since then, but I’m convinced it’s
A perfect metaphor for life.

After Stanley's rant I decided I needed to post something a little less crazy and I thought it might as well be another year-end list but this time focused on some local flair because Portland is awesome.

Here's a picture of why...this is from Obama's trip here in 2008...



It's also one of the first images that comes up on a web search for Portland.


So here, in no particular order are some awesome Portland bands I've started to listen to in the last year or so (or more)...

First, I have to mention two Portland bands that I listened to before moving to Portland, the Decemberists and the Thermals. Both release great new albums last year and look to become even bigger nationally in 2010. Their back catalogues are amazing as well. Here's some footage of the Thermals singing a Green Day song:



and here of the Decemberists playing REM:




Beyond those two most of these bands are pretty small, so do yourself a favor and check out:

Broadway Calls (Excellent pop-punk with great hooks)

Explode into Colors (the Willamette Weekly's best new band in Portland) do dancy weird shit and should be releasing their first full length soon.

The Taxpayers are folk punk that's available through Quoteunquoterecords.com

Others deserving note are Jared Meese and Horse Feathers. I'm sure I forgot a bunch and this is only a quick post as I rearrange my bookshelf...

Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear THE UNDERWEAR

My good friend Stanley Mathews is updating for the first time in a while. (Go back to the beginning of the blog to learn some more. He's my punk as fuck counterpart, and today he came out of his room bucknaked, waving a bottle of red wine screaming. So I stepped away from my keyboard here and said, go ahead good sir, go ahead.

Sorry about the crass language, I couldn't stop him. Here's what set him off...




WHAT THE FUCK! THE TERRORISTS WIN THE TERRORISTS WIN
UNDERWEAR BOMBERS AFTER SHOE BOMBERS, BAD JAY LENO JOKES COME TRUE.
NO UNDERWEAR ON THE PLAIN, ONLY TIGHTS SO THEY CAN SEE IF YOU'RE PACKING
A CHEMISTRY SET YOU ORDERED OFF OF JIHADISTRUS.GOV/UK. WERE THEY BOXERS, OR BRIEFS,
OR BOXER BRIEFS. TIGHTY WHITIES WITH SECRET COMPARTMENTS.

IS THAT A BOMB IN YOUR POCKET OR ARE YOU JUST HAPPY TO SEE ME.

MAYBE THIS IS WHAT AMERICA NEEDS!
TO SHAKE IT OUT OF ITS ANTT-NUDITY ANTI-SEX BODY NEGATIVE VIEW OF THE WORLD.
MAKE US ALL SHED OUR UNDERWEAR IN PUBLIC AT THE AIRPORT.
YOU HAVE TO BRING YOUR UNDERWEAR IN CLEAR PLASTIC BAGS,
AND LET DOGS SNIFF YOUR DICK ANYWAY.
I CAN'T WAIT TO FLY THE FRIENDLY SKIES AND WATCH
PEOPLE RUB THEIR NEWLY FREED PARTS ON THE AIRLINE SEATS
SECURE THAT THERE'S NO SHOE BOMBER, NO UNDERWEAR BOMBER,
MICHAEL JORDAN LOST HIS HANES SPONSORSHIP
AND I AM FREEBALLING TOWARDS HOMELAND SECURITY.


i AM sTANLEY mATHEWS gOOD nIGHT