World of B

Three years ago, Showcase Magazine asked me to write an essay about March Madness. Below is what I wrote. It was also posted on this site.

Whenever people ask how it all started, my reply is always the same: “I just wanted to win.”

I had never won a March Madness bracket before. I’d followed college hoops on the periphery, and every single year I filled out a bracket and entered a pool. But I never won — not in high school, college or at the office — and so last year I decided I’d had enough. Enough losing.

Research took over my life. I purchased a supplemental college basketball channel, subscribed to magazines, pored through websites, calculated and adjusted for each team’s difficulty of schedule, even custom-created a spreadsheet intended to cross-analyze teams in different conferences. I was a man possessed — even taking a few “sick” days — but when I finally submitted my completed bracket, I knew I had it in the bag.

As you now know, I did win my office pool, comfortably beating the runner-up/secretary Esther Coughlin. I’ll never forget the pathetic look on her face as I celebrated my well-deserved victory with some aggressive taunting. Talk about sour grapes.

I am not ashamed to say the victory was the biggest accomplishment of my life.

Things changed pretty quickly after my victory was announced to the media. There was a parade, autograph sessions, first-pitch-throwing at the ballgame, and, eventually, a state holiday named in my honor. As I shook hands with the governor that fateful day, our wide smiles beaming toward the dozens of flashbulbs, I knew my life would never be the same.

The endorsements piled up rather quickly. I did commercials for Herberger’s, New Balance, Office Max, Buick…I can’t even remember them all. My point is, the abundance of commercial work was the main catalyst in my abrupt move to Hollywood.

It was there everything changed.

I still remember when I first saw Rachel Bilson: I was at a Halloween party for some hotshot director of a Wite-Out commercial who was trying to get me to appear in his next ad. I wouldn’t have been caught dead hawking that third-rate product, but the guy promised celebrity appearances (beyond just myself) and unlimited sushi, so I figured I’d stop by before moving on to the A-list soirees.

So Rachel walks in, I walk over, a few words are exchanged, and by the time I’ve detailed my strategy behind choosing Bradley to upset Pitt in the quarterfinals, we’re completely in love. It was amazing. Like a truckload of firecrackers had just been set off in a closet full of explosives inside a house laced with kerosene. I’m talking serious sparks. I don’t remember ever enjoying life more.

Rach and I were inseparable. She was by my side for the spreadsheet seminars, the talk show circuit, the bracket lectures at USC, the data analysis roundtables, the dinner at The White House.

Life was a perpetual whirlwind. I had every A-list director in town hounding me about doing movies. I was mauled relentlessly by the paparazzi. My agent had her own agent. My posse had their own posses. It was pure pandemonium, and Rach and I were basking in the fame.

We could have been happy. We should have been happy.

I’ll admit, most of the eventual demise was my fault. As she stated in her recent Us Weekly interview, she was entirely faithful throughout our relationship.

As any internationally-renowned celebrity can attest, with fame comes groupies. I loved Rachel more than words can express, but I got careless and selfish, and the deplorable urges got the best of me. After the groupies — once enthralled by my bracket genius but eventually stung with rejection — spread news of my infidelity to the gossip blogs, the relationship took a nosedive. Rachel left me, allegedly striking up a rebound with that jerk from Scrubs.

Media outlets blame my resultant two-week “bender” (as People called it) on the break-up. I won’t argue that. What with all the pressures surrounding me, I needed to cool off. My original intention was to take a few weeks to relax with my posse. Simple as that.

However, while pure intentions are noble indeed, your actions can sometimes betray you. That is how I justify the fistfight with that homeless guy, and the numerous paparazzi flip-outs, and the time I choked that Burger King employee through the drive-thru window, and the arrest-inducing sucker-punch of that jerk from Scrubs at the New Year’s Eve party I’d snuck into.

After posting bail, I called an emergency strategy session with my PR agent. It was time to get back to basics, she said, time to return to my roots. We forged ahead with a campaign refocusing on my office pool victory. I offered to counsel bracket competitors, analyze spreadsheets, create a scheduling metric nearly identical to the one that helped me mop the floor with Esther the year before…anything. I called everyone I knew.

Sadly, I received no response. Zilch. It seemed I’d overstayed my welcome in Hollywood, and when my expense of living collided with my sudden lack of income, I was quickly out of money. There went the groupies, there went the posse. I finally knew what Hammer felt like.

When a last-ditch text message to my comrade Seacrest went unanswered, I finally knew the dream was over. I was broke and desperate, and thus agreed to the invitation extended by my mother to move back home.

We have fun together, Mom and me, and she helps me in times of need. As we were in the middle of our pilates exercises yesterday, I mentioned that a magazine had recently asked me to pen an article about the unforeseen dangers of office pools. She slowly dropped her chubby arm, looked up at me and said only, “tell them your story.”

So I did.

Let us now turn our attention to young Bryce Harper, the subject of an SI feature last year that deemed him baseball’s Bill Brasky, a hitting savant of the highest order. He’s nine feet tall, hits prodigious bombs despite using a Super Rope for a bat, picks off runners who aren’t even on base and also coaches both first and third base simultaneously.

Though Harper was essentially guaranteed to be the top pick in the upcoming 2010 draft even before completing his senior season, he decided to finish high school early (completing his Good Enough Degree this past winter) and enrolled at Southern Nevada University. Their season is well underway, which makes this an appropriate time to see how The Future Greatest Player Ever is faring in his freshman year.

The verdict: really, really well. He’s currently sporting a ridonkulous 1.380 OPS with 8 homers and 11 doubles in just 24 games. This from a 17-year-old, an age where the rest of us yokels spent time toeing pebbles with our used cleats in all-dirt infields during the tenth pitching change of a 14-11 contest watched by only our moms and a few homeless people who wandered over from a nearby bus stop. Safe to say this kid seems worth the hype.

It’s no wonder the locals have taken to wrenching his sweat-soaked undershirts and using the perspiration for holy water. It’s Bryce Harper’s world, people; the rest of us are just paying rent.

So that she could move smoothly from one burger station to another, Ray had a posse of bodyguards clearing her path.

The above sentence is from the recent New York Times Magazine article about the mind-blowing reality that chefs — and I use that term loosely — are now full-fledged celebrities.

As a fan of both “Top Chef” and certain Food Network shows, I’m complicit in this curious trend, even though I couldn’t possibly care less about the preparing and eating of food[*]. I realize this makes no sense, and I have no justification for my actions.

[*]One conversation topic my friends and I have bandied about: if there were a pill you could take as a food substitute that provides the same nutritional value as a standard meal at a comparable cost, therefore you lose the pleasure of taste but gain the time in preparation/clean-up, would you take it? How many times out of the 21 typical meals in a week? My answer is 21. Food makes no sense to me.

The entire article is highly recommended, if for no other reason than reading the part where the author bestows a most hilarious nickname upon Guy Fieri: Cuisinart Liberace. Cue spit-take.

The creators of the outstanding series “The Wire” are back with a new show called “Treme,” set in New Orleans a few months after Hurricane Katrina and premiering on HBO next month. Here is the trailer, which is engaging even though it reveals basically nothing about the plot:

I don’t have HBO and thus will have to delay my obsessive watching of the sure-to-be-tremendous “Treme” until it is released on DVD.

I tried to add it to my queue, but apparently that is not possible for shows that haven’t even begun airing yet. Disappointing.

The New York Post has reported that a woman featured as the geese-feeding inspiration of Jon Favreau’s character in the abominable film Couple’s Retreat is suing because she wasn’t aware her near-naked photo would be used in such an unsavory way. Yes, this is actually happening.

I’ll let The Awl take it from here:

Yes, it’s true! Every scantily-clad model who is photographed tugging suggestively at her bikini bottom only imagines her picture being used in the most wholesome of manners, perhaps being taped on the chalkboard of a Kindergarten to illustrate the concept of summer, or placed in the locker room of a women’s fitness center to provide inspiration. The idea that a swimsuit picture might be used as a prop for a spank session—and by a fat, elderly person at that—is almost too horrible to contemplate.

We laugh, but I’d be tempted to sue if I were associated with that movie, too.

I know the following has been posted over on Deadspin, but a feat such as this demands embedding. Watch as a 5′11″ high school basketball player jumps over a 6′6″ opponent to throw down an alley-oop. Since I am also 5′11″ and just tripped over the edging that separates my hardwood floor from the carpet, it’s safe to say the abilities of the superathlete youths of today continue to terrify me.

Bonus: it’s nice to see that kids are still pulling off the old “I’m going to celebrate by pretending to be angry” reaction. A classic move.

You may recall a previous post on this site detailing the neverending hilarity of old people complaining about these goddamn kids today. Such geriatric rants are one of my favorite pet peeves on a number of levels, mostly for their combination of ignorance and misplaced fear. Just a tour de force of insanity.

(Truth be told, I am looking forward to old age so I can follow suit and gripe about B. Jr’s jetpack and robot maid as evidence of the demise of a once-great society.)

One brilliant recent example is from a Star Tribune columnist who brings the crazy on the reg, Katherine Kersten. Take a gander at this snippet of her column, devoted to proving that the younger generation’s reliance on digital media is making them all stupid:

Bertonneau writes that in his film studies courses, supposedly “media-savvy” students struggle to follow the plots of classic movies like “The Maltese Falcon,” which audiences of 70 years ago easily understood and enjoyed. Many students, he says, are confused by a straightforward scene in that film in which Humphrey Bogart tricks a rival. Not only do the kids fail to understand the trick — they can’t even tell the good guys from the bad guys, or grasp the hero’s motives.

If this isn’t the most desperate attempt of all time to complain about kids, I don’t know what is. They don’t even appreciate our movies!

For the record, I’ve seen “The Maltese Falcon” and was underwhelmed. But then, I spend most of my time sexting and Facebooking, so my opinion probably isn’t valid.

Your must-watch videos of the weekend include:

(1) Twitter: The Criterion Collection. As explained on the site, “We asked some of our friends to film their favorite tweets. We didn’t care how they did it. They could read it. They could act it. They could do it with puppets. Whatever they wanted. The only rules were it had to be a tweet written by someone else and it had to contain the entire tweet and nothing but the tweet.”

The concept, the execution…genius. Do yourself a favor and watch the entire thing. Fellow humorist wanna-bes, prepare to seethe with feelings of inadequacy.

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(2) The top 20 5-second films, most of which are charming and hilarious. Once again, killer creativity.

“Last Anchor Standing” is my personal favorite, mostly because it plays off a joke first introduced on “Mr. Show” many years ago.

Apologies for the lack of content this week, friends. Fending off this impending unemployment-related panic attack has become quite the time-suck. But let’s move on. Here are a few links worth your while.

This week in Grandparent-Killing News: the Swiss government is introducing condoms made for 12- to 14-year-old kids. Which means kids born in 1998 are now having sex. We are so old.

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I am required by my self-written mancrush contract to link to any interview with Dave Eggers. So, here. Mancrush status: intact.

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I found myself watching “Gossip Girl” this past week (shut up) and was appalled — appalled I say! — at the ridiculousness of the show. I’ll allow Gabe to provide the gory details. It’s safe to say I’m done with “Gossip Girl.”

We have too little time left on earth to spend it watching shows like this. Instead, I shall devote my free time to re-watching Arrested Development.

Companies of the world: are you tired of a bunch of stupid unemployed slackers constantly submitting their resumes and completing applications in the hopes of working for your vaunted organization?

If so, have I got the solution for you: place an article on your Careers page publicizing your implementation of this nifty little application:

Japanese phone maker KDDI has developed a mobile phone that analyzes users’ movements, beaming that information back to the corporate office.

[…]

Specialized software can identify several distinct movements, including walking, stair-climbing, and even cleaning. On-the-job slackers, the jig is up.

The system employs the accelerometers that are now standard in many mobile handsets to determine what sort of tasks workers are performing. And it doesn’t just identify broad categories of movements; the software can identify if a cleaning worker is scrubbing, sweeping, or even bending and lifting to empty a trash bin.

Combine this device with a robust internet-tracking system, and you have potentially made every prospective employee on the planet hate your Orwellian-loving guts. Success! That oughta take care of all that time-consuming employee demand.

You are welcome.

I’m not sure if you’re aware, but apparently the professional association that makes motion pictures will be hosting its annual awards dinner tonight, in which trophies are given out for excellence in various categories.

The association reportedly has this weird tradition in which the award winners are allowed to take the stage and publicly thank a bunch of people for their help or support or whatever. Obviously, no one on the planet could give a shit about the content of these speeches, but since most of the award recipients are former drama majors and misleadingly believe their day job of acting like different people makes them more interesting, they just drone on and on and on for insufferable time lengths, sometimes even crying?

It’s embarrassing, really, and of course this dinner and these awful speeches are nothing any of us outside the industry actually care about, but word is on the street that the association will actually be recording this orgy of rehearsed gratitude and fake applause and they think people will actually watch it on TV. Now I’ve heard of everything.

In honor of this celebration of inflated self-importance, offensively expensive clothing and a sad amount of prying into the lives of people we don’t know and never will and are likely not interesting anyway, I have listed my 12 favorite movies of 2009.

I’ve still not seen Precious or Crazy Heart, so the list isn’t complete, but this weekend marks the statute of limitations on discussing movies from 2009 (unless you’re the MTV Movie Awards, which typically air 18-24 months after year end), so it was now or never. You’re getting now.

Feel free to add in your critiques or favorites in the comments, though both you and I know you won’t.

74. Avatar. My brain tried to sue James Cameron for first-degree assault. I’m still sticking to “in five years, we’re going to be ashamed for liking this movie so much.” We shall see.

12. Anvil. A real-life This Is Spinal Tap that is both depressing and uplifting, and thankfully more of the latter. Good times.

11. Up. Animated movies typically have to be transcendent for me to fall in love with them, and Up fell just short. Incredibly inventive story, though.

10. Michael Jackson’s This Is It. Worth seeing just to witness how lucid Jackson was in his final days.

9. Sugar. Well-researched indie drama about minor-league baseball = a movie after my heart. One of the better sports movies in recent years.

8. District 9. Making a sci-fi flick about aliens battling humans is a dicey proposition, but this one pulled it off by scrubbing the script clean of cliches. The third act was a little too shoot-’em-up for me, but still an intense movie worth a rental.

7. Up in the Air. Smart dialogue and interesting premise, but a few too many holes/shortcuts in the story to be a classic. George Clooney totally nailed the role of “George Clooney.”

6. The Cove. A documentary edited with the intensity of a political drama. Worth seeing if only to debate the implications and fairness of Americans pushing their values on a different culture.

5. In the Loop. Saw this smart, fast-moving, tough-t0-keep-up British political satire a long time ago. I’ve forgotten most of the plot intricacies, but I know I enjoyed every last second of the movie.

4. An Education. A subtle telling of the common “young girl falls for an older man” story. Great script, but not a ton of action. I loved it, but I can begrudgingly admit others might be underwhelmed.

3. Fantastic Mr. Fox. Somehow more human than most of Wes Anderson’s other movies. Funny, clever and a helluva lot of fun to watch.

2. The Hurt Locker. Intense and confusing; exactly how war movies are supposed to feel. This one will stick with you for a while.

1. Inglourious Basterds. Crazy story, tons of action, chockfull of killer dialogue. Quintessential Quentin.

This latest catfight between Simmons and Olbermann has been quite a bit of fun, yes? It’s not every day you see two well-known media members engage in such an overt debate while somehow each making absolutely zero salient points.

After Simmons’s asinine article comparing Tiger Woods’s situation to Muhammed Ali’s comeback in 1970 (“sure Ali had struggles considering he was a draft-dodging outspoken black man in the heat of the Civil Rights era, but Tiger has Us Weekly in his grill 24/7!”), Olbermann disparaged the column and added:

“I am again left to marvel how somebody can rise to a fairly prominent media position with no discernible insight or talent, save for an apparent ability to mix up a vast bowl of word salad very quickly.”

Olbermann, you have already won the lifetime achievement award for “Most Hilariously Over-Dramatic Rants.” The trophy is sitting on your mantel. No one is taking that from you, so please, tone it down. Even Liza Minnelli thinks you’re too emotional.

But then! Just when you thought Olbermann was the shoo-in loser of this adorable spat, Simmons shot back — via Twitter, natch — with:

“KO, please know the feeling is mutual. You’re my worst case scenario for my career in 12 yrs: a pious, unlikable blowhard who lives alone.”

Oof. He almost made a point there, but Simmons sealed his “F” in debate by ending his zinger with “ha ha, you’re single!” I’m not  sure you can come up with a less relevant point. Why not finish up by calling him ugly?

After about six seconds of consideration, I hereby award both these whiners 0 total points. Fellas, for the sake of your bruised reputations and our sanity, please end this debate now.

Was it just me, or did “The Office” bring the pain this week? I’ve made public my growing disenchantment with the show’s eye-rolling circus antics the past couple seasons, but this one seemed to work because the nerve-racking situation at hand led to naturally occurring freak-out sessions. Whatever the reason, I was rolling in laughter throughout. Best episode I’ve seen in a long, long time.

In honor of Cecilia Halpert, allow me to make a cross-sitcom reference and present the greatest chart in the history of sitcom charts:

Quote of the week: “Jesus was a Socialist, and you like him.” This guy laughs in the face at those wieners who are all “never talk religion or politics.” I wish I possessed his bravery, but alas, I enjoy friendship and getting along with people.

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Speaking of subjects guaranteed to get fists-a-clenching: a recent study from a psychologist concluded that liberals and atheists have higher IQs. Apparently god-disbelieving hippies are more evolved than others. This strikes me as a savvy new form of psychological terrorism: release an undeniably controversial study and sit back while people around the world fight to the death over it. Pretty genius, really.

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Recommended: a long, informative story about the David Letterman extortion saga. Man, women love them some Letterman. It’s like I always say, tiny glasses + gap toof + rampant pen flipping = ladies on the jock. It’s an equation as old as time.

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I implore you to check out this ingenious photo over at defective yeti. My favorite thing of the week, by far.

So many great photos of the Vancouver Olympics over at boston.com’s “Big Picture” photoblog. This one is my favorite:

This seems like the perfect photo to show to an alien who has just landed on earth and threatened to invade our planet.

“Invade if you must, Alien, but you should first look at this photographic evidence of the magnificent physical capacity of human beings. We possess gravity-defying abilities of which you can only dream.”

(NOTE: this only applies to aliens who are just *slightly* greater physical specimen than us, have no access to any weaponry, and fail to grasp a fundamental understanding of misleading camera angles.)