Ok, here's the fool-proof plan for college football conference realignment/defection:
The ACC
Well, it's going to definitely be:
Florida State
Virginia
Clemson
N.C. State
Wake Forest
Maryland
Duke
Georgia Tech
North Carolina
Miami
Virginia Tech
Which gives them a conference the is decidely on or near the Atlantic coast. The southeastern Atlanic coast. But only 11 teams. They need a 12th to stage a conference championship. There's talk of them going after and getting Boston College, but, aside from their rivalry with Miami, that doesn't really make sense. So I give the nod to South Florida, an up and comer, who will be the doormat of this league for a few years, but has a solid program, and honestly, who can't compete in football with Duke?
So it ends up like this:
Florida State
Virginia
Clemson
N.C. State
Wake Forest
Maryland
Duke
Georgia Tech
North Carolina
Miami
Virginia Tech
South Florida (Boston College)
Next up, The Big East
They're in trouble. Big trouble. They lose most of their football tradition and power in Va. Tech and Miami. And Temple is dropping football. They will look like this:
Boston College
Pitt
Rutgers
Syracuse
UConn
West Virginia
Temple
But help is rumored to be on the way. Cincinnati and Louisville will be plucked from Conference USA. Why not get one more team, make it a nice 9, so you get four home/away games each season? They are rumored to be looking at South Florida or Central Florida, but I think they're overlooking the most logical fit. Marshall would give them a good program, a natural rival for West Virginia, and a more logical geographic fit. If BC does leave, then snatch one of the Florida schools. So here it is, the new Big East:
Boston College (South Florida/Central Florida)
Pittsburgh
Rutgers
Syracuse
UConn
West Virginia
Marshall
Louisville
Cincinnati
Ok, now to the major conferences that aren't in trouble, but could use all of this crazyness to strengthen themselves
The Big 12
They're fine. They're fine except the perennial joke of the league, Baylor, is now more than just a joke, it's a liability. Drop them like a hot potato. Try to get Arkansas from the SEC, fail and then realize that if you got Colorado's natural rival, it would make your league even better. You go from this:
Oklahoma
Oklahoma State
Texas
Texas A&M
Texas Tech
Nebraska
Kansas
Kansas State
Iowa State
Mizzou
Colorado
Baylor
To:
Oklahoma
Oklahoma State
Texas
Texas A&M
Texas Tech
Nebraska
Kansas
Kansas State
Iowa State
Mizzou
Colorado
Colorado State
Get that lone private school out of there and add another big state school. The conference will instantly be better.
Now, the major all the sports writers forget about, the glorious PAC-10.
Currently:
USC
UCLA
Stanford
Cal
Arizona
Arizona State
Washington
Washington State
Oregon
Oregon State
Take advantage of the chaos, and get yourself up to twelve so you can have a title game. Now, some people would say take Utah and BYU, but I think you're going too far east. What about UNLV and Nevada-Reno? Sure, maybe BYU and Utah have better programs (definitely than Reno), but what about getting the large and growing Nevada market. And think of how your fans would love to go to a PAC-12 championship game in Las Vegas. The choice is obvious.
So, the new PAC-12:
USC
UCLA
Stanford
Cal
Arizona
Arizona State
Washington
Washington State
Oregon
Oregon State
UNLV
Nevada-Reno
The Big Ten and the SEC can go fuck themselves and stay exactly the same.
Now for the confusing world of the little guys.
Conference USA
The biggest pretenders to major conferencedom have just had their heart ripped out. They lose Cincinnati, Louisville and South Florida, and that's just in football. Thinking themselves invulnerable, the MWC goes after TCU, and the WAC goes after Houston, Tulane and TCU. But then something that makes sense happens. TCU, Tulane, Memphis and Houston along with the now orphaned Baylor, cut a deal with Tulsa, SMU, Rice, UTEP and Louisiana Tech from the WAC. A new conference is born. Two more teams are needed to stage a conference championship, and North Texas and Louisiana-Lafayette, two of the better Sun Belt teams glady fill that need. The new South West Conference is born. A sensible, geographically coherent conference of fair football schools and good basketball schools.
The (New) South West Conference:
TCU
Tulane
Memphis
Houston
SMU
Louisiana Tech
Tulsa
UTEP
Rice
Baylor
North Texas
Louisiana-Lafayette
The Sun Belt Conference
They just got robbed, but it is a blessing in disguise. The bastard children from Conference USA, Southern Miss, UAB and East Carolina fit in nicely to the holes left by North Texas and LA-Lafayette leaving. Troy State comes on board next year, further strengthening them. And they use all of this to talk Central Florida out of its crazy positioning in the MAC. The Sun Belt loses Idaho and Utah State (I'll get to how in a second), but athletic directors conference-wide give a sigh of relief and travel budgets suddenly look big enough to pay for road trips. They also add Florida A&M when they move to division I-A football. So the Sun Belt goes from:
North Texas
Arkansas State
Utah State
New Mexico State
Middle Tenn. St.
Idaho
Louisiana Monroe
Louisiana Lafayette
To the New Sun Belt:
Louisiana Monroe
Middle Tenn. St.
UAB
Southern Miss.
East Carolina
Central Florida
Troy State
Arkansas State
Florida A&M
New Mexico State
The MWC & the WAC
The always cocky MWC has seen its bid for TCU fail, and has lost two of its stronger programs in CSU and UNLV. The WAC had the eastern half of the league mercifully amputated. The bitter enemies now find themselves huddling together for warmth. The six MWC teams (Utah, BYU, Wyoming, SDSU, New Mexico, and Air Force) and the four remaining WAC teams (Boise State, Fresno State, Hawaii, and San Jose State) form something pretty close to the old WAC, and go looking for two teams to get that magic conference championship game. They easily talk grateful Idaho and Utah State programs out of the Sun Belt, and into the New (Old) WAC.
The New (Old) WAC:
Idaho
Utah State
Boise State
Fresno State
Hawaii
San Jose St.
Air Force
BYU
New Mexico
SDSU
Utah
Wyoming
The MAC stays the same, well, if you consider losing Marshall and Central Florida the same. But they keep their title game, and some really good programs.
the best of the Creation Science Fair 2001:
Elementary School Level
1st Place: "My Uncle Is A Man Named Steve (Not A Monkey)"
Cassidy Turnbull (grade 5) presented her uncle, Steve. She also showed photographs of monkeys and invited fairgoers to note the differences between her uncle and the monkeys. She tried to feed her uncle bananas, but he declined to eat them. Cassidy has conclusively shown that her uncle is no monkey.
Middle School Level
2nd Place: "Women Were Designed For Homemaking"
Jonathan Goode (grade 7) applied findings from many fields of science to support his conclusion that God designed women for homemaking: physics shows that women have a lower center of gravity than men, making them more suited to carrying groceries and laundry baskets; biology shows that women were designed to carry un-born babies in their wombs and to feed born babies milk, making them the natural choice for child rearing; social sciences show that the wages for women workers are lower than for normal workers, meaning that they are unable to work as well and thus earn equal pay; and exegetics shows that God created Eve as a companion for Adam, not as a co-worker.
High School Level
Honorable Mention:
"Thermodynamics Of Hell Fire" - Tom Williamson (grade 12)
Sadly, as it only won an honorable mention, there is no description of this project.
Thanks to Del for the link.
I wish I was brave.
I wish I was disciplined.
I wish I wasn't still fucked up about relationships somewhere deep down that starts to come out when I'm drunk.
Do you ever just want to find the person from that one truly horrible relationship you had and let them know that they created your buttons for future relationships to push?
They created your irrationally needy/over-compensatingly independent dichotomy when drunk?
They still color your relationships even though you've done your best to erase them from your life?
Thank you.
Thank you for fucking me up.
Thank you for making me not normal in relationships ever again.
I wish I was strong enough to get over the head games four years later.
I wish I could say that you didn't leave any mark on my life.
I wish that I didn't have that stain.
R.I.P. Mr. Palmer.
I hope your afterlife is filled with pale, tall brunettes who mime playing instruments.
George Plimpton died last night.
He was one of those rare people who actually does everything that the rest of us just sit and dream about.
An excellent writer, a sometime actor, frequent talking head, and most notably, the everyman of professional sports.
He played with the Detroit Lions, pitched to Willie Mays, and boxed with Archie Moore.
He founded the Paris Review.
He tried out as a trapeze artist with the circus.
May we all strive to the zest for life that George Plimpton displayed.
find Sometimes by My Bloody Valentine (on the album Loveless), and put it in the car stereo, wait until just before sunset on one of those bright white cloudless empty sky days where if you filmed it on video, the whites would blow out the screen, go to that sort of empty, warehouse type district of your city, preferably by a river, turn it all the way up, and just drive around with your left hand (or right hand if a friend is driving, or you live in Britain or something) out the window making the little waves in the air like it's surfing along the tides of guitar. And if you smoke, light one up for this. And think of being a teenager, think of that first person you loved, think of that first thing you did that you thought was truly great, think of the first truly evil thing you did, think of that time you were with your friends, driving around, much like this, and it felt so good it hurt, and you thought this feeling could really go on forever, that this painful, horrible pleasure could just swallow you whole, and that would be the way it should be, the time when things were raw, when you were cynical, but even your cynicism carried a passion, when you cared about things, when things drove you, when there were things you had to do, things you had to tell the world, or just your best friend, when secrets were powerful, when things really mattered. Take that feeling that wells up inside, take it and grab it so tightly that your fingers go numb, and never, ever let it go again.
How's it going?
Remember me?
I was that guy whose blog you used to read.
No, not him.
Yeah, that's right, the drunk one.
The drunk, angry, angsty one who slept with a succession of single mothers and that one married girl.
The one who mostly talked about girls, but threw some music and pop culture in there every once in a while, and even some personal opinion or politics, on rare occasion.
I started this blog when I couldn't get out of bed.
I had no job, no direction, had a stupid little fucked up girl destroy my ego (not that I didn't do my self-destructive best to force her hand).
I was filled with self loathing, and empty of any drive or desire.
Then I, with the help of a professional, and a drinking problem, sort of pulled my self out of apathy and into wild, wanton, nihilism.
And it was good.
But, nothing good lasts for ever.
I had to move on, because, honestly, a 26 year old, semi-employed drunkard who claims to want to be a writer can only get away with so much (3 moms, one married girl, countless other unmarried, childless women) before he sort of has to write something. Otherwise, he's just a womanzing drunk, and not an artiste.
So the grad school thing.
That drama played nicely for the (computer) screen for a while, and there was the added element of cryptic postings to a former flame trying to woo her from her beau.
But let me be straight with you now, kids.
Somewhere, I've lost the plot.
When I started the spigot, I got it, I felt blogging, I seethed it, I loved, I hated it, I threw it against walls, I went back to it after it hit me, because it promised things would be different from now on, it put up with my drinking, simply put, I loved blogging, and blogging loved me.
But I don't even know who blogging is anymore.
I don't bring it flowers,
It doesn't sing me love songs.
So I'm working on new ideas.
Some tentative plans:
Once weekly culture picks by the spig (this week: Movie- Lost in Translation, Music- the Frames, Book- Youth in Revolt)
A sort of serial novel, or better yet, interactive novel thingy, like the hypercard books for those of you who are old and geeky enough to remember.
And I fully intend on starting a new, secretincognito blog, ala some people I know.
It's like a stale relationship.
You start growing apart, and then maybe you try and spice things up with a little role-playing, some bondage, maybe a three-some.
But eventually, things fall apart.
But the Spig isn't going to fall apart, it may languish a bit here and there, while I look for blogging direction (odd, isn't it, that when my life had no direction, my blog had acres, and now that my life is going almost swimmingly, the blog flounders. Better to have a good life and a troubled blog, than a good blog about a troubled life.)
Always remember:
beert puwy rgI id o.
P.S. find Sometimes by My Bloody Valentine, and put it in the car stereo, wait until just before sunset on one of those bright white cloudless empty sky days where if you filmed it on video, the whites would blow out the screen, go to that sort of empty, warehouse type district of your city, preferably by a river, turn it all the way up, and just drive around with your left hand (or right hand if a friend is driving, or you live in Britain or something) out the window making the little waves in the air like it's surfing along the tides of guitar. And if you smoke, light one up for this. And think of being a teenager, think of that first person you loved, think of that first thing you did that you thought was truly great, think of the first truly evil thing you did, think of that time you were with your friends, driving around, much like this, and it felt so good it hurt, and you thought this feeling could really go on forever, that this painful, horrible pleasure could just swallow you whole, and that would be the way it should be, the time when things were raw, when you were cynical, but even your cynicism carried a passion, when you cared about things, when things drove you, when there were things you had to do, things you had to tell the world, or just your best friend, when secrets were powerful, when things really mattered. Take that feeling that wells up inside, take it and grab it so tightly that your fingers go numb, and never, ever let it go again.
You can thank me later.
new spigot coming soon.
in the meantime, I want everyone to go buy Built to Spill's Keep it Like a Secret (if you don't already have it), put on some good head phones, and crank it way up, listen to the whole album, rinse, repeat.
be back soon, lovies.
You Were Right
you were wrong when you said everything's gonna be alright
you were wrong when you said everything's gonna be alright
you were right when you said all that glitters isn't gold
you were right when you said all we are is dust in the wind
you were right when you said we're all just bricks in the wall
and when you said manic depression's a frustrated mess
you were wrong when you said everything's gonna be alright
you were wrong when you said everything's gonna be alright
you were wrong when you said everythings gonna be alright
you were right when you said you cant always get what you want
you were right when you said it's a hard rain's gonna fall
you were right when you said were still running against the wind
life goes on long after the thrill of living is gone
you were right when you said this is the end
do you ever think about it?
do you ever think about it?
do you ever think about it?
do you ever think about it?
News Flizash: Ugly as sin, but just to keep you kids busy, I fixed the archives. For now.
so, my mom's mom and johnny cash.
they dated.
or rather, they almost dated.
she went to a show of his in arkansas, and apparently he asked her out afterward. She was 16.
She said no.
But she did buy all of his records from that point on.
It's the only thing we ever really bonded about.
We...
Well, she gave me all of her albums and singles of Mr. Cash.
Four of them signed.
I have probably one of the greatest Johnny Cash vinyl collections of any 20-something ever.
All thanks to my grandmother.
And the best part is we would talk about Johnny Cash.
What she actually thought about his songs.
And that led to Patsy Cline...
And we both loved Patsy.
My Grandmother doesn't know what a CD is, but when the Patsy Cline live CD from Tulsa came out in the late 90's, the one from the lost masters, she got it for me.
And then, later, it all led back to Hank.
My grandmother has a crush on Hank.
She thinks he's bad.
She thinks he drank too much.
But she knows that hank had the fire.
She knows why hank, pasty and especially johnny transcended.
And I know that I am her blood because I love these people as well, and I know what they meant, both to her and to me.
The Man in Black has died.
I always thought I'd get to see him before he passed.
I guess I always kinda thought he'd live forever.
I'm gonna shut up, go get some food, go see a movie, and then get really really drunk tonight and try and find a bar that'll be playing all Cash.
"Well, if they freed me from this prison,
If that railroad train was mine,
I bet I'd move it just a little farther down the line"
My three massive complaints about driving in LA:
1. Pedestrians. Could you take any fucking longer to cross the street? Can't you see that there are 25 cars trying to turn right, and you're walking so slowly that my grandmother would have lapped you by now. And what the fuck is up with you fucking strolling along through the intersection after your walk signal is gone? When the light turns green, you should fucking run. Someone needs to make all these fucking people spend a week in New York. That'll put the fear of God (or at least a several thousand pound machine) in them.
2. Cars not getting fully in turn lanes. I'm convinced that between this one and #1, we could cut down on traffic in LA by 50%. It's simple, folks, if you want to turn left, get all the way in the goddamn left turn lane and quit blocking the fucking left lane of thru traffic just because you're a lazy fuckwad. That's why they built the fucking turn lanes. Not so you could get 55% of your car in them and then sit there trying to turn left on Sunset for 25 minutes, causing traffic jams all the fucking way down to the beach. I FUCKING HATE YOU.
3. Parking. Seriously. I mean, Manhattan has less parking problems. Parking is more expensive, granted, and there is better public tranportation, but for Christ's sake, it's a fucking little tiny island with millions and millions of people packed on it. LA? Huge. Takes me 35 fucking minutes to get to a fucking Target. So why not build some fucking parking spaces? Have you not noticed that EVERYONE here drives a fucking CAR? I mean Jesus, Mary and fucking Joseph.
Thank you for your time.
And despite what this says, I, steve, a.k.a. orion, wrote this, not matt.
I'm just using his computer, and since he is my internet support, it's logged into the spig as him.
Matt doesn't say fuck nearly as much as I do.
another lame update (I'm attempting to kill my audience by SUCKING SO FUCKING HARD at blogging recently.):
blah, blah, blah, blah.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Yeah.
There's been some hanging out, some music listening and some drinking (big fucking suprises, eh?).
And the girl. Who rocks. (But who the fuck cares about me being happy? I mean shit, I wouldn't want to read about me being happy. Which is why I don't fucking write about me being happy.)
Class.
I need coffee.
The Rapture is coming, the Rapture is coming!
11/15 and 11/16 at the El Rey.
Who's in?
update, schmupdate:
Still homeless.
Still sleeping on my buddy Del's couch.
May need to move locales, as have been freeloading off the painful-wonder-pull-out love seat for almost three weeks (apart from those 8 days del was gone when I got to sleep and do other fun activities in his bed.).
Am thus moving to Matt and Katie's place.
Have turned in yet another application for a place in hipsterville, and am tentatively more hopeful than the last two.
Class is going well, but I feel like I'm failing to really spend enough time on things as I like to work late at night, and my hosts are usually asleep by then, and I am also in the middle of an exciting, confusing, consuming, captivating affair.
Yes, the spig is seeing a wonderful girl. No, the spig does not really know what exactly is going on with that, and the spig is fine with that because as it is the girl and the whole spending time with her thing makes him feel wonderful.
Am worried about pitching my movie idea (a somewhat intricate, character driven comedy-drama about an indie rock band) in five mintues in my class tonight.
Am really worried about the fact that I have a 70 page rough draft of a play due in one of my other classes on September 30th.
Am entranced by that sound on Your Favorite Music by Clem Snide that could be laughing or crying, but is definitely a girl.
Really, really want to unpack the back of my car.
Love you all, and special thanks to K, Del, Phil, Matt, Katie, Nick, Brian, Alex, Phil and Renata for making LA so cool.
Extra special thanks to K.
Do you know what it feels like to spend 5 hours with someone and then feel this longing to spend more time with them when you finally part ways?
But what do you say?
How do you justify your desire to monopolize their time?
How do you justify your feelings toward them when you've both agreed that maybe things should be taken more slowly, maybe things should be weighed and measured carefully, the whole thing feels so good, so natural, but yet logically, you know it has to be like you are a six year old entrusted with carrying a fabergé egg through a crowded banquet hall of drunken, stumbling grown-ups?
You have to be careful. You have to be careful or otherwise you will destroy the thing of beauty entrusted to your hands, your hands which are always too small, and your legs which are too short, and your stature, also too small, so no one sees you, and the adults are like a minefield, staggering and oblivious to your mission.
I get sad when you leave.
September girls, they do so much
I was your butch and you were touched
I loved you well, never mind
I've been crying all the time
December boys got it bad
September girls I don't know why
how can I deny what's inside
even thought I keep away
maybe we'll love all our days
When I get to bed
late at night
that's the time
she makes things right
ooh when she makes luv to me
-Big Star