Posts Tagged ‘Westword’

You. Quit that. Right away.

It’s a sandwich. Not a sammie. Not a sammich. Do not use those words, ever, because they are not words.* They are infantilized nonsense sounds favored by people who sing along loudly at Jimmy Buffett concerts.

Speaking of: Jimmy Buffett. Stop what you are doing and do something else. Your cheeseburger is full of sawdust and sand fleas. Your concerts are charnal houses for the alive-in-name-only. You are going bald, you have looked at 40 and a real pirate would cut your nose off and burn your house down.

Hipster neighbor. Your pants. Stop them from cutting off the circulation to your waist. Your beard is mighty, your tattoos cutting-edge, your friends identical. It is 98 degrees outside. You can put on shorts. Make them tight if you like. Your fixie bike feels badly for what it is doing to your grundle in this weather.

Internet snarktard. You are playing a character. That character is a dickhead. You would not use that sentence in public. You would not act this way in a grocery store. You would not tell that lady that thing because that lady would beat you. Beat you down.

Television show with the fat guy who has a gorgeous wife. This needs to end. The fat guy masturbates gloomily to a Victoria’s Secret catalogue in his empty efficiency. The gorgeous wife lives with a hedge fund manager and owns 56 pairs of yoga pants. Replace your laugh track with the sound of orphan children weeping.

Website telling me about the college degree I should have gotten. Website. Your servers are built from the bones of innocents. Your code is written in tears.


Coastal elite. Disingenous politician. Person with American flag screen-printed on tee shirt. Gwyneth Paltrow. Guy who blows through stop sign and meek-waves. Purveyor of jargon. Editor-in-Chief of local newspaper. Individual who eats corn cobs and motor oil and poops next to my back fence.

Just stop it. Stop it now.

*Westword got me started on this. Thanks, Westword.

Photo from jonathanpaulmusic.com


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On Fandom

Yesterday, Westword ran a blog item titled “The top 5 non-bro, non-dude places to watch sports in Denver.”

The author, Patrick Langlois, threw out a few names (Bull & Bush, British Bulldog, Big Game among them–evidently, the DudeBros stay away from joints that start with B), each bearing a brief descriptor with a bit of sass at the close, such as “(T)he place feels like a true pub without trying too hard, and it’s somewhat off the beaten path, so as not to attract cologne-soaked dudes who reek of effort” and “(I)t has plenty of comfy furniture, quirky vintage decor and a diverse mix of patrons, most of whom sport ink rather than backwards baseball caps.*”

I attend plenty of sporting events, at great cost to my wallet, liver function and general tolerance. Fans can be assholes, especially at the venue and especially after drinking 26 cans of Bud Ice. And this is a tiny little throwaway listicle, as much about pumping up some (admittedly really excellent) bars as beating on a bewhiskered trope. Still, I’m fascinated.

Why is it, exactly, that some fans–and Langlois definitely is one, as he attests in the first paragraph–feel the need to partition the notion of Fandom?

Consider this sentence: “(I)n fact, there are plenty of sports fans who appreciate the artistry of athleticism and the strategy of its execution, and who enjoy watching it take place with a good craft beer in hand and a plate (not a basket) of thoughtfully prepared food to go with it.” Leave aside the too-too snottiness of the Mile High Nouveau Hip and consider his meaning, which is: they paint their faces, swim a sea of warm Natural Light and mack curly fries smothered in ranch dressing; I carefully sip Ten Fidy and sample bone marrow crostini served on a PLATE. They yell, I nod appreciatively. I am cool. They are not.

I understand the reticence with which some–many in my own non-sports-havin’-female-dominated family–view organized sport. It’s mechanical, warlike, simplistic, prone to stoke our basest impulses. And that’s just college football. Langlois’ DudeBro isn’t imaginary, either: anyone who has set foot in LoDo’s or any of the Tavern chain of schlocksteraunts knows the type immediately.

But let’s be honest with ourselves. I don’t know a single fan of any sport who hasn’t, at some point or another, embodied the worst qualities of the group as a whole.

We can forego our college dress and attitudes, we can order Left Hand Milk Stout instead of Coors, we can think that “Lebron’s Decision was a smart business move”** and yet, at some point, we’ll be at our seats in Invesco or Arrowhead or Coors or wherever, shouting at the top of our lungs and flexing like the world’s most moronic DOOD when player A beats player B for a __. At some point, we’ll talk trash. At some point, we’ll drink way, way too much and trip into a gutter, say something we will later regret to a parking attendant and spend a night in the hoosegow. Like the tides.

The attempt to form a circle of elites in such context is laughable. You may eat off a plate instead of from a basket and imagine yourself superior to the hooting hoi polloi, but eventually you will chant DEEEE-FENSE. You can wear skinny jeans and a scarf and still end up punching a security guard.

*I’ve seen his byline for a while, so he has to know that the sight of a DudeBro with full sleeves *and* a backward hat is about as common in Denver as Starlings and bum poop.

**This bit got me: he seems to be saying, look, not all fans are solely steered by emotion, some us truly understand. Which is such a boilerplate Colin Cowherd-y thought–most fans are simps with brains dyed in team colors who don’t know how The Real World Works–that I’m tempted to simply shrug it off, but no. Fuck no. This drives me nutty.

The average fan understands their position in the relationship perfectly well: loyal consumer of a product made by individuals who only reciprocate that loyalty when convenient. Yet still they buy team gear, spend money on airplane tickets to see humiliating losses in other cities, experience wild mood swings based on the actions of 20 year-olds…and regret not a piece of it.

So yeah, when followers of the Cleveland Cavaliers watch a coddled Golden Boy like Lebron James preen on national television–and why, exactly, was that necessary? Could he not have just signed a damn contract like everyone else? The hagiographies were already being written, all he actually did was give the authors pause–you’re going to get some unreasonable civic anger, and maybe not everyone will immediately think, well, that kid just made a smart business decision! Good for him!

That’s just humanity. And fandom is nothing if not human–greasily, drunkenly human, but still.

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