Q: How many times do you see or hear the word "ESPN" in that ESPN The Magazine commercial?
A: ESPN

In other sporting news, here's an interesting piece concerning wagers and an intense in-state rivalry. Michigan and Ohio State get their due. As do Auburn and Alabama. But you can't tell me that, just because the teams are mediocre, the Clemson/South Carolina game is of no consequence.

Every decade or so, someone comes into your life who hates you so much, with a passion so intense, that your relationship with that person changes you forever. Usually it's a girlfriend or boyfriend, or in some cases an employer, but in my case it was a teacher at a finishing school for advertising.

After graduating from the University of the South (Sewanee) with a degree in English and a GPA that only a mother could love, I was told by friends that I would probably do well in the creative side of advertising. Maybe they admired my wit. Or my hipster doofus apparel (a prerequisite). Or, more likely, maybe they were duped into buying my used Journey and Bread CDs that I assured them would complete their record collections. Either way, they must have seen firsthand my ability to sell the unsellable - and be clever while doing it. Their encouragement gave me some confidence.


With that newfound self-esteem and little direction other than one away from my hometown of Spartanburg, I moved to Atlanta. The move took care of the only thing I knew I wanted at the time: to be out of the upstate of South Carolina. A job in advertising, to boot, would be the bee's knees. So my attempt to make a name for myself in the sprawling capital of the south began. But I had no job offers. Every story was the same: you need a portfolio before you'll get hired anywhere. The folks kind enough to meet with me in those days of naivete recommended two schools in Atlanta to do just that: The Portfolio Center and The Creative Circus. And they mentioned one more in Richmond. It was a little place called the Adcenter, a school affiliated with VCU. Since I had recently moved to Atlanta and knew no one in Richmond, I pursued the two schools in the ATL. Measured and reasonable, no doubt.

During my visit to the Portfolio Center, a guy poked fun of my Barbour jacket, so I ruled PC out. I don't like being made fun of, especially when it has do with practical winter garments that make me feel like I have money and provide me a perch from which I can look down on the untouchables of the world. Not to mention, my mother gave me that jacket; the student was indirectly making fun of my mama. The Creative Circus, on the other hand, had recently been started by some disgruntled ex-Portfolio Center teachers and administrators. Maybe they all owned Barbour jackets. Anywho, like all start-ups, they needed money and they'd bend over backwards to get it. That meant everyone there had nothing but kind words to say. In retrospect, I should have been wary of their cult-like welcoming, but damn if it doesn't feel good to be wanted. One of us. One of us. Anyway, the Creative Circus was probably floating checks to SCANA at the time; my check could keep the lights on for at least another month or two, I imagine. Because of that, the admissions policy was less than stringent . . . to say the least. I was accepted on the merits of some drawings I did in high school.

But I didn't want to illustrate. I wanted to write. So I entered their 2-year Copywriting program with about 4 other students. We were joined two quarters later by 8 other copywriters. This was when the Creative Circus was leasing space in a depressing, small office complex on the northside of Atlanta. The type of place you might imagine a remake, God forbid, of Glengarry Glen Ross being filmed. That was before it moved into a warehouse behind Atlanta's golden strip of handjob shacks, though I was fortunate enough to attend classes there beginning with my 3rd quarter.


The copywriting program at the Creative Circus, like the other concentrations there, is typically taught by industry professionals. Most of these professionals are just as you'd imagine: young, commited and, in many cases, talented. There are required courses and electives in the program. Most of the electives are taught by the aforementioned professionals, while the required courses are generally taught by fulltime employees of the Creative Circus - some who had a stake in the profits of the school. I'm not a huge fan of for-profit schools - when investors serve as faculty members, the wrong people end up wielding the most power - but leaving the Portfolio Center and creating a new, better ad school was a business venture (with an interesting loan process, I'm sure) and I was fully aware of that. And I had signed up.

Mike Jones-Kelly, an initial investor and one-time head of the Copywriting program, thought it'd be a good idea to hire an old friend of his to teach some classes (an example of the pitfalls of for-profit schools). His friend was not an industry professional. She was a sometime-contributer to the Atlanta Journal Constitution, though I've been hardpressed to find any of her work online, and all-time tub of goo. Regardless of her physical maladies and lack of credentials, his friend now had a big, ugly bat in her corner. She would be needing it.


It was my 4th quarter. The class was called Reva Writing, or at least it was referred to as that by everyone in the Copywriting program. It was led by Mike Jones-Kelley's longtime friend and once-in-a-blue-moon-contributer to the AJC, the portly Reva Ezell, and it was supossed to help the students in the copywriting program learn to write creatively. That is, it was designed to help us explore different voices and styles, while developing our own.

The first couple of classes went off without a hitch. I loved them, in fact. This was so much more interesting to me than writing about cheap trash bags or durable pocket knives or high-end vacuum cleaners. This was actual writing. But things soon started going south.

I wrote in all lowercase sometime around the 3rd week. I liked the way it looked and I didn't see why it mattered, so I continued to write in lowercase. This eventually incensed Reva. I was no E.E. Cummings, she'd say. I gave her that, but I continued to write in lowercase, using voices that I could argue the lowercase fit. Fuel on the fire, I admit.


And there were some other, smaller arguments. Before a break during one class, she asked us to write down, in confidence, one of our weaknesses. I wrote that I played up to or down to the competition. That I had a hard time challenging myself if I wasn't challenged by others. After the break, she read our anonymous comments aloud, but when she got to mine she revealed its author and remarked at how arrogant I was. She claimed that I was essentially calling out everyone else in the class. She took more offense to it than my classmates, though, because like I'll soon prove, she hated me.

Now, you may remember me commenting on the lax admissions at the Creative Circus. That's an important detail. While I may be a self-described wonderful copywriter, albeit at the time of my acceptance to the school underqualified, nearly half of the students in my quarter were not only underqualified at the beginning of the program, but they had no business whatsoever being in the program after 4 quarters. They had not grown one iota. Simply put, they didn't get it. After one whole year, they still wrote the same hack headlines and clunky copy they wrote when they began. But the Creative Circus needed their money, so there was no way they'd be asked to leave. Instead, they'd graduate with books that'd make the Creative Circus, as the name suggests, truly seem like a school for aspiring clowns. One guy's ads, without fail, always seemed to have someone shooting off a machine gun in them. Even when the campaign was about a hybrid vehicle. The saying that a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut was proven wrong by no less than 5 of my classmates.

Below you'll find examples of some ads you might see in my class. The worst part is that their creators would try to explain them, as if logic would somehow prevail.

Definitely hasn't been done before:

And here's a book piece for Behr paints:

Around the time of Reva Writing, the Wall Street Journal was doing a piece on the burgeoning ad school phenomenon, or something like that. There are like 20 schools in the US that now offer similar courses of study. Back then it was relatively new, and newsworthy, I guess. Anyway, the writer from the WSJ sat in on one of our classes. The assignment from the week before was to write a letter from jail. I thought about it. And thought about it. And thought about it some more. Then it hit me: Monopoly. I would write my letter as if I were one of the playing pieces in Monopoly who had found himself locked up in jail. I thought it was creative. And I had a lot of fun with story.

Clearly, Reva did not like it. She thought I was trying to get out of doing the assignment. An argument ensued. Words flew. Most of the class was behind me on this one. I had clearly done the work. And done a good job with it. This only rattled her more. She asked me, in the middle of the argument, if I knew what the word pettifoggery meant. I didn't. She took some pleasure in that, but that was the only bright spot for her that day. The class was out of control. Reva was humiliated. It was clear to everyone, and I suspect even Reva, that she was wrong. But unlike scramble dogs, being wrong does not sit well with Reva. She was pissed. So she did the only thing she should have done. She told on us. And, of course, singled me out.

Where did this hatred come from? Maybe it's my lack of a weight problem. Maybe it's because I didn't assume she was always right. Maybe she was depressed. I don't know. It really doesn't matter. It only matters that it existed.

Back to the WSJ class and its fallout. After that class, I was asked to present my case in front of the school board. The problem was that I had a job that I couldn't afford to miss. Maybe. Plus, I thought the whole idea of rehashing everything in front of a board of investors/administrators, including Reva's friend, Mike Jones-Kelley, among others, was pretty gay. This was, after all, the Creative Circus. It is filled with individuals. And individuality is something I thought the school should celebrate. Apparently, so do they. From Allschools.com:

At The Creative Circus, individuality is celebrated and personal attention is
stressed in the classroom to provide room for each student to grow as artists in
their own unique way. Programs in art direction, graphic design, image, and
copywriting lead students to exciting careers with advertising and other media
outlets. Located in Atlanta, Georgia, the Creative Circus' graduates go on to
work at some of the most prestigious agencies in the country,
and many take positions abroad.

So I wrote a letter to the board explaining that we should all just put the mess behind us. Not surprisingly, Reva got her doughy hands on the letter and edited it.

If I can figure out how to fix the bug I'm experiencing with Blogger, you'll get Part II of the story on Monday. It gets better. And much, much nastier. I wanted to do the whole thing as one big blog, but that isn't going to happen today. Still, I imagine you can tell where this is going . . . yep, straight down the tubes. Update: I figured it out! Scroll down . . .

Fortunately, I held on to a lot of my assignments. Here are some of the better comments/number three references . . .

This is a piece we had to write describing a US city without stating its name. The title makes perfect sense, right? And, by the way, this one has comments from Reva. She corrected my Spanish in class . . . only to correct herself later.

Another title that makes a lot of sense:
Some of my classmates were beginning to realize that I was fixated with diarrhea:

Reva was growing tired of my IBS:
This guy wasn't in our quarter, but he was pretty funny:

This is clearly after I was "kicked out" of class. The smarter ones were jealous:

This guy is a complete tool, but I do like his radical editing style:
The school as metaphor assignment especially went over well:
This one's from Reva (in the packet of work I received at the end of the quarter). Did I mention that she didn't like me?
Apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought this class sucked:
Nuff said:


Weeks later, I received my report card in the mail. And this is where it all came together. The report cards are all handwritten and, typically, a teacher comments on your strengths and weaknesses. Constructive criticism, if you will. Well, Reva, commented on a bit more. And she gave me a grade that I couldn't be happier about. It has graced the fridge of nearly all of my addresses. This is why:

A D with 6 minuses after it? Why stop with 6? Why not put one of those infinity signs above the last minus to let me know that my below average performance is eternally below average? Maybe after that 6th minus she was sidetracked by a Popeye's commercial. Only Reva and Popeye know the answer. By now, I'm sure you're saying to yourself "I bet Keller is an ass to have in class." Well, you're not entirely wrong, but I present you with these to disprove your understandable hypothesis:

Maybe I'm not such a bad guy after all . . .

This report is after the whole mess - it's a class I took from the head of our school. What's funny is that my behavior didn't change one bit. His perception of me did, though.

I don't know who this guy is, but he didn't hate me:

This teacher had our quarter nailed down. There were about six of us who knew what was going on. Most of the others made sitting through a class almost unbearable.
And, yes, I comment on Reva's weight too much. But you have to see her. It's hard not to focus on it. I typically don't find much humor in weight, but when it's from laziness, I say it's open season. Frankly, I don't know the "lady" well enough to make fun of much else. She's extremely insecure, that's safe to say. Ultimately, I think we were both to blame for the mishap. I exploited her insecurities. And she resorted to the only card she had left at her disposal: the 8 of rats. Isn't that a suit?

So this is a letter I received from Mike Jones-Kelley after going to the beach for a week with my family. Reva convinced him to really start hating me. Technalities like the one below - even when I was doing well - were MJK's best friend. Well, next to Reva The Hut.


So what have I learned from all of this? Besides how to get some serious mileage out of a report card? Let's see. I learned that $28,000 is a lot of money to spend on a diploma that a woman prints off on an Apple Stylewriter during her smoke break. I learned that the Dot Bomb affected us all, even if we had no stock in Kozmo. When I started at the Circus (it's affectionate name), people with "crazy" books and wild ideas were moving to California to work for 28 year old CEOs. They were doing ads that featured wolves attacking school bands. They had sock puppets as spokesmen. They bought 30 seconds during the Super Bowl and filled it with their companies URL on a black screen. It was promising for young creatives. But at the end of two years it was a very different landscape.

I left the Creative Circus with a few good friends, two of whom I talk to on a regular basis and would consider among my best friends. I tell them both that they were worth the tuition alone. They say the jury's still out, whatever that means. I also left with the desire to do something for myself. Soon after, I started my card company. It's paid off almost as well as that Kozmo stock.

How did the card company actually come to be? After visiting McKinney Silver in Raleigh - and I call it a visit because they never entertained the idea of hiring me - I needed to write some thank-you's. I scoured the card aisles and was disgusted by what I saw: loads of crap. Shelves fillled with cards that said nothing. Bland. Bland. Bland. So I sent some graduation cards, some thinking-of-you cards, some happy-birthday-grandma cards and a few other inappropriate cards in the hopes that I might be remembered. Hey, remember me? I'm that white guy with no connections or buzz or awards, who wore some jeans and a smart jacket and talked about how the drive from SC wasn't so bad. You gotta remember that! I've been trying to forget it. With that "interview" and few others that went maybe marginally better, I decided to create some cards that Hallmark forgot to cover. That theme made up my first 18 cards. My belief was that if you opened a card on your birthday, it was pretty safe to assume that it was a birthday card, even if it read "You've got crabs." I left it up to the sender to write the sentiment. Who am I to know how you feel about the people in your life? Not everyone got that. So I created some more that were a bit more appropriate - or less inappropriate. Still, I wasn't selling enough. That led me to Spoonfed Greetings. The name says it all.

I'm still waiting for my ship to come in.

Maybe I'll go back to school.


The events that I've written about are exactly as they happened . . . to the best of my knowledge. The order in which they happened may be off a bit, but this was 6 years ago, so that kinda goes without saying. Suffice it to say, all of this did happen. I know James Frey and I'm no James Frey.

I did, however, eventually get a "job" in "advertising". I lasted almost three years there. And if you're reading, Reva, they offered me more money to get me to stay. What saddened me was the lack of creativity. And it's not just in South Carolina. It's at about 95% of the agencies out there. Open a magazine. Turn on the TV. Hit the highway. It's depressing. But there are a lot of great people in the business. So if expressing yourself isn't a priority, it's a great career. And if you're lucky enough to be at one of those places that respects the highest common denominator, and challenges you while at it, I'm sure it's a great life, too. Just please stop it with the gnomes and with the fingers to the eyes thing that Meet the Parents made so damn popular. And with short sleeved work shirts with brown ties. And talking animals. And dance numbers. And maybe stop filming on that hilly street in San Francisco.

Enough of that. I'm sure you're wondering what's happened to the other characters. A few of my classmates have great jobs in NYC - in that 5% even. One of our quarter's best writers is actually working in Oglethorpe's Athletic Department in Atlanta. And a guy from a couple of quarters above me is losing to me in a fantasy football league in Charleston. And I mean getting his ass kicked. As for the ones who never really "got it", I have no idea. I never really got their email addresses.

But what about Reva and MJK? The only thing I could find about Reva . . .

And there's something about the water that bonds people, Oresti notes. She says her classes are a great outlet for people who might not have many other opportunities to socialize. It's really collegial," says Reva Ezell, who chats with Ratthaus and Cook while the women wait for class to begin. "We're sharing this experience." Shedding the pounds?

I don't know who I feel more sorry for . . . Ratthaus or Cook. Or the water that has to touch every nook and cranny of the almost-never contributor to the AJC's body.

An interesting note on Mike Jones-Kelley, the man who purchased a Chrysler Prowler and had his stomache stapled with our tuition money: Turns out he is no longer at the school. I hear he was ousted. I searched for him online and found a hostel in Mexico owned by a guy named Mike Jones-Kelley and a bunch of crap relating to airplanes. Is this the same man? Have you seen a Prowler on the streets of Mazatlan? Were you accosted by a Lord of the Rings extra on your last flight from Budapest? He gave us this speach at his annual 'dinner with the professor' night. I use dinner pretty loosely, as our dinner consisted of some sort of loaf made of meat and fruit. Dude, I like meat, I like fruit and I like loaves. I just don't think they should ever be in the same orgy.

If it doesn't go well and the employer says do it or you're fired, then so be
it. Leave. The talent that got you hired to begin with will get you hired
again. Our talent is our safeguard in advertising, our ethical lifeboat. We
can never actually be forced into doing something to which we object
morally. We can acquiesce or we can take a stand, but the decision is always
in our own hands.

You're right. The decision is always in our hands.

Did you catch Broken Social Scene this past Friday night in Charleston? I did. The band was great. They played for about 3 straight hours. They had a few technical difficulties and the vocals were spotty at times, but overall they were pretty amazing. They played a lot of crowd favorites, including Anthems For a Seventeen-Year Old Girl, Looks Just Like The Sun, Lover's Spit, Cause=Time, Major Label Debut and It's All Gonna Break. They seemed to like The Music Farm and the crowd, and we were all rewarded.

I, on the other hand, was not a big fan of the venue or the crowd. The last show I saw there was Iron & Wine. It sucked. Where did all those Trustafarians come from? Truth is I've never really had a great experience at The Music Farm - and I'm including those years when my tolerance for idiots was a bit higher. I'm sure at some point I was one of them. So maybe I've simply outgrown The Farm. Broken Social Scene was an 18 and over show, but that isn't necessarily a bad thing. Who doesn't like nubile sorority girls? The problem with this crowd, though, was twofold. On the whole, they were unattractive, which was a surprise to me. You usually run into a bunch of people who look like they stepped out of an Urban Outifitters catalog (hence my "joke" last week) at these "indie" shows. But I'll forgive someone who's less than toothsome so long as they're not obnoxious. This crowd was both. And the two together is truly repulsive.


It starts with personal space. Everybody needs some. I eventually moved to the side of the stage next to the speakers to get mine. But I started out in a fairly good spot - not too close to the stage and not too central. The problem was that this really cool guy with a ponytail decided that my toes offered him the best vantage point of his all-time favorite band. He was right. But his ass was now in my crotch. I told him that I wasn't wearing a condom and he moved over a bit. Still, I was eventually driven over to the speakers by some short, round girls. And this is what awaited me:


Freaker by the speaker. OMG! That's my fave song! True, these girls were really enjoying the show and that's important. But they begged the question: Is this band that I think rocks really just gay? I don't think so. This band is great. Plain and simple. You Forgot It in People is on my deserted island list - so long as I could take 10 records. Yeah, I know, I'm only supposed to take one record, but this is all hypothetical and you get the point. It's an incredible album. It would give me the strength to last at least 2 days on that lonely island. Anyway, the problem is the Internet. And iTunes. And Hollywood.

There's this RJD2 song off of Deadringer - another deserted island record - where Copywrite compares RJD2 to an archeologist because he digs 45's up. It's what made - and still makes - RJD2 so exciting to listen to. He has a way of finding the most ridiculous beats and the most soulful lost tracks to pull from - mostly from the 60s and 70s. And it's what used to separate the music appreciators from the music junkies. Well, these days we can all be archeoligists. Google is our shovel and iTunes is our pickaxe. They both take the work out of it. Imagine the cover of Endtroducing . . . with an image of a guy scrolling through iTunes. That's almost where we are. Sure, we're not going to find every song from Stax/Volt or Hi Records, to mention a couple of labels, that RJD2 or DJ Shadow samples, but we'll find a fair amount. And there aren't many albums reviewed on Tiny Mix Tapes or Pitchfork that you can't find on iTunes. The fact that both of those sites, as well as a slew of great music blogs, are so popular doesn't help matters either. The idea of a band being your band is no longer realistic. It's too easy to discover new music. Turn on your TV. Everywhere you turn there's a Garden State soundtrack. We're all so fucking twee. And, oh, are we quirky! Here are the most obvious culprits:

Volkswagon
Coke
Grey's Anatomy
Anything on The WB
Six Feet Under
Saturn
The OC
Nike
And even Alltel had to ruin that Redbone song

Remember that great VW spot that featured Nick Drake's "Pink Moon"? Damn, that was a great spot. Without a doubt, one of my favorites. Anyway, that pissed off his longtime fans. And it's not about "selling out". Nick Drake was dead at the time (and still is!) so it wasn't like his music was going to take a new direction. Or he was "gonna change, man". It was that his music was going to find its way into some undeserving hands. It comes with every band. Even with Widespread Panic - a people's band if there ever was one - there's apparently something called the Home Team. I had no idea about this until I joined a fantasy football league - and a bowling league - with a bunch of guys who routinely travel to their shows and have been doing so for the past 18 years or whatever it is. Anyway, it has something to do with being a fan from the beginning. And at 35 or so, I imagine these guys qualify.

The bottom line is that we all hate newcomers. They're unworthy. They don't appreciate the music like we do. We knew that breakthrough album was coming out way before they did. We're about more than "3rd Planet" or "Float On" or "New Slang" or "Multiply" or "Don't Save Us From The Flames". We like the band. Not just the songs. We read about the artists and follow them from out little corner of the world. We stumbled upon their 1st album in a tiny little record store in some foreign town. It was meant to be. It was personal. That's why we got our tickets over two months ago. But it doesn't matter. The idiots are gonna find out. And they're gonna like your band. Because your band is good. And they're gonna show up at the shows late and demand a great spot on the floor. And they're gonna sing the lyrics to the slower songs. And they're gonna get really excited when a "fuck" or "shit" is in a song's lyrics. They'll sing that, too. And they're gonna move their bodies in way that will make you embarrassed to be in the same room - holding the same ticket stub. And they're gonna get stickers and tshirts. And they're gonna tell their other short, round friends about the best band in the world. And your band will suddenly become our band.

But it's okay. The music is still good. That hasn't changed. You don't need to take it off of your Shuffle.

Still, there's nothing like that time when you've got 'em all to yourself. After all, they're playing for you. So if you've got a band like that right now, enjoy it while it lasts. The season finale of Grey's Anatomy is in production . . .

For more on deserted island albums, check out this good book.

And if you've got a "damn you, you advertiser, for ruining a great song" moment, let me hear it. Through telepathy, please.

First things first: this is pretty incredible even if you're not a Sawlks fan, as Kornheiser would say. That was the link. This is the video:



So the ball doesn't actaully go through his legs. I forgive them. As a Nofriendo addict growing up, it made me laugh. Anyway, it was really just to get you in the sporting mood. Then again, with as much coverage as sports are getting these days, you probably didn't need it.

Most of that coverage is coming from the beast that is ESPN. Everyone's favorite network to love to hate. But there are a few things I like about it. I liked their early commercials. The ones back in the day with the cheerleader who plugs her favorite magazine - phonetically. And the ones with Charley Steiner, Keith Olberman and Rich Eisen. I really forgot how much I liked Charley Steiner; it just deepens my dissatisfaction with the current anchors. And I like the fact that I can watch more events (football) than I'd be able to without it. Plus, I love Pardon The Interruption. But I've slurped that show on this blig for years, so you two already know that. A side note: I don't like Tony's reasoning that Notre Dame should jump Tennessee and Florida in the power rankings because of its history. That's absolutely ludicrous. Last time I checked, the Four Horsemen weren't on their bench. The BCMess, indeed. That's about the only point of contention I've ever had with those guys; they both make valid points even when they're dissenting points.

That's the good in ESPN. The bad is pretty much everything else. The fact that Tony (Kornheiser) was suspended for a week back in 2002 for remarks he made over the firing of his radio show's producer, among other people, is indicative of a network that wields too much power and only believes in free speech and commentary when it has nothing to do with their own faults.

And I almost totally forgot about the Jason Whitlock drama. I made fun of him when he hosted PTI while Wilbon was out. I sent an email to the show asking what had happened to Wilbon, claiming that he looked awful. For those who don't know, Whitlock is a large man. Anyway, it was clearly a joke and I respect Jason Whitlock. Especially after this story that came out back in September:

The World Wide Leader dumped me Monday afternoon because of critical comments I made about Mike Lupica and Scoop Jackson in a blog interview that ran on Friday. You can read the interview at www.thebiglead.com.

I guess that's the Disney in ESPN. It's all rainbows and unicorns. Grey skies are gonna clear up . . . one way or another.

Does ESPN not recognize that the popularity of PTI is in large part due to the anchors actually saying something. People with actual opinions. And not people like Woody Paige, who can easily be dismissed as goofballs, but people whose words are actually valued. That's Tony and Michael. Their words carry weight. I do know this: ESPN does realize that PTI is popular. After all, why else would they have moved the Big Finish so that it's part of SportsCenter. Hell, I have to watch 10 minutes of that show to catch the end of my show.

So what about "that" show? SportsCenter. It is what it is. (God, isn't that the sports catch phrase of the year?) It is a stat show. Straight news. With a twist. Kinda. The problem I have is in the delivery. It has become so similar to Entertainment Tonight in the way that it plugs upcoming news - after this commerical break - with suggestive questions that end up having the most retarded of answers. Christ, I expect Mary Hart to appear from behind one of their fake walls any day now.

The cliffhangers before commercials that keep us tuned in . . . and their eventual letdowns, er, outcomes:

SportsCenter Scenario One:

- opening lead in, graphics, clips, voice over -
Q: "And what did TO do this time? Is this the last straw? You gotta see this!"
- stats, Stuart Scott sucking thug cock, pun, pun, trying analogy, stats, pre-commercial plug -
Q: "Has Parcels finally seen enough of TO? We'll let you know!"
- scores, Yankees, Cuban, basketball science, pun, pun, poll, Schapp sap, pre-commerical plug -
Q: "And find out why TO might not be in Dallas much longer."
- scores, poll answer, pun, back patting and . . .
A: "Turns out TO had an oyster roast for some of his teammates this past weekend. Parcels was invited, but didn't show up. When asked, Parcels said he was allergic to shellfish - and joked that he was pretty sure TO knew that. Also, TO is going home to visit his mom next week."

SportsCenter Scenario Two:

- opening lead in, graphics, clips, voice over -
Q: "And why A Rod will retire as a Yankee."
- scores, pun, self-congratulations, 2-minute setup . . . punchline, pun, list of best QBs ever, pre-commercial plug -
Q: "Up next: will A Rod be anything other than a Yankee?"
- injury report, hot seat, sponsor stuff, scores, list of best ESPN moments ever, pre-commercial plug -
Q: "What made A Rod decide to be a Yankee for the rest of his life?"
- song and dance, list of best steroids ever, sarcasm, pun, analogy and . . .
A: "It's official. A Rod has become an American citizen. That means he's a Yankee in any uniform."
- snare, snare, cymbal -

Long. Walk. For. A. Roast. Beef. Sandwich. It's frustrating to read that - with those lame-ass payoffs - but at least it's your voice you're hearing in your head. Not some bubbly cheerleader's or Chandler Bing's. I guess I just wish they gave their viewers more credit. They insult our intelligence. Plain and simple. The idea of a fatass yelling at his dumb wife about the shortage of hot wings while watching the "big game" is stale and simply wrong.

And as for those commercials . . . I applaud most of them. Most of them are better than the product they advertise. I do think the campaign needs some fresh legs, though. This Was SportsCenter. Oh, and I had no idea they charged people on iTunes for the old commercials. Another power-happy corporation. Get over yourself already. I am. I just don't have any other options.

A bunch of them there commercials that I've been talking about: right cheer.

So what's my current beef with the ESPN? It's got to be the Peyton vs. Brady talk. Here's the debate: Who is the better quarterback? Here is the correct answer: Peyton Manning. Here is the logic for the wrong anwer: Tom Brady has 3 rings. I'm taking the guy with the championships. Okay, the question was "Who is the better quarterback?" It was not "Who has more Super Bowl rings?" By the wrong people's logic, Duce Staley is a better running back than Ladanian Tomlinson. Ben Roethlisberger is a better quarterback than Peyton Manning. Antwaan Randle El is a better reciever than Marvin Harrison. Willie Parker is a better running back than Larry Johnson and Shaun Alexander. I hate how the talking heads of ESPN avoid the actual question. Who is the motherfucking better quarterback? Peyton Motherfucking-Audible-Calling Manning. That's who.

Now where is my Season 1 and only DVD of Playamakers?

Broken Social Scene tonight in Charleston. I'll be the guy wearing a tshirt from Urban Outfitters.