Sneaker watch: Crocs now OK for Medical Doctors.

Apologies for lack of posting.

Recorded an album.

"Released" said album on compact disk.

Played several times to promote it.

Went on vacation.

Changed jobs.

Also: became violently ill. Which brings me to the following:

I am almost never sick. That's a very simple declaration, but an enormous blessing. Until the week before last, I hadn't vomited from anything other than alcohol poisoning since I was under age 10. While noteworthy, this realization comforted me little as I yakked blood. Instead, I sequenced through the usual progression: discomfort, shock, appeal to jesus, webmd.com.

Ever the alarmist, Webmd "symptom checker" advised I seek immediate emergency medical attention. That was enormously inconvenient, blood and all, and Kayla (ever the realist) was having none of it. So I waited it out, hit the bathroom for a little diarrhea, and visited the Primary Care Physician's office the next day during regular business hours.

It was my first trip in a couple years, and I'd changed insurers. This meant paperwork, and increased interaction with adjunct office personnel, all of whom were rocking white Crocs. Then a nurse (also totally Crocked-out) led my virus-ravaged skeleton to an exam room, where I sat on deli paper clutching gatorade and staring out the door. Every passer-by rocked Crocs. Many, including my doctor, sported a sockless Croc look. Not OK, says I, but also sort of awesome.

Illness prevented me from thinking much on this topic at the time, but, on reflection, the emergence of Crocs in emergeny medical situations really caps a startlingly meteoric rise. I mean, Doctors dont typically take fashion risks, yet here they are with friggin beach clogs on their feet. Can any other beachwear claim to have won over the medical community? Hell-to-the-No.

Crocs are the Saabs of footwear. They are ugly as sin, but unique, and their loyal followers buy them primarily for utility. That's all fine by me, but there's a time and a place to keep it super-casual, and the Doctor's office aint one of em.

Patrick Ewing--my first favorite baller--elected to Hall of Fame

"We didn't compete."
-Isiah Thomas. November 29th, 2007 and many, many other dates.

You never heard this unacceptable phrase during the 15-year Patrick Ewing era in New York, which is a big part of why he is now a hall of famer.

Ewing never overcame Jordan, and his hard-nosed style didn’t match Hakeem Olajuwan’s grace, but no one worked harder to win, and no one questioned his leadership, his effort, his willingness to get better, or his dedication to his team. Certainly the Knicks miss his production—he was always good for 20 and 10—but it is his commitment they miss most.

Ewing’s career is defined by two images, both of which feature his arms—possibly the longest in human history. The first is his victory pose following the Knicks' 94 victory over the Pacers. This was the closest he came to winning it all at the Garden, and his outstretched arms told the story: the win moved him, and us, and it looked like he could literally embrace the entire arena.



Ewing at the peak. It was a profound sports moment because the win clearly meant as much to Patrick as it did to the fans.

The second was less glorious, but, ultimately, more career-defining: the missed finger roll in game 7 of the 95 conference finals at Indiana. He played tenaciously, carried team on his (presumably aching) back, and put himself in position to win. But where the situation called for an emphatic dunk, Ewing went with the soft-roll, and he didn’t get the bounce.

The symbolism of this was vivid to fans of all ages.

After those two indellible images, when I think of Ewing, I think of sweat. Many people do.

I know that’s gross, but its also awesome, because it was a byproduct of effort. Athletes should want to compete, and want to lay it on the line every game. Most of the time they don’t. But Ewing played both ends of the floor every night, and he had the sweat to prove it. Seeing him at the free-throw line, drenched, 2 minutes into the game, made me feel like the game and the Knicks meant as much to him as it did to me as a kid.

Because he didn’t win it all, Ewing is frequently remembered largely for trivial things like the stupid gold-club scandal and the lumbering, slow style he adopted and the ever-growing knee-pads he wore late in his career as injuries piled up. Truth is, Patrick Ewing kept a (once) great franchise in the hunt for 15 years, gave his body to his team, and showed millions of kids that competitive greatness could be defined by effort. By sweat. He never made success look easy, and that’s why we loved him.




Patrick Ewing gave his body to the Knicks. His commitment was unassailable.

Opera Corner with Tim Harrington

Faithful readers, I'd like to broaden the scope of almoorica's ceaseless music coverage via a new segment: Opera Corner with Tim Harrington.

Tim Harrington, my grandfather, knows he is an authority on opera. What he doesn't know yet is that he is also a born blogger.

I sincerely hope his amusing, astute insights into this crucial art form will become a valuable and recurring addition to my humble blog. They will certainly elevate its level of sophistication. He makes his almoorica debut with an unfiltered take on the Met's latest production of Tristan and Isolde:


The hot news from Needham is that the Metropolitan will be streaming a live performance of Tristan und Isolde TONIGHT, at 7PM EST. Rush to www.metopera.org. The original six performances of this FIVE hour long opera was to star two great singers, Ben Heppner ( Canada ) and Deborah Voight ( USA ) and I saw the fourth show last Sat PM with the fourth replacement tenor: Heppner had got sick the week before the first show, withdrew, was misdiagnosed in NY, went to Toronto where an abdominal infection was found and surgically drained; meanwhile the first performance occurred in NY and the tenor got sick but got through ( booed by some kindly folks from the City at first curtain call, but cheered at second by outraged outlanders); at the next performance Voight got sick ( stomach upset, show completed by her stand-in ); at the next, the second substitute tenor was hurled into the prompter's box by a malfunction of the stage machinery ( the box was cleverly hidden by a dish with a large sacrificial fire in it, but he wasn't incinerated, and the show was halted for eight minutes and then went on. );then came the fourth show, with yet another substitute, excellent, ( an American flown in from Paris ) and broadcast worldwide, he w/o any rehearsal. Now Mr Heppner is about to undertake this punishing role, in a weakened condition... but the fans are thirsting for blood. Producing these shows live, worldwide is truly a high wire act.

Rick Berlin's Rent Party--or, why I love the Midway

Last week, the unstoppable indie-iconoclast Rick Berlin hosted the latest in a series of musical potlucks in support of "Jamaica Plain Spoken," his perpetually-forthcoming documentary film about this under-celebrated, completely vital neighborhood. The event took place at the Midway Cafe--a dive that does everything right--and was a solid reminder that this neighborhood is the lynchpin of Boston's counterculture.

Rick expressed concern that these evenings were beginning to feel like rent parties, cause the film is nowhere in sight, but to me the show was ingenious as it essentially stated the case for why the thing needs to be made in the first place. There was a local artist selling photographs of genetalia by the bar, bands and performers on the stage, buzzing in the crowd, and stalwart barflies watching the Bruins on the TV in the corner. This was the "good Boston" in full effect.

It was also a typical night at the Midway, a small room with a comfy stage, a band-friendly, unassuming vibe, and possibly the most eclectic built-in crowd in Boston.




I love playing this room. Even when we've played to zero people (it happens) there, we've been reasonably taken care of, and when we've played to big crowds, we've consistently walked out of there having made worthwhile connections.

Black Crowes and Workloads

Im swamped in the J-O-B, sick of looking at computers, and suffering from low all-arond morale, but listening to the Black Crowes new disc, "warpaint," moves me to write.

Its a joy, mostly because its nice to hear the band, after several years, slipping easily back into the same niche they've basically occupied since forever: stonesy, southern roots rock with a tinge of psychadelia (aside: as a longtime fan of this band, it feels great to write that sentence).

Anyway, despite the addition of a new guitarist, there are no radical new directions here. But there are several welcome, subtle, telling pivots. For starters, the record announces that they're rededicated to their music and their "brotherhood" for the first time in awhile. Secondly, it says that the band knows their wheelhouse and knows how to work brilliantly within it, dishing out side orders of grunge, grit, psychadelia, hippie jamband fare, and blues with their main course of sourthern-fried stones. Finally, it proves they're still interested in trying to make really good records. All of this is great news for us all, since the arena rock world desperately needs proven, dedicated, traditionalist bands. And damned if the crowes arent that.

As for the music itself, the album sounds terrific--Chris Robinson is in great voice here; the guitars flat-out sing, sliding and crunching and glistening; the mix is first-rate; and the performances are on the money, from the dobro-laced "Goodbye Daugters of the Revolution," to the grungy boogie "Wounded Bird," to the lovely "Oh Josephine," with its pastoral opening progression and its elegant close.

The only trouble, and this is always the Crowes' achilles heel, is that the songwriting sometimes comes off as more of a homage to the band's musical idols than it feels like they've picked up the torch and run with it. Thats an easy criticism I know, but its fair since the Crowes have proven themselves capable of top notch songwriting in the past--most notably on "the Southern Harmony" record.

Still, thats a small beans criticism, since the sheer soul and life in this album more than makes up for its (occasional) songwriting shortcomings. Classic roots rock is alive and well, as it always will be, in this important record from a band that, while never the "it" act in mainstream america, remains one of the best.

Brett Favre, Greatest Human Being of All Time, Retires; ESPN Scrambles to Fill Vast Programming Void

Its a difficult day for ESPN. Brett Favre, the football player/god among men, has gone ahead and retired in characteristically heroic fashion (i.e. by leaving a manly, rugged voicemail to an ESPN reporter). The news, while sad for Packer fans and the Wrangler Jeans company, is nothing short of devastating to the omnipotent cable network, which is contractually obligated to devote at least 2 hours out of every 24 to Fav-related puff programming.

Think about what that means for ESPN. While the network does get at least two full news cycles to inflate this completely unsurprising, long-expected story into a tearjerking, 10-megaton-news bombshell, they will now be forced to shelf their vast trove of Farve-fegnugen. Consequently, their entire editorial philosophy is upended; their stock-footage file utterly decimated, their go-to crawl headlines--"Favre says he'll play another year", "Favre: I still love the game", "God to Favre: You can borrow my arm for another year if you want"--now totally outdated.

I will watch the editorial ramifications of the Favre retirement with great anticipation...hopefully it may steer the network toward objective coverage of all 30 NFL teams with minimal infantile hero-worship. But I think an all-favre network, ESPN4, anchored by the man himself, is probably more likely.


Brett Favre's retirement creates problems for his legions of idolators at ESPN. They may now be forced to provide objective coverage of all 30 NFL teams

You had me at "Blogging D-Bag"

I'd like to give a special shout-out to Straight Up Sports, my favorite new site. In a sea of stupid, "lighter side of" sports blogs, yours, to be sure, is among the least insufferable.

Special tip 'o the hat to the Brooklyn Hillbilly for his impressive co-stewardship of this bastion of piquant journalism.