Who is SPORT?
Sport is "a poet... a singer of songs" (like Tony Curtis in Spartacus)
He also enjoys building dioramas, drawing and painting, and collecting
all sorts of old stuff - especially paper ephemera, antique toys, and
items of grotesque interest. He used to lead a rock band called the
Skels, and now plays with a band provisionally named the Sound-Sations!
He lives in Long Island New York, but was born in Texas and raised in
Brooklyn. His ethnic heritage is, unsurprisingly, Irish American. He
does a regular comix page for punk fanzine UNDER THE VOLCANO. Why "SPORT?"
This is a teenage nickname based on the BONZO DOG BAND song "Sport (the
odd boy)." It was reinforced by the pimp named Sport played by Harvey
Keitel in Scorcese's TAXI DRIVER. The nickname seems to confound certain
individuals he meets, who insist on cocking an eyebrow and sneering:
"Sport? That's your name? Are you a 'Good Sport?' Haw haw! Is that name
on your birth certificate? Haw haw!" The monicker is worth keeping if
only for its efficacy in immediately identifying persons of this general
class of intellectual sophistication and social grace. How does Sport view the making of music?
It is like building ships in bottles or model railroading. It is like
the sacrament of the Eucharist. It's like spanking one's monkey. The
composition of even one bad tune is an act more important than anything
ever even contemplated by the likes of Donald Trump (not that that's
saying very much). Music is a direct conduit to God. Music is for
individuals, and groups of individuals; music that "speaks for a
generation" sucks ass. Good music can become bad ("big chill" fetishism
of Motown as yuppie nerd anthems... movies with scenes of privileged
scum dancing about their kitchens. Copland's "Simple Gifts" variations
usurped by advertisers and "Oprah's Book Club"-type pods as some sort of
faux-spiritual fix) and bad music can become good (elevator music
brought - with all its unexpected weirdness - to the foreground.
Commercial jingles that reveal, upon close inspection, aspects of craft
otherwise abandoned by the rock-weaned "composers" in current-day
demand. Bobby Rydell). Who, in Sport's opinion, are some of the heinous offenders in
today's music world?
Andrew Lloyd Webber. Sean "Puffy" Combs. Rage Against The Machine. John
Williams. Patti Labelle. Mannheim Steamroller. Elton John. The
Wilsonless Beach Boys. Philip Glass. Everclear. If you like any of
these, then Sport is wrong. The Only Rule is: "I like it." As opposed to...?
William Bolcom. Wyclef Jean. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Randy Newman.
Gladys Knight. The Beau Hunks. Neil Young. The Beach Boysless Brian
Wilson. Don Byron. Morphine. If you dislike any of these, you're wrong.
The sacred corollary to the Only Rule is: "If Sport likes it, then so
should I." How about Celtic music?
Sport likes IRISH music. This would generally preclude anything with
banks of molasses-thick synthesizer goop, cheekbone rouge-n-headbands,
pennywhistle with cavernous reverb, references to vague mystical
foolishness, and do forth. Look for an upcoming essay on the old song
"The Garden Where The Praties Grow" on this very website. We dunno what
the music of the celts sounded like, but we are fairly certain it didn't
sound like Yes outtakes. What other contemporary phenomena fascinate/amuse/repulse Sport?
Sport is profoundly amused by the facial expressions and bodily postures
of entertainment figures like Tom Hanks, when they "get serious" on
subjects like A.I.D.S. (Akin to that detestable twinkle-in-the-eye/sad
smile combo Robin Williams has perfected, or the puffed-up pomp of
newscasters like Dan Rather as they discuss the agonies they endure in
the name of journalistic ethics).
Sport is also awed by the way in which all the things he was taught in
childhood to abhor - like racism (David Letterman and Def ComedyJam
types mocking Pakistani and Indian immigrants), "making fun of retards"
(Howard Stern. ...and this is the precise point in this here FAQ where
most of you are saying "now, just a second, I like Howard!" Most of
Sport's friends do. La dee fucking da. ), etcetera, now form the basis
of American entertainment. These were things children used to do and say
in order to feel "naughty." Publicly announcing such vile views would
have resulted in a swift whack on the ass. But class is dead, and
shock/schlock amusement has now reached lifetime-junkie tolerance
levels, and every pissant with a bad attitude and a puerile point of
view thinks he's Lenny Bruce. He ain't. And it ain't about p.c., it's
about "yawn."
It's comparable to shows like the unlamented Mystery Science Theatre
3000, which took the harmless fun of wisecracking over badfilms, and
neutered it by SUPPLYING all the "wit" for you. Thanks a lot, you
fucking geeks. By the way, fart jokes were funnier when not sanctioned
by South Park.
Sport is wistful with the memory of television in which old black and
white programming was still enjoyed by young people, late nights were
full of treats like THE MILLIONAIRE and Joe Franklin instead of
interminable infomercials for ponzi schemes and exercise devices, and
right-wing gasbags were relegated to the pages of the New York Post
(where they belong, quarantined like Typhoid Mary) instead of holding
forth hourly on the significance of presidential jism, at
wrestling-announcer levels of volume. By the way, wrestling was better
as grubby esoterica hidden away on uhf... when Lou Albano seemed like he
could really BE like that, and Vince MacMahon was still a skinny nerd
contending bemusedly with Fred Blassie's virtuoso excesses.
Chagrin is not the word to describe Sport's reaction to the current
state of the JERRY LEWIS LABOR DAY TELETHON. Although he still watches
it in its entirety every year (as he has since 1976), the wee wee hours,
once so rich with class-a Vegas lounge acts, now boast Komedy Klub
Klips, Branson, Mo. schmaltz, and promotional speils for VH1 while Jerry
sleeps. Thank GOD for Norm Crosby. And yes, Sport sends money to MDA. No
free ride here, goddamnit.
All these little British films and Tarantino/Scorcese knock-offs are as
wretched as the big-money big-noise epic buddy-movie blow-em-ups they're
supposed to counter. Every once in a while, there's a TREES LOUNGE to go
see, but too rarely. There's this place nearby that shows foreign films
and such. It's the only game in town, since Long Island abhors culture.
If you show up thirty seconds late for the TRAILERS, the proprietor
treats you like someone who just dropped a steaming turd on his wedding
cake. So Sport tends to avoid it, and the multiplexes full of imbecilic
teens, to rent films at 112 VIDEO, the single greatest video rental haus
on God's green Earth.
