People I Fucking Hate: Stephen A. Smith

Stephen A. Smith—former Philadelphia Enquire sports columnist, current all-purpose, ESPN blowhard—is “Quite Frankly” (the name of his short-lived ESPN television talk show) one of the most terrible human beings on the planet. How is this possible for a seemingly inconsequential sports talk cretin? As the man himself might say, “Let me break it down for you.”

You see, Stephen A. Smith is a prime purveyor of a technique that has become a cottage industry in all types of television reporting. It’s the “I’m going to tell you that I’m telling you The Truth before I say something that is either: a. an outright fabrication, b. a subtle bit of sophistry or c. a puffed-up bit of bloviating meant to give the illusion of credibility to what is nothing more than a shallow attempt at promoting my personal agenda.” You see this all the time on the political shows. Keith Olbermann—one of my favorite brains on television, actually—does this quite a bit, and FOX News is practically inundated by these windbags.

But Smith has them all beat for a couple of reasons. First off, he NEVER STOPS YELLING. Stephen A. makes it his business to be even louder than the other obnoxious louts on sports television, of which there are a seemingly limitless supply. Skip Bayless, Michael Kay, Mike Francesa, Woody Hayes, Jay Mariotti, Chris Berman, Terry Bradshaw, Dick Vitale, and their ilk have made a handsome living on television by screaming over their fellow "reporters" with a sense of self-righteousness completely disproportionate to the importance of whatever virtually meaningless topic they happen to be discussing. But even those frothing beasts take it easy from time-to-time, in order to show the audience that not all issues are created equal. Not Smith. Everything he deigns to speak of is instantly awarded red-level threat priority. Bryant Gumbel referring to David Stern as a “plantation overseer” gets the same decibel level as incredulity over Eli Manning’s unwillingness to say hello to Plaxico Burress when Burress visited Giants training camp. Smith even went so far as to argue that common decency should’ve compelled Eli to greet his former wide receiver (who, by the way, was commonly decent enough to effectively ruin the 2008 Giants’ chance to repeat as Super Bowl champions by shooting himself in the leg. But I digress.).

There is another, more insidious aspect of Stephen A’s persona which gets me even more riled. It is this mock-preacher, hallelujah cadence he affects, a staccato, rhythmic, Sermon on the Mount syncopation that is nothing more than a distraction from the “paucity” (one of Stephen A’s favorite words) of substance in his rantings. Smith’s manner immediately disarms all would-be dissenters, as he thunders from his pulpit of unimpeachable wisdom. Combine this with the usual trumped-up machismo that all of these preening commentators carry with them from years of trying to compensate for their own inadequacies (namely that most of them are frustrated athletes), and you have the most irritating possible pop culture personality. Stephen A. tries to beat you up with his affected, exaggerated anger, while couching it in a religious-like fervor intended to convey that he is, indeed, the Last Word in sports analysis. (I use the word “analysis” loosely here.) Don’t think for a second that Stephen A. doesn’t purposely cultivate this preacher persona. It’s become far more magnified over the years.

There’s more. He’s a terrible writer, like most of the hacks at ESPN. Still, take a look at this sentence about Mets owner Fred Wilpon: “After all these months of being in the news for the wrong reasons, with a court of law looking into whether he is simply sleazy or just inept, the New York Mets' principal owner leaned heavily toward the realm of stupidity in one of the more unconscionable interviews we've heard in some time . . .” Let’s set aside the fact that the interview to which Smith refers in the New Yorker (in which Wilpon criticized several players on his team), is certainly not “one of the more unconscionable interviews” anyone has heard. But how exactly does one “lean heavily toward the realm of stupidity?” How did he sneak that one past his editor? Maybe he simply means “sounded ignorant?” That’s a little tidier, don’t you think?

Later in the same piece, Smith lets fly with some of his famously overzealous vocabulary, like a tenth grader with a Word-of-the-Day app on his new iPhone. Smith writes that Wilpon was “evidently attempting to absolve himself from the latest preponderance of evidence pointing to the Mets' desperate need for new ownership more than new players.” And later, sarcastically, in the same article: “He had nothing to do with the dereliction of leadership that's infected the Mets franchise over the last four or five years, during which his own son, Jeff, has been chief operating officer.” It’s not that these words are used incorrectly. It’s just so infantile to use them in an otherwise fatuous, fluff piece where the indignation is clearly manufactured, partly on the basis of this inflated vocabulary.

Everybody already knows that Stephen A. is way too buddy-buddy with his sports-world cronies, all back-slapping and secret handshaking with the very people he’s supposed to be covering objectively. Isiah Thomas, a man guilty of subjecting a woman he worked with to unwanted sexual advances and a barrage of verbal insults, was repeatedly defended by Smith. Way to stand up for the little guy, Stephen A. But I wouldn’t even care about Smith’s volume, his proselytizing, his bastardization of the English language, his cronyism, were it not for the impression he leaves, no matter the topic, that there is absolutely no room for negotiation, that his reputation is unassailable, that every one of his thoughts is informed purely by his desire to set the record straight. The fact that he cannot—or will not—admit that his personal prejudices almost always inform his opinions and that he is an entertainer, not a reporter, is his most unforgivable sin.

Look, I get it. He’s a TV personality. This is what he’s paid to do. And the truth is, despite these many-hundred words, I don’t really hate Stephen A. Smith more than I hate any of the other blowhards. Stephen A. is just a symbol. The bigger problem is that immediate opinions—the kinds lauded in ESPN Land, as well as the all-politics networks—can only be crafted by the most vacuous people. True, measured circumspection is feared like some sort of emasculating affliction, like having a small dick. (One of ESPN New York’s radio commercials brags of all the “big opinions” on the network. But nobody ever asks: what if a smaller opinion is required?) And yet, the real trick of talk TV is that the stupidity being spewed on thousands of topics actually masquerades as reflection to most of the audience. This is the true skill of Stephen A. and his brethren: talking fast about just about anything, regardless of their level of knowledge. In that way, they are truly gifted. They are perfectly suited to analyze reality TV, hot button social controversies, or games won or lost by the bounce of a ball because those topics encourage reductive thinking. Thrive only because of reductive thinking, in fact. And opinions about them are easily skewed by arbitrary bottom lines and the whims of personal agenda.

But for all the things that are more complex and require heartfelt scrutiny and agonizing introspection—forming relationships, having a conversation, helping someone in need, reading a difficult novel—these people are seriously ill-equipped. Unfortunately, there are more Stephen A. Smiths than there are, say, Louis C.K.s. And that, for all of us, is a much bigger problem than just the annoyance of another pompous sports reporter.

Amar'e, grieving, but chomping at the bit.

Another great game tonight Knicks!! It seems like everyone is buying into the system an playing team basketball. I can't wait to join. GN

I don't know what GN is.

For some reason, I'm thinking about Barack Obama tonight.

Not the president, of course. The man.

Logic

I am on a timeline. I must update this blog now or forever hold my peace. I must fit in all the things I have to do before 6 o’clock today when my sister wants to have dinner. I must tell stories with characters who have feelings. I must burn but not too much or else I will be accused of misanthropy. I must outfit my jokes with manageable punchlines. I must hit return at the end of every line. I must be good and kind and turn the other cheek. I must not bleed too much. I must fear the right things.

I must write.

I have been working on something that might become a new novel or it might not, though I hope it does. I like long things. I was going to post that, but it is too private now. It would be like posting pictures online of my newborn before I have had a chance to memorize her face. I want to be exposed, but not before the ideas have finished incubating. So for now, I lay low.

I will say this: I have thought about and began writing a piece excoriating LeBron James and what his charade says about our culture and blah blah. I stopped for two reasons. One, I lost the notebook I began it in. And two, I am seriously contemplating giving up sports.

There is a logical connection to make between James and what ails us, but every logical connection is a fallacy, or at least all the ones I have investigated to this point. It seems that all we have on earth are language and endlessness and any attempt to circumvent this one and only rule will spoil you somewhere along the line. Or force you into an apology.

In truth it is logic that ails us, that trumps all other diseases because it is inadequate, because it forces decisions when none are warranted, because it makes us draw lines when confusion is called for. Logic breeds expectations. It enforces unrealistic limitations. It disguises ugliness, but it does not make it disappear. We are constantly apologizing for our faulty logic.

And so, on cue, I must apologize for this wholly logical deconstruction of the concept of logic. Language is a form of logic and so I guess there’s no way to not be a slave to it. As Melville said, more eloquently (or succinctly) than I ever could, “Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that.”

This is not really related, but you should go here anyway. Come to think of it, it probably is related.

Faulkner

Pearl Jam

They are all so hopeful, so mindful, these city kids, city girls, these young, Masters-style city profs, waiting days, months, years practically, to hear back from editors of prestige, to learn if their feelings have been approved. Do writers actually give a shit about literary magazines anymore? Book deals? The New Yorker? Guess so. Love and opportunities abound and yet we’re all too busy using ‘em to update time, to inform anonymous hacks what song just came on the radio. Unless it’s Pearl Jam and it reminded you of how it feels to tingle in your throat and how music and words can get inside your muscles and make you grind your teeth, I’m not interested.

Pearl Jam, Pearl Jam, Pearl Jam, Pearl Jam, Pearl Jam. That’s right, I said it. Pearl Fucking Jam. You got the chutzpah to put that name in your mouth? Here’s the thing, folks. Christian Lander’s got this blog you’ve probably heard of. It’s called Stuff White People Like, see? It’s funny and all, well-written and can be an amusing distraction at the office, I guess. Can even make you feel a little better if you think you deserve to be castigated for your privileges. But I think it’s a shitload more than that. I think it’s an indictment. I think it’s a portion of the panacea. I think it’s an instantaneous treatise calling out the modern-day Anglophile liberal and his postures, his fear of a belly, his bloodless, under-the-radar sins that are costumed as good taste. Fuck coffee, fuck hummus, fuck Vespa scooters, fuck not having a TV. Fuck yoga and film festivals and Netflix and the Sunday Times and grammar and Barack Obama (in the abstract of course). The humble Mr. Lander will surely disagree, but to me, he’s nothing less than a hero.

And you know what’s got me all riled up and delighted at the same time? Pearl Jam will never end up on that list. Matt Cameron ain't much of a jazzman. Jeff Ament likes basketball. Stone Gossard wears khaki shorts to gigs. Eddie Vedder is always naked. Good for them. But we need more Pearl Jam. More Neil Young and Stephen Wright (the author, not the comedian). Less lethargy and Jack White. More feeling, less stealing. More hungry, more dingy. Less lecherous and stingy. More vodka and abundance, fewer gadgets and redundance. More Eminem and abandon. Less Radiohead and handsome. More Carlin. Less bargainin’. Fewer stoics. More hocus-pocus. More love, more hate. Less sit and wait. More Pearl Jam.

I still operate almost exclusively on inspiration. I think you should too. I am not a tireless worker. I am tirelessly ready to get back at it. I feel remorse because I didn’t start watching the Knicks until they won three in a row. I think that’s good guilt. And you know what folks? I may be a fat fool. And I might try to drag you down, just when you think you’re over the top. And I might wish I were dead from time to time. But I still got all night for you. And I almost always got enough left in the tank to shake you loose, you pretty, sexy, sophisticated city girl. I wish I could publish your story. I wish I could tell you how much you deserve. I wish you didn’t love your coffee and your Sunday Times and your comfortable goddamn inhibitions so goddamn much.

Fight to get it back again.

Pennies? From Heaven!

Folks:

These economic times have produced some sobering moments for all of us. I have always deemed myself an idealist, but it's impossible to sit around in my ivory tower and ignore what's going on out there in the streets. To that end, I am developing a non-fiction book for people who need some help stashing away a few extra bucks. Not only will this book help so many Americans struggling out there, but I think it's a terrific way to market myself. I could be writing a book that will tap into the zeitgeist of the early 21st century. Plus, it's true, and people like that sort of thing.

Here, friends, is an excerpt from the book I have tentatively titled “Ways to Save: How a Vodka-Loving Bohemian Who Looks Like a Football Player Survived the Crash.” Any insight or advice you can lend would be greatly appreciated before I send this out to prospective publishers. I just hope this helps someone out there who is having trouble making ends meet.

Danny

P.S. I wasn't really a dentist, but I think it makes me sound a little more glamorous. Whatever it takes to sell a few more books, you know?


CHAPTER 6: PENNIES? FROM HEAVEN!

Ever have the following exchange at your favorite convenient store?

You (with Coca-Cola, Hershey’s bar and newspaper in hand): “Hey Sam. How are things going?”
Sam: “Good. Good. And you?”
You: “Great Sam. How much?”
Sam: “$2.75 sir.”
You: “Ooh. Shoot. Sorry Sam. I’ve only got $2.74. Is that OK? Can I give you the penny tomorrow?”
Sam: “That’s alright. Don’t worry about the penny. You’re a good customer.”
You: “Thanks Sam. I really appreciate it.”

We’ve all been there, right? A day late and a penny short. (LOL). Don’t worry. It happens to the best of us. But this can actually be a big benefit to you and your family. How? Well just follow these six easy steps and you and yours will be socking away more money than you can wrap a fist around.

Step 1: First of all, you can’t pull this off unless you’re in a neighborhood you’re extremely familiar with, i.e. near work or home. Also, this will only work in a densely-populated city. (Ruralites can skip ahead to Chapter 7: Selling Your Hay for Profit.) What you need to do is establish a network of 8-10 bodegas where the workers become familiar with you. This usually takes 6-9 weeks and will require you to visit these establishments at least three times per week. Nothing less will do.

Step 2: Learn the prices of all the items you normally buy. You’ll need to note the exact prices, with tax. Don’t use a notebook for this. It will arouse suspicion. Then, make sure you pay at least the exact amount every time for all of your goods. This builds up a reservoir of good will. From time-to-time, throw them a few extra cents. For example, if something costs $3.98 and you give them $4.00, say something like, “Don’t worry about the two cents.” Waving your hand is a good technique as well, to show them that you’re not the kind of person hung up on a few cents here or there.

Step 3: Establish a rapport. It is ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL that you learn the name of everyone who works at these establishments on a regular basis. Keep abreast of worker turnover. Learn some details about each clerk which you can use in conversation. Develop some easy, go-to dialogue, like, “How are the kids, Pete?” or “How did that colonoscopy turn out Jane?” This shows them that you genuinely care about how they’re doing (which you may or may not, depending on your own emotional makeup). Also, learn their schedules because you’ll need this information later on. Schedules can be ascertained with casual interjections like, “Say, you’re a real workaholic. How many hours they got you slaving in this place?”

Step 4: After 6-9 weeks of “getting to know you” time, begin to execute your plan. This timeframe will vary slightly depending on yours and the workers’ personalities, and you want to make sure you don’t begin too soon. Make sure you know exactly what you need to buy BEFORE you go in and how much it will cost TO THE PENNY. Then make sure you have the exact change MINUS ONE CENT. (Any more may eventually arouse suspicion.) When you are rung up at the register, search your pockets and tell the cashier you’re short one cent. Look remorseful. Don’t beg for any handouts. Say, “I can give it to you next time.” Without fail, the cashier will tell you not to worry about the penny . . . if you’ve followed all the above steps.

Step 5: Do this at each store 3 times per week. Most stores have three shifts. Make sure that within any week, you pull the trick only once per shift. No clerk should see you more than one time per week. (You'll need to work out a visitation schedule that fits your lifestyle, but do be advised that midddle-of-the-night bodega runs may occasionally be necessary.) By the next week, the workers at these stores – most of whom are alcoholics and drug addicts and have very poor short term memories – will have forgotten that you already pulled the penny trick on them and you’re free to pull it off again.

Step 6: Repeat for 25 years.

The math adds up folks. Say you follow everything I’m telling you to do. And say you’ve chosen 10 stores to be in your “penny circuit.” Every week you’ll save 3 cents per store, and 30 cents at all the stores combined. Thirty cents per week is about $1.20 per month. That’s almost 16 dollars a year! After 25 years, folks, you’ll have nearly 400 dollars in your piggy bank for that inevitably rainy day you know is just around the next fork in the road. And in these economic times, who couldn’t use an extra 400 dollars? I know I wouldn’t mind that kind of loot falling into my lap right about now.

Now, I know this takes a bit of effort. In fact, it reminds me of my former career as a dentist. People would come into my office and I’d say, “You have to brush, floss and rinse three times a day.” And they’d say to me, “Won’t that take a lot of time, Doc?” And I’d say, “About 10 minutes a day. But you’d gladly give up 10 minutes a day to prevent severe health problems in the future, wouldn’t you?” They knew it was sound logic.

Same goes here. Yes, it might be a little inconvenient to visit bodegas 30 times a week for the next 25 years. But just think of that pot of gold waiting at the end of the rainbow. In these economic times, we can’t afford to take any possible savings for granted. And the best part? The cost is so minimal for the bodegas, they won’t even notice that they’re helping you plan for your retirement. It's a classic win-win scenario!

Allow Me to Re-Introduce Myself . . .

Hello folks. Your friendly neighborhood DanMan, here. And this is the re-boot of my blog after a few months off, during which time I’ve been recharging the ol’ batteries, getting ready for another chapter. I turn 33 this year – same as the number I have tattooed on my right arm for a certain underappreciated basketball legend – so I figure now is as good a time as any. Time is arbitrary anyway.

This is the official launch of a project that has been brewing for years, but for one reason or another has been continually back-burnered. There’s no need to be cryptic; I’ll just get right to it. In November, I will release my second novel, Gadfly, through GaluminumFoil Productions, the arts collective started by Chris Cubeta and me nearly ten years ago. I will also simultaneously release my second spoken word record, tentatively titled Coming Back. I’m fortunate to have musical friends and a performance background that allow me an outlet to promote my novel, as well as experiment with a mostly unexplored genre. Trust me. This ain’t your father’s, finger-snapping, toe-tapping, spoken word. (I really hate that expression, but it does fit here.) We’ve got electric guitars, a cajon and lots of anti-Bill O’Reilly vitriol. Fun stuff.

The idea behind all this is that new writers are being shot down again and again by the realities of the business. If there’s a way we can circumvent all that, a way to get the work out there for people to read and hear without hoping for the help of industry types, whose motives are often dubious, then why not just do it? This is not to say that everyone in the publishing game is bad news; it’s just to say that I don’t want to wait around for ten years (as many of my writer friends have) to get the words out there. As Stephen Wright (not that Steven Wright, but the great novelist) says, “Writing is an act of communication and that act isn’t completed until someone else reads the book. And if that act isn’t completed, then the work is unfinished.” Well, I don’t want to be unfinished anymore.

For those of you who know me, I can be a pretty caustic guy. But I think that’s more persona than anything else. I believe in art. I believe in community. I want writers who are genuinely trying to say something to have the opportunity to say it. I don’t know what the inherent merit of my work is, or if that is even quantifiable. I just know I have to try. When I was 19 years old, I read a bunch of excerpts from Jack Kerouac’s diary in an educator’s magazine lying around my parents’ house. I was so moved by Jack’s simple ache to communicate his experiences on this planet, I wanted to do the same. Despite all the change of the intervening years, that desire has not wavered. To quote yet another terrific writer, Steve Almond, literature is simply “an ongoing discussion about what it means to be human.” Words for all artists to live by, I think.

I toyed around with a few new names for the blog, but ultimately I think I’ve landed upon exactly the right title for two reasons: 1.This is, indeed, a “place for my stuff.” It will contain my words, my thoughts, my ideas, my dreams, my secrets, my longings, my insane and/or inane ramblings. In other words, all the “stuff” that is most dear to me. 2. Perhaps more importantly, the title is a tribute to one of the men who remains a daily inspiration, a man with more faith than all the fundamentalists combined. Ol’ George Carlin, the disappointed idealist, who stayed true until his death, who was convinced that everything on earth – all the love and beauty and ineffable truth we can feel and taste and imagine – was reason enough to believe, and was pissed off when humankind kept fucking things up in the name of religion, or patriotism, or pride, or any one of those false cloaks human beings use to protect themselves from the essential agnosticism of being alive.

I’ll post the first few chapters of Gadfly on here in the coming months for those of you who didn’t read them the first time around. Along the way, there will be some creative detours. Hopefully. Sometimes I like to break away from fiction. Wax poetic. Or eschew lyricism altogether to directly address something on my mind. I even hear there is some Professor fellow by the name of G. Daniel who may want to get in on my action. That’s fine. I’m ready for him.

I have so many wonderful and talented friends who are working at a similar task as the one I have undertaken. Their integrity and intelligence and willingness to expose themselves at the risk of embarrassment and ugliness and disappointment are the fuel for this entire endeavor. I hope that when all is said and done, this will be about so much more than me. Because there are people who deserve to be heard and read and acknowledged a helluva lot more than I do, people who have paid more dues, had their hearts more hopelessly mangled than I have.

And so this is a call to arms. Facebook is nice and all, but 140 characters (or whatever the limit is now) can’t possibly capture the complexity of our common struggles – the good, the bad and the ambiguous – and so why wait around for the agents and publishers and all those well-meaning folks who simply don’t understand the urgency? It’s a new era, a new time.

Let’s fight to get it back again.

Danny