The diagnosis is in for the Toronto Maple Leafs. There is a problem. And it is terminal. However the cure is something of a surprise. It is not trading Tyson Barrie. (Brandon Maron at Sportsnet). It is not restructuring the team (Jonas Siegel, The Athletic). And it sure as hell is not firing Mike Babcock. (James Mirtle, The Athletic, et al.)
Indeed it has nothing to do with Babcock’s handling of Matthews’ playing time nor his not playing Spezza in the season opener, nor even his comments on Marleau aiming to play the most games in history. It is instead the reports of these things. The reporters.
When reflecting on the media hysteria related to the Leafs’ current woes, there is no need to look any further than the reporters themselves. That’s right. It’s time to shoot the messengers.
I was a reporter for a neighborhood weekly in Toronto some years back, and while my insights into the sports world were well short of revelatory, my awareness of the reporters pool was acute. These guys are lazy and angry. They are wanna-be’s with over-inflated egos, sad little fellows who sit at the back of the bus, furious that their yearly salary barely matches an athlete’s per diem. That is why they foam at the mouth at every opportunity they get. It seems to help them sleep at night or something.
And so the cure is simple really. Re-assign these little boys to do something productive with their lives – ushers maybe? Let’s just stop all of this chatter for a while. What about that? Maybe just let the players play and Babcock coach. Let’s do that first. And then who knows what will happen? A few wins possibly? And the silence. Yes, that too.
Not wanted: stories dealing with the ruin of young girls, betrayal of virtue, neglect of children, cruelty to animals, excessive smoking, drunk cowboys always looking for a fight, extreme manifestations of sex, maudlin displays of patriotism…
…situations likely to instill fear, insanity, hunchback, sissies, gruesomeness, gun-play, milk bottles to indicate poverty, rats, snakes, kittens as well as distressing situations.
Wanted: light dramas, comedy-drama, amusement, good fights, fine riding, topical stories, domestic drama, mother stories, heart interests, suspense and stories based on war conditions but not showing actual war stuff.
From Scott Eyman’s The Life and Times of John Ford
Visionary minimalist performer William Basinski played a marathon eight-hour show at The Issue Project Room on November 9 in Brooklyn Heights.
Actually performed is not a fair word for this event. While he was most certainly dressed as a performer – head to toe in black, including gloves and dark glasses – he did little more than sit at a large table, chose the desired track, and then stared out, like the rest of us.
I was a little off to the side, near the sound board, where two tech guys either slept or hunched over their phone and incessantly scrolled their social media. So began the eight-hour marathon.
The small crowd of 200 sat rapturously watching Basinski watch his laptop as a Borealis light show dripped down the wall of the very cool – actually cold – landmark building. It was hard to stay focused – even with the col – hard not to drift off to sleep, Basinski himself wandering off every hour for 10-15 breaks of his own.
Basinski is best known for The Disintegration Loops, a collection of loops he had recorded many years ago on analog tapes and re-recorded on 9/11 as the tapes physically deteriorated. He played four of these haunting recordings – Disintegration Loops 1.2,.2.1, 4 & the epic Disintegration Loop 5 – or, to be more accurate, his computer played these as he watched his computer and we watched him do that as the visuals continued to cascade behind him.
In the end, Basinski closed his laptop, the visuals faded, and he thanked the 60 or so of us who had persevered and offered free stickers as our reward.
As crazy as it might sound, as tired as I was, all I could think of was when he might be doing this again.
We paddled slowly. One seal popped up in the water. That was strange. We hadn’t seen any since the mainland. Suddenly Don pointed. “Is that a polar bear coming towards us?”
“I can’t see anything,” I said. “Maybe it’s foam.”
“No, it’s a polar bear. Get your camera out and get a picture,” Don said.
I yanked the spray skirt off and reached for the camera. “What am I doing? I’m getting out of here,” I yelled back. The polar bear was coming at us from an angle to cut us off from shore. All I could see was the tip of his nose, his beady eyes and the tip of his head with the little ears lying flat. He made no wake as he slid towards us. Spontaneously we veered away toward the open sea.
Don yelled, “Look back and see if he’s still coming.”
I’d glanced back. Yes, he’s still coming.” I kept checking. The bear raised himself to a normal swimming position and now there was a wake as the chase began. The bear wasn’t giving up. We paddled as hard as we could for an hour. Luckily the waves were moderate and the wind was in our favor. I couldn’t see the bear anymore.*
*Extract from Victoria Jason’s Kabloona in the Yellow Kayak.