Redskins: week 7

When I heard ol' Hank start his signature lead in to MNF and saw the Redskins logo zip across the screen I thought to myself- I'm not sure if I'm ready for some football, the Skins sure as shit arent. In retrospect, I think Hank should have gone with my lyrics.

In all honesty, I was half expecting/half hoping for some kind of difference to emerge from the handing off of play-calling duties from Zorn to lewis. It didn't. If anything, IF anything at all, Devin Thomas and Fred Davis, normally highly talented stand-ins actually caught some passes. Admittedly, this was nice to see. Aside from this slight detour into a realm of slight efficiency though, the Redskins produced the usual result via the requisite means.

And Jason Campbell. What, if anything, can be said about him at this point. After last night, no excuses remain. Dan Snyder and the carousel of offensive systems are, for once, not to blame for the backfield's buffoonery. Campbell stumbled, fumbled and for all we know, was within inches of falling into the toilet before the game started. Granted, the line is barely hanging on and if Vinny Cerrato knew anything about his team other than they all wear pads, there would've been someone there to pick up Philly's relentless blitzing. But there wasn't and in all likelihood there won't be for the rest of this season or within the next decade. So, Jason is alone. He's Tom Hanks in 'Cast Away' only he has no Wilson, no skate blades, no water, no coconuts...shit, he doesn't have any hands either.

Meanwhile, aboard the HMS Snyder, people are ragin' hard. Champagne, cubans, Armani- they've got it set up. The turmoil brewing back upon the main is the furthest thing from Danny and his first mate Vinny's mind. This has been made obvious time and time again when problems- big and small- have been presented and one of three things happen:

1. throw money at it

2. give one person's responsibilities to someone else

3. Money doesn't work? Fire that dude.

Count that as the mission objective. Full steam ahead into week 8. Fuck.

Redskins: week 5

Earlier today, somewhere in a DC area home-

woman- "Holy shit! Holy shit! the fucking oven is on fire! Honey, get the hell in here! call 991!"

man- (eyes glazed over, tendril of drool hanging from lower lip) "yeahh....sure......honey, the skins are looooosinggggg (trails off).

I think everyone wearing burgundy and gold today can appreciate both of the emotions described above. First comes the searing wave of panic. The sweaty palms, the uncontrollable shaking which eventually subsides to a sort of meta-consciousness. The swirling images of multi-million dollar contracts, giant Dan Snyder bobble heads and echoes of press conferences from the last decade where promises were made and broken. If this comatose, zombified state describes you at any point in the last five weeks, don't worry, it's not your fault. None of us signed up for this when we pledged to "hail" every sunday. H1N1 might as well be the rest of the world's concern. For anyone residing within the beltway, or off the Dulles greenway, the problem is that our loyalty, as Redskins fans, seems to have a price. If this is the case (Mr. Snyder, feel free to jump in at any moment) how long will our currency last?

I realized long ago that the NFL had transformed itself into a mogul-laden industry, innocent and wholesome escapism replaced by the very highest benchmark of multi-media product placement. But even though the days of Lombardi, Baugh and Jergensen are long since buried, there is still room for pride, still a demand for franchise that is worthy of the loyalty with which it's paid. I love my Redskins. I have no reservations in confessing this. But any real fan knows that the 2-3 record that Washington is shouldering heading into a by-week is much worse than it looks. Jason Campbell is spent, his nine lives, gone. Zorn is flying blind and starless into the thick of a stormy schedule. The problems, simply put, are many and malignant.

If there is heart left on this team, please let it be seen. Not the heart so commonly harped on week after week that is meant to quell the tired, huddled masses. I'm talking about a desire, a NEED to win games, a burn to succeed that transcends salary promised or endorsements pending. If the skins continue to fail to play up to the level of talent they possess (and yes, their is a great deal of it) or at least play hard enough for us to say they tried, then Snyder is a modern Citizen Kane, his empire a mausoleum.

Somewhere maybe in Ashburn or Great falls, an oven is on fire. The flames slowly creep up the walls and the curtains begin to smolder, rolling into mounds of ash. The tv screen is now in sign off as the network monitor, probably a Skins fan since the seventies, has jumped off the fucking Key bridge. The man is stone still, unable to cough from the blanketing smoke and even after the fire crew has managed to move him out of the house, he says nothing, notices nothing. The score CAROLINA, 20/WASHINGTON, 17- is burned into his subconscious. Now post-game reels begin to scroll through his mind, followed by ads for Chipotle, Papa Johns and Bud light- They're official Redskins products. And too bad if you're a Dominoes fan, because you're gonna order from the poppa, because you're a Goddamn Redskins fan. You're gonna eat your stuffed crust and smile your Cooley lovin' ass off. Here's to another week and another 76 yards.

'Beggars' review

Thrice doesn't like to sit still, not since the release of 'Vheissu' in 2005. It seems their attention span is collectively short, too short for the post-hardcore shredding that was their niche sound. After the wave of echoey, radiohead-esque textures that dominated their last two efforts, Thrice have stripped down their bandwagon to something bare-bones with 'Beggars'. Intro song 'All the world is mad' wastes no time demonstrating that the So. Cal quartet are all grown up. The brothers Breckenridge rule the rhythm section with chunks of thousand pound grooves, a perfect juxtaposition to Teppei Teranishi's "amps to eleven" lead assault and Dustin Kensrue waxing like a wayward philosopher about the imperfections of modern man. Thrice, however, are just warming up.

'The weight' takes off swiftly after and man does it roll hard. Kensrue sings with the strength and the certainty worthy of the greatest of veteran frontmen. This is a love song carrying a big bag of knuckles. The rest of the record represents a beautifully executed balancing act between the fast attack of the first two and rolling, building arrangements akin to the sonic explorations of 'The Alchemy index'. 'Circles' and 'Wood & wire' plod gently through dream-scape moodiness, whereas 'Doublespeak' pairs saloon style piano work and lively guitar riffing, nearly crossing into the realm of pop before pulling back and settling into an alternative toe tapping.

The album is crystalized at the very end with the dramatic bow-out of the title track. The raw, sometimes charred sound of Kensrue's howl leads one to believe Thrice is as comfortable in the corner of a dive bar as they are in the sweltering cavalcade of packed concert halls. True, 'Beggars' does not showcase the band throwing themselves further across the threshold of progressive pioneering- They won't tour with Tool any time soon. However, while many are quick to point out that this fails to represent a lack of development, I strongly contend that it does. Thrice are fearless, plain and simple. There is proof here that they are as good as anyone on the planet whether their sound is quasi-indy, stripped down or careening along with broad, experimental tones. Regrettably, 'Beggars' will be unlikely to garner nods from the likes of Rolling stone or Billboard and perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. 'Beggars' embodies understated greatness, a subtle movement towards true musicianship and the promise that Thrice, whether sounding sonic or subdued, is here to stay.