A couple of interesting discoveries. First, there’s apparently some website called Kickstarter where people come up with an idea and then ask you for money. No, really, I’m pretty sure that’s what it does. Perfectly reasonable, I guess, anyone can be an entrepreneur and anyone can be an “angel investor” (or sucker, mark, what have you).

I first heard about it because some smarty-pants guys claimed to be developing a smarty-pants home espresso machine (this is not a joke) and were raising funds on Kickstarter while they were developing the damn thing (because who wants to actually buy, say, an actually existing and functional espresso machine?). Truthfully, the thing sounds pretty awesome, but it’s not that hard for something that doesn’t even exist yet to sound pretty awesome. Oh, and by the way, as of this writing they’ve raised $369,569.00 on Kickstarter in connection with this apocryphal coffeemaker.

God bless America.

But hold on, this is not some cynical I-hate-everything kind of rant. Far from it. Because while I would love to have that espresso machine should it ever exist and, you know, actually make coffee, I’m willing to wait.

I did, however, throw five whole American smackers to a worthy project on Kickstarter that I read about on Animal. Turns out some dude or dudes or dudettes are making a documentary about the demise of the cassette tape, and are looking for some backing. Here’s the pitch:

A few months ago, the term cassette tape was taken out of the Oxford English Dictionary.

It may seem ironic, then, that the cassette has experienced a quiet comeback over the last few years, as independent labels issuing tape-only releases have begun popping up around the world.

What better excuse to take a look back at this beloved musical format?

As recorded sound continues its love affair with the downloadable, ethereal digital file, the tangible artefact is quickly becoming a thing of the past.

Help us celebrate the A Side, the B Side, the mixtape, and the whole of cassette culture by supporting Cassette: A Documentary. We’ll look at all parts of popular culture influenced by the cassette, including hip-hop and B-Boy culture, indie rock, home recording, and beyond.

I’m so in. Cassettes suck, but they were fucking awesome and blew the doors off of 8-tracks, and today’s damn kids (who should also stay off my lawn) don’t even know what the hell a cassette tape is.

For the record, I preferred Maxell to TDK. And, not that you give a shit, but I’m still mad about a cassette tape that was stolen from me at gunpoint in 1990 or so. Fuckers.

This is a documentary that needs to be made, and I’m putting my five bucks where my mouth is. Look at the nose-ring on that dude, this shit’s going viral, the hipsters will love it.

Here’s a taste:

Ken Mac Dougall bit into the sandwich his wife had packed him for lunch and noticed something odd—a Post-it note tucked between the ham and the cheese. He pulled it out of his mouth, smoothed the crinkles and read what his wife had written: “Be in aisle 10 of Home Depot tonight at 6 p.m.” Mr. Mac Dougall was renovating the couple’s Oak Ridge, N.J., kitchen, and his wife had been urging him to pick out the floor tiles. He felt he had plenty of time to do this task. She felt unheard. “I thought the note was an ingenious and hysterical way to get his attention,” says his wife, Janet Pfeiffer (whose occupation, interestingly enough, is a motivational speaker), recalling the incident which occurred several years ago. Her husband, a technician at a company that modifies vehicles for handicapped drivers, didn’t really see it that way. “I don’t need a reminder in the middle of my sandwich,” he says.

Seriously? Janet put a fucking Post-it® Note in Ken’s fucking sandwich? That’s not nagging, it’s attempted murder. But wait, there’s more, here’s the scientific analysis:

Nagging—the interaction in which one person repeatedly makes a request, the other person repeatedly ignores it and both become increasingly annoyed—is an issue every couple will grapple with at some point. While the word itself can provoke chuckles and eye-rolling, the dynamic can potentially be as dangerous to a marriage as adultery or bad finances. It is possible for husbands to nag, and wives to resent them for nagging. But women are more likely to nag, experts say, largely because they are conditioned to feel more responsible for managing home and family life. Men are to blame, too, because they don’t always give a clear answer.

Nagging can become a prime contributor to divorce when couples start fighting about the nagging rather than talking about the issue at the root of the nagging, says Howard Markman, professor of psychology at the University of Denver and co-director of the Center for Marital and Family Studies. “Nagging is an enemy of love, if allowed to persist,” Dr. Markman says.

This is all mind-blowing news indeed, particularly for those heathens who aren’t fans of the Ying-Yang Twins (who are “way more fun than most bitch-ass motherfuckers”).

Most notably, there were two significant departures.

First, Jorge Posada retired. I’m really going to miss him. He was a fantastic part of the team, adding a ton of real grit and emotion to what can be a pretty cold-blooded organization at times. One of the memorable moments to me was when Jorge got pissed off that Fox was embedding tiny cameras into the field in front of home plate during the playoffs. What did he do? He stepped on them and smushed them into the turf. Fox wasn’t so happy:

“What we do with our cameras is no concern of his,” Webb said. “Posada should worry about catching. What he did (Tuesday night) was strictly bush.” On Tuesday night, Posada entered Webb’s domain during ALCS Game 1. The catcher decided to cover DiamondCam – two dime-size cameras buried in front of home plate (where the dirt cutout meets the grass) – with dirt. An inning later, Posada emphatically shook his finger at a Fox technician before kicking more dirt on the camera. Then, with the foot action of someone putting out a cigarette, Posada ground it farther into ground.

Another huge impact of Jorge’s retirement is that we will hear fewer (although not none) of the classic “Hip-Hip-Jorge” chants at the Stadium, as well as fewer of my own personal favorite “Whore-Hey” call and response. It was a damn good run.

The second departure that was announced is that Kim Jones is leaving the YES Yankees telecasts:

“It was a terrific seven years, especially when I didn’t know if I’d make it through the first one, and neither did anyone else,” she said, laughing. “It was filled with highlights and moments that only the Yankees can provide. I couldn’t be more grateful for the opportunity at YES.”

This sucks. Kim Jones is awesome. NoMaas suggests bringing in former Sox reporter Heidi Watney, who’s also a free agent. Well, that might ease the pain a bit. Good luck to Kim. She wasn’t even around long enough for us to make up a chant for her.

Yeah, I don’t know. Mormon cuisine. Saltines? Caffeine-Free Diet Coke? I’m just gonna get myself in trouble here. Suffice it to say, I’m pretty sure redefining couldn’t hurt.

Apparently the animal got onto the D Train at or about Coney Island and, as many D train riders know, that long trip back to the City can be pretty miserable. They evacuated the car, because New Yorkers obviously couldn’t handle being around actual wildlife (well, rats and pigeons are okay, but that’s it) and took the guy up to the Bronx (insert Bronx joke here).

The enterprising animal was reported on the D train around 4 a.m. on Friday, and by 4:30 it had been contained by the police, though after some resistance involving the baring of teeth. The officers locked the opossum inside the train car, which was taken out of service and sent to the rail yards near 205th Street in the Bronx. The train arrived at 5 a.m., at which point the doors were sealed. “He’s one of the only beings in New York City to ever have a subway car to himself,” a spokesman for New York City Transit, Charles F. Seaton, said.

It turned out that officers in the Bronx had summoned a group of emergency service officers, an elite squad that handles complex jobs, including capturing rogue coyotes and apartment-invading hawks. It was only then that the opossum was removed from the D train and, as a police spokesman put it, “released into an adjoining wooded area.” The opossum’s rescuers also bestowed a name on the animal: Jerome, after the avenue in the Bronx that runs alongside the rail yard. Jerome has not been seen, or heard from, since.

All’s well that ends well.

I feel so dirty.

Etta James has passed on at the too-young age of 73. I’ve always liked her music, although I find her seminal hit “At Last” to be a touch over-the-top. Lately, the tune of hers I’ve been enjoying is her version of “Lovesick Blues,” a song Hank Williams made famous (I like Etta’s version better).

If you haven’t seen Cadillac Records, which is a dramatization of the Chess Records story, you should. It’s maybe a little cheesy, but Beyoncé’s performance as the young Etta James (she started performing at 14) is excellent (even if Etta herself didn’t think so).

There will be obituaries aplenty, which are well worth reading because she had an incredible story (to give you just a taste, this is from the Guardian obit: “Her approach to both singing and life was throughout one of wild, often desperate engagement that included violence, drug addiction, armed robbery and extremely capricious behaviour.”). But here’s Etta in her own words about how, as a teenager, she came up with her “style” — including her platinum-blond hair:

I had a real nice figure and I was tall. And I remember this singer Joyce Bryant. … She wore fishtail gowns, sequined fishtail gowns, and she was black, and she had the nerve to wear platinum hair. And then I also loved Jayne Mansfield, because Jayne Mansfield had the blond hair and had like the poochie lips and the mole and all this. So I think what I did, it was kind of combine [them]. … I wanted to look grown, you know; I wanted to wear tall high-heeled shoes, and fishtail gowns, and big, long rhinestone earrings.

And one of Christgau’s reviews (of Her Best [MCA, 1996]) kind of sums it all up for me:

In addition to her junkie ways, her hack support, her adoring claque, and her bewildering discography, what makes James a myth and a secret at the same time is how hard she is to classify. Blues, jazz, pop, rock, soul–she’s all of these and none, because what she really is is r&b, in its original sense: blues so fetching white people can’t help but love ‘em even though they’re aimed at young blacks. She’s got that kid thing–a big reason her dirty voice is such a permanent scandal is that for all the hard experience she conveyed at 15 she still sounds underage as she comes up on 60, never outgrowing a sensibility she was old-beyond-her-years for as she worked through the ’50s and behind-the-times with when she hit in the ’60s. She’s been recycled as relentlessly as the grease in a french fryer. But from the makeout-party schmaltz of “Sunday Kind of Love” to the Muscle Shoals fatback of “Tell Mama,” this 20-song exploitation finally gets her sensibility right.

May she rest in peace.

I feel so ashamed.

If I remember correctly, it was actually news when a Beatles song was first used in a commercial (for Jaguar if memory serves). So what’s particularly noteworthy about this particular crappy commercial? It’s for Sleepy’s.

Ringo must be rolling over in his grave.

Today, Muhammad Ali turns 70 years old. My good friend Mac sent me a great Sports Illustrated story from 1975 by Mark Kram with a contemporaneous recap of the “Thrilla in Manila.” I commend a prompt reading to you, as Mac did to me (and as a key bonus, you’ll get to find out what a “Jeepney” is, unless of course you’re smarter than me and already know).

Ali draws a lot of emotion and commentary that veers all over the map, ranging from the adulatory to what verges on hatred, but it’s entirely beyond dispute that he has been a brilliant figure in the world (and certainly not only, or even primarily, the sports world) and that his impact will long endure. As I said to Mac, it’s amazing that he’s already 70, and perhaps equally amazing that he’s only 70.

Here’s a piece of the article on the final fight of the trilogy with Smokin’ Joe:

After the fight Futch said: “Ali fought a smart fight. He conserved his energy, turning it off when he had to. He can afford to do it because of his style. It was mainly a question of anatomy, that is all that separates these two men. Ali is now too big, and when you add those long arms, well … Joe has to use constant pressure, and that takes its toll on a man’s body and soul.” Dundee said: “My guy sucked it up and called on everything he had. We’ll never see another one like him.” Ali took a long time before coming down to be interviewed by the press, and then he could only say, “I’m tired of bein’ the whole game. Let other guys do the fightin’. You might never see Ali in the ring again.”

In his suite the next morning he talked quietly. “I heard somethin’ once,” he said. “When somebody asked a marathon runner what goes through his mind in the last mile or two, he said that you ask yourself why am I doin’ this. You get so tired. It takes so much out of you mentally. It changes you. It makes you go a little insane. I was thinkin’ that at the end. Why am I doin’ this? What am I doin’ here in against this beast of a man? It’s so painful. I must be crazy. I always bring out the best in the men I fight, but Joe Frazier, I’ll tell the world right now, brings out the best in me. I’m gonna tell ya, that’s one helluva man, and God bless him.”