If I Did It: The Confession of a Fantasy Football Mastermind

The various superstars of The Departed™ assemble during a recent team outing to Calhoun Square in Minneapolis.

By the time Peyton Manning hit a streaking Reggie Wayne in stride to pass for his third touchdown in the NFL season opener, I was already dancing in the middle of the room, high-fiving a friend of mine – who owns Wayne and isn’t playing me this week – and envisioning what might be a great fantasy football season.

Yes, I’m going to tell you about fantasy football, in fact, about my fantasy football team. I know you don’t care, I know you shouldn’t care, but I know you’ll probably keep reading because you are American and you love fantasy football as much you enjoy watching Internet pornography and drinking Starbucks.

Anyways, the start of the year was such a different scene from last year – when I sat curled up in my basement, waiting for both Daunte Culpepper’s return to becoming a MVP candidate (which never came) and Rex Grossman’s ineptitude to ultimately destroy my season (which happened the second week of the playoffs).

Now, Peyton shouldput up those types of numbers, as he is my leader, my ace in the hole, my first round pick. So the celebration wasn’t for my great fantasy acumen to lock up the unanimously labeled best quarterback around – anyone that can pronounce p’s and m’s can do that – it was a celebration of NOT having to start half-talents such as Rex Grossman or David Garrard.

For the two females who have stumbled across this page and are looking for the clothes at elliotmann.com, I’ll simplify what I’m talking about. If you were Lauren Conrad from The Hills, you would be so sick of losers like Brody Jenner and Jason Wahler that you would find a really great boyfriend who isn’t just trying to have sex with you to further his fledging career, right? Right? Okay, bad example. But now you know what I mean. The void of a credible quarterback in my past - or a boyfriend who knows how to shave more than every fourth day in Lauren’s past - makes finding one that much more noticeable.

I’ve been playing fantasy football since 1991, when I was in fourth grade, and Barry Sanders rushed for 220 yards and four TDs in one game against my hometown Minnesota Vikings. Sanders and a then little known wide receiver Andre Rison led my team to a second-place finish. I’ve been playing fantasy football ever since.

I won the league I organized many years thereafter, including back-to-back-to-back wins in the last three years of high school. Yeah, those are Tom Emanski numbers ─ where’s my late-night informerical? ─ but as of late I’ve been unable to get over the hump. After a third-place finish three years ago, a fifth place finish two years ago and a fourth-place finish last year (after tying for first during the regular season), I need to get back to my championship roots.

That’s why this year I decided to develop a plan that would catapult me back to the top of the championship mountain. That plan starts with Peyton Manning.

We employed an auction draft this year ─ where instead of picking players you use a $100 salary cap to bid on players which turned out surprising well because everyone really went back to the drawing board and crafted a unique strategy. Actually, that’s a lie – everyone played how the bet during Texas Hold ‘Em. As a girlfriend of one of our players later remarked, “Let me guess, Friend A bid up everyone for spite, and Friend B didn’t bid at all because of spite.” (And yes, remarked. She wasn’t at the draft. Fantasy Football drafts are like bachelor parties, don’t bring your girlfriend. They don’t bring you to mani/pedi day do they?)

But she couldn’t have been more right. A friend of ours we’ve dubbed “Texas Fold ‘Em” for his ability to drop any hand unless he’s holding a guaranteed winner, refused to bid on players he didn’t want. He refused to bid on players he didwant. He ended up with money leftover, which is about the worst thing you can do, this side of putting all of your money being Michael Vick, or Joey Harrington.

Luckily, my plan didn’t involve Joey Harrington. But it did include grabbing Steve Smith, who scored three TDs on Sunday. Two weeks into the season, and my team is already riding on all cylinders. A more pessimistic person would say I’ve shot my load too early and the only way to go is down. I would rather keep with the thinking that perfection isn’t out of the question. Nothing in real life is perfect, but need I remind you, these are real stories of fake teams. Perfection is realistic until your team shits the bed. After all of my grandstanding, I’m guessing that will be week 3.

But in this week’s matchup, The Departed ™ (my squad of champions) destroyed my brother’s team, The Coalition of the Willing, Which brings us to the best part of fantasy football: bragging rights. At this point, I’ve got little to brag about, I’m a single 25-year-old who moved backhome after pursuing a career that I went to college for. That’s right, I went to college for four years to make lessmoney than I was during my summers away from school. Thinking of such an inept formula can’t help but remind of former NBA slogans…

Higher learning and the newspaper industry: I Love This Game!

Anyways, fantasy football gives your pathetic life a step on everyone else. Well only anyone else that plays in your league. Co-workers and coeds at the local drinking spot won’t be as impressed. Can’t identify? Think about the last time someone told you about someone’s fucking golf round… Get it yet?

No, we don’t care that you almost bogeyed the 15th hole on a course I’ve never played or will never see. I don’t care if you almost got a hole- in-one on my mother – I hate golf and I don’t want to hear about how you made everyone be quiet so you could miss a 7-foot putt and then throw your $80 putter. Really, unless it hit one of the caddies, I don’t care about your golf game. And to the guy that does this to people in his office that don’t play fantasy football: the people you are listening don’t care and actually went BACK to working. You made a person who yearns for the part of the week where they can stay away from their job for 48 hours, and you caused them to flip that desire. Marinate on that.

Repeat, regular people aren’t impressed. Or so I’ve heard. I obviously wouldn’t be the one bragging about how Lamont Jordan has been a ridiculously stable fantasy option despite getting picked in the last round of pretty much every draft. Which again, is a huge lie. I’m the asshole? Yeah, I’m the asshole. I’m talking about the bogey on the 18th hole, and I would never eat here.

To recap, you can talk about fantasy with people who play fantasy. Anyone at this age who isn’t playing FF, already made the conscious decision against doing so. Heed this advice.

But if it’s a person who does play? You’re in luck. You’ve got another nerd in the cave. Just be sure to tell ‘em how much better your league is than his.

The Departed™ Starting Lineup
QB - Peyton Manning - IND
RB - Willie Parker - PIT
RB - Lamont Jordan - OAK
WR - S. Smith - CAR
WR - J. Walker - DEN
TE - K. Winslow - CLE
K - S. Gostkowski - NE
DEF- COLTS

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Elliot is bitter, it’s true. But sometimes that’s the taste of success. And he was totally lying about the hole-in-one thing on his mother. He’ll put a javelin through your eye if you try that. HE appreciates everyone who comes by the site and encourages all to leave him a comment about how pissed off they are that they just wasted their lunch break. Reach him here.

Real stories of fictional teams — Why I love fantasy football

Last July, me and a friend, we’ll call him “Red”, went to visit one of my close personal friends who was a sever at Bellanotte in downtown Minneapolis. Close Personal Friend had told us to come down, and even though I used to work there, I was thinking my scuffed Air Force Ones and polo shirt might not make the cut. (They have a dress code now apparently.) But we stood in a line of about 15 and waited to enter the restaurant.

CPF usually ends up waiting on various athletes and famous people — Amy Winehouse actually invited him to her concert when she was in town. Pretty kick-ass. That doesn’t happen to me - I could know someone who worked at Foot Locker and they still wouldn’t invite me to watch them hone their craft.

Well, we got pulled out of line and escorted in after one of the managers saw me (which counts as one of about three times I’ve ever felt cool in my life, the others include free courtside tickets to a T-Wolves game and free seats along the dugout at Miller Park during a Twins-Brewers game). As we’re sitting around having a drink, Red notices Elton Brand is having dinner and CPF is waiting on him.

Next time CPF walks by, we tell him who he is waiting on. I ask CPF to tell Brand, “I had him in fantasy basketball and he was a monster.” CPF does, and soon after Brand waves us over. I introduce myself, and again tell him he was a beast for DNP-Coach’s Decision.

He replies, “This year I’ll try to bring up my assists.”

I love fantasy sports.

For those of you who have actual hobbies, significant others, or lives that cause you to spend your time on things that make you money, you may not know how fantasy football works. In simple terms, a person gets 10 friends together and each person owns a “team.” Then, each “team” takes turns selecting actual players. When games begin, you are matched up against another “team,” and if the sum of your fake group of real players scores more points in their actual NFL games than the other fake team, you win. It’s like crack for the 25-year-old middle class.

On Friday, the draft of the Fantasy Football Legends of Richfield will begin. I’ve organized it since I was in fourth grade and we’ve kept a fair amount of the same people in it each year. I pride myself in saying our league is one of the best around. In all seriousness, we could add another 10-team division in three days with people who want teams.

Am I actually bragging about the “prestige” of my organization of fake teams. You’re got-damn right I am. Anywho, I plan to blog about my draft and also some of the thought processes I’ve had leading up to the draft. I would have posted them, but let’s be honest, then the whole “secretive strategy” thing goes out the window.

Stay tuned for your update on “Army of Darkness,” the name I’ve dubbed this year’s squad.

**Sidenote: Elton Brand snapped his Achilles tendon last month and will be out for the year. I just hope he wasn’t trying some newfangled no-look pass. We at Ell’s Blog hope for a speedy recovery from Brand. In our basketball draft, he’ll still have a spot reserved for him on DNP-Coach’s Decision.

Wet Socks: Three-week blog break, aka ‘The fake voice and the tale of too many exclamation points’

Many of you (read three) have noticed that I haven’t updated the site in awhile. Well, it had to do with sitting idle during an interview process for a possible job (or “career opportunity” if we’re going to be PC). The position was a copyeditor with a large area retailer, which I didn’t get. (If you need more of a hint, think “bulls-eye” or an archery Target. Wait, shit. Nevermind.) I realize that companies check prospective employees’ myspace accounts and facebook pages, so I figure any reasonably intelligent manager could find my blog.

(One of my friends actually said, “But how do you think they would find it?” He neglected to remember the fact that my NAME is the fucking address.)

As the big archery symbol kept me in the running for the job, I didn’t want to update my blog with “I hate fucking soccer moms who don’t know how to order at Chipotle,” or “Wedding Crashers is to actual weddings as Saved by the Bell is to actual high school,” in fear that a hiring manager would stumble across my largely unread bemoanings and keep me out of gainful employment. I have a few blogs ready to go up here and they will be coming in the next couple days. Anyways, this is basically what happened during my time away from blogging. Enjoy this long-winded, rambling, largely unedited account of an honest, hard-working man grasping at straws to move away from home.

For whatever reason, I never know how to act around human resources employees. And not all of them - but the ones with completely fake, bouncy attitudes who use a high-pitched, “I’m so artificially positive that everyone around me wants to stab their own eyes out” tone of voice. It’s like you’re trying to get a job from the high school overachiever who made you feel like you weren’t applying yourself as you spent most afternoons playing pick-up basketball and video games.

(Story that deviates from the column that I enjoy telling: During a college tour of Mankato many years ago, some friends and I sat in the enrollment office and waited for our tour guide. Just then, a female walked in wearing her letter jacket, adorned with so many fucking bars and patches that she must have been someone who played three varsity sports or choirs or bands since eighth grade─ maybe she was a real-life Saved by the Bell character? The damn jacket even had medals on it. So we’re sitting there and my friend says, “Looking at her makes me think I never did anything in high school…” Then I responded, “Yeah, too bad she can’t bring her medals with her to college.” We laughed and didn’t think too much about it again. Anyways, I feel that same way when I get e-mails from HR. It’s not that I hate HR, many people are phenomenal and very helpful – my mother has worked in HR for more than 25 years. It’s just that the stereotypical ones freak me the hell out.)

Their fake positivity even translates over to print medias, where they will use more exclamation points than ever warranted in the most mundane e-mail situations. (I mean, are you really THAT excited to send me directions to downtown Minneapolis? It’s very “These pretzels are making me thirsty!!”) So whenever I have to reply to those e-mails, it always takes me at least five minutes to think, well, since she wrote “Hi Elliot(exclamation point!)” do I have to respond with “Hello (exclamation point!)” If I don’t show my excitement, they’ll think I’m a jaded prick. I better throw in an exclamation point. And then at the closing of the message, they write, “I’ll look forward talking to you tomorrow, Elliott (exclamation point!)”

Which isn’t even my name OR a correct statement about her emotions, unless she meant that tomorrow she will be looking forward to our interview, and today she couldn’t care fucking less. Yes, I’m being an ass now, but after two months of rigmarole, that’s what happens. Yeah, it shouldn’t matter but when you’re being hired to COPY EDIT and PROOFREAD, that type of shit causes a 10 minute inner-monologue about the virtue of using punctuation literally. (Am I literally that excited? This last job offer I actually was, which is probably half pathetic and twice as sad.)

Anyways, I was asked by a friend to e-mail Person A my resume and cover letter. About an hour later, I sent it off. It was June 29.

So I waited a few days to hear back, nothing. Being that they asked for my materials, I e-mailed Person A about the status of the position and to follow up if possible. It was now July 10. I heard nothing back.

Then on July 24, I get a call from Person B from said company, asking me questions about the job and history, etc. We set up a phone interview for the 27th. Everything goes well in that interview, and at the end Person B asks me what times would be good to set up a face-to-face interview. I respond that it might be easier to work around the schedules of the hiring managers and Person B agrees. She says she will be in touch soon.

A week passes, nothing. So I call on that Friday and leave a voicemail saying what times would work for me. The next Monday, I receive an e-mail saying I should expect a call soon.

So we need to e-mail about a call? How about we just call OR e-mail and get it done? This doesn’t seem wasteful to anyone else? So the next day – Aug. 7 – I receive a call from Person C about the position. Through this person I set up the actual interview, and I’m told that Person B will be contacting about the process. Person B e-mails to say she will call later to follow up. She does not. I’m beginning to think Person B is inept.

You know what’s great about e-mail and cell phones? They’re instant and they’re widely accessible. You can’t run from your phone that is constantly stuck in your pocket, and you can’t tell someone you hadn’t seen the e-mail that came to the work desk that you sit at for eight hours a day. You can only try to ignore the messages and claim ignorance. But don’t assault my intelligence and just act like you didn’t get the message. E-mail is for all intensive purposes seamless at a large company. You’re not at Crazy Uncle Rico’s Clothing Corral for the crissakes.

So I take the interview on a Friday– after waiting 25 minutes for Person C to get me from the lobby – and everything goes great. I meet Person A and Person D, who tell me about the position, editing and proofing the millions of advertisements the company sends out. It sounds like an exciting opportunity and I ace the interview. I’m pumped.

After the interview, I’m given a standard-issue editing worksheet to complete and send back. It’s remedial, I dominate it and FedEx it back within this weekend.

Then, I wait. It’s Aug. 13 and I send a thank you letter to Person A with confirmation of assignment completion. She does not reply. She has never replied. I’m thinking that I should have sent Person B and C thank you e-mails. But Person B wouldn’t have responded until two weeks later.

So I wait another week until I receive an e-mail from Person B about the job. She asks if we can talk today or tomorrow. I respond three minutes later and say I am available both times and would like to talk about the position. If they are just going to give me the “piss-off voicemail,” they already would have on Monday, right? Why would they keep this up if it was all for naught?

But Person B does not call that day. She does not call the next day. Late in the afternoon, she e-mails and asks if we can talk on Thursday. I reply that I’m available that afternoon, Wednesday or Thursday.

I wait for Thursday Person B does not call. I haven’t felt this rejected since the age of high school dances. Actually, this is worse because the rejectors never feigned interest. After receiving nothing by Thursday afternoon, I send an e-mail and voicemail to Person B again stating that I’m available and hope to talk soon. That’s right folks - we’re reached Maxim dicktease levels here.

By this point, I’ve ditched the exclamation points. I also send a message to Person C, since she actually responds to e-mails. She does reply. Person C is roses, and tells me that she forwarded the message to Person B.

Friday at about 11:30 a.m., right as I’m laying out the paper since our editor decided to go on vacation for three weeks, I get a call on my cell phone. I check the voicemail once the pages go out ─ Person B tells me they decided to go in another direction.

Really??? We needed to stretch that out? What is going on over there? All of one week? No. Then Monday? No. Tuesday? No. Thursday? No. Anyways, I called Person B back to find out what things I might need to work on or to receive some constructive criticism and surprise, she didn’t respond. I wonder if she actually has a phone over there or just a phantom voicemail box.
Maybe I should have written Person B an e-mail. Then I could have at least used exclamation points in their intended usage.
♫ ♫ ♫ ♫
Elliot writes regularly for a daily newspaper that few respect outside of its readership. He writes for this blog that for the most part has no readership. He appreciates everyone that comes by elliotmann.org.

Kevin Smith ethers nerd at Comic-Con

Link: http://clipaday.com/videos/no-crap-in-kevin-smiths-house (won’t reproduce on my site, follow the link, it’s worth it. NFWS-language.)

Every now and then, some idiot thinks to himself:

“Man… I’m totally going to take (insert cult movie director here) to task for his shitty production and lack of development in (insert cult movie here). I don’t care if the film - not movie - made $8 million in the opening weekend, using green screen during the battle scene with the (insert species of animal unique to the sci-fi gene) totally compromised the spirit of a comic book originally made for 10-year-olds.

He can’t deny my razor sharp wit that I’ve been honing on the IMDB.com message board. While he’s been hobnobbing with Hollywood celebrities, I’ve been sitting in my mother’s basement reaching level 32 in World of Warcraft - when I’m not e-battling Star Wars nerds who think Star Trek was a piece of shit. Just like I sent them into another dimension of pain, I’m going to really levy a complaint so vile that (insert cult movie director here) won’t know how to respond. He’ll probably just hand over his keyboard and mouse, never to type at the computer again. This time, when he does, I’ll have my super-rare Sony XJ9857 digital camera to capture the event and post later on my blog: startreksavedmylife.blogspot.com. And then I’ll post a video response on youtube.com Well, here goes with my question I prepared for months…”

And then in the heat of the moment the celebrity shows WHY they are talented, and completely ethers the nerd into a whole new level of virginity. Well, this time it’s Kevin Smith and some guy who will never show his face on Internet again.

Enjoy.

Interstate 35W bridge collapses over Mississippi River in downtown Minneapolis, several dead

The I-35W over the Mississippi Bridge collapsed this afternoon, leaving an unknown number injured. Eyewitnesses accounts say several vehicles plunged into the water during the rush-hour accident. The Hennepin County Medical Examiner has confirmed one death in the accident, CNN is reporting three deceased. Several state Department of Transportation employees were working on the bridge during the accident.

One of the most horrific tragedies to happen in Minneapolis, at least that I can remember. Thanks to anyone who called and made sure I was okay - glad to hear that those I heard from are okay as well. Hope the news somehow ends up better than worse as this situation continues to come forward. I usually wouldn’t swipe hard news like this, but something this horrible can’t be ignored. Thoughts and prayers to the victims’ families.

From the Star Tribune (08-01-07, 8:22 p.m. CST):
The Interstate Hwy. 35W bridge over the Mississippi River collapsed during the evening rush hour Wednesday, dumping an estimated 50 vehicles into the water and onto the land below, creating a horrific scene of damage, fire, smoke, injuries, frantic rescuers and bloody, terrified motorists.

One death has been reported by the Hennepin County Medical Center.

It was not clear how many people might have been hurt or killed, but witnesses said at least 20 cars were involved. As of 7:30, one construction worker was unaccounted for and three injured. Rescuers rushed to help people escape cars trapped in the V where the bridge had caved in. Many vehicles, including at least one semitractor trailer, were on fire. People were also reportedly floundering in the river.

The crumpled wreckage of the bridge lay on the east bank of the river, and a huge section of concrete roadway lay on the west bank. Down below in the river gorge, rescue workers scrambled to help people on the roadway that now lay in the gorge. Fire and black smoke rose from the wreckage. Workers had been repairing the 40-year-old bridge’s surface as part of improvements along that stretch of the interstate.

Officials set up a triage center for some of the injured at the American Red Cross office a block from the bridge, said Red Cross spokeswoman Tammy Nystuen.

“I know that at least some of the kids from the school bus are there. I don’t know where they’re from or if anybody is badly hurt,” she said. The building is at 1201 West River Parkway.

Paul McCabe, spokesman for the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Minneapolis, said the FBI has responed to the collapsed bridge to offer assistance and conduct any investigation that proves necessary. But he said there was “no reason at this time to believe there’s any nexus to terrorism.”

An executive with the contractor, PCI of St. Michael, told the Star Tribune that, as of 7:30 p.m., one of its workers was unaccounted for.

The Twins announced that they have postponed Thursday afternoon’s game against Kansas City because of the collapse. Also, the Twins, Hennepin County and the Minnesota Ballpark Authority have also postponed Thursday evening’s new ballpark groundbreaking ceremony. More information regarding the rescheduled game and the groundbreaking ceremony will be available at a future time.

Berndt Toivonen, 51, of Minneapolis, was on his way home from a painting job when it collapsed beneath his car.

“The bridge started to buckle,” he said. “It went up and it came down. I thought I was gonna die.” His Ford Explorer rolled backwards about 50 feet, and he hit the brakes. He was uninjured, but all around him people were screaming from their cars, some with injuries. He went from vehicle to vehicle helping people out.

Four cars were submerged in the river upstream of the bridge and a rescue worker waded in the water searching for survivors. On the east bank, only a small section of the bridge support was still standing, and it was creaking as rescue workers carried out the injured.

People nearby said they heard a sound like an earthquake or a plane crash, and the collapse set off alarms in the nearby Stone Arch Apartments.

“It just came down, a crash, smoke everywhere… A whole bunch of people were screaming, people were trapped in their cars,’’ said Ross MacMillan, 39, who had just driven under the bridge on 2nd Street.

Sarah Fahnhorst, who was in her apartment a block away from the bridge, heard a huge thud and then “the entire building shook” as the bridge fell.

“It shook the ground,” she said.

Dayna Wolfe, who lives near the Stone Arch Bridge, heard the collapse and came out on her bicycle to see what had happened. Wolfe, a physician and physical therapist, said she is certain that many people had been killed or were trapped in their cars. She said the scene was worse than any of the many earthquakes she had survived in California.

“This is the kind of stuff you see with gigantic earthquakes,” she said. “You don’t see this kind of thing in Minnesota.”

Ramon Houge of St. Paul was on his way home from work and was on the bridge when he heard a rumbling noise and cars in front of him began to go down. He said cars that could backed up to a construction zone and was finally able to turn around and drive off the bridge. “It didn’t seem like it was real,” he said.

Traffic was bumper to bumper and hundreds of people would have been involved, he said, adding that he saw kids get off a crashed bus on the bridge with blood on their faces.

A school bus, filled with 60 children, ages 5 to 17, returning from a daycamp was on the bridge when it collapsed, injuring at least two children and two adults seriously, according to one of the children.

“We collapsed,” said Ryan Watkins. He said the bus bounced twice and then stopped. He and others escaped out the rear door of the bus because the front door was wedged against a concrete traffic barrier. The kids were returning from a day of swimming at Bunker Beach, said Watkins. They are members of the Waite House summer program based in Minneapolis.

Marcelo Cruz, 26, of Crystal, who has used a wheelchair since being paralyzed in a shooting in South Carolina several years ago, was driving his van across the bridge toward downtown when he felt it began to wave up and down. He steered into the concrete railing to stop himself from driving into the river, and saw many cars on the bridge fall into the water.

His van came to rest steeply inclined toward the river and several onlookers ran and told him to get out. He said he needed help and the onlookers carried him out of his van in his wheelchair to safety on the riverbank.

“I’m lucky to be alive,” he said over and over again.

Gary Babineau, 24, of Blaine, was headed northbound on 35W when the bridge gave way.

“I can’t believe I’m alive,” he said. “I saw a couple of cars go down completely,” he said. “It just totally collapsed.”

There was a school bus next to him and there were a lot of kids inside, he said. A lot of them were bleeding and he helped them come up to safety. A lot of the children were taken away by ambulance, he said.

“My truck got cut into two pieces,” said Babineau, who was bleeding from his nose.

Jay Danz, 45, of St. Paul was driving to the Twins game and took W. River Parkway under the bridge just before it collapsed.

“I heard it creaking and making all sorts of noise it shouldn’t make,” he said. “And then the bridge just started to fall apart.”

Danz said he was just five feet past the bridge when it collapsed behind him. Twisted green girders lay on the ground behind him.

He got out of his car and saw a school bus full of kids sitting askew on the collapsed road above him. He scrambled up a hill to help kids get off the bus.

“Some kids had blood on their faces, but thank God, everybody could move,” Danz said. “Every seemed OK.”

There were cars behind him on River Pkwy., but Danz said they were far enough behind that he didn’t think they were under the bridge when it fell.

John Joachim of Taylors Falls took 35W to the Twins game and said traffic suddenly “slammed to a stop” he neared University Avenue.

“I didn’t know what was going on but a huge cloud of dust rose in front of us,” he said.

Louis Rogers, 28, of Roseville was driving home from work listening to music in his Chevy Blazer when the bridge gave way just feet in front of him.

“It just disappeared; it made no sound whatsoever,” he said. “It was pretty much like a thud, not too loud of a thud. The next thing I know, cars were dropping and there was smoke. My car was no more than five feet from the edge.”

Rogers tried to help some of the people in cars that had fallen into the river and stopped on the bridge. “I saw a lady in a car and I screamed, but I got no response,” he said. “I grabbed my bag and started signalling cars to get out of there.”

Ryan Murphey, , 30, Minneapolis, went to the scene to see if he could help out.

“It looked a terrorist attack, a complete catastrophe,” Murphey said. “But everyone there was very calm and organized.” He helped remove two victims frmo the east side of the bridge on stretchers, including a woman in her late 50s with a “bloody face.” Jane Marshall, 27, of Minneapolis, and her sister were behind Rogers on the highway and were on their way to the Twins game. They were driving toward the bridge when it collapsed.

“I still can’t believe it,” she said an hour after the bridge collapsed. “We were so close. If we hadn’t stopped to get gas, it might have been us there.”

The two called their parents right away to let them know they were OK. “We’re not sure if we’re going to the game or not,” Marshall said. “It just hit us — we could have died.”

The Twins decided to play Wednesday night’s game, but only after the public address announcer alerted the crowd at 7:08 p.m. of the bridge’s collapse. A moment of prayer followed. It was then announced that the game would go on so emergency crews could perform their duties without the added pressure of having 20,000 to 25,000 people scrambling in swarms from the Dome area.

Amidst the rescue efforts, the Minnesota State Patrol said at 7 p.m. that the cause of the bridge collapse remained undetermined.

Traffic was being stopped at University Avenue from the North and Washington Avenue from the south. The State Patrol was setting up a command post.

The arched bridge had risen about 64 feet above the river before its collapse at the end of rush hour, when cars were bumper to bumper in traffic. Area law enforcement, including the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Office, had launched at least three boats to help with the rescues.

2Tall: Jay-Z’s Alarming Lack of Effective Legal Counsel

Yeah, so I’ve been working on search and seizure cases all day as they relate to traffic stops and this is pretty much all I can think about.

[Verse Two]
The year is ‘94 and in my trunk is raw
In my rear view mirror is the mother fucking law
I got two choices yall pull over the car or
bounce on the double put the pedal to the floor
Now I ain’t trying to see no highway chase with jake
Plus I got a few dollars I can fight the case
So I…pull over to the side of the road
And I heard “Son do you know why I’m stopping you for?”
Cause I’m young and I’m black and my hats real low
Do I look like a mind reader sir, I don’t know
Am I under arrest or should I guess some mo?
“Well you was doing fifty five in a fifty four”
“License and registration and step out of the car”
“Are you carrying a weapon on you I know alot of you are”
I ain’t stepping out of shit all my papers legit

Here Jay is definitely in the wrong. Police officers can ask anyone to step out of the car for any reason, even in situations as innocuous as a routine traffic stop. It’s an issue of officer safety, and one of the very few times the courts have allowed the routine extension of a stop (possibly the only instance for the 9th Circuit). It doesn’t matter how legit Jay’s papers are.

“Do you mind if I look round the car a little bit?”
Well my glove compartment is locked so is the trunk and the back
And I know my rights so you gon’ need a warrant for that

Here Jay is right. Probable cause would be required for such a search. However, it could be that reasonable suspicion is required to even ask for consent, especially if the officer is no longer in the act of citing Jay for his speeding violation. It’s a fascinating and yet mostly stupid part of the law. While the officer is performing actions reasonably required to complete the purpose of the stop (checking a driver’s license, calling in to check on warrants, etc.), he can ask you pretty much anything he wants, about as many unrelated topics as he feels like, as long as it doesn’t slow down his work (this is the result of a recent Supreme Court case and still largely controversial). However, once he stops working toward fulfilling the purpose of the stop (for instance, if he stops writing the ticket and leaves his pad in the car because he wants to ask you about the Kennedy assassination or whatever), then any unrelated question he asks is an extension of detention and therefore a violation of your Fourth Amendment rights. Any evidence gained thereby could be suppressed.

“Aren’t you sharp as a tack are some type of lawyer or something?”
“Or somebody important or something?”
Nah I ain’t pass the bar but I know a little bit
Enough that you won’t illegally search my shit
“We’ll see how smart you are when the K-9’s come”

This threat to bring in the drug dogs seems to shut Jay up, but it would be completely illegal if the officer tried to do it. Reasonable suspicion is required to progress from a simple traffic stop to a drug investigation. Again, it’s all a matter of timing. Nothing about the drug sniffing dogs themselves are unconstitutional. Police can’t keep Jay there any longer than necessary. If the dogs were already on the scene, and they sniffed Jay’s car while the officer was writing him his “55 in a 54″ ticket, this would not be a violation (at least not in the 8th Circuit). However, if it will take time for the dogs to show up, then the officer would need reasonable suspicion, and Jay’s gangsta look (with his hat real low and whatnot) would not be enough to qualify. So the one time Jay is within his rights to complain, he says nothing.

I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one
Hit me

I would argue that Jay’s 100th problem is lack of effective legal counsel. So yeah, this is what I do all day. Also, I don’t get paid for it.
♫ ♫ ♫ ♫
Aaron is an unpaid and often confused judicial extern who hopes readers do not use this in place of actual legal advice. He and Elliot were roommates for several years at St. Cloud State University, otherwise known as the “Stanford of Central Minnesota.” Aaron currently attends law school in San Francisco.

Wet Socks: Maxim Magazine – Why Jennifer Love Hewitt will never make Poison Ivy 4

(I’ve added a new feature to the blog and it’s called “Wet Socks.” As you can guess, the series will be about some of small day-to-day things that irritate the hell out of you. And by you, I’m trying to establish a universal relationship with the general public. But in reality, I probably really only mean “me.” Also, if there’s anything in particular you want to see more of here, send us a note. For those scratching their heads; Wet Socks are one of the most irritating - but easily fixable - situations ever created. Enjoy.)

Maxim Magazine, I hate you.

You are the faux fur of men’s magazines. You pander to the “extreme, man’s man sect of the population,” yet in reality you only sell magazines to the people who are too scared to have Playboy sitting around the house and those who aren’t old enough to buy porn. You are the literary representation of the bastardized Man Show, hosted by Joe Rogan and Doug Stanhope. You think you’re American Pie’s Stiffler, but instead you’re the bed wetting Chuck Sherman, dreaming up fictional encounters with females who would never give you the time of day.

No self-respecting fraternity (my Greek friends tell me never say ‘frat,’ you don’t abbreviate country by the first syllable) would ever replace a Hugh Hefner publication with that garbage. The only reason people actually buy that rag is when actresses or singers usually un-whorish in nature decide to pose nekkid in a jungle with just the right amount of palm tree branches covering the good stuff. They want you to buy Maxim on the premise that you’ll get a peak at Jennifer Love Hewitt’s body parts usually only reserved for douche bags like Carson Daly, but you see the same thing as anyone who bought I Still Know What You Did Last Summer. Anyone carrying the magazine gets crooked looks like they just walked out of the “adult” section in the back of Shinders, yet they don’t get any “adult” material – meaning flesh or intelligent discourse, actually offered in Playboy.

The problem is that actresses formerly looking to shed “goodie-goodie” stereotypes only had two options. Pose in Playboy or make Poison Ivy 4. Now thanks to Maxim (and their even more redheaded stepchild Stuff Magazine) any actress can wear a swimsuit, say a couple double entendres, and come off as a “good girl gone bad.” But those actresses aren’t Alyssa Milano in Embrace of the Vampire. They aren’t even Demi Moore posing on the cover of Vanity Fair. Sadly, the only female to realize this was former teen-star Tiffany, who in 2001 posed in Playboy.

To let females in on a secret, no one considers Playboy porn, in the same way many comedians joke that marijuana isn’t a drug. If a man really needs a pornographic fix, they dial up the Internet. If a guy wants to look at some cool new gadgets with some tits thrown in, they subscribe to Playboy.

The only bigger dick tease than Maxim Magazine is the weather in March. Maxim’s tagline shouldn’t be: Girls. Sports. Beer.; it should be “The only bigger dick tease than when the snow melts on March 2.”

Maxim’s only redeemable quality comes from an association with Blender, a completely viable and underrated music magazine. Otherwise, little else salvageable material exists, and I don’t just mean the naked but not really naked pictorials. The articles suck, too. The advice column comes nowhere near Jimmy the Bartender from Men’s Health (supremely underrated), and can’t hold a candle to Playboy’s Advisor.

For the women who aren’t avid readers of the Advisor, here’s the premise: Readers send in questions, from a variety of topics having to do with proper etiquette during a three-way with your wife and her sister, to the best studio equipment for your buck. They span that large of a range, in unrelated succession. You honestly have no idea what the next question could be after reading about portable humidors or classic cars. The tone is always classy, with how a man should deal with a problem, or what speakers he should buy for his car. You know how bar chatter always randomly shoots from topic to topic, sometimes g-rated, other times 21+? That’s what the Advisor gives you. Random bar chatter, but with terrific guidance mixed in.

Maxim, however, throws in some hackish, “wanna-be extreme types,” who leave ridiculous responses that are applicable to any situation. Also, it’s completely predictable. You can never predict the questions people have in the Advisor. Half of it is great entertainment, while the other half consists of a variety of topics, including shaving products, housewares, electronics, even tasteful gifts for the female.

Maxim also prints “cool” lists in every issue, and like anyone who’s watched vh1 for more than 10 minutes, I love lists. They countdown the “Hottest Women of 80s Movies,” yet the blonde from Teen Wolf (Lorrie Griffin) is completely absent. Even more depressing, they completely left off Phoebe Cates from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Are men even writing this shit? Those are two movies you can watch as a kid and know exactly where your sexual desires rest. (Chuck, it’s okay that you wanted to be surf next to Michael J. Fox on top of the van.)

Take another feature: Maxim lists the worst cast film roles of all time. Showing up No. 9 is Elisabeth Shue from Leaving Las Vegas. The role was a hooker. She’s hot and actually a very capable actress. Why would Maxim have a problem with this? Oh, I know. Shue would have been a perfect candidate for Stuff or Maxim’s pages. She was recently coming off a stretch of “good girl” roles and wanted to shed that image. Because after Shue made that film, Maxim had no use for her in their magazine. Who would buy a magazine based on tame photos when they can pick up more from a movie found in the 99 cent bin at Blockbuster Video? (Sidenote: Whatever happened to her? Is Palmetto going to be her legacy?)

Continuing on, a Maxim “sexiest album cover” list mentions the original artwork from The Strokes’ debut “Is this it.” Yet they say: “You may ask yourself that very question [Is this it?] after listening to this overhyped debut.” Whhhhaa? That album fucking rocked. Another sad miss Maxim.

Even their online video content is lacking. Maxim online offers video of a first-generation iPod blowing up. First generation refers to the huge, clunky white machines only owned by celebrities about seven years ago.Before the release date of the iPod Nano two years ago, another site posted a car running over the player in a series of tests showing the mp3 player’s durability. Let that sink in. Comparatively, if the Maxim site’s video was posted TWO YEARS AGO, it would be out of date. Now? It’s just stupid.

Further more, I just checked their “Hometown Hotties” section on maximonline.com. and Minnesota didn’t have one chick represented. For all the sexy minx running around the Twin Cities, don’t worry – I’m here to say you’ve been wronged.

In fact, we’ve all been wronged. Especially those curious folk who wonder why Jennifer Love Hewitt is hawking Proactiv solution instead of getting to work on Poison Ivy 4. Hey, it worked for Jamie Pressley.
♫ ♫ ♫ ♫
Elliot referenced Jennifer Love Hewitt’s acting resume while writing this column and couldn’t believe a studio green-lighted Garfield 2. During his days, he writes professionally for a daily newspaper about news topics that couldn’t be more unrelated to the proliferation of magazines trying to be the new Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. You can e-mail him here.

When an NBA player, drugs and live television come together…

The results are usually priceless. This latest clip comes courtesy of NBC Sports’ Mike’d Up, with Stephon “Starbury” Marbury. It’s about nine in a half minutes and worth every bizarre second. Here are some excerpts:

Earlier, Marbury rambles about going for a championship. Later, the interviewer asks him about going for a championship and Marbury says he’s not going for a championship and that he shoots to win. This is how he responds to the “why” follow up question:
“I shoot to win, because I shoot to win.”

About getting along with Kevin Garnett:
“We got along. We played basketball together. We didn’t go home and sleep in the same bed with each other.”

About his iPhone ringing during the interview:
“That’s my better hoe. My better half.”

The end of the interview is priceless…Wait for it.
(Paula Abdul could not be reached for comment.)

*And new blogs are coming this week!!

Seventeen and Stuck Up / Up in Osseo: The Hold Steady and the Validity of Individual Experience

(Ed. note: This latest entry is from Aaron Bergstrom, one of my best friends who I only get to talk to over the Internet since he moved to San Francisco. I’d make a long-distance relationship joke, but since he lives in San Francisco, it’s really too easy. Anyways, he fucking rocks and makes my writing better when I get to read his work. I’ve added a category for him on the sidebar - 2Tall’s columns - so hopefully he keeps contributing. I am pissed he didn’t reference “Southtown” in this column, but then again, what does he know about Southtown? He’s from a small town in southeast Minnesota. ZING. Enjoy.)

(Photo by Kathryn Yu)

I grew up in a small town in Southeastern Minnesota. While I have since moved to San Francisco, I still consider myself a Minnesotan, and I probably always will. The rural Midwest defines me. For this reason, I spent the majority of my formative years feeling culturally insignificant. However, for this same reason, I love The Hold Steady more than just about anything in the world. Let me explain.

Those of us raised in the flyover states know, deep down, that our lives are not nearly as meaningful as those of our peers on the Coast. We grow up lacking a kind of metaphorical substance. No one writes songs about us, and deep down we know it’s because we do not have lives worthy of pop music immortality.

I spent my high school years playing sports, listening to music, drinking in basements, and unsuccessfully pursuing girls. This, I have to imagine is exactly how teenage males spend their time in New York City, Los Angeles, or any other major American city. I’m told that Californians don’t have basements, but really this seems like a minor issue. The fact of the matter is that I shared the same experiences with most everybody my age, and yet I knew deep down that my life was fundamentally different than those of the “City kids,” that if I could trade places with them, I would crash and burn immediately. I knew that any happiness I could acquire was a direct consequence of inhabiting a very small pond. For this, as with all the problems in my life, I blame pop music.

Here’s a fun exercise: Name ten songs with the word “California” in the title. I’m not kidding, do it. It takes about thirty seconds. New York is just as easy. These are cultural touchstones and it’s not surprising that songwriters rely on the imagery and emotion that come with them. It’s easy to attach significance to any coastal metropolis. If you live in New York City, some indie band has penned an ode to your borough; some up-and-coming rapper has given a shout-out to your block. I don’t have the facts to back this up, but I would bet there is a song about every major highway in Southern California. And so, as a confused teenager in the City, you can listen to music about things you see and do every day, and you can relate on a very intimate level, and you can know that the emotions you feel are just are real as Lou Reed’s, or Tupac Shakur’s, or whoever your icons may be. You can be reassured that life is hard, but that there is meaning in the struggle, because your heroes came from the exact same place, and they made something beautiful out of your surroundings. This has to be about the most hopeful thing ever.

Kids from the rural Midwest, however, listen to those same songs, and we feel the same loneliness, or isolation, or even joy, but we wonder if those emotions are somehow different in the City, we wonder if our loneliness is as gripping as theirs, we wonder if they feel joy on a much larger scale, if we’re just pretenders to some larger human truth. It’s like breaking your wrist falling out of a tree house, then showing up at school the next day and hearing about the mountain climber who had to amputate his own arm. You thought you knew pain, you thought you had the toughness to overcome anything, but then you realized that maybe there was this whole other world of pain that would probably break you, and you realized there were people who could likely endure your sufferings without even flinching. Such is life in the rural Midwest.

And so we go through our lives without songs identifying us. Bands from the Midwest just don’t operate the same way as bands from the Coasts, which is interesting because there are so many seminal acts from the forgotten states. The Twin Cities alone can claim everyone from Prince to The Replacements. And yet these bands always seem to strive for a larger kind of universality, one lacking the relevant details of acts from other geographic regions. For instance, the alternative music scene in Minneapolis rivaled any in America in the early 1990s, but these bands didn’t want to talk about Interstate 94, or the bars in Uptown, or how it felt when the Twins won the 1991 World Series. Listening to Paul Westerberg sing about getting drunk, you can guess at which bars he frequented, but he never relies on that specific information, and so, really, a burned-out college student at the University of Minnesota has no more claim to “I’ll Be You” than anyone else anywhere. It’s great music, and it resonates, but bands do not belong to the Midwest in the same way that Green Day belongs to the East Bay or The Strokes belong to New York. The music often plays like it’s hiding its heritage; like the bands are scared no one wants to listen to songs made in the Central Time Zone.

I had already moved out to California by the time I discovered The Hold Steady (and, also, lead singer Craig Finn’s previous and very similar band, Lifter Puller). Fantastic though it may sound, I don’t think it would be hyperbole to say that if I had listened to The Hold Steady in high school, there’s a good chance I would be living in Minneapolis right now. The band is that important to me. They make Minnesota real. They make Minneapolis significant. They carve out a pop cultural niche for all of us who love the Golden Gophers but hate all those drawn out winters.

There is a whole world in the details of a Hold Steady song. For anyone who ever walked across the Grain Belt Bridge, or even shopped at a Rainbow Foods, Finn’s lyrics are a revelation, forceful and sung with a hint of a sneer. He doesn’t care if hipsters in Greenwich Village or scenesters on Rodeo Drive are turned off by obscure references to suburban Minneapolis or parties on the banks of the Mississippi River. He doesn’t care because these things happened to him, and therefore they are important to him, and so he’s going to sing about them because we all have random experiences seared into our memories, and if we ever want to engage each other on a meaningful level, we must realize that meaning and significance are almost always subjective, and if you think that the only things that matter are things that happen on the Coasts, well, Craig Finn does not care what you think. He is not writing songs for you. He is writing songs for him. And, by doing so, he is writing songs for me.

The music is not a celebration of Minnesota, but it is a declaration of Midwestern significance. Finn is not writing jingles for the board of tourism. These are songs about drug overdoses and fights and even suicide. These are not songs to make you love Minneapolis. However, in the same way that Bruce Springsteen expressed his feelings about New Jersey through characters who wanted nothing more than to leave, Finn creates a world that is definitely not paradise, but is definitely home. Though the band has relocated to New York City, they still write songs about Bloomington, Minn. (home of the Mall of America!) Why not substitute Brooklyn instead? Because life is just as real anywhere. Broadway and Lyndale are both just roads. I didn’t always know that. Craig Finn did. This is why his band matters.
♫ ♫ ♫ ♫
Aaron is a law school student who performed well enough on his LSAT for Harvard to e-mail HIM. I don’t think he appreciates when people divulge that information, but others think he should tattoo it on his forehead. Even with all of this intelligence, he still ended up with idiots like Elliot at St. Cloud State University. Aaron currently lives in San Francisco.

‘Will I still make good records? / When I’m 64?’ Yes, Paul. You will.

I wonder if Paul McCartney thought this is how he would end up at 64: a divorced widower and nearly the last living link to The Beatles.

Granted, Sir Paul hasn’t had the best last couple years. Then again, when you’re Paul McCartney and you’re ridiculously fucking rich and you were one of the two songwriters behind the greatest written music ever, you’re already way ahead of the curve. But you have to admit it’s mighty depressing to think how one of the most criminally slept-on love songs (When I’m 64) turned out for person who wrote it.

Yet out of great tragedy, comes great art. And once again, McCartney finds us with Memory Almost Full, released June 5. Paul McCartney – who turns 65 June 18 recorded a good album. Not ‘Beatles great,’ but very solid. Most of the tracks come in at a very punk-rock three minutes and the best moments occur when McCartney takes a sober look at life and love.

The album’s opener is okay, but upbeat poppy hook and polite synthesizers on the mildly depressing but upbeat “Ever Present Past” find McCartney openly wondering if time has passed him by. “Ever Present Past” provides the album’s apex and what you’ll invariably hear coming from the luxury sedans of aging hipsters in the coming weeks. “You Tell Me” slows down the vibe of the record, with a meandering guitar and vocals reminiscent of “Blackbird.”

“That was Me” evolves with a bluesy vibe, letting Paul show off that he hasn’t lost his “Back in the USSR” pipes, which segues beautifully into the dreamy “Feet in the Clouds.” Even though the next song “House of Wax” is a but too epic, using a subdued, but massive drum track and whiny guitar through McCartney’s cries, it still serves listenable and provides the only extended guitar solo on the entire LP.

Somehow the screeching and wondering guitar at the end of “House of Wax” mesh brilliantly into Memory’s second best moment – “The End of the End,” where Paul imagines his own mortality with a weepy piano.

“No reason to cry / No need to be sad / At the end of the end…” he sings between whistle solos (!). The somber moments created on Memory serve McCartney best, they seem the most authentic; unforced releases of emotion. The three bonus tracks are also fairly solid, especially the acoustic “Why So Blue,” and even the bongo-based “In Private” instrumental. One of the album’s missteps, “Nod Your Head,” is an obvious shot at recreating “Helter Skelter.” I liked it the first time better; you will, too.

In Rolling Stone, Robert Christgau delivers a very well-written – in the sense that its error free - review of Memory Almost Full, yet forgets to interject any sort of, well, “review” to the record.

(Here’s a little trick to tell if someone reviews records well. Cover up the number/stars/mics given to the album and read the review. Then, guess what the writer rated the album. Since pretty much everyone gets three stars now, it’s not that difficult of an exercise, but you’ll see what I mean. No one reviews anything anymore. They merely describe the music. But I have ears. I can hear. I’ll listen to the LP when I go to the iTunes Store later and sample the tracks. But in the review, I want to know if I need to do that. The write needs to tell the readers if they NEED the album. Do they need to buy it? Do they need to use it as a beer coaster? Should they run to Know Name Records, buy all 12 copies on the shelf and give the record to everyone they know, so others can share in such a great opus? Maybe they should forever rue the day they heard the name of that record because it’s so horrible. BUT SOME LEVEL OF DISCOURSE NEEDS TO OCCUR! At least put “Check these” or “Songs to download” and give me a reason to check out the record. Here is a perfect album review. It happens to be written by my friend 2Tall.)

All things considered, is Sir Paul hurting from the divorce? Absolutely. Does he still miss Linda? Yes. But selfishly for us, it makes beautiful music.

Rating: 3.5/5 – Recommended
♫ ♫ ♫ ♫
Elliot writes professionally for a daily newspaper and loves The Beatles, yet never expected Paul McCartney to record another album worth giving extended listens. He doesn’t mean that as an insult, but after you’ve recorded so much great music, the desire to create music on that level seems to evaporate in great artists. You can only create so much greatness in one lifetime, right? Tell Elliot that he has nothing to worry about here.