WELL, BUTTER MY ONION, HERE, IN DOUBLECLICKISTAN, BUT I’M NO LONGER HOTTEST IN THE NATION, ACCORDING TO RATE MY OPPRESSORS, ER, PROFESSORS.

What looking in the mirror used to be like: Hot!

Now that I’m post-hot, all I can do is rub Cholula all over myself in the hopes of producing a third nipple. Then I could front the Scandinavian metal combo, Third Nipple Rampage. “Old hotties never die,” said MacArthur, “they just fade to mild.” The hell, though, if I’m gonna settle for Tepidest or Lukewarmest in the nation. Now that I’m post-hot, I’ll need a greater reservoir for compassion than my balsawood heart allows, I’ll need a greater system for latitude than my Zen-X philosophy allows. I’m beginning to learn that life is more than just clicking ass and taking URLs. Especially here in Doubleclickistan, where avatar oleomargarine and avatar sweet vidalia can slather each other all they’d like. No more coverage in The Huffington Glue Post, nope. Even if Red Rover were invoked I sure as hell wouldn’t come over, nope. I’ve gone from “chili pepper” as in “habanero” to “chilly pepper” as in “habanero left out in the snow.” The radio sings, “Ya / ya / ya / ya / ya /ya / ya / Your Sharona,” as if the lady-in-question were someone else’s Sharona, not my Sharona, not any longer, now that I’m post-hot. What have those Immediate-Past-Hotties done with themselves, I wonder, but cruised the jalapeno aisles, for hours, in supermarkets? Not that I, an Immediate-Past-Hottie, cruise the aisles, myself—god forbid it should all come down to stalking the shiny finish on a Hungarian wax pepper. I suppose I could look forward to the brisk fever of an influenza, oh, to be hot again!

BLOGPOST TO A YOUNG POET.

Block out regular intervals for writing. (Coffee optional.)

Every so often, a promising undergraduate writer, a senior soon to earn those final fifteen credits, poses this question—“What’s next?”—in office hours or class. “Workshops,” she or he continues, “have been great. They’ve given me a structure. They’ve forced me to produce. But what happens when school ends? How do I continue to be a writer? What should I do?” To her or him, I have offered the following 15-part manifesto, on the writer’s lifestyle, more or less unmodified over the years. Dig these whirreds to the whys.

1. CHEAP FLAT ‘N’ EATS. The less your rent, food, and extravagance tabs, the less you have to work—to purchase that basket of goods. The more time you have with which to write. In terms of food, the potato (Sweet, Yukon Gold, Russet, Red, et al.) is your friend. Inexpensive, nutritious, and quite tasty. Stock up on the good spud, I say. I myself have devoured many a cauldron of spuds ‘n’ cabbage, with a bitteen butter, salt, pepper.

2. CHOOSE APPROPRIATE JOBS. If you write best in the morning, then reserve that time for yourself. Don’t tender those hours to Huge Corporation. Seek access to office equipment: computers, printers, postage meters, paperweights, festive calendars, etc. If possible, avoid typical cubicle jobs where coworkers have big guts, chronic indigestion, and idiotic puns. Tend bar. Wait tables. There is safety in having more than one job.

3. CORROLLARY ON THE 2012-13 ECONOMY. Yes, I realize there’s a slump, and not just a typical contraction, at that. I used to be an economist. [Aside: At one point, my work for Huge Corporation (That Is Now Defunct) involved the depreciation of every telephone pole in America.] I can say, with some general certainty, that the current economy should be a ripe source of non-career, patchwork, writer-friendly jobs.

4. WRITE REGULARLY. Block out several hours, four days in a row. A walk beforehand can cleanse the mind of its clutter. Toil in a room with no distractions, no cell phone, no conversation. Jazz is okay, in the background. Playing solitaire—with an actual deck of cards—can offer a decent, periodic distraction. Write for months. Pile up drafts. Revision, a vital complement, can take place any time, anywhere: busses, cafes, bars.

5. WRITE WITH RANGE, 1. You can pen pieces about your own anguish, but many mainstream writers prosper by (endlessly) describing their psychic and physical suffering. There are other options besides yourself, when considering content. Write about ideas. Be political, but don’t instruct the reader, as Pinter reminds us, to endorse your position. Wild, twisting language can be the most potent (and potable) content.

6. WRITE WITH RANGE, 2. Write a sonnet or treat the page, as Olson says, as a field. Write in prose or write in couplets, and if you’re a fictionista, conceive of stories that appear in sections, put through-action (but not plot) first, don’t punch the clock. Put character first. Write for the love of rhythm. Write chapbooks. Write novellas. Any poem or story should offer a basic problem, situation, conflict. Beyond that: the deluge.

7. READ REGULARLY. Always have a great book open. “A reader is someone who reads every day.” A writer reads more than she or he writes. In your genre. Out of your genre. Seek texts that inform your line-writing or sentence-writing. Seek texts that challenge the comfort level of your language formation, organizational strategies, and representation of situation. Borrow ideas. Read to steal. Don’t plagiarize, of course, but be a thief.

8. PARTICIPATE IN A COMMUNITY. Find yourself “a scene” or create a new one. A scene that produces regular events, like literary readings or a weekly happy hours. Make chums in this scene. Socialize Up. That doesn’t necessarily mean “age” but writers who are rattling ‘n’ rolling. Listen To Young People, don’t forget, even as you are a young person. Listen to old timers, too. Be an equal opportunity consumer of viewpoints.

9. CONSUME OTHER ARTS. Do you know Stuff Smith? The song—“I’se A Muggin’”—that doubles as a counting game? If so, then you know this excerpt: “… twenty-five, twenty-six, uh uh, uh uh, twenty-nine, woof woof, thirty-one, thirty-two …” but I digress. I don’t mean dumbly stare at a bunch of paintings. I mean, absorb certain elements and learn to recall them, as necessary, when you formulate writing.

10. GET YOUR WRITING OUT THERE. You can blog, you can tweet, you can update your status, you can self-publish a chapbook, you can photocopy, you can submit writing for free online, you can create a small press, you can read at an open microphone event, you can host a cattle-call reading, you can self-promote, you can discover all sorts of social media, you can spend a few bucks on postage, you can spray-paint the dumpster.

11. A WORD ON ASS-KISSING. Don’t get me wrong: ass-kissing works. It’s greedy, and as we know from the fictional Michael Douglas character, Gordon Gecko: “greed works.” If only I could stomach this form of self-promotion, I would hound my famous writer-cousin for a few short-cuts, but alas, I cannot stomach this method. Still, if you’re a smarmy little weasel, go for it. Be prepared—I guess—to really—French some ass.

12. SPEAK YOUR MIND. Rather than smooching anyone’s derriere, how about speaking your mind?—with information at your back. That is, don’t just offer a textual or artistic critique if you don’t really have knowledge of the various traditions that may bolster (or contradict!) your opinions. But speak your mind. Call a phony a phony. Take some well-informed stands. Become a sought-after “conversation partner.”

13. VICE IN MODERATION. John Coltrane died at 40 of liver cancer. One theory is, he acquired hepatitis by sharing a needle, and this led to his fatal disease. Either way, he was reportedly addicted to numerous substances, including heroin. He left behind lots of great American jazz. But what of the music he didn’t get a chance to record? If you smoke so much weed that you can hardly jot down a poem—then you’re not a writer, but a doper.

14. A WORD ON CLIMATE CHANGE. Global Warming will certainly lead to erratic behavior in animals. This, in turn, will lead to Kung Fu Change, as Shaolin Monks—and pugilistic monks everywhere—will attempt to emulate the behavior of these animals in their maneuvers. You may wish to travel now, before Pugilistic Monk Warming becomes prohibitive. Write about your travels, but don’t just say “travel.” Build us a city.

15. MFA PROGRAMS. You do not need to be an MFA student in order to be a writer. An MFA program can offer you financial support, instruction, and a cohort, but you can do just fine by yourself, by practicing Nos. 1-14, above. In fact, if you practice Nos. 1-14 above, then everyone else who’s practicing Nos. 1-14 will find you quite irresistible. Too, you will have every opportunity to develop your writing skills, outside the somewhat isolated construct of academia. If you go to grad school later, it’ll feel like a reward.

For a “Cautionary Tale” involving “The Boy with the Broken Heart and The Boy with the Overflowing Heart,” click here. 

SWILLING ON THE DARK SIDE: HOW TO DRINK STOUT IN SEVEN EASY STEPS (+APPENDICES) (+FAQ)

Learn how to drink this, the best STOUT on earth.

Primer can be pronounced “primmer” or “pry-mer.” “Roight!” [1.] preparatory exercises. One must consider Limberings of the Ligaments when preparing for “a touch of the STOUT.” Fingerpoppings as it were. Recommended, if necessary, are delectables, spectacles, shower & shave. You must be at least 25 pct. properly attired, i.e., haberdashery, if you will, but you needn’t check your skepticism. do not persist in any sort of referential mania, such as gratuitous politicking. [2.] incantations & recitations. En route to the saloon, engage in a traditional chantey, such as: “I drink a drink / and I skip a drink / and when I skip a drink / I drink a beer.” Yodelings are often necessary, given the circumstances, as well as Jello slappings. If you must, recite a chapter from Because It Is Bitter & Because It Is My STOUT. do not pray to the volcano, the hurricane & the mongoose simultaneously. [3.] at the pub. Roight! If there is but one STOUT on the premises, order a STOUT. Otherwise, request the house menu. When deciding among STOUT, we suggest skepticism (see above) re: anything Walloonie, Walloonie Bin & Metrosexuale Belgique. Your STOUT may appear before you in a goblet. We suggest that you weather this indignity with casual modesty. do not bum rush the STOUT. [4.] what to expect: The nose should admit a waft of the roasted malt, if not a waft of the roasted barley, among other suitable trails. The cap should ride your STOUT, even as it thins, to the bottom of the glass, leaving behind a nice latticework to the sides. The mouthfeel shall be creamy & appropriately carbonated, as the aftermath shall not be boozy. Lo, the STOUT shall deliver a pleasant bitterness & ye shall deliver an appropriate sum, therefore, to the barkeep. If you have needs to make water, make water. do not hesitate, upon your return, to order another pour. [5.] feeling good about yourself. Hoist your second STOUT & have a look around the saloon proper. Say “Hey, Mama” with your eyes. Say “mon petit oiseau bleu” with your eyes. By then the antioxidants brewed into your STOUT shall have informed your corporeal salubriousness. The eyes of others shall behold this radiance in solidarity. do not suddenly conceive of a life to be spent with excessive creams & oils & robes & hairshirts. [6.] a word on porter & black ipa. You may swill English porter & American porter however you wish. You may swill strong ales & black ipa however you wish, although there is a suggested donation of $5 per pint, payable directly to our bar tabs. You may not, under any circumstances, swill any other kind of ales & lagers, if you expect extraordinary favors from us. We define ‘extraordinary favors’ as repeated validation of your radical stances (we ain’t no parking lot!) & anything morally abdominal. do not, however, forget your whiskey flask! [7.] walking home. Beware the temptation of the empanada. Beware the temptation of the meatloaf special. Beware the temptation of the slice, jumbo & otherwise. Beware the temptation of the sha cha chicken. Beware the temptation of rare oop on vinyl. do not eat rare oop on vinyl! [8.] appendix i: the trajectory of a debauch. When contemplating a debauch, consider the Lo-Hi Crescendo: English Porter, American STOUT, Double STOUT, Imperial STOUT. Reversely, the Hi-Lo Crescendo operates from Imperial (~10.0 pct ABV) to Double (~8.3 pct.) to American (~5.8 pct.) to English Porter (~4.8 pct.) You may substitute an Oatmeal STOUT for an American. To wit, there are other trajectories, as well. There are, collectively, The Wounded Capuchin, The Chorus Girl & the Chaise Longue, The Spouse & The Souse, The Gravestone Rubbing & The Intercontinental Ballistic STOUT-drinking Trajectories. [9.] appendix ii: on sessionable stout & sessionability.  We endorse a plain-roasted, plain-bitter American, Irish, or Oatmeal STOUT for STOUT-drinking “sessionability”—meaning that, Ladies & Gents, you could drink flagons of these in sequence, without getting all knockout-y, knock-need-y & knock-knock-y. Your friends at BAG have sampled upwards of 750 STOUT / porter over the past several campaigns, & while we haven’t sampled every brew in the world, we are ready to endorse Sierra Nevada STOUT as best-in-sessionability, Founders Breakfast STOUT as all-around-best-in-STOUT & the Founders suite of dark beers, Porter, Breakfast STOUT, Imperial STOUT, Kentucky Breakfast STOUT, et al., as the greatest such suite available in bottle & draught. [10.] faq. Q: Does STOUT increase performance? A: Ask Zenyatta, the champion race horse, who lapped it up, so to speak, every day. Q: Must I complete a Solemn Round of Industry in the morning? A: Yes, if you intend on drinking any more STOUT. If you drink STOUT, however, the Round of Industry may seem a little less Solemn than for non-STOUT drinkers. Q: Who is the most famous STOUT drinker in the history of the world? A: Catherine The Great, Tsarina Extraordinaire, Commissar & Commissioner of the Russian Imperial STOUT. Q: Will STOUT make me hungry? A: Have a wafer, Lads & Lasses, if you develop a touch of the famine. Roight! 

WINNING PLENTY BY PLACING 11TH: HOW SWANSEA CITY FOOTBALL CLUB TRIUMPHED IN 2011-12 (IF NOT BY AMERICAN STANDARDS.)

Danny Graham, after scoring his momentous goal versus Arsenal.

Many football players (outside the U.S.) contest their sport on the pitch, clad in either home or away kits, with the hopes that a good result in their weekly fixtures will propel their sides upward in the table. That sentence may dizzy the average American sportsman, who probably wouldn’t comprehend why the most powerful football league in the world—The English Premier League, or The Prem, for short—not only permits draws, but crowns a champion at the conclusion of its rugged 38-game season, without carving itself into subdivisions and orchestrating multiple layers of playoffs. Incentives do await for victorious soccer that may not capture a title, as the top few finishers in The Prem gain admission to a couple lucrative, continental club tournaments: Champions League and Europa League. In addition, and most notably, the bottom three teams in The Prem must endure relegation, or demotion to an under-tier, to the Football League Championship division, or ‘Championship’, the teams of which can suffer relegation, themselves, to a lower division, or vault into the big show of The Prem. (Multi-tiered football associations in other countries operate in similar fashion.) On the concept of survival, the punk band Wire conveniently shouted: “Avoiding a death is to win the game / To avoid relegation . . .” and “that’s the lowdown,” baby. That’s the climate.

Enter our side, Swansea City FC, a.k.a. The Swans, who became the first Welsh team to compete in the current version of The Prem, and just the 45th club overall to reach this uppermost tier in English football, formed in 1992. The lads climbed into the rarefied atmosphere of The Prem fresh from an elimination contest among four hopefuls from Championship, amidst forecasts of great calamity. In short, the soothsayers predicted a swift return to Championship for The Swans, averring they would finish 20th out of 20, a one-hit wonder. The Swans, therefore, approached the season without donning any ridiculous airs. Their coach, at the time, Brendan Rodgers, frequently reminded spectators and sports writers that the mission revolved around survival, i.e., placing 17th or higher. They would strive to persevere, with Rodgers’ guidance, by attempting to control possession of the ball in the Spanish style, within a system of triangular passing schemes. Synonyms for this variety of ball movement might include “The Beautiful Game” or “Total Football”—the latter championed by Dutch legend Johann Cruyff. After their first few matches, it also became clear that The Swans, in Michel Vorm, were fielding a world-class goalkeeper, an acrobatic athlete with top-shelf reflexes and superior instincts, who led Swansea to four blank sheets (shut-outs) in their first seven Prem League matches. Two of these, unfortunately, involved scoreless draws at home, where a side would hope to prevail, instead, but The Swans knocked off West Brom and Stoke City at home, before drifting into the middle portion of their schedule.

Would they survive, they would likely require at least one signature win versus a Goliath, and the first of three such milestones materialized on January 15th, at Liberty Stadium, where The Swans hosted a traditional powerhouse, London-based Arsenal. Swans Forward Danny Graham struck in the 70th minute, just seconds after Theo Wolcott had knotted the score at 2-all for Arsenal, a goal that might have otherwise doomed The Swans to pursue a draw. Vorm preserved the 3-2 lead with notable point-blank stops, and in defeating the Gunners, The Swans had toppled a former champion and perennial title contender. The Swans would have needs to prevail on the road, and did so, for the first time, versus Aston Villa a day beyond New Year’s, and later versus West Brom, Wigan, and Fulham. In addition to Vorm and Graham, other Swans distinguished themselves throughout the 2011-12 campaign: defender Ashley Williams; midfielders Joe Allen, Nathan Dyer, and slippery Scott Sinclair; and striker Gylfi Sigurdsson, the Icelandic international on loan. Luke Moore subbed versus Manchester City and defeated the eventual champions with a header, and in the season’s final fixture, Graham tallied against perennial powerhouse, Liverpool; both games at Liberty Stadium ended 1-nil to Swansea. The Swans did engage in some maddening giveaways, among them yielding an agonizing equalizer to Chelsea in added time, a match that concluded 1-1 in late January, yet any student of The Prem would reason that such giveaways, in moderation, don’t represent outliers, but organic moments that bedevil all sides in all seasons. The Chelsea result would deprive Vorm, ultimately, from collecting his 15th clean sheet, but by winding up with 14, the Swans tied Tottenham for fourth overall, a badge of remarkable defense.

As the campaign wore on, The Swans tired a bit, and suffered a four-game losing streak to Everton, Spurs, Newcastle, and arch-rival, QPR. They clawed out eight points, however, over their final five fixtures, with a respectable loss to second-place finishers, Manchester United, two shaky draws but important notches, nevertheless, in the table, and two wins, punctuated by Graham’s goal in the 86th minute versus The Reds, with four minutes to play in the season. After the whistle blew versus Liverpool, Swansea City FC had engineered a good bit more than merely weathering the league. The club placed 11th in The Premier League table, the best of its graduating class from Championship. We could label the 2011-12 Swansea campaign as one that culminated in “wild success” or “success beyond imagination” but The Swans produced, simply put, a winning season, despite dropping more contests (15) than they won (12). They drew 11 times. I would guess that most American sports fans would react by sniffing at such a sequence, reasoning that “winning is everything” and if a team doesn’t capture a Super Bowl title, for example, or World Series rings, their exploits matter about as much as a shuffleboard competition in South Beach. Perhaps Americans have grown accustomed to various professional sports teams mired in chronic tableaux of miserable decrepitude, with little incentive to do more than concern themselves with solvency. Many U.S. sports, true, have become dominated by an elite oligopoly of powerful teams, but nowhere in the NFL, NHL, NBA, and MLB do lousy clubs have to stomach relegation to lower leagues, or do hungry clubs receive promotion to the top leagues. Given the big corporate shoulders of the New York Yankees, on the other hand, we might conclude that the underfunded Kansas City Royals, for example, finished pretty darned well, under the circumstances, in winning 71, 67, and 65 baseball games out of 162 games over the past three completed seasons, 2011, 2010, and 2009, respectively, but American culture doesn’t really reward that kind of spendthrift endurance, spiritually or otherwise.

If we consider that half the current Premier League football clubs have enjoyed lengthy, uninterrupted stretches in The Prem, then the odds of Swansea out-scrabbling the other nine sides—each with more experience than The Swans—still seemed a bit meager, but cohesive play and clutch performances trumped the doubters. Out-scrabbling, of course, can exact its own price, and extraordinary manager Brendan Rodgers has left the club for the vacant managerial post at Liverpool. The Swans responded by hiring former Danish footballing star, Michael Laudrup, a chap who’s managed in Spain’s La Liga, who endorses a style of play similar to that of 2011-12 Swansea. He and his roster of likable Prem League upstarts will tour the United States for three exhibitions in the month of July, and after that, face an away date at QPR on August 18th, for the kickoff to the 2012-13 Prem. Allegedly, if Swansea survive a second year in the Premier League, then its ownership may expand Liberty Stadium by thousands of seats. Beyond a second Prem League campaign, who knows? The team could compete for “a place in Europe”—entry into Champs League or Europa. To support Swansea City FC, simply say “Up The Swans!” as often as you’d like. That phrase goes better with Single Malt Welsh Whisky distilled by Penderyn, a going Welsh concern that should certainly belong to a Premier League of World Whisky Distilleries, and a brand that could, indeed, survive—and take it all! Up The Swans!

(This post dedicated to Doug Lang.) 

METACARPALISM.

A system of devotion

Differentiate between “I thought it” and “I said it to myself.” Did you think “torrid” or did you say “torrid” to yourself? The value of “torrid” is irrelevant except to note that Žižek cannot aid you any longer, if he aided you, ever, at all. Clays, as verb, would be more assistive: he clays, she clays (together) the theory of devotion, for example, amidst the various “systems of devotion.” Theories, that is, versus actual deference, which brings me to Metacarpalism. There are five metacarpals in each hand, offering us ten ways to translate our persistent concavity—if only you’ll shiver off the euphoria. Please, please, please shiver off the euphoria, now. If you were post-structural ever, at all, you might consider puncturing the glass and plunging the big red button that proclaims: Deconstruct. Derrida cannot aid you any longer. Did you think “differentiate” or did you say “differentiate” to yourself? One curvilinear form maps itself to another curvilinear form. That’s called correlation; it’s renewable. Facts about the metacarpals will not open your hand. Metacarpal Diem: Open your hand. 

THE MOST IMPORTANT HEAVYWEIGHT OF ALL TIME: A MEDITATION ON THE BOXERS JOE LOUIS AND MUHAMMAD ALI.

The tops, together: Louis (L) and Ali (R) in 1965

I am party to several abiding conversations about the categories “most important” and “greatest” as applied, for example, to writing, music, and sports, and have unveiled my findings at intervals in this sphere. Faithful readers might recall my reverence for the “breath-turning” poet Paul Celan, or my declaration of the top 25 (+5) (+1) most essential American musicians, crowned by Louis Armstrong. In this post, I will crane part of the debate —as it is portable—toward the top two heavyweight boxers of all time, Joe Louis and Muhammad Ali. Nobody, in my estimation, can declare a “greatest ever” among the two, thus I will stick to the scaffolding of “most important,” and in the process, perhaps create a definition-by-example of the category, “most important,” itself. There were many heavyweights, indeed, to choose from, and three others—Jack Johnson, Jack Dempsey, and Larry Holmes—rate a mention, but scholars and experts operating in a variety of media roundly establish Louis and Ali, in that order, or vice versa, as the most significant pugilists. The popularity of heavyweight boxing has evaporated, following the less notable careers of Mike Tyson, Lennox Lewis, and Evander Holyfield, and with the rise in popularity of Mixed Martial Arts; therefore, we can perhaps conclude that Joe Louis and Muhammad Ali will always be tops. 

NICKNAME:  “THE GREATEST.” A former Olympic gold medalist, Muhammad Ali dominated the so-called Golden Age of Heavyweight Boxing, decking several champions, including Liston and Foreman. He avenged losses in title bouts to Frazier, Norton, and Spinks, and triumphed over a set of lesser-known tough customers, such as Earnie Shavers and Ron Lyle, who might’ve been champions in other eras. Shavers fought Ali and Larry Holmes for the title, losing both matches; Lyle, who died recently, was ahead on two of three scorecards versus Ali, when Ali stopped him in the 11^th round of their championship fight. Despite losing many early years in prison, Lyle competed with a number of greats, including a wild win versus Shavers, and a brawling loss to George Foreman, who needed to rise off the canvas in order to prevail in five rounds. This is all to say that the second tier characters in the Golden Age were dangerous, and that, in many other eras, there was no second tier, to speak of, at all. Ali’s most important victory may have come versus then-champion Foreman, when the two clashed at the high-voltage Rumble in the Jungle of Zaire, an improbable win that cemented Ali’s return to the pinnacle of his sport, having lost three years, 1967-1970, in legal limbo. He didn’t fight during that stretch, and was stripped of his belts, of course, after he refused induction into the U.S. military, having articulated the sentiment of other blacks, at the time: “No Vietnamese ever called me nigger.” His defiance of Selective Service, and his brash, groundbreaking personality contributed to his international celebrity. To be sure, Ali was not the first black heavyweight champion to roil the white establishment—Jack Johnson married three white women and was prosecuted under the Mann Act, a law that prohibited the transport of a woman across state lines “for immoral purposes”—but Ali climbed to prominence in another era, and could project power with fewer (or alternative) consequences. His name change, from what he termed a “slave name”, Cassius Clay, to one of Muslim origins, would enable a new mythology, the script of slavery discontinued, demolished. Still, Ali found it necessary to taunt his black opponents, including Joe Frazier, with racially-tinged insults, and even slandered Joe Louis, himself, as an “Uncle Tom.” In 1980, Ali’s decisive loss to former sparring partner, Larry Holmes, would carry notoriety, for the protégé, Holmes, would assume control over the heavyweight division, arguably, for the third most dominant reign in the history of the class. Many of Ali’s exploits—matches, interviews—were broadcast via such television shows as ABC’s Wide World of Sports; nothing, for instance, was more worldly than Don King’s name for Ali-Frazier III: The Thrilla in Manilla. Ali’s gift for a photogenic code of oratory, rap, improv, and braggadocio would complement if not propel the turbulent age of jazz-rock, protest, and rocket travel. 

NICKNAME: “THE BROWN BOMBER.” A former Gold Gloves champ, Joe Louis began boxing professionally in the 1930s, and as his winning streak bulged, it became clear to Louis and his handlers that he would have to project anything but the likes of Jack Johnson (or other figures controversial to the establishment) in his public demeanor, should he ever hope for a bout with a white title holder. He would never gloat; never participate in a thrown fight; and never be photographed alone with a white woman. Thus began one of the most triumphant campaigns in U.S. history. Despite losing a disheartening non-title bout to the German boxer, Max Schmeling, the honest, soft-spoken Louis was maneuvered into a shot at the “Cinderella Man,” champion Jim Braddock. Whereas Ali would wrest the heavyweight title from another African American, Joe Louis had to carry himself just so, just to climb into the ring with Braddock. After he stopped the Cinderella Man, Louis engaged in the longest uninterrupted reign in the heavyweight class, nearly 12 years, with the most title defenses ever recorded in the division, 25 victories. Far from being an “Uncle Tom,” Louis humbled white adversaries in the ring, rather than taunt anybody, especially fellow blacks. He clobbered five former or future champions, including the huge, hulking Primo Carnera, Max Baer, and Jersey Joe Walcott, as well as a number of seasoned contenders such as Billy Conn. In all likelihood, he participated in the most important championship fight in the history of the sport, when Max Schmeling returned to New York in 1938, for a rematch, and for a chance to win the crown. Even though Schmeling, a symbol of Nazi Germany, was not, officially, a Nazi, the specter of the murderous, totalitarian regime accompanied him, amply, across the Atlantic. When Louis hurt Schmeling with a thundering blow to the ribcage, then finished the German in the first round, he became the first national African American hero celebrated by all Americans, as the United States had begun to mobilize, politically, against the Axis powers. Louis would enlist in the army during the war, bolstering morale for black and white soldiers alike. As with Ali, he would see nearly three years vanish from his fighting career, from 1942-1944, but return to the ring a winner. While in Europe, he joined the famous Liverpool Football Club as a stunt, but years later, after his boxing career had ended, he played golf at a PGA event in San Diego, the first black man to do so. He may have lacked Ali’s rhythmic verbiage, but Louis did mint the phrase, “He can run, but he can’t hide,” when Billy Conn, the light heavyweight champion, suggested that he could dodge and outbox Louis. Indeed, Conn was ahead on points, late, in the first of two fights between the men, when Louis, a fairly light heavyweight, toppled Conn with two rocketing blows to the jaw. He also said, on a separate occasion, “Everyone has a plan until they’ve been hit.”

Both men suffered after their careers ended, Ali falling victim to Parkinson’s syndrome, and Louis tragically enduring a smothering and unforgivable crusade by the U.S. Internal Revenue Service. Louis’ post-boxing life would carry him through demeaning stretches as a professional wrestler, a “greeter” role at a casino in Las Vegas, drug addiction, bouts of paranoia, and hospitalization; he passed away in 1981. His final record, 66-3-0, included 52 knockouts, with 23 coming, stunningly, in title fights alone. Ali, for his part, received the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2005, and is currently 70 years old and prosperous. Oftentimes, when I think of Ali, I think of a split-decision loss, actually, in his first matchup with Ken Norton, who cracked Ali’s jaw at some point during the bout. Ali’s trainer, Angelo Dundee, claimed that Norton fractured it in the second round, suggesting that Ali fought at least 10 rounds with a broken jaw, nearly winning. That kind of storied grit circulates but in rare instances. Ali would finish his career at 56-5-0, with 37 wins by K.O. Still, for my money, the most important of the two fighters is Joe Louis. Long before Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in baseball, Joe Louis dropped Schmeling, the ‘infallible specimen’ of the Aryan race, a result that would break the color barrier in national pride. 

DIAL S FOR STOUT.

This Be Averse!

You can't just dial "S" recklessly. If you do, you might wind up connected to the laissez faire rapper K Sirrah Sirrah & his album Straight Outta Compost. Drop the Que and you've got Sera Sera, an assassin a-sassin' your serum, or some other form of congenial defect. It's all equally worse. So much so, we're now, hereby, a Mistopia, replete with a Miss Utopia contest. When asked about how she would rescue the High Fructose Corn Syrup lobby, one contestant replied: "THNICKITH!" The reply drew Snickers from the audience, all card-carrying Mistopians. If your cousin, Tony Lemons, will sell me a used car, then will your other cousin, Two-Tony Lemons, do the paint job? Ray Milland dialed "M" for Murder but Grace Kelly ended up giving his hired strangler the Scissors, the "S", instead, murdering him, do you see? As if Ray Milland dialed S & M! Some men out there prefer to rob the cradle while some men out there prefer to rob the grave. All these men have attended UKFC, the University of Kentucky-Fried Chicken, where PBR was their go-to brew, Brah. There is a jellybean in the air // There is a jellybean in the brassiere. Too many simulations, these days, involve slapping sounds.