Make Nike, not War

In the words of TEAM USA TRACK Olympic coach, Bill Bowerman, "there is more honor in outrunning a man than in killing him." He delivered this statement to his team (which Steve Prefontaine, pictured in the commercial, was a part of) upon the killing of Jewish athletes during the Munich Summer Olympics. He urged his runners not to think their events frivolous in the face of such hateful violence, but to approach them with a renewed vigour and sense of purpose. In the same spirit in the uniting, human nature of sport Nike has employed pathos to connect with the human side of athletics.

Trying to sell all of their products, Nike has shown clips from nearly every sport imaginable, from Michael Jordan's basketball highlights, to Olympic hurdling. The song chosen is, "All These Things that I've Done," by The Killers. The energized track emphasizes the qualities admired in a soldier, specifically courage is emphasized, but the athletes are shown to be courageous in their nonviolence. Athletics is shown to be a uniting force to humanity across all cultures in its pain, displayed by Lance Armstrong lying in the hospital alongside gored bullfighters, and its glory. Sport is made to be a celebration of life and what makes us all people is that desire to hunt, to conquer, and to achieve without the bloodshed made in war. The montage of animal imagery reminds us of ancient times when finding dinner often meant running it into the ground. Many sub-four minute milers claim to experience the same type of exhilaration as flying through the jungle, chasing prey. Lifes a game so don't just sit there! Get up and go do it, and don't forget to buy NIKE!

The Road I call Home

Feet pound down on the road
Soes fly up through dirt
Toes dig into sharp gravel
Spikes taste the sting of battle through grass
My shoes have traveled the world for miles
Always leading to the road I call home

I sprint down, banking left to home
Feet flaking off bits of dirt
My other hands have taken me miles
Through the frost-bitten grass
Kicking, spraying bits of gravel
Hearing the mad crash of my feet on road

Pain blurs the road
The digs and cuts blood drawn from gravel
Sweating body caked with dirt
Faces bleed together after miles
Longing to see the open arms of home
Like paint, I mark the grass.

In forest, carve way through grass
Passion needs no road
No crackle of Puma shoes on gravel
Just the animal's paws on soft dirt
The trickle of waterfalls bringing man home
No cars screeching by for miles

Five-fifty per pace, I count the miles
Ten miles to the hour, almost home
Breakneck speeds reached down asphalt road
No inertia lost over loose, cheap gravel
No records broken in slippery, tall grass
No speed can be found in this dirt

Only nature is found in this dirt
The Run is Church with the grass
Communion with the open road
Hymns drag on for miles and miles
With altars of leaves and carpets of gravel
Always leading to the road I call home.

Like Johnny and June

Staring high luminous moon,
Something blue, she always wears blue
Hit with voodoo, she stands under the dark lights
Heartbeat scurries in constant motion
Beat in beat out, lock and load, reload
Scared outta my mind
"She thinks I'm only a runner!"
"Is this real?"
"Is this taxi really taking us to the cafe?"
Was the boquet enough
One dozen red velvet roses...
Oh God she looks great in blue
She looks great in anything
Please be my wild thing
Love her, know it, don't feel wrong
I'm so stupid she can't feel this strong!
What if I never see her again...?

Oh God I hope he likes blue
I heard he likes black
The ferrari black suit and tie proves it
Hugo Boss I think
Johnny Cash, June Carter
The black and the blue,
modern day Romeo and Juliet
What if he isn't this serious?
Just two people passing in motion
What if this isn't some book
With ten kids and sterling silver rose
Ready for the couple at happy end?
I'm so stupid. he can't think I'm pretty
"He thinks I'm only a brain!"
What if I never see him again...?

Please God let her like the roses
Please God let him like blue

Please God let her love me
Please God let him love me

Port Richmond Block Party

Maculate - adj - stained or spotted
Malaprop - N - The nonsensical misuse of a word.
Malapert - adj - unbecomingly bold or saucy.
Dulcet - adj - Pleasant to the ear.
Dunderhead - N - A dunce.
Hootenanny - N - A community's social gathering.
Nexus - N - A means of connection.
Plebian - adj - Of the common people.
Raconteur - N - A person skilled in speech.
Stultify - V - Making to appear foolish or ineffectual.

Port Richmond Block Party

Bibs and shirts lay maticulated with Italian meat sauce
Spaghetti entwined thickly across the plate.
The Polacks hold a hootenanny across the street.
The dulcet sounds of the polka seeps through the asphalt slate.
The old Irish raconteurs tell of VE day with glee.
Talk of bouncing dunderhead Germans
Abounds with every "last" glass of whisky

Crass malapert accents fill the air.
Their words begin to slur and fill with malaprop
This neighborhood nexus has seen no shift
The plebians haven't lost their style.
The blue bloods and suburb kids
See our drunken songs and lazy fights

The acts stultify our lot in life.
It's VE day all over again
Bath Streets gonna howl all night.

Dropkick: Urban Folk

It all started with a group of buddies trying to have some fun. In a friend's downtown Boston barbershop basement during the summer of 1996, the group of seven tried to blend the genres of music the guys had grown up with, including, punk rock, Irish folk, and classic rock. With Al Barr on lead vocals, Ken Casey with lead vocals and bass, Matt Kelly takes the drums, bodhran, and vocals, James Lynch holds down the guitar, Tim Brennanguitar as the accordion, Jeff DaRosamondolin on the banjo, bouzouki, whistle, acoustic guitar, keyboard, and vocals, and finally Scruffy Wallace makes the bagpipes a constant reminder of Dropkick Murphy's celtic roots.

Dropkick Murhpys, more commonly known as Dropkick, can best be described as the folksy Bruce Springsteen... if Brucie toted around a set of bagpipes, sang with a scrappy Southie Boston accent, and could wail on an electric guitar like something out of a Velvet Revolver concert. Many of their songs are simply ancient Irish barsongs with an electric guitar thrown in, such as the timeless classic, "Captain Kelley's Kitchen," which includes the opening line, "Come single guy and gal, unto me pay attention, don't ever fall in love, it's the devil's own invention."

The boys cite the Irish punks, Flogging Molly as their main inspiration. Flogging Molly's songs consist of ancient gaelic traditions, mixed with modern European punk. Dropkick can be seen as an Americanization of Molly's own hybrid genre. The Boys from Boston are really just out there to get the audience to sing along, and generally have a good time. Dropkick sees the band and the audience as one in the same. In addition to bringing some more fun to the world the group hopes to share their experiences and beliefs in working class solidarity, friendship, loyalty and self-improvement as a means to bettering society. The guys are very careful not to be too preachy as they state, "You can preach till you’re blue in the face but if you’re lying inthe gutter no one’s gonna listen. If you pick yourself up by the bootstraps and live your life to the best of your ability you may set an example that others will follow."

The blue collar boys with their working class roots definitley bring energy into the room with every howling, off-key chorus. Their blue-collar message also permeates through every story of youthful fist-fights in the streets as, "The nuns and priests they grabbed their rosaries as they pulled our bodies apart. That day at school you may have lost the fight but you gained my respect. You fight with so much heart." and working-class family dynamics with, "Daddy lay drunk on the lawn, yelling and screamin' like he do, but sometimes my old man he spoke with his feelings, sometimes my old Mr. MacKay he spoke the truth." Work hard and scream your lungs out every time you get a chance to have some fun.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=s51Vn4tjS0U

The Dirty Good (A Willie Stark Monologue)

The Crusades, the Inquisition, the Salem Witch Trials;
All evil deeds done in the name of good.
As a lay dying, their story and my own are one.

I began the stupid country bumpkin.
I got nothing done for nobody,
but I made it big alright.
All those high-class sons of bitches are licking my boots now.
They'll start making a line soon enough.
I was the Boss.

I swear I stepped on as few toes as possible.
Those girls were just accidents.
I didn't blackmail anyone who didn't deserve it.
Who says the judge shouldn't have payed for his own sins.
The lead in my chest says everyones gotta pay sometime.
It coulda all been different for him too after all.

A mother raises the children.
My boy is a good boy, but he needs a mother.
Lucy shoulda tempered him.
Shoulda said when I was doin wrong.
They didn't understand what the evil was for.

I got the doctor with me.
He's a piece of good.
If someone that high on his horse follows
There's gotta be good in my work.
They can't see.
It's all part of the plan.

And Sadie... Gawd almight Sadie learn how the game is played.

The girl couldn't keep her damned head on straight.

The girl couldn't see I was married for God's sakes.

The girl couldn't see how little she mattered.

Sugar Boy and Duffy... animals.

Animals on my leash.

While they're just a bunch of dogs,

Even animals have their uses.

Sugar is just a human gun,

and Tiny is a lil' lapdog.

But Jack... oh God I'm sorry Jack

He's the one I wish I coulda saved from all this.

Jack's a good boy.

Jack shouldn't be in this mess.

It shoulda all been different with Jack.

Found Poem

He sits back and looks in that easy sizing up way,
The pale-blue, cool-crisp linen dress approaches
His eyes begin bulging, stare grappling, trying to look away
She continues, the good, clean, well-washed, good-little-girl ready for a party
The neon sign pulsates rapidly with the beating of his heart
The skirt flutters sprightly on the tennis court
Before he hadn't wanted anything, but the hum of the motor, and the lull of the truck.
She traveled to the land of the flat-footed, billious, frog-sticker-toting Baptist biscuit eaters.
He'd roar down the long, bone-white road, straight as string and smooth as glass.
Before he hadn't wanted anything

Your will, wearing a pale-blue, cool-crisp linen dress, is my strength.