Category Archives: Featured Articles

The Changing Narrative of A Loathed, Loved, and Enabled Steve Sarkisian

sarkA disease. A medical condition. A weakness. A flaw. An addiction.

Alcoholism is labeled in a number of different ways, which might be why it’s so hard for us to determine how we feel about it. It makes us sad, confused, angry, frustrated, hurt. Sometimes, amidst the laughter and jubilation of the atmosphere in which it is cultivated, we don’t even know we’re staring an alcohol problem straight in the eye. So as it cooks and bubbles and rises to the surface like hot magma inside a rumbling volcano, we pretend it’s not even there, that it’s not a thing.

We joke about it, we chuckle at every one of our friends we deem a borderline alcoholic, and we keep the party going until that climactic moment when we simply cannot rage any longer. And then, suddenly, it’s not fun anymore.

This is where we find Steve Sarkisian.

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A Letter to a Friend


Hi Baba,

I can hardly believe it, but a year has already passed since you left us. I’m fairly convinced that, as we grow up, time does in fact move faster than it used to. I must be getting old.

There’s a fair amount of stuff that has happened since you’ve been gone. I figured you might want to hear about some of it, just in case you’ve been partying and getting crunk (that means “having tons of fun”) up there. I imagine every day is filled with scratch-offs that only reveal winners and puzzles with no missing pieces and I don’t blame you for indulging in the finer things.

Anyway, let me give you the bad news first.

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Sweet Potato Fridays

10366149_10103019981005758_1375243646822493341_nEvery Friday, we ate lunch together. My grandma was a fickle eater, but there were always certain things she’d pick at no matter what. Crispy breaded pieces of chicken, potstickers, milkshakes, sweet potato fries. She loved sweet potato fries more than almost everything else, a food she’d only discovered about a year ago. It was the one item she would specifically request. Everything else could come and go, but she always made time for sweet potato fries. These weren’t the healthiest foods in the world, of course, but they were necessary. At 90 years of age, my grandma needed to keep her weight up and any one of these menu selections would do the trick.

We talked about a number of things, her and I, but she liked to discuss the Seattle Mariners most of all. No one (outside of, perhaps, my other grandmother) was as loyal to the Mariners as my grandma, who watched every game on a giant flat-screen TV my parents purchased for her a few Christmases ago. Her day revolved around first pitch, while her bedtime often coincided with the game’s final out. If you asked her when the television broadcast was set to begin, she’d give you a time exactly thirty minutes before its actual commencement, a habit borne out of diligently watching the pregame show.

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Everything Wrong With “D3: The Mighty Ducks”

Dthree_the_mighty_ducksIn 1992, Disney released its very first hockey-themed film, The Mighty Ducks. Though they didn’t know it at the time, the studio’s $10 million project would become a hit, grossing over $50 million in box office revenue in the fall of that year. For kids of the ’90s, Mighty Ducks emerged as a seminal favorite, a timeless classic, however cheesy, that an entire generation would gravitate towards well into adulthood.

Beyond striking a chord with its target audience, the movie had a lasting impact in other ways, as well. It rejuvenated the career of its star, Emilio Estevez; made a star out of one of its young supporting actors, Joshua Jackson; and even inspired an NHL franchise of the same nickname. The success of The Mighty Ducks prompted Disney to release a pair of sequels over the course of the next four years, unveiling D2: The Mighty Ducks and D3: The Mighty Ducks (really creative names, guys) in 1994 and 1996, respectively.

While D2 capitalized on the triumph of its prequel ($45 million box office gross), D3 was not nearly as fortunate, resulting in just $23 million in box office sales for the studio that birthed Mickey Mouse. Besides overloading the market with Duck fever in such a short amount of time, Disney appeared to cobble together D3 hastily, producing a film that elicited the same clichés and predictable outcomes as its predecessors.

Along the way, D3 acknowledged that its audience, just like its young actors, was quickly growing into adolescence. This inspired (or forced) writers to present a whole new set of non-hockey issues for viewers to try and relate to. Luis looking up cheerleaders’ skirts! Charlie falling in love with someone other than his coach, his mom, or the old guys from the skate shop! A political uprising over an offensive team nickname! It all became a bit much to cram into one whimsical sports picture, and yet cram those writers did.

As a result of Disney’s efforts to squeeze every last ounce of Ducks hype out of its surprising franchise, D3 floundered as the worst installment of the entire trilogy. Some might even argue that it emerged as one of the worst sports movies ever, but the third installment of the Major League series would beg to differ.

After a recent viewing of D3, I took some time to outline everything wrong with the film from start to finish. Adult Me is not nearly as impressionable as Kid Me, you see, and in looking back at a movie I knew was trash even at age 12, I’ve only become more incensed by such a disastrous conclusion to an otherwise great sequence of motion pictures.

Beware: The following list contains numerous spoilers. If you haven’t seen D3 and feel compelled to watch it, it’s currently available for instant viewing on Netflix.

1. The most plausible story line in the entire movie involves Gordon Bombay becoming a high-ranking director of personnel for the Junior Goodwill Games.

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Donald Sterling, Michael Sam, and the Evolution of Society

michael_samI was nine years old the first time I ever realized how truly moronic people could be. The epiphany struck at recess on a sunny spring morning when one of my classmates approached and proceeded to make fun of me for being Asian.

I’d known this girl for a few years and was well aware that she was a devastating combination of annoying, unattractive, and dumb. I didn’t quite have a singular term for what I wanted to call her back then, but in retrospect the word “bitch” would have probably sufficed. So as I stood there watching this bitch use her hands to pull back her eyes and elicit “ching-chang-chong” sounds, I contemplated the utter stupidity of this occurrence to which I was paying witness.

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An Ode to the Emasculated

8777fb02b809e7b4_74583673.xxlargeI’ve seen you before. Once upon a time, in a previous life, I was that guy working a middling retail job on the weekends. I was the 21-year-old in a suit standing with my hands clasped at the waist pretending to give a shit about the seasonal sale going on around me, when in reality all I wanted was to be at a football game with my friends. I was that guy who stared you down and silently searched for any semblance of life, any hint of vigor, all while wordlessly pleading with you to GET OUT NOW.

I would have killed to be in your shoes back then. Weekends to myself, the freedom to do whatever I pleased, the ability to park my ass on a couch for eight straight hours and watch grown men beat the living piss out of each other, one quarter at a time. I wanted your life. Until I saw your face. Until I looked in your eyes.

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The Fantasy Life


You will spend your Monday reading about the Sunday performances of real-life NFL teams, led by real-life NFL players, coached by real-life NFL coaches. You will consume and digest information about coverage schemes, reads, options, read-options, all of it. You will nod and you will agree with what you’ve taken in, not knowing what it all truly means. And then you will head on over to ESPN or Yahoo or or CBS, log in, and check your fantasy team for the seventy-fifth time in the past three days.

This is reality. There was once a time many years ago when fantasy football was the sports equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons, a guilty pleasure that bordered on hidden obsession, the counterpart to viewing porn for hours on end. You played it, sure. But you didn’t talk about it with anyone you knew. Your leagues were limited to random counterparts across the broad spectrum of the world wide web or your very closest friends, no one else. And god forbid you got caught checking your team. Checking your team on any day, at any hour, differed in no way from adjusting your testicles in public. It looked all sorts of weird, awkward, and offensive, simultaneously. So silently, you played.

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