Welcome to the Real World

18 years ago mtv launched a novel idea. put 7 complete strangers in a pimped-out super house, give them a completely unattainable job, and see what happens. the drama, hilarity, and utter ridiculousness makes for great tv. er, made for great tv.

the first couple of seasons were fun. the people were "real," though their surroundings and circumstances were not. it was most certainly entertaining, at the very least, to live a rock star, silver spoon lifestyle vicariously. but, like all good things, too much is bad for you.

over the years, mtv recruited increasingly less sophisticated individuals. sure, you can argue that the backwoods kentuckian (i think that's what they're called. we simply called them hillbillies in ohio) from season 2 - los angeles was anything but a sophisticate, but i'd counter with the notion that he was a good guy that simply led a sheltered life somewhere in the bluegrass state. his intentions, as i see them, of being on the show were merely for the experience of it all--to meet new people, see new places, and learn from the whole thing. he was a respectable and respectful person, and for the intents and purposes of my point, he was a sophisticate.

fast forward to season 8 - hawaii. it is immediately evident, given teck's and ruthie's nude romp in the pool in the first moments of the premiere, that mtv wanted slightly less "nice" people, and substantially more edge. as therapists would warn, this is the proverbial slippery slope.

in the ensuing seasons, mtv has systematically ruined 9 cities by transforming its once novel experiment into a launching pad for instant celebrity (no water needed). now, they have decended upon my fair mile high city.

every city has its "it" place. you know, the hot spot where all the beautiful people come to drink insanely overpriced drinks for the privilege to hang out in the trendy bars and clubs; to see and be seen. detroit has royal oak, chicago has lincoln park, new york has the village, and la, well, all of la is like that from what i can gather. some of us despise the type of people that infest these areas. some of us actually are these people. regardless, it is common belief and concensus that these areas have enough of the stereotypical chads and trixies to survive a long, long time. so, why, mtv, why the overkill with adding more of "that'" type of person, especially when they're transplanted and likely to draw the ire of the locals, rather than going back to your roots and casting "real" people with good intentions that accentuate the personalities of the cities you've invaded?

though the added drama and hijinx these 20-something actors/waiters/jocks/drunks bring to the areas they infest (witness the dude from the san diego show getting his face crushed in a street fight 'cause the simpleton couldn't keep his drunken mouth shut) is often infuriating, i've come to realize that it's the lack of credit the show gives to the hosting town that really pisses me off.

i've never been to new orleans, honolulu, or even la (thank god for small favors), but i'm fairly certain there must be more to these places than just the bars. ok, maybe not la, but new orleans had (pre-katrina) much more to offer than rue bourbon...from what i'm told. hawaii has a fascinating ancient culture and, as importantly, a prominent place in american history (something about pearl harbor being bombed or something comes immediately to mind). god forbid mtv actually illustrate some real culture, or worse, show its subjects interacting with that culture rather than the club one.

as surely as i can paint with a broad brush the archetypes of the "real world" characters (the token gay guy, the token black guy, the hillbilly with an abusive father, the skater kid that drinks too much, the innocent virgin from an elite east coast family, the normal college kid that left his girlfriend behind to tape the show, and the 19 year-old pouty pants that whines and broods over every decision made), mtv has similarly painted each town it visits with the same strokes. new orleans is rue bourbon and nothing more. chicago has little more to offer than (my beloved) the cubs and rush street, and seattle only contributes coffee and grunge rock to society.

thankfully, denver isn't really known for much aside from its altitude, the mountains, and the fine, fine looking people that have moved here. as expected, friends and i have spotted the real worlders trapsing about LoDo (lower downtown for those of you outside 5280) followed by camera crews. i'm certain now that upon airing, those that don't live here will know little more about denver than its thin air and the abundant microbrews. i guess reality is perception, and this is the real world.

The Babe Didn't Wear Pink

it is called our national pastime. a game played in hallowed stadium, in timeless uniforms. it has long represented the pysche and persona of america. a game invented by americans (allegedly), for americans (but only 50%, the other half are latinos). and as of the last 15 years, it's a game played by steroid-riddled, egomaniacal, multi-millionaire asshats. this is baseball.

for all the scandal of steroids, the storylines of barry bonds' chase of babe ruth and hank aaron, broken curses (and those that continue....thanks cubs. you suck), baseball has finally done something worthy and right--though it will hardly get the media attention it deserves.

sunday, may 14th is mother's day. according to MLB, it's also the opportune time to help raise awareness and money for the susan g. komen breast cancer foundation. as a lifelong baseball fan and a newly initiated member of the society of people that donate things, this is a very proud moment for me. however, it's not mlb i'm proud of, it's the very same "me" guys that play the game that are allowing this to happen.

starting sunday, some of the biggest names and brightest stars of the game such as david ortiz, jim edmonds, derek jeter, and adam dunn among others, will be sporting pink wristbands and swinging pink bats for a week. home plate and each of the bases will be emblazoned with a pink ribbon emblem and all items will be auctioned off at week's end, with all the proceeds donated to the foundation.

for all the negative attention the game and its players have gotten in recent years and for all the ways the selfishness and egos of these overpaid athletes manifests itself (e.g. steroids, contract disputes, union grievances, throwing bats at umpires...i could go on), it takes a humble man, a big man to stand in front of 40,000 people--often on national television--sporting a pink bat and a near-pink uniform.

the sport's greatest symbol, its icon, babe ruth, was many things: a womanizer, a drunk, a smoker, an adulterer. he was, and to many still is, the greatest player to ever live. baseball is a game whose players are defined by their statistics and no one was more statistically dominant than babe ruth. but for all his accomplishments--the world series titles, 714 home runs, most walks and strikeouts in history, and single-handedly bringing misery to the boston red sox for nearly a century-- the larger-than-life babe ruth never wore pink.


if you'd like to make a donation this mother's day to the susan g. komen breast cancer foundation, visit www.komen.org

or, if you prefer to donate to another worthy cause, the denver heart walk sponsored by the american heart association (of which i am a proud participant), please click the link below to visit my personal donation page.

https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=122700&lis=1&kntae122700=7866AEE7097F4D6AA068B9FB0C131A47&supId=129111124

Heartwalk Fundraising Begins

to part with the normal theme of my posts, i write today to inform all readers (and by all, i mean exactly 3) that i have officially registered a team today to participate in the denver heartwalk 2006, put on by the american heart association (www.americanheart.org). the event is scheduled for saturday, june 3 at 8:30 am. for many of you, participation isn't likely, as you're not colorado residents (but hey, if you want to come out for a visit....). however, if you'd like to support the cause in absentia, feel free to follow the link below to make a donation on behalf of my team. any amount is helpful and greatly appreciated.

i'm ordinarily not much one for charity or philanthropic efforts, and in this case my motives are purely selfish. i have a personal vested interest in helping fund the education, prevention and treatment of heart disease so that others won't endure what i went through (december 22, 2005). i hope my friends, family and anyone else reading this can empathize and will support this worthy cause.

happy heart, happy life.

http://heartwalk.kintera.org/faf/home/default.asp?ievent=122700&lis=1&kntae122700=6AF3DBE6742A48D680690A05837FE2E4&login=o

(click on sponsor participant, search participant name: scott stransky. the rest is intuitive)>

Could ya sleep?

saturday was a boring day. the baseball games were shitty, the weather was ok at best, and my pecs and abs were absolutely on fire from the previous night's and that day's workouts. so, by night time i'd had enough and called up some friends to go out. these people are ordinarily the club scene kids, longing to shake their asses on crowded dance floors, to shitty music, with watered-down drinks. saturday night, however, was "dive night."

i ventured over to meet the crew at kazmos (yes, the bar is about as retarded as the name), and after 15 long minutes, we bolted. place was dead and too much of a dive for even the most ardent dive-bar goers. we mosied (is that seriously a word?) over to hoffbrau, a little less dive-y place around the block. the music was okay, there were actually people in there, and the beer specials were utterly ridiculous.

roger (10-4 good buddy) and jess made their way to the pool table, where they met johnny, a 50-something greased up guido (package included black leather jacket, tight black t-shirt, gaudy silver cross pendant, and of course, paulie walnuts-like slicked-back greasy hair). johnny seemed friendly enough at first, in an irritating type of way. thankfully, i had some friends sitting in a bo0th, so i was able to split my time between playing pool next to johnny and drinking disgusting (but well priced) beer with some friends across the room.

the 2 friends in the booth (we'll call them jordo and wilson to protect their anonymity) slipped out and presumably hit the strip club. roger was so completely tanked by the time he arrived at the bar that i'm amazed he could stand up straight enough to play pool. jess walked him home just before he passed out. that left greg and me......and johhny.

greg and i took over the booth and the 2 pitchers of (free) beer left behind by our compatriots. the waitress, anne (a cutie little asian) joined us since the traffic was slow. johnny saw me, came over, and against all prayers, sat down right. next. to. me. i played nice, hoping he'd not say a word and just go somewhere else and bother other people--preferably the ginormous mountain of a man at the table across the aisle (with the fine little blondie). my wishes were not granted and johnny began to talk.

it is a widely known fact (i use the terms "widely" and "known" very liberally) that the usual suspects is one of my all time favorite films. and why not? what, with its twisty plot lines, amaaaaaazing acting (thank god for kevin spacey) and the dreamboat that is gabriel byrne, how could anyone not love this movie? anyway, it's one thing to love a movie. it's completely another to meet a character--especially one as, um, "odd" as benicio del toro's fred fenster. johnny, i'm convinced, was fenster.

after reminding us (literally) 32 times that he's 44 years old, and complimenting me for being "good people" (maybe it was paulie's cousin?), things turned a bit more, how shall i say, scary. looking straight at greg, johnny asked repeatedly, "if you killed a man, could ya sleep at night? could ya sleep? could ya sleep?" with johnny mere inches from his face, greg let out a wimpering "uhhhh, no. i don't think so." johnny continued to profess that if the money is right, he'd kill. but only for his brother. and only, gulp, for me. i thought surely he was joking. but after comparing me to john belushi (seriously, i couldn't even make that up), his attention turned back to killing people without remorse. i think i may have even heard him use the term "shank."

at any rate, i was at this point scared shitless. now, back in college i used to be a pretty good drinker. so when greg gave me the "chug whatever's left so we have an excuse to get you out from the booth and leave" look, i harkened back to my swilling days. we downed a full pitcher in mere seconds, told johnny guido we needed another drink from the bar, and sprinted out the front door and into oncoming traffic. it was the safest i'd felt all night. fugetaboudit.