To those who've logged onto "The Ocho Cinco Show," my position obligates me to render swift and merciless judgment:
You guys are even bigger losers than your boy, Ocho.
Worse still, I'm forced to include myself among your ranks. Acting on a tip from Alex Marvez, our football maven, that Ocho was revealing privileged information belonging to the Cincinnati Bengals football club, I clicked on the former Chad Johnson's production on Ustream. I learned that Ocho has Lil' Wayne's number on his phone, that he vowed to keep tweeting through training camp and that he plans to begin his boxing career after the season in Miami.
I was forced to watch as he asked Bengals rookie Rey Maualuga what girl he would not break up with, even if she had cheated on him.
The length and depth of Maualuga's excruciating struggle for an answer might tell you something about the value of a USC education. But it was also enough to remind your correspondent of his many limitations.
At this point in my career, there are some humiliations I should no longer tolerate. Listening to "The Ocho Cinco Show" is among them. Still, these chump ballplayers who think they're fabulous and interesting — who believe their personal minutiae has actual merit — despite never having won a thing, point to a larger problem.
Back in the '90s — "the olden days" as my daughter refers to them — the standard for pathological narcissism among ballplayers was set by Dennis Rodman. In May 1997, he dressed in drag, got on a Harley and led a procession down Chicago's Michigan Avenue. I considered it a watershed event, a new high-water mark for shamelessness in self-promotion, and a sign that there were no more taboos left in sports.
But now, looking back, I long for the good old days of Rodman. First of all, unlike this generation of tweeters and streamers (those for whom tweeting just isn't enough), he actually put some time and energy into his hustle. It had a specific mercantile purpose, to wit: selling his calculatedly salacious autobiography. More important, at some level, he had earned the right. He was then a month away from his fifth championship.
Ocho has, what? My point exactly. Here's a guy already on the downside of his career, and coming off his worst season. A couple of weeks ago, he was talking about the pep talk he got from Denzel Washington, how it renewed his sense of purpose. Great. The guy needs an actor to tell him how to act? Then again, the former Chad Johnson only knows how to play one role, Ocho, a four-letter word for loser.
"I'm just trying to show these people a side of me they don't get to see," said Johnson, about half an hour into Saturday's video.
It's good to know that, even after all these years, someone still finds him endlessly fascinating. Does this speak to the perils of growing up a star athlete? Or the spiritual poverty of those logging on?
For those who seek more profoundly depressing entertainment, there's Stephon Marbury, who's taken to posting the latest episodes in his long-running psychiatric breakdown.
Marbury should've been the best point guard ever to come out of New York. Instead, he's on Ustream, getting into automobile accidents, weeping uncontrollably, cheerfully swallowing gobs of Vaseline and, according to accounts and transcripts in the blogosphere, speaking of abuse he allegedly endured as a child.
Ocho, by contrast, is still sane, and therefore, culpable. Finally, in the 36th minute of his most recent video masterpiece, as he's cueing up a practice tape, he receives a visitor. It's a Bengals assistant.
"You're not tweeting, are you?" the coach asks.
"No," says Ocho, who waits for the assistant to be gone before addressing his legions of fans through the camera.
"Bed check," he smirks. "Like we five years old."
Then, after an eternity spent adjusting the monitor's contrast, he turns his attention back to the practice tapes. At the beginning of another training camp, he's taken the liberty of showing the Bengals' one-on-one receiver drills. Just another side of the multi-faceted Ocho.
Fascinating stuff.
This being football, there are those who will accuse him of revealing state secrets. "Why would I get in trouble for showing how we work?" he asks. "How dumb does that sound?"
Truth is, the streaming won't change the outcome of any games. Ocho isn't really hurting anybody — but himself. He's a loser.
Where have you gone, Dennis Rodman?
You guys are even bigger losers than your boy, Ocho.
Worse still, I'm forced to include myself among your ranks. Acting on a tip from Alex Marvez, our football maven, that Ocho was revealing privileged information belonging to the Cincinnati Bengals football club, I clicked on the former Chad Johnson's production on Ustream. I learned that Ocho has Lil' Wayne's number on his phone, that he vowed to keep tweeting through training camp and that he plans to begin his boxing career after the season in Miami.
I was forced to watch as he asked Bengals rookie Rey Maualuga what girl he would not break up with, even if she had cheated on him.
The length and depth of Maualuga's excruciating struggle for an answer might tell you something about the value of a USC education. But it was also enough to remind your correspondent of his many limitations.
At this point in my career, there are some humiliations I should no longer tolerate. Listening to "The Ocho Cinco Show" is among them. Still, these chump ballplayers who think they're fabulous and interesting — who believe their personal minutiae has actual merit — despite never having won a thing, point to a larger problem.
Back in the '90s — "the olden days" as my daughter refers to them — the standard for pathological narcissism among ballplayers was set by Dennis Rodman. In May 1997, he dressed in drag, got on a Harley and led a procession down Chicago's Michigan Avenue. I considered it a watershed event, a new high-water mark for shamelessness in self-promotion, and a sign that there were no more taboos left in sports.
But now, looking back, I long for the good old days of Rodman. First of all, unlike this generation of tweeters and streamers (those for whom tweeting just isn't enough), he actually put some time and energy into his hustle. It had a specific mercantile purpose, to wit: selling his calculatedly salacious autobiography. More important, at some level, he had earned the right. He was then a month away from his fifth championship.
Ocho has, what? My point exactly. Here's a guy already on the downside of his career, and coming off his worst season. A couple of weeks ago, he was talking about the pep talk he got from Denzel Washington, how it renewed his sense of purpose. Great. The guy needs an actor to tell him how to act? Then again, the former Chad Johnson only knows how to play one role, Ocho, a four-letter word for loser.
"I'm just trying to show these people a side of me they don't get to see," said Johnson, about half an hour into Saturday's video.
It's good to know that, even after all these years, someone still finds him endlessly fascinating. Does this speak to the perils of growing up a star athlete? Or the spiritual poverty of those logging on?
For those who seek more profoundly depressing entertainment, there's Stephon Marbury, who's taken to posting the latest episodes in his long-running psychiatric breakdown.
Marbury should've been the best point guard ever to come out of New York. Instead, he's on Ustream, getting into automobile accidents, weeping uncontrollably, cheerfully swallowing gobs of Vaseline and, according to accounts and transcripts in the blogosphere, speaking of abuse he allegedly endured as a child.
Ocho, by contrast, is still sane, and therefore, culpable. Finally, in the 36th minute of his most recent video masterpiece, as he's cueing up a practice tape, he receives a visitor. It's a Bengals assistant.
"You're not tweeting, are you?" the coach asks.
"No," says Ocho, who waits for the assistant to be gone before addressing his legions of fans through the camera.
"Bed check," he smirks. "Like we five years old."
Then, after an eternity spent adjusting the monitor's contrast, he turns his attention back to the practice tapes. At the beginning of another training camp, he's taken the liberty of showing the Bengals' one-on-one receiver drills. Just another side of the multi-faceted Ocho.
Fascinating stuff.
This being football, there are those who will accuse him of revealing state secrets. "Why would I get in trouble for showing how we work?" he asks. "How dumb does that sound?"
Truth is, the streaming won't change the outcome of any games. Ocho isn't really hurting anybody — but himself. He's a loser.
Where have you gone, Dennis Rodman?
