Backwards From 30

We're All Chuck Brown's People

2011-08-31T17:16:00.000-07:00

Image via ITDC.com

There are two types of people whose lives take place in Washington, DC: those who measure time in generations and those who mark it using elections. The folks who ride into town via the popular vote bring with them everything they ever loved about their home districts. The folks who were born in the District have only a few things to call their own: the Redskins (cringe), mumbo sauce, that DC slang (bamma), New Balance sneakers and Go Go music.

Last week, after a potent combination of natural disasters worked the psyches of the people whose lives take place in our nation's capital, the folks who are from DC checked their wounds then crammed into the 9:30 Club to celebrate Chuck Brown's birthday.

It's okay if you don't know who Chuck Brown is. He achieved modest success with this song. He recently earned a Grammy nomination for pairing with Jill Scott on this one. He is, more importantly, the Godfather of Go Go Music. This point is not disputed. It is only celebrated. And it is only celebrated by folks who are from DC.

Go Go doesn't travel. The public radio station in Seattle doesn't allocate a 120-minute Sunday night block to it. JAM'N 94.5 in Boston doesn't carve out lunch hours to give listeners a taste. People of a certain age will remember "Da Butt." People of a different age will remember "Let Me Clear My Throat." Apart from that, Go Go doesn't really exist. Except for in that sweet oasis that still can't get a seat in Congress.

Chuck Brown made Go Go up out of funk and jazz and whatever else he could find more than 30 years ago. And he gave it to the people from DC. There isn't any explanation that will help an outsider understand it. In addition to drums, guitars and keys, there are conga drums, horns and as much cowbell as you can stand. The instruments combine to create multiple layers of percussion that can make a song lazier or more frenetic. It can be polyrhythmic in a way that is utterly confusing. It can also free anyone--even the stiffest, saltiest cracker--to let their hips sway. It's Go Go. It's much better as a felt experience.

Image via The Meta Picture

As August drew to a close, the DC air smelled unsettled and eager. Congress had solved that whole Debt Ceiling problem, but hadn't really made any progress on the Debt. No one was happy. No one felt as if there were a choice. Thousands of plastic chairs sprouted from the grounds of the National Mall in preparation for the grand unveiling of the MLK Memorial. Proud Americans wearing church clothes marched into town to sneak a peek and scout a spot from which to watch President Obama commemorate the perfect moment that consumed those grounds 48 years ago. Summer was ending. And no one knew for certain what was about to begin.

Hurricanes rarely blow through the District of Columbia. Earthquakes are even more foreign. The city endured one of each in less time than it took the good Lord to do all that creating. Buildings shook. Some cracked. Trees went down. Power went out. A few cars were smashed. And a number of basements were flooded. Residents whose home states are Florida and California, respectively, shrugged them off. In comparison to what is normal elsewhere, the disasters that struck DC last week were hardly disastrous.

By Sunday morning, the wrath had passed. Neighbors spilled into the streets and were greeted by sunshine. It was a pretty day to clean up leaves and broken branches. If you were so fortunate. If you found yourself wrestling with insurance companies over who would pay to replace your car after the neighbor's decaying tree flattened it...well...the disasters were indeed disastrous.

The earliest casualty attributed to the hurricane was the MLK Memorial unveiling. It had been cancelled two days after the earthquake and two days before the hurricane. It didn't deter folks from making their pilgrimages, but it did postpone what was to have been a bright, shining moment for the President. And it made thousands of bootleg t-shirts emblazoned with "August 28" oddly irrelevant. As if that date could ever lack meaning.

Dr. King delivered the "I Have a Dream" speech on Chuck Brown's 27th birthday. Chuck was originally scheduled to wind some folks up the night before his 75th at the 9:30 Club, another DC institution. The hurricane bumped his annual birthday concert to Sunday. After a week unlike any other, 1,200-some people streamed into the U Street corridor--many from the surrounding neighborhoods in Northwest DC--to celebrate with Chuck.

Image via The Washington Post

DC will always be bifurcated. The divergent tension that arises between the people who stay in the city and the people who pass through makes it unique among American metropolises. The District compares favorably with New York and Los Angeles in that it is built to absorb the unusual ambitions of a large number of transients. DC is much, much smaller than either of them and, traditionally, it absorbs only one kind of ambition.

That has begun to change in our nation's capital as government has grown. The tech and start-up communities have ballooned alongside it. More and more transients are measuring time in generations. Where they do, gentrification creeps into neighborhoods at its own pace to wash away the presumed sins of the people who came before them.

The folks who are from DC still suffer the Redskins (cringe) with pride. They still argue over which Chinese spot has the best mumbo sauce. And they still love Go Go. The things that combine to attach a sense of meaning and belonging to their place do not wane even if their place in the city does.

The decay of its indigenous culture is not confined to DC. You can witness this in nearly every American city. Some have matured without really developing a coherent identity. Others have resorted to fetish to preserve theirs--with good reason.

A key part of what makes us American is not that we pledge allegiance to a particular flag, but that we take pride in a highly localized sense of place. We are blessed (or cursed) with an unmatched combination of space, freedom and a minimalist national identity. Everyone could be American so anyone can choose a place to represent and bring it with them to the great American party. Provincialism isn't unique to the United States but we have definitely perfected it here.

There are fewer and fewer opportunities for any city to experience a perfect moment. For the people who are from that place to have their character tested and be invited to express themselves using the poetry that defines them.

There is poetry in the strings of Chuck Brown's guitar. At a moment when the people of his city were tested, he played for them. And they danced. Like they always do.

Some Potentially Intelligent Babbling About the Tribe Movie

2011-07-27T19:06:00.000-07:00

[Image via Dedica.la]

At one time, A Tribe Called Quest was known for raising some unusually important questions:

What's an MC if he doesn't have stamina?
What is hip hop if it doesn't have violence?
What are laws if they ain't fair and equal?
What is a woman if she doesn't say maybe?
What would be my penal chord if it wasn't brown?

With his directorial debut, Michael Rapaport has raised a crucial question of his own:

Why doesn't A Tribe Called Quest make music together any more?

The Source kinda answered that one back in 1998 when they interviewed the group after Tribe formally disbanded. We were told then that the group had exhausted itself creatively and no longer wanted to carry on the years-long war it had waged with its record label. There was probably some truth to that. But was it the whole truth? Not exactly. Certainly not in the mind of Rapaport. In Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest, his answer reframes the mythology of the most beloved hip hop group of all time.

[Image via Suburban Apologist]

The adoration for Tribe began not long after a guy formerly called Jonathan Davis spit into a microphone, "Now, I'm from from A Tribe Called Quest." The love morphed as the crew fully congealed and proceeded to record three of the greatest albums any combination of musicians ever managed to get released: People's Instinctive Travels & The Paths of Rhythm, The Low End Theory and Midnight Marauders. okayplayers will forever argue which album was more perfect--or if, indeed, any of the three were perfect. They would almost have to agree, however, that Tribe occupied the rarest space in the hearts and pocketbooks of bohemians, backpackers, white people who didn't crap the roll and people with generally good taste in music. After all, three platinum plaques and two gold plaques hang on somebody's wall on Linden Boulevard.

The love Tribe received always seemed guided by hip hop's better angels. Their music, for the most part, was fun. And when it wasn't strictly that, it was thought-provoking. It never emitted the contempt so much hip hop has been laced with. When they boasted, they remained playful. Never arrogant. And in their social critiques, Tribe oozed a light-hearted nobility that came to represent hip hop's highest aspirations. We loved them for all of those things. What we weren't completely aware of was the simple human tensions that were slowly dividing Q-Tip, Phife, Ali Shaheed Muhammad and Jarobi. Revealing and exploring those tensions is the primary objective of Rapaport's film.

[Image via oystermag]

The opening moments of Rapaport's film tease out both things it is about to do for us. First, it will take us on a head-nodding, shouting-lyrics-at-the-screen trip down memory lane. Second, it will portray a classic clash of egos.

Rapaport gives Phife the first word. His raspy voiceover contemplates, "I can't put a finger on Q-Tip...I guess you could call it a love/hate relationship..." The sound byte is ironic. Phife rarely got the first word on a Tribe song. Or the last. His rhymes were frequently sandwiched between verses from the Abstract. It also prefigures Rapaport's thesis: Phife loathed Q-Tip's shadow.

The heavier you were into Tribe, the more likely you already suspected that. It was no secret that Phife had moved to Atlanta after Midnight Marauders. And it was self-evident that he and Q-Tip were moving in different directions creatively upon listening to Beats, Rhymes & Life. Speculation circa 1996 had it that Consequence, Q-Tip's cousin, would eventually replace Phife. Similarly, the otherworldly presence of J Dilla--shrouded by the simple "Produced by The Ummah" credit--extended the mystery of Tribe. Jarobi, after all, did kinda just leave the group without much explanation. And plenty of folks were still learning that Q-Tip, not Ali Shaheed Muhammad, had really been the group's driving production force. For years, we didn't ask many questions about how the magic was made. Over time, we all began to wonder. As we wondered, our thoughts drifted melodically from how to when.

When the break-up finally did happen in 1998, it made sense. The average lifespan of a hip hop group had always been pretty short. Maybe that was a function of the traditional rapper's ego trip. Emcees are not, by nature, humble dudes. They can learn humility and practice it well. But when they pick up a pen or grip a microphone to rock 20,000 people, they are committing an act that is supposed to be about affirming the self in the most aggrandizing way possible. (At least that's the way it used to be. Before watery-eyed confessionals emerged as a paradoxical prerequisite for ensuring maximum iTunes downloads.) How long can any collection of throbbing egos expect to remain in tact? We may not have fully understood the conflicts that plagued Tribe, but we understood that they'd eventually have to go their own separate ways. Over the years, we pieced together bits of data--a solo joint from Phife, an interview with Q-Tip--to fill out the story. And we were satisfied enough to divert our attention to the reunion rumors. Maybe we never needed Rapaport's film. We probably always wanted it, though.

[Image via ManifestWorldWide]

The first 40 minutes of the film is all memory lane. Pictures of Q-Tip and Phife from elementary school. The story of Phife befriending the beatboxing, basketball-playing Jarobi. Q-Tip and Ali Shaheed Muhammad hanging out at their alma mater, Murry Bergtraum High School, in Manhattan. We get to see what the Jungle Brothers, De La Soul, Monie Love, Dres from Black Sheep, Large Professor and DJ Red Alert, among others, looked like yesterday and what they look like today. (SPOILER: Everyone "awwwws" when Red Alert comes on screen. Duke is looking a lot like the granddaddy that he surely is.) We get video excerpts of some of the classics: El Segundo. Bonita. Can I Kick It? Buggin' Out. Check the Rhyme. Scenario. Oh My God. Electric Relaxation. (SPOILER: Everyone in the theatre will sing along with each of those songs. Even if it's just you and four unconnected strangers.)

Memory lane is littered with character-framing vignettes of Q-Tip, Phife, Ali Shaheed Muhammad and Jarobi. Jarobi is a chef. Or a restauranteur. Probably both. It's not completely clear. What is clear from the film is that he chose that path for himself. Ali Shaheed Muhammad is a musician's musician. He plays because he loves to play. Just in case you'd lost track of him since 1998, the film reminds us of the career he's built post-Tribe. As they have always been in the group hierarchy, neither Jarobi nor Ali Shaheed Muhammad play a central role in the film. Consequently, neither man's ego co-stars here. Nor does either man figure antagonistically in Rapaport's Tribe story. He allows both to cruise comfortably in their lanes while focusing his story on the clash between Phife and Q-Tip.

The Funky Diabetic has never been shy about who he is. His complexion is that of a hockey puck. His height is that of Muggsy Bogues. And his favorite form of birth control is busting off on a couch. Rapaport's representation of Phife underscores all of those traits and positions him as the classic Little Man: Pointedly insecure. Easily provoked. Eager to prove himself. Unwilling to accept less than what he believes he is due.

The Abstract Poetic represents Queens. And so much more. Rapaport's version of Q-Tip is a big music nerd who left his humble neighborhood a long time ago in favor of a journey deep into his own brilliance. Musicians who followed him--The Roots, Pharrell and Common--testify as to how near he has come to genius. Business partners--Chris Lighty and Barry Weiss--testify as to how emotionally maladjusted he may be. In sum, Rapaport presents Q-Tip as a classic Aries Artist: Highly self-satisfied. Awkward to work with. Sickeningly talented.

The conflict between the two men is a battle between good and great. Rare is the collaboration where all parties are equally talented. There's usually a pecking order. Particularly among musicians. The most talented member stands apart from the others. Like the best player on a basketball team. Kobe Bryant and the Lakers. Q-Tip and A Tribe Called Quest. The top talent often wills the group to meets its own elite standards. The good carries an odd responsibility that it must carry adroitly for the group to be successful. Moreover, only the most special kind of good can get along with great. It takes a good that is utterly comfortable in its goodness and lacks any yearning to be great by itself. It also takes a patient, accepting kind of good because great does not naturally bend to accommodate the good. The great tends to lack empathy on a small scale. It can feel deeply on a large scale. But when confronted by the natural limits of the good, the great scoffs. The great too easily forgets that the good shares its goals.

Early in Rapaport's film, Q-Tip recalls Phife's late embrace of his obligation to the group. Phife acknowledges that it took him at least the first album to recognize his artistic and financial potential as a rapper. When Phife recounts recording verse one of Buggin' Out, his official coming out party, he plots the point where he simultaneously turned the corner and entered into that battle of good versus great.

Throughout Rapaport's film, we follow Phife's skirmishes with diabetes. We learn his diagnosis came as an adult. That other members of his family have it. And that he really does (or did) drink a lot of soda. Especially Dr. Pepper. Diet Dr. Pepper. We learn the cost his ongoing care motivated him to push the guys to accept one of the many touring offers Tribe had on the table. Rapaport even gives us a glimpse of a major surgery that saved Phife's life. Those are the happy parts.

In the midst of the trip down memory lane, a brief clip of a Q-Tip interview reveals that he struggled to accept Phife's condition. "Phife was young. Shouldn't he be able to control his diabetes? What if we pushed him to live healthier?" The noble intentions of the young Q-Tip positioned him as an unsolicited paternal figure. The young Phife responded poorly to that. So did the old Phife.

A sequence worthy of MTV, E! or some other inelegant cable network goes like this: Phife's body wears down from dialysis while Tribe headlines Rock the Bells in 2008. He spends half of a show in LA leaning on Jarobi. Q-Tip is about to finish a verse and toss to Phife. Q-Tip says, "Look alive. Look at Phife." Or something to that effect. The sickly Phife rages against Q-Tip.

Maybe Q-Tip always resented Phife for not being as serious as he was about the music. Or for not taking better care of himself. ("Damn! Phife! You got fat!") Those suppositions aren't completely fair to Q-Tip, but they're not completely baseless either. Phife clearly resented Q-Tip for not treating him as an equal. That is as plain an argument as Rapaport's film makes. His interpretation of the two men also makes Tribe's body of work read, in hindsight, as a minor miracle. And, perhaps, as a testament to how deeply each man ultimately values the friendship. How else could such a clash of egos acquiesce to deliver such a volume of brilliant music?

[Image via Broadsheet Melbourne]

Something about the opening chords of the film makes it feel like it was tuned by someone who equates reality TV with documentary. As those two things are becoming more and more difficult to distinguish, we cannot blame Rapaport for dabbling in both. The drama he presents is cheap and sensational. It is also unusually sincere. The film is really a bridge doc. Some elements are revelatory in a way that would make the Maysles brothers proud. Other bits are so efficiently reductive as to cause even Mark Burnett to blush. If you don't bring a deep knowledge of Tribe with you to the movie theatre, you may have a hard time properly evaluating the Tribe story while the film teeters between the two disciplines.

For example, one would expect some insight as to what role Consequence played in the devolving relationship between Phife and Q-Tip. If you go back through the Tribe catalogue, you can hear Phife growing as an emcee. By the time Tribe records Midnight Marauders, Phife is nearly equal in skill to Q-Tip. His increased presence on that album implies the group is choosing to recognize his artistic ascent. Suddenly, on Beats, Rhymes & Life, Phife is splitting time with the new guy who just happens to be his partner's cousin. This storyline is acknowledged in the film by a single sentence attributed to Barry Weiss. It is possible Rapaport's research revealed that Consequence's presence was of little, er, consequence to the tensions that grew between Phife and Q-Tip. It is also possible he dismissed it conveniently to better serve the simplicity of the ego clash between the insecure diabetic and the self-centered artist.

There is a similar lack of attention paid to the role J Dilla had in shaping Tribe's final albums. Hell, the last two albums are barely mentioned in the film at all. Rapaport's version of events also ignores the awkward building of the Tribe fan base. The consumer reception for People's Instinctive Travels & The Paths of Rhythm was certainly positive, but the critical response to that record outpaced the developing love affair between hip hop fans and Tribe. It took the average listener at least an album and a half to decide these funky-looking dudes making this fun music were acceptable to ride for.

Rapaport deserves to be criticized for some of the artistic license he has employed with the Tribe story. He has not, however, missed an opportunity or botched a play. His film is a good one. No one who loves Tribe like he did (or does) could do any less than that. What is most unfortunate here is that the answer to his question does not yield the best possible query of all: When is Tribe's next album dropping?

That would just be wishful thinking. The kind you'd have entertained back when you assumed Tribe was just a simple love movement.

The Smartest (And Longest) Thing You'll Read About the 2011 NCAA Final Four

2011-03-31T21:39:00.000-07:00

The business of sport has always lived and died by its own hyperbole.

Professional sports leagues wear no veil. And they make no apologies. Their official color is either black or red. Civic pride is a cute benefit, but the home team really only belongs to one person--or one corporate entity. So their hype machines churn out whatever story best suits the bottom line this year. And they'll do the same next year.

Collegiate sports, on the other hand, tend to be a big gray contradiction. Student-athletes are supposed to represent the hermaphroditic ideal of how an institution of higher learning trains both the mind and the body. The games in which those brainy-brawny "amateurs" perform are presented to us as aspirational morality plays meant to stir institutional pride. While the exaggerated loyalty inspired by institutional pride guarantees any NCAA athletic program some annual revenues, Nike didn't lock the University of Kentucky into an all-school contract worth eight figures because 37,000 Wildcats pay their dues to the UK alumni association each year.

The NCAA Tournament, or March Madness, is the ultimate exercise in hyperbole. It generates hella money because the NCAA and all of its partners traffic in classic story lines without regard for whatever the truth really is. As long as the games are exciting, the excitement becomes the truth. And the narrative of the 2011 NCAA Final Four couldn't be more exciting or more classic. No matter who wins this Saturday, there will be a Cinderella and there will be a Blue Blood for Cinderella to dance with on the biggest Big Monday of this basketball season.

Somewhere behind that storyline, I'm afraid, there is also the awkward question of how the NCAA defines itself. When the world of college basketball has split so neatly into two separate, but equal classes, can we really be expected to believe the great fiction that the organization's mission is to preserve the integrity of "amateur" athletics? Indeed, has that ever really been its mission?

Image via nytimes.com

In the Days of Wayback
You can't fault the NCAA for being a bunch of carnival barkers. They get it honestly. The NIT--which used to be the bigger of the Big Dances--was founded in 1938 by a bunch of New York writers. They sold the event to a conglomeration of New York universities shortly thereafter. It was a small affair that occupied Madison Square Garden, basketball's largest stage, each spring to provide a showcase for potential NBA prospects. The meat market featured six teams at first. Then eight in 1941. Then twelve in 1949. Then a whopping fourteen teams in 1965. The New York-based NIT had a pretty good run before ultimately being eclipsed by the NCAA Tournament somewhere around that time. That's when John Wooden began to transform UCLA from mere California rock to bright, shiny American diamond. (Perhaps with an alleged nudge from Sam Gilbert.)

From the establishment of the NCAA's progenitor organization, the Intercollegiate Athletic Association of the United States (IAAUS), in 1906 through 1955, all of its member institutions were lumped together for the purpose of obeying the same rules of play in order to create a safer experience for players. (That's why the NCAA existed in the first place: to create a single standard of rules for amateur sports in the United States.) The NCAA Tournament launched in 1939 with only eight teams. It was quicker to expand than the NIT, but it stumbled early by limiting invites to conference winners. In the late-1950s, when the NCAA started to segregate the major universities from the small colleges, its basketball tournament began inviting 20+ teams. Also, the percentage of U.S. homes owning a television climbed from 10% in 1950 to 87% in 1960 making the media capital of the world a slightly less necessary marketing tool. Before Lew Alcindor's size 19 ever touched Westwood's lush grasses, the NCAA had taken small steps that would coincide with a national technological infiltration to eventually create everyone's favorite Q2 passion play. Along the way it would have to survive its first major identity crisis.

In 1951, the New York District Attorney filed the first of dozens of charges as part of a major point shaving scandal. CCNY, the only school ever to win the NIT and NCAA Tournaments in the same year, was at the heart of the scandal. Half of its roster got indicted. Most received suspended sentences. As the scandal engulfed other programs--seven in all including Kentucky--the question that would come to threaten the NCAA's greatest fiction emerged: are the players truly amateurs or are they major components of a massive business enterprise?

When players like Connie Hawkins were cast aside by the NCAA as pseudo-criminals, the TV rights and the apparel contracts that would come to define its business model did not exist at all. Maybe the folks at Kentucky, the first basketball superpower, were living well but the spoils of the NCAA Tournament were still rather fresh. Where the players were concerned, we could presume that 20-year-olds who endured the Great Depression were prone to worry less about the illusion of integrity and more about having a few dollars in their pocket. While safety concerns had abated, rule enforcement was the obvious heritage and the easy choice of mission for the NCAA. The players, who were already getting free educations, had to pay, so they did and the NCAA had a story it could stick to while the business model slowly emerged.

By the time Lew Alcindor/Kareem Abdul-Jabbar claimed his third NCAA championship (and UCLA's fifth) in 1969, 95% of U.S. households owned a TV and the NCAA Tournament was being partially broadcast on NBC. Alcindor/Abdul-Jabbar--and Bill Walton after him--created a Goliath for some college basketball fans to root against. The mythology of Coach Wooden's noble leadership provided a righteous hero for other college basketball fans to worship. Wooden may have been the best, but he wasn't the only coach to be iconified. Phog Allen (Kansas), Henry Iba (Oklahoma State), and Adolph Rupp (Kentucky) all have large buildings named in their honor. (Clarence "Big House" Gaines would be on that list had his school not been cast aside with the other little guys.) The stories were easy enough to sell, but revenues remained modest. That began to change in parallel with Blue Ribbon Sports' import business evolving to become Nike, Inc.

Image via sportsillustrated.com

Magic and Bird and Georgetown and Sonny...on CBS!
The NCAA Tournament had always pegged its own mythology to the local legends and larger than life characters who danced on its stage. Before there was UCLA, one of the Bay Area's finest, Bill Russell, lead the San Francisco Dons to two consecutive titles. Zeke from Cabin Creek, who was really Jerry West from Chelyan, West Virginia, set some Final Four records while wearing a Mountaineer uniform. About that same time, Ohio's own Jerry Lucas captained the Buckeyes to three Final Fours (including two championship game losses) and Indianapolis native Oscar Robertson won three player of the year awards while essentially playing in his backyard at the University of Cincinnati. Also, there was a guy named Wilt something who came from Philly and played for Kansas. The Big Dance had long relied on star power to capture the sporting public's attention (and dollars). But nothing was quite on the scale of Magic Johnson versus Larry Bird.

A lot has been said about their rivalry so there isn't much new to say here. What's important is that their one-sided tussle in the 1979 championship game set a record for TV ratings that still stands...30 years later. The reason so many people tuned in was, more or less, to witness the NCAA's first great Cinderella story. It's not obvious in the narrow view, but when you zoom out, you can see it come into focus. Bird's team, Indiana State, had not ever played in an NCAA Tournament game before he laced up his sneakers for the Sycamores. Going into the final game of his senior season, Bird's team was undefeated. Magic's team had won two straight Big 10 championships and had narrowly lost in the Elite 8 round of the previous year's NCAA Tournament to eventual champion Kentucky. The white guy wasn't a clear underdog, but the faint sketch of that narrative was beginning to color part of the tournament's mythology. With ratings like that, the NCAA clearly didn't mind working the potential of the storyline.

Before Magic took down Bird in Salt Lake City in 1979 in front of a national NBC audience, Texas Western beat up on Rupp's runts outside of Chocolate City in 1966 in front of a non-national, but highly volatile crowd. The racial mechanics of college basketball changed gradually and remarkably across those 13 years as the doors at major basketball-playing universities were being opened to all Black players and not just the Lew Alcindors. While players clearly and rightfully benefited, HBCUs that used to be able to field teams that were nearly on par with Kentucky, UCLA, North Carolina, et al suffered from depleted pools of available (and interested) talent. This accompanied a general talent consolidation that would play out from the late 1970s through the 1980s and into the 1990s.

Ironically, as integration began to gentrify the rosters of college basketball programs in the 1970s, the NCAA chose to draw harsher lines dividing its member institutions. Instead of just major universities and small colleges, the NCAA created Divisions I, II and III. After the NCAA tightened the criteria for what kind of institution could be eligible to compete in the Big Dance, it opened the tournament to more and more teams.

In the year that Michigan State broke Indiana State's hearts, the NCAA Tournament invited 40 teams. The next year, 48 teams competed for the national championship. The tournament grew a little bit more during each of the next three years: 52 teams in 1983, 53 teams in 1984 and 64 teams in 1985. You may remember those years as the ones that John Thompson's Georgetown teams booked three Final Four trips during Patrick Ewing's Hoya career. (You may also remember kids named Jordan, Isiah, Olajuwon, Worthy and Drexler all enjoying their shining moments.)

Thompson became the first Black head coach to win the NCAA Tournament and his iconoclastic teams--mostly Black players at a mostly White university--provided the first cultural apex after the racial integration of college basketball. Their story resonated with audiences that wouldn't have been highly regarded by broadcasters back then, but who did matter to the makers of sneakers and other apparel.

Sonny Vaccaro did two things to alter college basketball's business model. He started connecting individual basketball programs with the sneaker companies to a) provide the schools with free equipment and b) provide the coaches and institutions with supplementary income. Hoya Paranoia probably would have been number one in the hood without Sonny's help, but with it the Starter jackets and those navy on gray Nike Dunks claimed a very profitable place within consumer culture. The NCAA, as you might guess, liked that quite well.

Sonny also created a couple of showcases (The Dapper Dan Roundball Classic and the ABCD Camps) to connect high school kids with the college recruiters who needed talent to help their teams compete. They were meat markets kinda like how the NIT used to be, but they focused on an earlier segment of the supply chain. The culture of his showcases combined with the Amateur Sports Act of 1978 to set in motion the full monetization of the pre-NCAA experience.

The Act stripped the Amateur Athletic Union (AAU), which predates the NCAA, of its governance role and shifted authority for setting rules regarding amateur competitions to the U.S. Olympic Committee. Before 1978, the AAU was primarily a tool to develop track stars. Not long after the Act passed, AAU basketball borrowed loosely from Sonny's model to slowly, but completely transform the development process for basketball players and pad the pockets of previously non-vested parties. In response, the NCAA padded its rule book with nebulous new standards that seemed meant to confuse the people who were playing Sonny Vaccaro's new game. To preserve the illusion that it was dedicated to protecting the integrity of amateurism, the NCAA waged mini-wars with folks like UNLV's Jerry Tarkanian. The organization was morphing into a labyrinthine monstrosity of rules that threatened to turn everyone--or at least the people who had professional basketball aspirations--into outlaws.

Throughout all of this, the cost for the tournament's TV rights jumped from $16 million for three years to $30 million to $55 million. CBS and ESPN swooped in to take over the duties of broadcasting the NCAA Tournament and danced awkwardly for a decade while expanding TV coverage of tournament games from just the final rounds to every game. Well, almost every game aired somewhere on TV at some point during those years. Most importantly, the question for broadcasters had shifted from "Where will our audience come from?" to "How do we give our audience everything they are thirsting for?"

What we saw clearly during this era was more teams with more potential star players participating in the tournament while the broadcasting infrastructure was maturing to more effectively amplify the madness. The story of the NCAA Tournament was being made more and more plain and the narrative options available to makers of hyperbole were synching neatly with the emerging business enterprise, which was beginning to re-divide college basketball into distinct amateur and semi-professional classes.

Image via bleacherreport.com

How the Fab Five Gave Birth to LeBron James
When college students around the country matriculated to begin the fall semester of 1991, the business model for the NCAA Tournament had entered its final iteration. More than 30 at large teams were invited to quarrel with more than 30 conference champions over who was really the best team in the country each year. CBS had spent $143 million for the exclusive TV rights to broadcast all of its games for five years. Coaches at Division I programs had staked their positions within the marketplace and, like some of their legendary predecessors, had become institutions that could rival their employers for fame, power and wealth. In doing so, the most powerful coaches and the most famous programs monopolized the top talents creating a relatively narrow hegemony that also provided ample opportunities for limited Cinderella stories to emerge. The sneaker companies and apparel manufacturers were investing more and more money in the NCAA's great scheme and were getting richer and richer as a result. The question of compensation for Division I college basketball players lingered very quietly in the background, but little serious thought was given to significantly changing the scholarship structure that had existed since the 1950s. In short, times were good for the NCAA Tournament in 1991.

And then the world met Chris Webber, Jalen Rose, Juwan Howard, Jimmy King and Ray Jackson.

In the cultural genealogy of college basketball, the Georgetown Hoyas reluctantly begat the UNLV Runnin' Rebels who immediately begat the Fab Five. Those young men who wore maize and blue uniforms while being coached by Steve Fisher were one of the first generations of players to be empowered by the AAU showcase culture. This meant their play was perceived as being built less on fundamentals and more on athletic braggadocio. That perception led the five young men to be vilified by some and idolized by others. (It made for brilliant theater during two consecutive Marches where racial animus reared up in tandem with a cultural clash between generations of fans.) Their AAU experience also lead them to think of themselves more as potential businesses and less as noble competitors who should be grateful for their free educations. (To wit, one of the players is frequently cited as the most important recruiter in the Fab Five equation.) Consequently, they began to ask questions about the NCAA and it's beautiful money-making machine. The answers they arrived at settled the question of how "amateur" athletes should be compensated.

Chris Webber graduated to the NBA after two seasons. Jalen Rose and Juwan Howard followed him after three. They were not the first early entrants into the NBA's work force. Every young athlete owes Spencer Haywood a debt for blazing that path. What three-fifths of the Fab Five did was take the first step for LeBron James.

LeBron James is the most famous AAU alum who did not compete at track and field. As he aged toward eligibility for the NCAA or the NBA, the threshold for early entry shrank from the three-year bid Michael Jordan did at North Carolina to the two-year bid Chris Webber did in Ann Arbor to Kevin Garnett's leap straight from Farragut Academy to the Minnesota Timberwolves in 1995. LeBron turned 11 that year. Like the Fab Five before him, Garnett was not the first to walk that path, he was merely one of the most important walkers of it. Some of Garnett's peers matured like he did to become the greatest NBA talents of their generation (Kobe Bryant, Tracy McGrady). Other skippers of college barely sipped a cup of coffee in the business that's just a little bit bigger than the NCAA.

When four high school players were chosen within the first eight picks of the 2001 NBA draft, it appeared that young players had gained full control of their module of basketball choices. To that point, though, no single player had obtained immediate success in the NBA. The argument that great talents should develop first at the NCAA level still held. At least a little bit. When LeBron dropped 29 points, 9 assists, 6 rebounds and 4 steals in his 2003 NBA debut (against Webber's Sacramento Kings), he gave agency to the NCAA's lone remaining non-vested cohort. LeBron's performance throughout his rookie season demonstrated that 18-year-old giants didn't have to wait for Luther Vandross to sing in order to enjoy their shining moment. This was not so good for the NCAA. Would every A-List college prospect cut a straight path to the league that would cut checks for them? What would the NCAA do without its great talents? Would the tournament flatten out and lose its sex appeal? Would casual fans still buy NCAA merchandise? How could it possibly justify a nine-figure broadcast deal for a game featuring a small school from Virginia and an even smaller school from Indiana?

Image via glengarvin.com

Two Can Win
In 2005, the NBA closed the door on high school players bypassing college by instituting a minimum age requirement. The age rule yielded a new phenomenon and a new story-line: the one-and-done players. These are the guys everyone knows are biding their time in the purgatory of college basketball while they age up to the NBA. They create some intrigue for fans, but generally take a back seat to the NCAA's newest favorite hyperbolic tactic: bracketology.

Thanks to ESPN's Joe Lunardi, the bulk of the conversation about college basketball focuses on who should get into the tournament and where they should be seeded. It's a months-long obsession with the middle that mirrors the national dialogue about college football. The emphasis is on resumes and who deserves what. The games themselves are a co-star (or even a supporting actor) in these debates. The end result is that everyone has access to similarly deep reservoirs of data about the teams that do make the tournament so anyone can feel like an expert when the brackets are finally revealed on the second Sunday of March. Which is why 3 people out of 300 million picked this year's Final Four correctly.

Speaking of this year's Final Four, let's tease out the stories of each of this year's semi-finalists:

Connecticut: Best player. Best team. Best conference. One of their school colors is blue and they have the pedigree to go along with it. Jim Calhoun has coached the program to two NCAA championships and one NIT championship. He has sent 26 players to the NBA. In February, Calhoun was cited by the NCAA for failing to create an atmosphere of compliance. That might mean he got in trouble for something. No one is entirely sure. He is coaching in his fourth Final Four.

Kentucky: Winningest program in the history of college basketball. (By at least two metrics.) The bluest of any Blue Blood basketball school. Ever. They play seven guys. Half of them are freshmen. Odds are strongly against any of the freshmen becoming sophomores. Last year, five Kentucky players were selected in the first round of the NBA Draft. The Wildcats are the third team coach John Calipari has taken to the NCAA Final Four. This could finally be the year he gets a championship vacated--as his previous trips to the Final Four were. Oddly, Calipari has never been sanctioned by the NCAA.

Butler: Last year's national runner-up. Also, last year's Cinderella team. Their home gym is the place where Jimmy Chitwood clinched the state title for Hickory High. Head coach Brad Stevens joined the Butler staff as a volunteer after leaving a job at Eli Lilly. The best player from last year's squad left school early to play in the NBA. His teammates are playing in their second consecutive Final Four.

Virginia Commonwealth: This year's Cinderella. Had to win a play-in game to qualify for the field of 64. Has beaten a team from each of the following conferences: Pac-10, Big East, Big 10, ACC and Big 12. Their coach, Shaka Smart, has one of the coolest names in America. This is his second season as a head coach at any school. He is coaching in his first Final Four.

This is the first year of play since the NCAA decided to expand to 68 teams--a clever stroke that deepened the conversation about seedings and who should be invited to compete. That means Virginia Commonwealth has already skewed history's grading curve. The Rams are an obvious tournament darling and could be cast as the greatest giant-killers of all time if they were to cut down the nets on Monday night.

If Kentucky's kids were to climb the ladders after Monday's game, they would deliver the eighth NCAA championship to their fans in Lexington (end everywhere else). It would be a return to glory for a program with a mostly glorious tradition. (As long as we don't count their late acceptance of Black players and those seasons they were placed on probation in the '50s and the '80s.)

A Connecticut championship could be seen as a vindication of Jim Calhoun in his recent battles against the NCAA Rules Committee. Or maybe it would be an exclamation point on the Year of Kemba. Either way, the drama associated with the Huskies is thick enough to satisfy the hyperbolic standards of the NCAA Tournament.

And that leaves Butler, arguably the most compelling team remaining. We can assume that the scrappy, jump-shooting, backdoor-cutting collection of student-athletes is precisely the kind of kids so many people are referring to when they assert that the NCAA is WAAAAAAY better than the NBA. (FTR...it is not.) The Bulldogs are certainly the Whitest of the four semi-finalists. That could be a completely meaningless fact. It could also explain the subliminal attraction of some White fans to this particular underdog. Setting race aside, the Butler story is obviously one of unfinished business as they lost last year's final when a buzzer-beating half-court heave was a half inch off. From a purely story standpoint, one has to wonder if there is a touch of destiny about this team given the number of bounces that have fallen in their favor this year. Maybe the fates really do want to make up for that loss to Duke.

The more we contemplate the possibilities for this year's Final Four, the more it becomes obvious how the overarching narrative concerns the stratification of college basketball. The two games that will tip on Saturday articulate that divide. On one side are the teams that are feeder programs for the NBA. Their players may not all be one-and-done, but the primary purpose for signing with a Kentucky or a Connecticut is to improve your prospects of collecting a paycheck from a professional league. For these programs, course work is an obligation. Like lifting weights and eating breakfast. Education is not a reward or a pathway. The athletes from these programs who earn their degrees are anomalies. And if the graduates never see a paycheck from a professional league, you may even call them aberrations. The coaches at these programs are millionaires. A couple times over. Their names are filtered through the NCAA hype machine to sustain the madness even as their professional integrity is called into question again and again. The rules makers themselves are too rich to care whether or not they've abdicated their responsibilities as enforcers. The appearance of authority is a valid stand-in when its time to write the scripts that make the money.

On the other side, as ever, are the genuine student-athletes. The kids who pull on Butler or VCU jerseys make the NCAA's great fiction of amateurism possible. They're not breathtaking physical specimens. They look like the eager intern you'd task with completing a stack of TPS Reports. Maybe a couple of them will earn their livings from basketball. Maybe they'll even play professionally. They probably won't leave campus after two semesters. (Unless Google wants to hire them.) Their coaches are not millionaires. Not yet. And they haven't been accused of rules violations. That we know of. It may be entirely too cynical to assume the inevitability of the worst for this class of basketball programs. And it may be unfair to all of the people who represent those programs. It isn't unreasonable, though, to wonder what is under Cinderella's dress.

Image via agentsofawesome.wordpress.com

After the Dance
In order for hyperbole to be an effective marketing tool, there has to be a kernel of truth driving its declarations. In the last decade, the NCAA Tournament has delivered some legitimately captivating stories. We can bullet point a few of them to stir up fond (or not-so-fond) memories:

* The Flintstone Kids: Michigan State (2000)
* Duke Doing What Duke Does (2001 and 2010)
* The Orange Hero: Carmelo Anthony's triumphant march (2003)
* The Quest for Perfection: Illinois (2005)
* The Carolina Homecoming for Roy Williams (2005)
* The Green and Yellow Cinderella: George Mason (2006)
* The Pony-Tailed Villain: Joakim Noah (2006 and 2007)
* The Overlooked Son of a Former NBA Player: Steph Curry's scoring binge (2008)
* The Shot: Mario Chalmers for Kansas (2008)
* The Black and White Cinderella: Butler (2010)

The dance really is big. The madness really is beautiful. And the spectacle really is spectacular. We don't just believe these things, we know them to be true. We also know that the world of college basketball is flat. Any Division I school really can win this thing. Regardless of which class of players they conscript to suit up for them. That is the greatest NCAA fiction of all because it is, in fact, no longer a fiction.

So what will we remember from the 2011 NCAA Tournament? We'll definitely remember this final foursome in some form. We'll probably remember Jimmer. Kemba will make sure we remember him, too. We may remember Duke's inexplicable flameout. We may remember the return of Steve Fisher. We might remember the first experiences we had jumping from network to network trying to decide which game to watch as the playing field isn't the only thing that has flattened. Indeed, college basketball fans now have as much authorship over the story of the NCAA tournament as does the rules-making organization itself. (Do we even care about the stark line separating the two classes of competitors?)

College basketball may have arrived at yet another identity-defining tipping point, but its business is hardly in crisis. This Final Four, like the dozen or so that preceded it, will sell out a football stadium and will attract millions and millions of TV viewers. With the current NCAA President indicating that he is open to a discussion regarding a rethink of compensation for Division I basketball players, the institution may even be looking honestly at its reflected image. Maybe. "Open to discussion" is hardly a synonym for "taking action to correct." We can hope, though. When we run out of hope that reason will prevail, we will have the hype. We will always have the hype.

ADDENDUM
After the 2011 NCAA Championship Game mercifully ended, two men representing the NCAA congratulated Jim Calhoun and the Connecticut Huskies for defeating the Butler Bulldogs. The men also congratulated the city of Houston, all of this year's tournament teams and the fans who tuned in from around the world. At no point did they acknowledge the atrocity that had just been committed on that court. At the end of this year's March Madness rainbow was an empty, rusted out kettle. The gold had been left somewhere on the other side of the Sweet 16. And the only charm to be found anywhere in the building was Clark Kellog's earnest stream of wordplay.

Kemba Walker and his teammates wrapped their torsos in t-shirts that had been emblazoned with several characters. The three largest read: "No 1." The design could have been interpreted as "number one" or "no one was better" or some other piece of braggadicio. The subtext of the shirt implied that the ranking was the mark of the champion and not, like, the act of vanquishing all of one's opponents. It drew a line back to the endless conversations about the NCAA's method of choosing who is the best Division I football team. When paired with the recent "We Put Our Money Where Our Mission Is" PSA, the great takeaway from this year's Dance appears to be: the NCAA will control the parts of the story it wants to control and it will leave the rest to the beholder(s). Maybe any thinking about how "student-athletes" have drifted into two separate but equal classes is just a silly writer's exercise. The NCAA's core purpose, like any other business, is to simply stay in business. And when story is your currency, your doors will probably never close.

Cheering for a Champion: One Laker Fan's Lament

2011-02-12T09:58:00.000-08:00

No one cries for a champion. At best, winners receive a begrudging kind of respect. At worst, winners are the targets of pitched jealousy. Both are earned. Neither really matters. The champion is the champion. There is no need for any further validation.

When your favorite team wins a championship, it is common to feel a beautiful combination of joy and relief. All of those nights you cursed at your TV were worth it. All of those mock drafts and fake trades you generated had meaning. And every piece of shit you talked with opposing fans...well...it wasn't just shit-talking, now was it?

In the event that your team wins a second or third or fifth title, your vantage point as a fan evolves. No longer are you the desperate observer. Instead, you may find yourself wallowing in the sustained brilliance of your team's play. As you wallow, you'll behave arrogantly. This is inevitable. If you're any kind of smart, you'll move away from the arrogant sense of entitlement that can seize the average winner. And you'll recognize that you occupy a privileged observational space.

Most people are quick to acknowledge that history is being made, but how many can say they followed it from the precise point in time the moment was conceived? While cheering for a dynasty, you're not just watching history happen, you're in the middle of it repeating itself over and over again. It's hard to explain to someone who is ambivalent about sport--let alone a fan whose team has never won a title. You may as well tell someone you were an engineer when Herbie Hancock used to play with Miles Davis. Or when Jay Dilla recorded with...anyone.

What you may lose sight of--either because you're consumed by the long tail of your team's brilliance or because you're reluctant to accept that it won't trail forever--is that every conception eventually yields to a completion. If it began, it must end. When a season ends with your team raising their sport's most coveted trophy, the ending itself is the source of desire. That's what you wanted and that's what you got. It is the epitome of satisfaction.

But after you've tasted that same kind of satisfaction for the fifth time, it's not quite so...satisfying. Relief overtakes joy leaving that feeling you felt way back when your team claimed its first championship to be grossly imbalanced. And you're probably gonna wonder why that is.

Truth be told, when you're cheering on a transcendent player (or group of players) you'll reach a very distinct point at which you must accept that their transcendence may endure in the videos and t-shirts and headlines they leave behind. But it cannot continue on the court (or the field) forever. And you never know which championship will be the last one. To be frank, that feeling kinda sucks and it is your unique burden. No fan of any other team will weep for you. To be frank again, you can't even really talk about it as the conversation will only elicit a sense of relief in other fans that your team's obnoxious stranglehold could soon be coming to an end. And that is not the kind of relief any fan of a champion several times over wants to contemplate.

So where does that leave you?

As a fan, your options are limited. You can rage against the dying of your team's light by advocating for trades to concede the current season in favor of stockpiling for a more serious run at next year's title. But what if there is no next year? And what if the trade that looks good today is oh so wrong in the long run? You can run a bunch of numbers to generate extremely likely probabilities, but you can't know exactly what will happen until it actually happens.

Or...you can watch the games and take the journey. Again. Just like it was the first time. The desperation is there. But it is very different. The desperation of a champion is not at all like the desperation of a challenger. The challenger, as you'll recall, needs to know what winning feels like. The champion, as you now know, worries that the era of his dominance may never come again.

It is not, in fact, much of a choice at all. Fortunately, your favorite team continues to compete. And there is a championship--somewhere out there ahead of the regular season slog--to be won.

The Final Psychoanalysis of LeBron James

2010-07-17T14:07:00.000-07:00

One week after LeBron James announced his intention to leave his home state of Ohio to sign a free-agent contract with the NBA's Miami Heat, the one finality we can be certain of is that the walking, talking triple double will never again earn his living in Cleveland. All the rest, it seems, continues to settle.

[Photo via Mediaoutrage.com.]

With the two best players of their generation--who double as top 20 (10?) talents in the history of the game--and an All-Star Stretch Four in the same starting lineup, professional basketball's elite now resides in Miami. Except, of course, for the fact that it doesn't. The Los Angeles Lakers are reigning two-time champions fresh from their third consecutive trip to the NBA Finals. Superman still wears an Orlando Magic cape. And the Boston Celtics, no matter how many Philadelphians may wish otherwise, are not dead. Not yet anyway. (Lurking elsewhere around the periphery are Tim Duncan, Steve Nash, Mark Cuban and eager franchises in Utah, Houston and Chicago.)

While the new truth may not be all the way true yet, there stand Dwayne Wade and LeBron James--with Chris Bosh clinging proudly to them as if to form the tallest boy band the world has ever seen. Clearly, three young, Black men have taken control of their own destinies simply because they have excelled at what they do. All three also possessed the business savvy to dictate the terms of their employment at the moment their services were in the highest demand. Before these men are anything else, they are capitalists. True blue (or perhaps Heat red) Americans. And they have likely launched a paradigm shift in professional sports--certainly in the NBA--such that players alone would become the ultimate arbiters of the viability of the business.

At the core of this story are two of those Americans: Wade and James. James and Wade. The most absurd and most terrifying one-two punch of current NBA players an opposing coach could dream of. It is there, in that dream, where the presumed greatness begins. As soon as the upcoming NBA season concludes, the Larry O'Brien trophy will wake up in South Florida. Where it is expected to make its permanent home. So we are told.

Along the way to the inevitable(?!?) coronation, there is a subtext in LeBron James' choice to migrate to South Beach that may undermine a cherished human institution. At the very least, his decision countervails certain situational failings of that institution.

During the week that has passed, James' decision has been dissected repeatedly by writers, podcasters, talk show callers, serious fans, casual fans and drunkards killing time on worn-out bar stools. All of them--and many more--have decided that the story of the contract signing heard 'round the world is about:

A) one self-absorbed brat-athlete taking his ball and choosing the path to greatness which offers the least possible resistance
B) one clever brand manager creating the stormiest opportunity for his brand to exploit the world's stage in a premeditated (and superfluous) quest for redemption
C) one mind-boggling experiment in the convergence of sport, celebrity, media, appetite and finance
D) all of the above
E) and so much more

The image of the three brand new teammates contains a not-so-subtle tell which reveals one significant component of the so much more that LeBron James' decision is about:

Brotherhood is equal to or greater than fatherhood.

We know that Wade and Bosh both had relationships with their biological fathers. Their relationships may have been like the age-old bonds sons typically share with their fathers. There is little evidence to suggest otherwise. And there is reason to believe classic parental norms informed their childhoods. James, on the other hand, was different from them. He, as various wikis tell us, was raised by a single, teenage mother. Her aptitude for parenting has rarely been called into question. Similarly, she has rarely been mistaken for an actual father. Women, no matter how butch, can't completely fulfill that role for their sons. Something invariably lacks. A boy can mature to become a man with none but his mother to guide him. But can he really know how to be a man with only her guidance? It's a question that generations of young men have wrestled with since the implosion of the nuclear family some decades ago. I submit that in LeBron James' decision to sign a free agent contract with the Miami Heat we have the potential for a definitive answer.

If an athlete of such prodigious gifts as LeBron James chooses to eschew the quest to become his own man of trophies in favor of a collaborative journey to basketball greatness alongside one of the few human beings on earth who stands as his sporting peer, how much sense does it make for any other fatherless man in any other situation to insist that he carve himself completely out of his own image? If there is no father to help a boy become a man, what is really wrong with the boy gathering with his brother(s) to decide together what will constitute manhood?

By no means does James' decision render fatherhood irrelevant. Instead, it provides an alternate model for defining manhood. Choosing to seek his own legacy in concert with Wade means James does not have to fumble alone like the fatherless child he found himself to be as a Cleveland Cavalier. The pairing provides an immediate beta standard to grow in tandem with and reduces the burden associated with the the individual pursuit of athletic glory. The reward for that risk could very well be an extended basketball transcendence we have not seen since Red Auerbach and Bill Russell bullied the NBA during the middle of the previous century.

Much has changed since that Celtic Dynasty dutifully accumulated championship banners to be hung in the Boston Garden. American social mores have wilted to accept (or at least acknowledge) that the structure of a family need not be limited to husband + wife + children. The mores have had no choice. Divorce has broken too many of those equations. Wars (both foreign and domestic) have subtracted one parent or the other (mostly the fathers). And wife + wife or husband + husband has proven the equal of any other structure.

Children, of course, are also possessed by a natural desire to act as their own bosses. That LeBron James, regardless of how much love or respect he may have for his mother, would elect to try to build a basketball dynasty with his brother(s) seems, in hindsight, to be quite inevitable. We may not know any more about the man who exists in addition to the athlete than James permits us to know of him. But his basketball decision is quite revelatory. On paper, the brotherhood model appears to be a fitting surrogate for the fatherhood model. And, with obligatory apologies to Pat Riley, it could replace it altogether.

In the event that it does, the legacy of LeBron James may ultimately be measured, not in championship rings, but in the cultural shift to accept as virtue the practice of a man creating himself with the help of his brothers. In the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, celebrating the collaborative construction of masculine identity is something of a long shot. One that may be outside of even Mike Miller's considerable range.

Drifting on a Memory

2010-06-01T13:30:00.000-07:00

No one has ever accused me of patriotism.

At best, I am fascinated by "the Grand Experiment" for all of its spectacular aspirations and the mass delusions that result from its failings. At worst, I have been told that I should probably find a new government to render taxes to. I've never pretended to be Hulk Hogan. But I could hardly be called John Walker Lindh either. I think I'm like a lot of people in my peer group: I'm fatigued by the gross simplicity of what I am told America is supposed to be, yet I remain intrigued by the vast potential of it all. Which assumes, of course, that all has not been squandered already.

(It hasn't. Not yet. Although it's closer to half empty than it is to half full.)

Before Memorial Day in the year of our Lord two thousand and ten, I had never literally celebrated or even really honored Memorial Day. I had always done some combination of the drinks and BBQs and movies and families and drinks and friends and shopping and parties and drinks thing. But never any actual memorializing. After running through HBO's The Pacific earlier this month, I decided the least I could do this year was to visit the National Mall. Out of curiosity as much as for any sense of paying tribute.

I arrived late on Monday afternoon as the setting sun had finally decided to release all the tourists and other visitors from its crushingly hot grasp. The space between the monuments to Presidents Washington and Lincoln was predictably littered with people. Visitors from countries in Europe and Asia. Bored pre-teens being ushered by social studies teachers. Joggers and bicyclists. And, of, course, a few remnants of Rolling Thunder.

If you've never been in or around the Washington, DC area on Memorial Day Weekend, you may not know what Rolling Thunder is. The short answer is that it's a much more somber, focused version of Sturgis. Hundreds of Harleys rumble through our nation's capital every Memorial Day Weekend so their riders can pour out a little liquor for their fallen comrades. I don't think Rolling Thunder is comprised exclusively of veterans, but hella former service people on super fat hogs set up camp throughout the Potomac region waving American flags and celebrating the memories of those who never made it home. It's the kind of thing you need to see with your own ears.

Another thing you need to see with your own ears is the WWII Monument. There's a massive fountain at the center of it which envelops all other sounds. It mimics the two oceans that young Americans had to cross in order to help save the world from the ambitions of Hitler (the racist), Mussolini (the fascist) and Emperor Shōwa (the opportunist). I started my Memorial Day jaunt at that fountain. It was not my first visit. I shuffled between freshly placed flowers and notes declaring "We Will Never Forget". Bravery, courage and service rated as the most memorable acts accounted for by the amalgalm of papers and roses and other detritus spread thoughtfully around that monument. I couldn't tell whether obligation or sincerity hung more heavily in the air. Maybe both mixed together inextricably.

After taking a few photos of the Pacific and Atlantic portions of the monument, I crept along the Reflection Pool toward the great statue of a seated Abraham Lincoln. I heard music. A youth choir from a church in Oklahoma City had set up shop at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial. They sang songs about Jesus and America and they played instruments made of cleaning supplies. They weren't playing for any reason other than they could. The show -- like all the others on their 15-day tour of the Eastern Seaboard -- had been self-funded.

I left the singers to sing and bounded toward the Korean War Memorial as the pretty blue sky showed its first signs of turning into night. I wanted to snap a few photos before I lost all of the day's natural light. Ahead of me was a man who looked just like Ben Stein. Who was, in fact, Ben Stein. I had a quick thought to ask him for a photo or shake his hand or something before my Los Angeles self piped up. You don't bother celebrities when they're out in public. For any reason. Unless, maybe, you're asking them whether they're keeping that parking spot or not. So I left Mr. Stein alone in order that both of us could soak up the monument to the brave SOBs who fought and/or died during the course of the Korean War. I don't know much about that war. I guess I'm still waiting for HBO to tell me how it turned out. Although, my spidey sense says that Hyundai and Samsung were probably on the winning side.

Individually -- or together -- the various memorials and monuments on the National Mall are pretty impressive pieces of work. Each clearly strives to evoke something. But that effort, when made thousands of times every day, seems to go just a bit dull. Where the war monuments are concerned, you kinda get the point pretty quickly. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a buncha dudes died in some great conflict between the Stars and Stripes and the awful flag of some other country that was (or stood in for) the enemy of Democracy. It sucks that they had to give their lives. But they gave their all for a good cause...right?

I suppose that hope is supposed to be born out of the shared mourning that happens every day on the National Mall. I suppose that patriotism is what forms around that hope. I suppose that patriotism ought to be an external exercise born of an unwavering internal commitment. I fumbled through a lot of different thoughts as I exited the Korean War Memorial. Not the least of which was, "What would I have to do win whatever money was in Ben Stein's pocket?"

My journey, as I had planned it, ended at the Vietnam Wall. It's a brilliant monument that tapers gradually to deposit you into 12 feet of names etched into reflective black granite. For even the most unsentimental, the design has a raw power to it that is difficult to deny. I'm not in the habit of denying, but I'm not much on sentiment either. Not usually.

When I arrived precisely at the midpoint of the Wall, I snapped a couple shots to try and capture the scale of that portion of the monument. I paused to read through a few names and admire the designed experience. Reflecting back at me, a young kid outfitted in Army's dress greens had stopped on the granite panel immediately to the right of mine. He leaned in to get a closer read. Stepped back. Saluted. Dropped his right arm. Extended his right index and middle fingers to touch a certain spot on The Wall. He whispered, "Thanks, man." Then disappeared behind me.

That scene may have taken 90 seconds to play out. Maybe less. I watched it all via the reflection in the granite. I wanted to take a picture of it. I wanted to shake the kid's hand. I wanted to do anything but stand frozen. And I certainly didn't want to feel sweat (tears?) streaming down my cheeks.

But that shit stopped me cold, man.

Somewhere behind all of the politics that goes into separating history from what actually happened are the people to whom the history happened. Some of them made choices. Some merely succumbed to circumstance. They're all a part of the story, though. The dates and titles of the things that happened don't get scribbled down without the actors being present for them. Some of those actors did not survive the thing itself. After we squeeze the thing into a larger narrative, the actors can be overlooked or their roles can be minimized as the grand scale weighs the collective impact of the thing. That tendency is neither bad nor good. It's an inevitable consequence of trying to keep our own TV show on the air.

Every once in a while -- sometimes on days marked for official observance -- the echoes from the actors who tragically departed stir. Sometimes, they speak to us via the people who couldn't forget. And sometimes, they make themselves known to people who wouldn't ordinarily be bothered to remember.

Lessons from Watching HBO's The Pacific

2010-05-23T15:39:00.000-07:00

I was busy doing...something else...when HBO premiered The Pacific earlier this spring. So I skipped the series altogether thinking I'd watch it On Demand after every episode was made available.

This weekend, I finally found time to run that marathon. Here are 10 lessons I picked up from watching all 10+ hours of The Pacific:

1) In real war, as opposed to movie wars, anyone can get wounded -- or killed -- at any time.

2) When you're low on troops, you pick the targets with the smallest square milages 'cause they possess less space to capture/hold.

3) After you do capture a hunk of land, there's no guarantee the people who ordered you to capture it are gonna use it for any reason other than planting a flag in it.

4) Australian girls were easy back then. And hella cute, too.

5) People can be turned off -- and on -- by patriotism for exactly the same reason Patton cited as the objective of war: You're not supposed to die for your country, you're supposed to make the other poor bastard die for his.

6) War smells awful. Maybe more awful than any combination of the awful-est smells your nostrils have ever been revolted by.

7) If you were a Marine in the early '40s, you never said "Hoo-Rah!" "Ooo-Rah!" or any derivation thereof. That musta come later.

8) The safest feeling any warrior can entertain is numbness. It can also be the most awkward feeling to manage.

9) No matter what war you're fighting in -- at any point in any place for any side -- there are always three enemies: the person who is trying to kill you; the physical environment in which combat takes place; and the inside of your own head.

10) For those who were tasked with fighting it, the war is never really over.

There are probably more lessons to take from a less intensely-sequenced viewing of the series. There is probably also one single lesson you can distill all of these things -- and all of the hours that went into producing or watching The Pacific -- down to:

White people will never tire of making movies about World War II.

A lot of things have changed. A lot of things have not.

2010-04-29T07:33:00.000-07:00

Back when I used to scramble onto long, yellow buses bound for museums or other excuses for giving kids a vacation from the classroom, the best seat on the bus was always the last one. That's where you were farthest away from the teacher. And that's where you had the clearest view of the world racing alongside you. Or behind you.

Just about every kid's favorite pasttime involved one of two arm motions. The wave. And the tug. The wave was the big hello to every other driver and passenger on the road. You wanted all of them -- or any of them -- to wave back. When they did, you celebrated with the predetermined assurance of a Yankees fan. Then you turned and flapped your arm vigorously at the next approaching car.

The tug was the desperate plea to the truckers who sat as high as you did. You wanted any of them -- or all of them -- to make their horns blow a big, nasally gust of air in your direction. When one of them finally did, you celebrated with the ecstatic relief of a Cubs fan. You danced in your seat. You giggled with the kids sitting near you. Then you searched for another vehicle to beckon.

At least, that was the scene when I was kid...like...a million years ago. Before iPhones. Before Tivo. Before Google. When Tupac was still alive. When Ronald and Nancy Reagan were wreaking havoc in the White House.

This morning, as I exited the parkway just outside of Washington, DC while travelling to my dayjob, a bus sped past me. It carried a bunch of kids in the direction of the Air and Space Museum. Half of them were waving. The other half were tugging.

The Greatest Rapper of All Time Died on March 9th

2010-03-09T12:42:00.000-08:00

The greatest rapper of all time died on March 9th. His name was...

...Charles Bukowski?

Yep.

Hank did die on the ninth of March. Back in 1994. Three years before Christopher Wallace was killed.

I wrote a lil something about Bukowski. You can find it right here:

http://www.doyoulikemoviesaboutgladiators.com

(P.S. I'm contributing over there now. Random stuff about movies. Will still raise a leg on this site every now and again. In case you're interested in either.

Ruined

2010-02-27T06:55:00.000-08:00

Red got some bad news this week. So did the Liberian Girl.

(If you're new here, the former is my little sister. More or less. The latter lets me wake up at her house a few mornings each week.)

The news each got represented a pretty big professional setback. The kind of setback where you're staring across a great big gully at the other side of a road that is, all of a sudden, no longer beneath you.

You know how that feels, don't you? It feels like your whole life is ruined.

You could be relieved of your job. Your girl could leave you. You could smash up your car. Your college could suddenly find another big pile of debt for you to pay down. You could lose all your vinyl in a fire. Or a flood.

Whatever the cause of your ruin, there's a cliche for how you can handle it. The one about lemons and lemonade. Or that other one about taking a hit versus how hard you can hit. Or, in the parlance of our times, those three letters that signal your disgust with it all: FML.

There's something kinda stunning about the imagery of a person surrounded by the debris of one day's catastrophe. I think it's the holyfuckness of the moment.

Like, "Holy fuck, I'm still alive?"

Followed by, "Holy fuck, did that really just happen?"

Which eventually leads to, "Holy fuck, what do I do next?"

Amid the ruins there always is a next. Which is kinda the point of life. It goes on. Until it no longer has to. And when it no longer has to, there's no next for you to be worried about. And there's certainly no ruins to follow you. At least not as far as this silly bastard knows about.

So, as I said to Red, get used to it. Your whole life is gonna be ruined a bunch of times while you still have it. Dozens. Probably hundreds. And it'll be ruined more frequently the older you get.

But every time it is, you'll get to figure out what to do next.

"Holy fuck" is right. Maybe the only right way to understand the ruined.

Date Night: Avatar

2010-02-24T08:31:00.000-08:00

An hour after word first began circulating that Kobe Bryant may end his two-week injurcation to suit up for the Lakers-Grizzlies game, I received this text message:

"I would like to have date night on Tues."

The Liberian Girl who sent that text had no knowledge of the status of Kobe's health on Monday, but she does know where the Lakers rank on my Priority List. She also knows where she rates on that same list.

On Tuesday night, as Andrew Bynum--also recently mended--jumped center in Memphis, I slid a pair of 3D glasses up the bridge of my nose in anticipation of my second screening of Avatar. The Liberian Girl burrowed into my left rib and nibbled on Nerds. She hadn't seen the film yet and finally caved to all the buzz about it. (After we ate a proper dinner first, of course.)

At this point, what more can you really say about Avatar?

The mythology of the film has been shredded, diced and gnarled by critics from all sides. "Why does the white man gotta save the natives again?" "Why is capitalism always the villain?" "How did we survive three hours without a single nipple slip?"

(Whoops. That last one is more pornographic than political. But those two disciplines share so many things that who can really tell the difference?)

The story--and this won't spoil anything if you've not seen it yet--is underwhelming. The characters are reduced, ironically, to flat caricatures. The dialogue is the height of cliche. There is more than one nagging continuity question. And, most alarmingly, there's no actual nudity despite the fact that those lithe blue bodies dance through the jungle for 2/3 of the flick.

All of which is to be expected.

Avatar is nearly three hours long, but it MOVES. It jukes through a brilliantly imagined world. And it sprints through a simple narrative that isn't meant to do anything more than provide back-up for a massive, MASSIVE creative accomplishment.

There are so many teams of people who collaborated on that film that you need a second mouse to scroll through the whole cast and crew list on IMDB.com. If you know anything about the process of trying to make a film, the more people who get involved, the more likely it is that something about the finished product could suck. Long chains do tend to have lots of slack.

So if you're spending eight kajillion dollars to invent a whole new way of making movies, something has to give, no? If you're going to get anything really, really right, then you need to conjure up all the genius your acres of collaborators can muster to make sure the world you create together is jaw-dropping. Anything else--like the story--should probably be executed as simply as possible. That compromise, regardless of what non-lethal stereotypes it furthers or what agendas it hamhandedly espouses, can ultimately be forgiven.

Upon exiting the theatre, the Liberian Girl evaluated the film with a fitting eloquence, "The story wasn't amazing, but everything else was."

That's just about as precise as Kobe was during the closing seconds in Memphis.

(So I was told by a very different text.)

Online Retail Fail

2010-02-23T08:00:00.000-08:00

Gil Scott-Heron released a new album last Tuesday.

That's an ALL-CAPS headline deserving of thoughtful, probing analysis. But I ain't hear the album yet. Got sidetracked by life. Although I did mark a very big star next to that item in this week's To Do List. (Translation: "You really need to tick this one off cause it's extra, extra important.")

On Monday afternoon of this week, Barnes & Noble (B&N) was kind enough to alert me to a big sale they're having. $8.99 for any single CD. Perfect. I was gonna buy the Gil album anyway and here was a nice price break to validate my neglect in being among the first to cop it.

This morning, I opened the email from B&N to begin making the Gil purchase. I've never ordered from them online so I had to fill in some standard shipping and billing info during the first phase of the checkout process. No biggie. After securing all of my information, B&N informed me that the brand-new, just-released Gil CD is usually available within 1-2 weeks and that I could choose an ultra-cheap shipping option ($2.98 to receive my order in 3 days or less) bringing the total for my order to: $12.57 (including tax). Suddenly, this didn't seem like such a good deal.

I opened a new tab and clicked over to Amazon. I've ordered from them several times before. Probably more than several. Many more. The Gil CD was in stock both new ($12.99) and used ($11-something). Amazon offered me the same fast click checkout option they offer all regular customers and promptly informed me that I could receive the Gil CD by this Thursday (less than 48 hours from now) for a total of $12.99 (free shipping, no tax). That sounded pretty cool.

If you're scoring at home, here's how the retail fail breaks down:

Barnes & Noble = $12.57 to wait as long as two weeks to receive a CD that was released last week
Amazon = $12.99 to get the same CD within the next day or two

I ordered from Amazon.

Thanks for the coupon, B&N. I put it to very good use. For your competition.

The Secret to Valentine's Day

2010-02-16T17:34:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day is a terribly misunderstood holiday.

It's not really about flowers. Or chocolates. Or chocolate-covered flowers.

It's not some grand conspiracy intended to make single people feel embarassed about being single.

And it's not a dull obligation masquearding as an icon of passion.

Valentine's Day is actually a referendum that has little to do with how either party of a relationship feels about the other. Instead, it's about how people who are not the couple perceive the couple's relationship. Valentine's Day is a show and it has lots of judges.

Let's say you're a dude who likes a chick. Let's say this chick digs on you as well. As the calendar flips from January to February, you find yourself brainstorming for the best way to pay tribute to all the liking and the digging.

You're probably thinking that the chick is your audience, but she's not. Your real audience is the chick's friends. Maybe her family, too. Possibly even her acquaintences.

After February 14 ends, people will ask the chick how the two of y'all celebrated Valentine's Day. If you chose well, there will be some giggling and some cooing before the conversation trundles happily to another subject. If you chose poorly, there will be awkward sighs, reassuring pats on the shoudler and, hopefully, an abrupt end to the dicussion of Valentine's Day. If the conversation lingers harshly on your poor choice of a celebration, the judging could condemn your relationship. All because you bought the wrong chocolate-covered flowers.

You don't have to be a dude in order to fail at Valentine's Day. You don't have to be straight either. This kind of judging isn't exactly partial to any specific pairing of the sexes. But it is the driving force behind the holiday.

And now that you know that...what does that mean to you?

It's pretty simple, actually. You could retire from Valentine's Day like all of those smart people who stopped going to church every Sunday. You could spend some time prying into the minds of your S.O.'s friends and family to find out what won't offend their sensibilities. Or...you could talk to your ______ (whomever you wake up next to) and reach an understanding that certain things matter to both of y'all and certain things don't. Valentine's Day could really be one of the things that matters to one party or another. (Probably because one of y'all really, really enjoys chocolate-covered flowers.)

Once you both reach an understanding, then you can focus not only on who really matters, but on what it is that matters to them as well.

And you can disregard everything--and everyone--else. 'Cause what doesn't matter...doesn't matter.

I Have Failed as a Laker Fan

2010-01-27T12:39:00.000-08:00

Last night, I broke my three-year drought of attending NBA games. During that span, I've watched hundreds of NBA games on TV, online or at a bar. And when I say hundreds...I mean that there simply were not thousands of games played for me to watch. Consquently, I'm a lightweight NBA junkie. A very, very, very poor man's Kelly Dwyer if you will. Which, in junkie terms, means that I've taken a couple of hits while Kelly has been high for 15 years straight. But I digress. I'm a junkie who watches, but who has been completely absent from NBA games.

Last night, the homie Dae and I boarded 14 different escalators before climbing the final peak of the Verizon Center to fill two seats in section 431 seconds before the defending champion Los Angeles Lakers tipped off versus the utterly mediocre Washington Wizards. Seconds after Andrew Bynum won the tip for the champs I realized something: the NBA game is really quick.

Yeah, you get that when you watch on TV. But it's different when it's live. Maybe it's different when it's live and you're more than a free throw lane away from the court. But it's definitely different. And it's definitely much, much quicker than a person may be prepared for. That is not the point of this post, though. I do, after all, need to explain its title. Which we will get to. Eventually.

The hapless Wizards played with great hap during the first 18 minutes of the game. They held a lead for the bulk of the first quarter and remained very competitive even after they had given it up. Late in the second quarter, ShanWOW got loose. Three times. One of which was a backdoor lob play I've seen the Lakers run a few dozen times. Apparently, they don't get that YouTube channel in our nation's capital because no one wearing a Wizards jersey saw the Top 10 Plays nominee coming. Apart from that oop, the Lakers offense still looked very kinky for much of the first half, but they did start spitpolishing their own offensive glass. And Wizards players began mistaking Lakers for their teammates. In seven shot clocks or less, all of the haps were sucked out of the franchise that Abe Pollin built. With a 16-point halftime lead, I started thinking of tacos. And I got pretty excited about that.

From my perch, I noticed a few things about the NBA game experience. Firstly, there is a whole lot more audience participation now than the Verizon Center played host to three years ago. Most of it is egregiously sponsored. And much of it seems to come at the expense of the poledancers who may otherwise be known as cheerleaders.

The cheerleaders...or dance team...or whatever the half-nekked hot chicks should be called are still part of the game experience. They're just not very pronounced anymore. Instead, during breaks in games there are tried and true gimmicks like the Kiss Cam and and the Chipotle burrito launch. There was also dancing performed by the Beat Ya Feet Kings, which is a group of young dudes from DC who kinda sorta spaz out while go-go music envelops the inside of the arena like it tends to do outside the arena on 7th Ave. The cheeleaders, meanwhile, pommed their poms in a quiet gray space tucked in to one corner of the arena. Or, on occasion, in one of the stairwells in the lower bowl.

There was also something called "This or That," sponsored by Sprite and scored by Black Sheep's clever licensing company. In last night's episode, Caron Butler recorded a series of answers to very simply framed questions aimed at identifying his personal preferences. Two brief phrases would smash wipe onto the screen of the jumbotron. ("Big East or ACC?") Cut to Caron standing between the two phrases and choosing one over the other. (It wasn't ACC.) Before one of Kobe's old workout buddies would answer, he would pause long enough to give the crowd time to shout out their own choices. After the Butler announced his preference to each question, some of the crowd would cheer as if he had just validated their taste for this or for that. Which he pretty much did. Although that was only the second most important public service he provided last night.

At halftime, a young woman from San Francisco balanced herself on a very, very tall unicycle. She also used her feet to toss small bowls on top of her head. It was a certain kind of ridiculous that is better seen than described.

A minute or two before the Wizards inbounded the ball to begin the second half, Kobe Bryant emerged from the locker room. He was the last Laker to do so. A couple of his teammates had preceded him by 10 minutes. The rest straggled back on to the court in groups of two or one with no deliberate speed. The Wizards, on the other hand, were all back on the court nearly as soon as the unicycling, bowl-tossing woman left it. They were uniformly covered in their head-to-toe warms and they half-sprinted through lay-up lines. Like a hungry high school team. Or a battered NBA franchise hoping to acquire the right to draft John Wall.

As Kobe waited for the second half to begin, he stood next to Pau Gasol. More correctly, Pau wandered over to stand near him. The two gestured with their arms about some scenario known only to them that would presumably enable the Lakers to pile more points on the Verizon Center scoreboard. Or to prevent the Wizards from doing so. After they reached agreement about this scenario, Pau swung his right arm upward and grabbed Kobe's head as a big brother might do to a little brother. It made me question all the analysis of Kobe's innate asshole-ishness. Maybe it's not the virtuoso's duty to lower himself to blend with the orchestra. Maybe it's the orchestra's job to aspire to meet the standard of the virtuoso. Maybe Kobe doesn't need to be a rally-the-troops kind of leader. Maybe the locker-room hydra of Derek Fisher, Lamar Odom and the Spaniard is the rightful condutor for Phil Jackson's brilliant compositions. Maybe Kobe only ever needed to be the master violinist (and occasional player of the entire string section). Maybe that's a cliched analogy doubling as a sad apology. Whatever the case, Pau pawing Kobe's scalp was my favorite moment of the game that didn't involve Shannon Brown.

When the third quarter finally began, the Lakers offense actually started creating points. Imagine that. They seemed to be spread mostly between Kobe and Pau. But that didn't matter much as the Lakers score mostly went up and the Wizards score mostly did not. With about four minutes remaining in the third--just before the Lakers decided to go back to sleep--I leaned over to Dae and asked, "Do you think any Laker fans would join me if I started a 'We Want Tacos!' chant?" One of the 75 true Wizards fan in the building laughed, shook his head and sighed all at the same time.

It seemed like a reasonable question, though. There were no empty seats I could see as I scanned the bleachers of the Verizon Center. Squatting in most of those seats were people wearing purple and gold. Or forum blue and gold, if you prefer. A lot of #24 jerseys. A few #8s. Some #16 jerseys. (But a whole bunch of Spanish flags.) A #17 jersey here. A couple of #32s over there. Even a Sasha Vujacic. While Kobe shot free throws during the first quarter, a chant of "M-V-P!" broke out. A smattering of boos countered it. According to my ear, it sounded like 70% the former and 30% the latter. (That means a lot more for Kobe than against.)

So...I started thinking of milestones. If the Lakers could hold the Wizards to 70 points after three, there was a strong possibility they would be in taco range late in the fourth. (If you've never witnessed a blowout Laker win in Staples Center, there's a long-standing promotion whereby if the Lakers can prevent their opponent from scoring 100 points, all fans in attendance can redeem their ticket stub for free tacos at Jack in the Crack...I mean Jack in the Box. That promise of being able to hold two cornshells dripping with grease has inspired a tradition whereby Laker fans chant "We Want Tacos!" whenever the defending champs are getting close to putting a Staples Center game in the refrigerator.) At the end of the third quarter last night, the Lakers led 87-72.

During the break between quarters, I noticed two things. The first was something I had observed earlier in the game. Several times. The second was something that could help make my taco dream come true.

The repeated thing I noticed was Phil Jackson wandering onto the court, clipboard in hand, sketching patiently while play was stopped and players caught their breath on the bench. I think they call that a timeout. Most times, Phil would huddle his team near the end of this stoppage to tell them something. Mostly, he sketched.

The other thing I noticed is that Dae and I were seated in the Espana section for there were dozens of people cloaked in the yellow and red of the Spanish flag. Many simply wore the flag itself like it was a double X hoodie. A small group of them--teenagers mostly--screeched a single word, "GASOL!!!!!!!"

I thought about pitching the teenagers on the idea of starting up a "We Want Tacos!" chant if the Wizards hadn't hit 100 by the 46-minute mark. After I heard Pau's acolytes speaking Spanish when they weren't making his surname echo off the rafters which hung just a couple of yardsticks above us, I thought it may take too long to explain my taco dream. I also thought that request would be one car in the xenophobia train that I probably shouldn't board.

Into the fourth quarter the game trudged. The Lakers had really run away from the Wizards in the second. They got a little bit more separation in the third, but gave most of that back before that quarter ended. The pace favored the champs throughout as it remained ironically fast. They played mostly to a draw in the fourth--with ShanWOW, Odom and Jordan Farmar catching grooves to compliment the Pau + Kobe show. The Laker lead was secure. With just under three minutes to play, the Wizards notched points 96 and 97.

Nearly a quarter of the people in 431 and the adjacent sections had departed into the chilly Washington night by that point in the game. Even some of the Laker fans had vacated early. I quickly discarded the notion that I could rally my purple and gold comrades for an amusing act of hubris. If there was going to be a "We Want Tacos!" chant in the Verizon Center, I would have to start it alone.

Possession of the ball changed a couple of times. The Wizards held on 97. Sixty-some seconds remained. The shot clock turned red. A Wizards possession looked as if it would end horribly. I finally summoned the courage to stand up and answer my own prayer.

Which is exactly when Caron Butler performed his second act of public service that night.

An errant pass from...I don't remember which of Caron's teammates...morphed into a loose ball floating toward half court. A Laker pursued it, but was a step behind the Butler. Caron coralled it and heaved the ball in the direction of the shot clock. Just as I rose from my seat, the dreaded 98th, 99th and, yes dear readers, 100th Wizards points of the game swished in. There would be no taco chant that night.

As soon as the ball oozed through the net, I regretted that I didn't begin screaming "We Want Tacos!" two possessions prior. That's really when the Lakers could have used it. And that would have allowed enough time for some other simple-minded Laker fan (or 300) to join me in slapping the home team in their 14-30 faces.

But I didn't do it. And I wouldn't get to do it. I didn't get to do the "We Want Tacos!" chant outside of Staples Center.

I failed as a Laker fan.

Prop 8: Best Thing to Happen FOR Gay Marriage

2010-01-21T20:11:00.000-08:00

Based on what little I understand about the US Constitution, there's not a whole lot in there about morality. There's a lot of suggestions for how government is supposed to work. And a few bits about what rights people are expected to enjoy without fear of persecution. Or prosecution. But there's not much in there about how right and wrong are defined.

That's the kind of thing was left to the Bible writers.

If you're the type to thump your Bible (or Torah or Qur'an or whatever), then you may be able to make a moral argument against homosexuality. (You'd probably be kinda wrong, but you'd be welcome to try it.) What you can't really do is skim through the US Constitution and find an article on which to build a case that gay marriage is against the law.

On the contrary, you can pick any number of rights outlined in the Constitution and argue that they--as written--account for the right of people who share a gender to share some wedding vows.

That's more or less what I took from this segment Fresh Air ran yesterday.

I also took away that Prop 8 may ultimately be a good thing for gay marriage. Simply put, if you want to get a case to the Supreme Court to establish a principle as immutable law, you need a catalyst. Prop 8--while it was something of a bummer in the fall of '08--looks to be that catalyst.

While the Sups have been acting kinda strange this week, they'd be hard pressed to wholesale discard what appears to be a pretty obvious matter of constitutionality.

Right?

One Nation?

2010-01-20T09:22:00.000-08:00

Last night around the time the pundits on my TV were calling the Massachusetts election for the Republican, my thoughts immediately turned to what the poly sci takeaways would be. Sure, there are obvious questions about the Kennedy stranglehold and the legitimate will of the people of the Bay State. There is also the matter of how parity has kinda sorta been restored on Capitol Hill. Despite those things, I couldn't help but think about patriotism. Particularly how it sometimes seems like a contrived pollutant.

*Pause*

Look around the earth. Look at Brazil. Russia. India. And China. Look at Ethiopia and England, too. Or...pretty much every country other than the United States. What you'll probably see when examining different applications of nationalism is a common culture. Things around which people of that nation can define a shared sense of what their country is. Things in which they can take pride. Things they can celebrate. Food. Music. Language. The national football...er soccer...team.

Wherever you are in the world...as long as you're not standing between the shining seas...there is a visceral sense of what it means to be a citizen of that country. One that is celebrated simply and naturally. Which is probably why most countries other than the US seem to talk/act in terms of "nationalism" rather than "patriotism."

Now look around the United States. It doesn't matter whether you see red, blue or purple. What you'll see is a whole lot of different shit. Different food. Different music. Different football teams. And, to the dismay of many, different languages. I think there's a term for that...something like..."melting pot."

I'm not all that bright. Nor am I all that original. So count this as the 4,080th contemplation of what the American melting pot means. This one has as its thesis a simple, fragmented notion of what constitutes America. Which, predictably, is the US Constitution. Rather, the ideas on which the US Constitution and our system of government is founded.

You know all about those ideas, right? You don't need any (more) ramblings from me about the Grand Experiment. Freedom is pretty cool. Whether it's "of" "from" or "to" it is fundamentally good. Case closed.

It's also the kind of thing that is slightly awkward to celebrate. If you're completely and utterly free, then you can do anything. Everything. And if everyone is doing anything, then what exactly are you supposed to rally around? I'm eating a hamburger. He's sluping lasagne. And she's chewing some General Tso's chicken. We're all eating. We're all happy. But we're all doing very, very different things. It's not exactly...united.

But we have the ideas. We have the opportunities. (Kinda). And we have the system. That's what makes an American...an American. And that's it. There's nothing else for us to rally around or to draw a shared sense of identity from. It's not a good thing or a bad thing. It just is. But it's also something that I don't believe we've all come to terms with.

Some of us have a fetish for those ideas and rant joylessly about the imagined obligations that come with them--a counterintuitive act if there ever was one. One man should never be compelled to belittle or squash another man's freedom in order to execute his own.

Others of us misunderstand the ideas completely and exalt frivolity rather than freedom. American Idol hardly rises to the level of idolatry, but it isn't exactly what the founding fathers had in mind when they designed a system of civic engagement.

On the other hand, maybe that's the lighthouse in this murky sea of US identity politics. TV is good, right? That's something that America invented and that's something we can all celebrate. Right?

*Sigh*

Maybe not.

There's too many CSIs to choose from.

"Wrong Country"

2010-01-16T18:43:00.000-08:00

The scene in Richmond, VA last fall probably called for a suit--or a least a sport coat--and a law degree--or at least the intention of obtaining one. I can not say how many players were involved. Nor can I explain the methodology whereby they arrived at their conclusion. I can only tell you that--when the ink hit the paper--they had agreed to raise the rates on the toll road I travel from DC to near West extremities of northern Virginia. Effective Jan. 1, 2010.

It is an unfortunate fate for me--and any one else who commutes occasionally along the Dulles Toll Road. What used to cost 75 cents now costs a dollar. What used to cost 50 cents now costs 75 cents. Incremental change, to be sure. But that's precisely the problem: the change.

As you approach the toll booths that populate the Dulles Toll Road, flashing lights steer you toward the lanes that are E-Z Pass accessible as well as those reserved for the unwise or stubborn souls who've yet to affix an electronic sticker to their windshields. The lanes that service the unwise blare plainly that you must use coins if you wish to pay the machine. Otherwise, you'll have to suffer the indignity of interacting with a living human being in order to hand your folding money over to the Commonwealth.

I'm unwise. But I'm not a complete fool. I traveled the toll road last week and realized that the change holder in my car was nearly emptied by the new, increased fees. I made it a point to grab a whole bunch of change from the change dish at my house on Thursday night because I knew I'd need it on Friday morning.

(Yes, that means I spent the night in the city. Probably in someone else's bed. And that's all that needs to be said about that. ;P)

Jump cut to Friday morning. NPR is telling me about what's happening in Haiti. Or maybe in the US Supreme Court. I've arrived at the very last tool booth I must endure before hopping off the parkway and slipping into my office. My paw swipes four big, round coins from my car's change holder. I good morning the old fellow manning the toll booth as I dribble each of those coins into the oversized coin collector.

As I inch my car forward, the graybeard yells something. I pump the breaks and glance at the red light that tells me I've not completed my transaction. The attendant climbs out of his post, retrieves a coin from collecting device and reaches his hand into my car window to hand me ten pence.

"Wrong country."

Whoops. Um...yeah.

I threw an American quarter into the machine and sped off.

Haven't been to the UK in more than two years. Haven't sifted through my change jar in at least that long. I'd like to be mad at the suits--or sport coats--in Richmond who caused me to dig so deep into my change reserves.

But I can't really be mad. 'Cause I wouldn't have been there in the first place if there weren't a woman involved somewhere in this story.

I think next time, I'll buy an E-Z pass. Assuming I will still have a need for one.

(Yeah, go 'head and assume that one. For both of us. ;P)

The Big Yank: Lessons from a Tonsillectomy

2009-12-10T12:23:00.000-08:00

As far back as I can remember, I've had some kind of throat problem. When I was a not-so-little-kid I'd catch bronchitis every year smack in the middle of hoop season. I remember one case that brought with it some bronchial spasms that pretty much prevented me from breathing and caused me to miss three days of basketball practice. Whether or not you're trying to cover 94 feet in less than 4 seconds, you kinda need to breathe in order to be alive. Thankfully for me, I didn't stop living. And I didn't miss any games either. Just practice. That time.

More recently, I've been the beneficiary of what appeared to be a chronic case of tonsillitis. Two or three times a year, I'd get some sort of sinus congestion that would drip into my throat thereby irritating my least favorite body part. Once it was irritated, my throat would stay sore for...a while. Back in August, I was diagnosed with inflamed tonsils. The day after Halloween, they were still inflamed.

It's taken me several years, several sore throats/inflamed tonsils and several visits to several different ENTs (I've moved around a lil bit and I don't have a primary care physician) but earlier this fall, I finally heard the words I'd been waiting for: "So, do you wanna get your tonsils removed?"

By all accounts that I'm aware of, doctors do tonsillectomies on adults only as a last resort. It's supposed to be painful and it allegedly takes a long time to heal. Some urban legends even say it's risky. I cared about none of those things when I heard those eight beautiful words. My tonsils, as far as I could tell, had reached the point of diminishing returns and were no longer of any positive use for me.

(Except for the part of the sore throat experience when my voice sounded raspier than Miles Davis. That part was pretty cool. For about a day and a half. Until all the coughing was a lil more important than all the cool.)

On Tuesday, Dec. 1, I went under the scalpel (or whatever tool they use to reach way into the nether regions of your mouth to yank out your tonsils) for a long overdue tonsillectomy. Since that day, I've learned a few things about what it takes to recover from The Big Yank.

1) You're gonna lose some weight. The doctors advise you to begin eating things like mashed potatoes as soon as it feels comfortable to chew and swallow. Which may take a week. Or more.

2) Drink lots of fluids...that are fortified with something. Bolthouse Farms smoothies, Sobe Lifewater, Propel and Gatorade kept me alive for the first couple of days.

3) You really don't wanna eat a lot of ice cream. Or maybe any. Your throat will be too sensitive to all that damn'd cold. For the first week at least.

4) Pudding is your friend. Somewhere in the middle of day 2, I discovered that pudding was the most soothing thing I could swallow. Applesauce seemed like a good idea, but really wasn't. Oatmeal, on the other hand, slid down nice and easily. It just wasn't as satisfying as pudding.

5) You're not gonna be able to use your tongue for a while. Stretching it just a little to scrape debris from your molars won't feel good. So...you're gonna need to devise some other way to be...um...cunning.

6) Shut up. Don't talk to anyone for a couple of days. (Except for your smokin' hot S.O. who has volunteered to take care of you.) It's just not worth the effort. If you've stocked up on pudding, smoothies, water and instant oatmeal, you don't really need visitors during the first day or two anyway.

7) Sleeping may be the hardest part. Getting there and staying there can be kinda unpleasant as you may simultaneously experience pain in your ears and in your throat. You can take a painkiller to aid this process. But if you're staying superhydrated, you'll invariably wake up to pee. Which will start the whole process over again. And will probably trigger the other unpleasant end of the sleeping process.

8) Waking up isn't fun either. For the first week, your throat will be hella dry, but it'll be extra hurt-y to try and swallow anything to relieve your dry mouthedness. Again, painkillers help. But they'll reduce the pain from double-you-over-spasms to take-the-Lord's-name-in-vane-exclamations. Until they kick in 15-20 minutes later and take you to that happy place where the soundtrack is provided by the Grateful Dead and Snoopy D-O-double-Gizzle.

9) Stretch. A lot. By day 3 or day 4, you're gonna start getting restless and maybe a little bed sore. Or couch sore. Unfurl that yoga mat and do a mini-routine. Your back and legs will thank you later.

10) Stay clean. Bathe and change clothes once a day. Brush your teeth and do a mouthwash treatment, too. Change your bedsheets every 4-5 days. Those will accumulate a lot of funk.

11) Read something breezy and captivating. I recommend this and this to get started.

12) Laughter is not the best medicine. Until day 3 or day 4, it's gonna hurt to laugh. Even as I discovered that, I inexplicably killed a lot of hours watching sitcoms. 30 Rock. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Better Off Ted. Parks and Recreation. On the plus side, I'm all caught up on each of those shows. Also, I've watched Michael Clayton 45 more times.

13) Work from home as long as possible. Email is your friend, too. (Although its not nearly as friendly as pudding.) You can be as verbose as you need to be using your fingers. The voice is gonna be weak for at least a week. Maybe two. Unless you host a talk show, your office can miss the sound of your voice.

Truth be told, the only thing you really truly need in order to recover from The Big Yank is time. As long as you don't do anything dumb--like eating homemade bread the day after the procedure--you'll probably be okay. The doctors are going to prep you pretty thoroughly. And it's simple enough to follow all their instructions for what to do, what not to eat, where you can expect to experience pain, etc.

As long as you do that, you should be cool. It's gonna suck for a while. But you'll eventually get past it.

With the help of lots and lots of pudding.

Tax Us, Please

2009-11-12T17:54:00.001-08:00

Germany's economy is in trouble. A bunch of rich barons want to come to its aid...by asking the German government to conditionally raise their taxes.

Crazy, right?

PRI's The World broadcast that story last night.

A Facebook Strategy for Parents of T(w)eens

2009-11-10T13:22:00.000-08:00

Since I don't have any kids of my own that makes me an expert on telling other people how to raise their offspring. Today, I'd like to share a rather simple strategy for how to govern your not-so-little person's usage of social media.

First, say a conditional yes to whatever online community they want to join. Unless, of course, it's the Little Hitlers Society or a San Antonio Spurs Fan Club.

Second, in the event that you are a member of the same community, do not require them to "friend" you. Don't even ask them to.

Third, lay down this one rule that you will not compromise on:

Once a week (or at a slightly more frequent interval of your choosing) junior will agree to sit down with you at his/her PC or Mac to review and talk about one element of his/her profile in this community: their friends list.

Your agenda for tracking that one thing (and only that one thing) should be a rational one that mirrors the most basic good parenting strategies for the physical world. You'll be looking for people you don't know. If you don't know someone who is in your son's or daughter's online circle, then ask them about said person. "Who are they? How do you know them? Why are they your friend?" If your youngin' can't answer those questions to your satisfaction, then Johnnie or Tremaine can't be online friends with the stranger. Just like you wouldn't want them hanging around with Greg Popovich in real life.

You'll need to be very disciplined during these friend list review sessions. Resist the urge to ask to see other parts of shorty's profile. Instead, if you have your own profile, share that with them and talk with them about your own experiences socializing online.

If you don't have a profile on whatever site they want to join (or if you're still something of a social luddite), then track down stories where people said something online or posted a photo that came back to haunt them in a real way. Like getting fired. Or arrested. Or dumped by the love of their life who looks just like the vampire kid from Twilight. The point of the exercise is to train junior to recognize that s/he needs to be thoughtful about his or her digital footprint. Everyone is gonna act a fool sometimes. And you ought to give your kid the space to make mistakes. But you don't want the kinda crazy thing they did seven Fridays ago to derail their Senatorial campaign in 2032. Or their shot at a college scholarship a couple years from now.

That's it. Follow that one rule and you'll create a portal into your seed's online experiences. Odds are that, if you maintain a healthy dialogue in general, Johnnie or Tremaine will share something with you that happened on Facebook that is not germaine to their friend list. Even if they don't, you're still doing your job. And that's really all you can do. Online or off.

What's In a Name?

2009-10-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

My brother, Youngblood, and his wife are expecting their second child. As a rule, they don't know the gender of the baby. And they won't until Mrs. Youngblood pushes that sweet, screaming, poop-making machine out into this world. They've got some ideas for how they'll refer to this forthcoming bundle of joy. One of the candidates for a male baby is the name "Brendan." Of which, I'm not a fan.

Believe it or not, I've got a couple of quasi-reasonable objections:

1) It's too easy to confuse "Brendan" with "Brandon" and I suspect a person named the former would spend a good deal of his life in correction mode.
2) When the other kids start picking on him, he'll invariably be called "Brenda." (That's certainly what I'd do if I were 9 years old and I wanted to tease a kid named "Brendan.")
3) I can picture a little boy named "Brendan," but I can't imagine a grown man called "Brendan." It just feels like a short-term solution. It doesn't really...mature...very well.

I'm probably responding rather weirdly when it comes to this particular name. And, now that I've shared my objection with Youngblood (and the rest of the free and not-so-free worlds), my objection can pretty much be discarded.

Except, perhaps, for that last reason.

I don't--thankfully for the rest of the planet--have any kids. I don't have near-term plans to have any either. Which is to say that I'm grossly unqualified when it comes to debating parenting philosophies. At least from a first-person standpoint. I am--allegedly--a modestly intelligent person. And I have had, like, three whole conversations with parents and/or their offspring about parenthood. So I'll step into my arrogant pants for a moment and tell other people how they should live their lives. (Just this once.)

Arguably the biggest mistake any parent makes is limiting the concept of their "child" to the first life stage their son or daughter travels through. A baby will be a baby for a while. And then they won't be. They'll be a third-grader for an even shorter amount of time. And they'll be a teenager for far longer than is comfortable for any sane person. And then, most importantly, they will be an adult. At some point. It's an inevitability that all of us should be so lucky to endure.

In my experience, there's a wistful fetish--that is perhaps only a couple of generations old--within Western culture for a certain notion of what childhood is supposed to be about. Someone or something is always trying to protect children or preserve the integrity of the experience of being a child. And someone or something is always celebrating childhood as if it were a bubble of pure, unadulterated joy. Like there's a cultural decision to make bliss the most blissful when ignorance is the expected, accepted norm.

Which, of course, is not really the case. At every stage of development that I've observed, children/kids/juniorpoopersofpants have a lot going on mentally and emotionally. They may enjoy more moments (and/or moments that last longer) where the psychological obligations of behaving in a civilized manner do not appear to exist but, to their credit, the youngin's are not braindead or heartdeaf. They see things. They think and they feel. And they're slowly accumulating the stories on which their identities and personal belief systems will be built. They are, very plainly, adults-in-training.

That sounds kinda like a hairy, steaming pile of suck, don't it?

Well...it could be. But it doesn't have to be. Childhood and adulthood are not simple, monolithically categorizable experiences. There are rites of passage that link many people together as if they're all taking the exact same steps along the exact same journey. But we don't take the same steps. And we certainly don't all step in anything that resembles the same order.

Some of us graduate from pre-school, lose all our baby teeth before we finish learning to multiply, discard the idea of the other gender as having cooties at some point around junior high, obtain a driver's license as soon as legally possible, do our first kegstand before college, do a lot more kegstands in college, survive those first three really crappy jobs, choose a spouse, push out some pantspoopers of our own, finally move into that corner office, cry when our own kids begin to remind us how far we are on our own journeys and then...well...some other stuff.

Before that other stuff happens, those bittersweet reminders are probably what trigger the fetish for childhood. The view via the rear mirror is always much happier (or, if you prefer, more painful) than the time that has passed really was. Memory, despite the complex series of chemical interactions that make it possible, is the great simplifying tool. It transforms childhood into this thing that is innocent and pure and wonderful. It dulls the awkward, irrational truth which is neither entirely bad nor entirely good.

Childhood, like adulthood, is just another thing you do that you can enjoy if you want to. You shouldn't be told what it will be or how you're supposed to experience it. The only expectations a person who is experiencing childhood--or adulthood for that matter--should have are that there will be lights and tools and people to help you learn how to use those tools as you stumble and glide along your path. You don't need anything to be dulled or amplified for your benefit. You just need the freedom to fumble...or to start the wild rumpus.

Wait...this was supposed to have something to do with a name, wasn't it?

I guess I don't know exactly what IS in a name but I do know that no parent is simply naming a baby or a child. They are, Godwilling, naming a person who will grow up. Consequently, the job of a parent isn't to raise a "child", but to train an adult. Which is probably a far scarier endeavour. Maybe that's why the persistent longing for "childhood"...persists. It looks like it is more fun perhaps because it was. Or so it seemed. And maybe that's why so many baby names are...cute.

The Revolution Will Not Be...Monetized?

2009-10-15T11:10:00.000-07:00

The Revolution, according to Michael Moore, has come. It may not be time to pick up the gun. But it is time to pursue a better -ism than the -ism that ails us at present. So, we're told via his latest film.

Whether or not you've seen Capitalism: A Love Story, here (for the purposes of this half-witted rant) is the executive summary of the film:

In the latter decades of the 20th Century--at the height of American prosperity--some combination of the US banking industry, the wealthiest 1% of US citizens and the US government all cahooted to abandon the US manufacturing core in favor of a speculation-based economy that was measured primarily in terms of theoretical paper wealth. In doing so, these cahooters manipulated the dreams of the average American to maintain their control of the country. The resulting evils the cahooters perpetrated have ushered many Americans right out of their own homes and their own jobs into...well...that's just it...the poor, dumb bastards who comprise America's working classes have been left with their thumbs to sit on and the dwindling hairs on their heads to give them shelter.

That's the movie. In a nutshell. And it gives us--the choir to whom Mr. Moore so lovingly sings--this plan of attack:

"We're mad as hell...we kinda know what we're mad about...we really wanna do something about it...but we don't know exactly what that will be...yet."

Oh, wait, Democracy. That was the answer one of America's greatest storytellers proposed to the problem of Capitalism gone wild. That and a Second Bill of Rights (as outlined in some very cool film of FDR) aimed at guaranteeing certain rights for wage-earners. While noble, that answer (rather, that plan) is incomplete. Democracy is certainly a tactic and the Bill of Rights 2.0 is certainly a clear goal. But how will we deploy the vote and what will we do once we have achieved that particular goal?

In the film, Moore challenges us to embrace democracy and to engage the most fundamentally American tools of civic participation in order to resuscitate our great nation. He also reminded us what happened when we tried that last winter in the midst of the debate over whether to begin issuing bailouts to American industries. Um...it kinda didn't work. We got overruled. And the industries--particularly Wall Street--enjoyed a cash injection from the dirty syringes we weren't done using ourselves.

It's easy to hate on Wall Street. But you know who has money parked on Wall Street? I do. So does my father. And his sister. And her neighbor. And that guy's kid's teacher. We're all, to some degree, invested in the greatest ponzi scheme the world has ever known. And while many of us suffer from the genius applied by some of our brightest engineering minds who have abandoned engineering in favor of finance, some of us are forever thankful that those same minds have made us money that we would not have "earned" otherwise.

Speculation is a great seductress and she knows we all dream of wiping our funky asses with Benji Franklin's big face. Sadly, though, speculation ain't what she used to be. Back in 1849, you could discover oil or gold or some other very tangible commodity whose value may flutuate but would never be called into question. A century and a half later, you can launch Twitter or get in on the ground floor of some other intangible, yet very cool thing that hardly anyone knows how to monetize but that everyone is sure is worth billions. Well, they're pretty sure. After all, the guy who founded Friendster is still rich, right?

There's a moment in C:ALS (brilliant pun of an acronym, BTW) where a woman associated with these striking Chicago workers talks optimistically about what the power of the people could yield. She ponders their collective potential as owners and asks, almost wistfully, "But where would we get the money?"

And that's the question that Moore really leaves us with. Rather, that's one of 'em. Sure, Democracy may be the answer. Tactically. But what do we really want to accomplish? Do we simply want good jobs? I thought the American Dream had to do with owning your piece of the pie. To do that, you need to bake the pie or buy the pie. Either way, you're gonna need some kind of investment in order to deliver a slice to your plate. The solution for the dilemma of capitalism--an economic system which is less about immorality than it is about inevitability--isn't so easy as voting the bums out of office and writing new laws to ensure that there will always be a clock for the clockpunchers of our country to...well...punch.

Let's suppose that Moore's Revolution were to happen, though. Would US factory doors swing back open to welcome US workers back to the jobs that would now be a key part of their birthright? Not exactly. Most likely, it would take time to return those facilities to a sound operational state. Time, as so many cliches have alerted us, is money. So we're back to that question: "Where would we get the money?"

Well...Moore's Revolution could always mimic the cheapest form of birth control known to wo/man: Pull Out. If those 200 workers from Republic Windows had pulled all their money out of the stock market (and possibly their savings accounts, CDs, IRAs, etc), they may have had a pool of money big enough to buy the company themselves and run it as a co-op. Maybe it would have worked. Maybe it wouldn't. The workers certainly would have controlled their own destiny. Which, I gather, is all Michael Moore asks of his America.

As for what Moore asks of us to conduct this Revolution, the film fails to unveil a concrete plan. But it does appear that a more detailed sketch of how to make the porkiest capitalists cry whee, whee, whee all the way back to their opulent homes lives on Moore's web site. The site certainly offers a deeper understanding of both the means and the ends associated with Moore's Revolution. Which makes a person wonder: isn't C:ALS just one big commercial for 21st Century Progressivism? While that may not be such a bad thing, the film does come across as a scratchy note passed between the kettle and the pot.

Hopefully, that pot has some gold in it. Or some seed money. Or something. 'Cause a broke revolution ain't gonna solve anyone's problems.

Hustle Hard

2009-10-09T14:28:00.000-07:00

I have pretty much no interest in what this young woman vlogs about, but I really, really, really dig her hustle:

If I owned a media company, I'd want to find some way to be in business with her. i don't know what that way would be. Maybe the folks who own Jet and Essence would have some ideas. From what I hear, they could use some help.

What's Really Wrong With US Health Care?

2009-10-09T12:08:00.000-07:00

It's not something that can be answered on the Hill.

Instead, you have to go to someplace like Lewiston, Maine to wrap your arms around the cultural mores and systematic flaws that lead to questionable consumption of medical services...among other things.

In order to get to Lewiston, you need to travel via NPR. Have a look and listen at/to part one of this brilliant series.

40 Rock

2009-10-07T18:45:00.001-07:00

If you've never heard of a dude called Geoff Dyer, you should google him. And you should probably start reading him. I'm just about finished with a quasi-memoir called Yoga for People Who Can't Be Bothered to Do It.

In a portion of the book titled, "Hotel Oblivion," Dyer writes:

It was better being forty than twenty, when one was full of fire and ambition and hope. It was even better than being thirty, when those hopes that had once animated you became a goading source of torment.

"Once you turn forty," I said to Matt, "the whole world is water off a duck's back. Once you turn forty, you realize that life is there to be wasted."

Yeah, man. That sounds about right.

We Gon Make It

2009-10-06T08:10:00.000-07:00

Resolved: Anything that was said (or written) last night was all just the wine talking.

Therefore: Fuck the frail shit.

Ramble On

2009-10-05T23:25:00.000-07:00

Almost three years to the day, I'm leaving the house I moved into when I started this silly little experiment. I'm not sure if it means I'm done with this experiment. I have been, largely, a vacant landlord. And this experiment has not at all been what it is supposed to be.

Initially, I thought it'd be a way to track my own re-adolescence. It kinda was. But mostly, it evolved into that rickety hoop in the backyard. The one I mess around on to keep the skills from fading completely. Since I have been so vacant, I suppose the skills have faded. The hoop has certainly rusted. And, perhaps, it is time to take it down.

Today, I am 33 years old. I still haven't completely finished that damn'd movie. Although, there are only two pieces of paper standing between me and its vanglorious release. I am still broke. Although not nearly as broke as I was three years ago. I am...in all likelihood...single again. Although, there's still a chance that a Liberian Girl will keep me around for a few more weeks. (I should have shared more on THAT story. And I will. Maybe.) I am also still...very much...unsettled.

There is something I should be doing in life. But I'm not certain what that thing is yet. Or, perhaps, what those thing(s) are. I used to believe I could write my way out of any problem. Maybe I still can. And maybe I'm not facing a problem so much as it's just another milemarker on the road to...wherever.

If I were a more eloquent mu'fucka...I'd have more to say. Much more. But I'm not.

So here we are. And here I am. Back to wandering. Back to the pen.

Inevitably.

As it were. As it will be.

What'd Jack Sparrow say? Drink up, me hearties.

We Will Know #3: Lamar

2009-06-03T17:20:00.000-07:00

NOTE: This is the third of three. It should have been posted first so that all of the notes made sense. But this is a blog with the word "backwards" in its title, so...what did you expect? Hey...I've written something again. The world should be...well...I'd like to think it should be thankful for that. But, perhaps I'm mistaken. Anyway...enjoy!

Lamar Odom is 6'10".

If he were 6'3", he would have been hailed as the best guard prospect of his generation.

But he's not 6'3". He's 6'10".

So...call on whatever memory you have of Tiny Archibald, Kenny Anderson or Stephon Marbury and imagine if those players were the size of a power forward instead of the size of a point guard.

You'd probably paint a picture of Magic Johnson. And you'd be right. To begin with. You'd be careful to shade it with a whole lot more athleticism, though. 'Cause, believe it or not, Lamar Odom has every inch of Magic Johnson's game, but he's FAR more (and it's not even close here) athletic than #32.

What he's never had is Earvin Johnson's head. Or his heart.

Which is the twin shame of Lamar Odom.

He is the most uniquely gifted player in a sport famous for the singularity of its players' athletic freakishness. Quite possibly, he is the most uniquely gifted player in the history of this sport. (On top of everything, he's a leftie for chrissakes!)

So, of this uniquely gifted player, what would any reasonable person expect?

All-Star. All-Pro. Championships. Hall of Fame.

Would you believe Lamar Odom--save for one All-Star appearance--has accomplished none of those things?

In his decade or so in the NBA, Lamar Odom has been the most perplexing player in the league. It is the only "most" that he has achieved thus far.

Yet, here he is. Preparing to play in his second consecutive NBA Finals. Positioned--almost as if by fate--as the most important player on the Lakers roster.

Because of his flexibility and the natural fluidity of his game, he provides an all-in-one solution for every problem posed by every player on Orlando's front line. Granted, he's not going to guard more than one guy at a time, but he could guard any one of them at any time. On the other side of the ball, none of those players--when Lamar's game is on--can guard him.

But is Lamar's game going to be on?

We really have no idea. And we'ver never had any idea about his game either.

We've known about some of his off-court episodes.

The recruiting mishaps that had him committing to, like, 4 different schools before finally being allowed to enroll at Rhode Island. The drug violations that nearly prevented him from being eligible to play in the NBA.The trade out of LA. The trade back to LA. The death of his son. The launch of his clothing line. The sweet tooth that would make Willie Wonka sick.

But we've never known about his game.

We've never known whether we're going to get the 20-10-5 from him that he's given us during brilliant flashes. We've never known whether he's gonna pick up 2 fouls in the first 3 minutes of the game then spend his time sulking by the 3-point line launching shots even the Beastie Boys wouldn't advise.

We've never known what the hell we're gonna get from Lamar Odom. But we keep wanting to believe that he's gonna give us something transcendent. Because that is precisely what he is built for.

And, you would think, that's what the NBA Finals can bring out in a player.

You would think that. You would also think that Lamar Odom will be Lamar Odom.

Which is to say that you have no idea what he will be.

You will find out, though.

And you still won't know. Not exactly

We Will Know #2: Kobe

2009-06-03T17:17:00.000-07:00

NOTE: This is #2 of 3 in a mini-series of craptacular musings on the NBA Finals. There was a tangent about Kobe restoring equilibrium to the business of professional basketball, but it was lost somewhere in the ether.

Kobe Bryant has three NBA Championship rings. He won all of them with Shaq. We know all about this.

He's also the guy who has become the inspiration for the generation of NBA superstars that followed him. Much like Micheal Jordan was.

Mike mesmerized all his little basketball-dunking brothers with what happened during the games. Most of them emulated the style of game his gifts enabled him to play, but very few took pains to understand the work that took place off the court to enable Mike to perform those daring feats on it. They wanted the reward and had no interest in the risk. Mike, more or less, encouraged that while his playing career remained active.

Kobe was one of the few to get it. He got all of it. He knew that everything that took place after the final buzzer sounded on one game, one season, one championship was just as important as all that would take place between the lines once the next buzzer sounded to signify the start of the next game, next season and...well...you are supposed to bring home the championship, right? Where everyone else wanted to be like Mike, Kobe simply became Mike. Mostly.

In Mike's case, the generation that came after him was kept aloof on purpose. Mike didn't want them to learn his secrets because he didn't want them to beat him. And none of them did.

Kobe, on the other hand, almost needed all of his hoop siblings to know what he went through in order to be great. It was as if it weren't enough to satisfy his ego that they acknowledged him as a great player, he needed them to recognize him as an equally great preparer.

Probably because Kobe knew early on that he would never achieve Mike's exalted social status. Kobe doesn't have Mike's charisma. Nor does he have the benefit of landing on the NBA's moon first. Mike's flag was already there. But this is an aside.

This spring, we've heard so much about how Kobe's example during the Olympics inspired LeBron and Carmelo, among others. This is all true. There's no mistaking the difference in focus and preparation of the post-Kobe generation pre-Olympics and post-Olympics.

The result of Kobe sharing all--or nearly all--of his trade secrets has been that he's accidentally set himself up to be a Joe Frazier cutting stone for a generation of Muhammad Alis. Kobe has already bested two of the next generation's brightest hopes (D Will and 'Melo). Had the Cavs made the Finals, obviously, LeBron would have had the prime opportunity to get his Ali on. But he's didn't. D Howard has, though. And he's certainly playing like he thinks the crown fits him.

Most importantly, what each of those players has in common is that they're all entering their primes with a certain ferocity informing their play. To a great degree, they have Kobe to thank for that. And how will they thank him? By taking turns kicking the crap out of him every spring until Kobe retires? It's quite possible (particularly if you believe Bill Simmons) that this next series represents Kobe's last best hope to win a championship.

If that's the case and he loses, then how does history remember him? He won three championships. Sure. But he also lost three championships. How does that .500 record in the Finals inform his legacy?

If there's anyone on earth who ponders that question, it is Kobe Bryant. It has to be eating at him. It has to be driving him. It IS driving him. If you saw game 5 of the Nuggets series, that much is obvious.

Kobe is on the verge. Perhaps for the last time. Perhaps not. We really don't know. And neither does Kobe.

But we will know whether he'll snatch a fourth ring from history's jewelery box or not. And we will know that in 7 games or less.

We Will Know #1: Skip

2009-06-03T17:11:00.000-07:00

NOTE: Somehow, a gchat with a my dear, PhD-having friend in Bloomington, IN turned into three semi-epic email messages from me regarding key subplots to the 2009 NBA Finals. Since I've not really been paying this thing any attention, I'm recycling those email messages. This is the first...

When basketball died in the mid-90s, it had a lot to do with the And1 phenomenon. Rafer Alston, then known to most as a HS PG/NYC Playground Legend called Skip to My Lou, was the face of And1. Eff that. He WAS And1.

He did some time in the NCAAs playing for Jerry Tarkanian's underachieving (yet thoroughly interesting) Fresno State teams circa 1997. He was drafted with some ceremony by...I don't remember who...then proceeded to bounce around the NBA carrying with him a reputation for being a servicable NBA PG who could make your team interesting, but it was long thought that he would never evolve into a championship calibre-player. In large part because he was still a fragile showboat.

Last year, with Houston, he showed signs that he might finally be ready for prime time. That the kid so many backpackers jizzed in their pants over way back in '95ish had finally grown into a real-ass NBA baller.

Fast forward to Jan '09. Orlando is on the verge of doing big things. Their starting PG, Jameer Nelson, goes down with a season-ending shoulder injury. Nelson is the classic up-by-your-bootstraps story who has made a career out of overachieving. He also served as the heart of the franchise. The season--it was thought--was over. Even a trade for a decent player to fill in would probably not offer the potential that Nelson's healthy presence would have.

Yet, here comes Rafer Alston via trade, or Skip as some still like to call him. He does more than a serviceable job. More importantly, he provides exactly what is needed exactly when it is needed during the Magic's journey through the play-offs.

It's a brilliant redemption story. And it brings to mind the speech from the closing scene of Rocky IV, "If they can change, and I can change, maybe we all can change..."

The idea here being that maybe all the so-called ills of the mid-90s streetball scene weren't so bad after all. Maybe they helped set the stage for the basketball we see being played today. By everyone from whatever NCAA team John Calipari is coaching to the 2009 Eastern Conference champions.

Without Skip...maybe there's no Steve Nash. And without Nash...well, there's certainly no NBA as we know it today.

So here's Skip's moment. And...wouldn't you know it...Jameer Nelson is talking about making a premature comeback. If he does, that's gonna eat into Skip's moment. How will he handle it? Has he really grown from the volatile schoolyards that birthed him into a mature leader? Or is he still that rascally showboat who burned up the heads of so many VCRs by his sheer virtuosity with a basketball?

We don't know yet. But we will.

The Drunkard's Calendar

2009-05-06T18:11:00.000-07:00

So...yesterday was Cinco de Mayo. Which, I believe, is the holiday that celebrates the birth of Tequila. That's as fine a thing to celebrate as any, but it got me thinking about all the other holidays that are celebrated in the US.

Sure, there's important stuff like Christmas and Flag Day, but the real holidays are the ones that call for us to bug out of work early (or not work at all), plop down at the bar (or a lawn chair in the backyard) and glug down enough alcohol to destroy four livers.

Those holidays, it might be said, comprise The Drunkard's Calendar. Which looks a little something like this:

New Year's Eve
St. Patrick's Day
Cinco De Mayo
Memorial Day
July 4th
Labor Day
Halloween
Day Before Thanksgiving

If you notice anything about that list, it is probably that it is far too short. So, I'm thinking that we need to expand the Drunkard's Calendar. We need one holiday a month. At least. We definitely need less than 6 weeks between holidays. So, how about if we add:

Valentine's Day: No one really celebrates this one any way. If they do, they're celebrating it all wrong. Given the choice between flowers that are gonna die tomorrow and vodka that's gonna make tomorrow all headache-y, which would you choose? Exactly.

NCAA Men's Basketball Championship Game: It's always gonna be a Monday in April, so we give ourselves a new 3-day weekend right when the weather is turning. Besides, the game is usually kinda mediocre. If you know anything about whiskey, you know that enough of it turns mediocre into legendary.

Juneteenth: No one ever knows what this holiday is supposed to be about, but people sure do like to BBQ and play dominoes to honor it. Where there's BBQ and dominoes, cold beer can't be too far behind.

Kool-Aid Day: This apparently takes place in mid-August. All we need to do is pour some rum in it and we have ourselves another drunkard's holiday.

Repeal Day: Did you know that Prohibition was officially repealed on Dec. 5, 1933? If you can't drink to that, you can't drink to anything.

And that brings us to 13. A full Drunkard's Calendar. So full that there are more holidays to celebrate than there are months in the year. Which sounds about right.

Don't you think?

Let Them Eat Cake

2009-04-02T00:02:00.001-07:00

Way back when The People took to the streets of Seattle to protest the grotesqueries of the World Economic Forum, I probably said, "Right on! Give those bastards hell!"

I was younger back then. And I was rancid with piss and vineager and righteous indignation over greedy somebodies who ran the world and were the cause of all our problems.

Now, I'm older. A certain red-haired girl might even tell you I'm just old. Either way, I'm a little wiser. Perhaps, I'm just less pissy. Whatever the case, I subscribe to the Leila Dean Principle. It involves compromise. And cake.

One lump or two? (2:30) | PRI's The World

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Quiet As Kept

2009-03-31T20:43:00.000-07:00

When I filled out an NCAA Tournament bracket two weeks ago, I chalked it just like everyone else in America. Mostly, I chalked it for my favorite teams. (Specifically, I chalked it for Pitt.) And I expected the story to emerge from this year's Tournament to be about the guys who have quietly been coaching their asses off.

Mike Anderson.
Jeff Capel.
Jamie Dixon
Anthony Grant.
Fran McCaffrey.
Sean Miller.
Stu Morrill.
Jay Wright.

Some are widely thought to be rising stars. Most run exemplary programs. None have crossed the threshold into Guitar Hero territory, yet.

But--with today's below-the-fold announcement that Mizzou has extended Anderson--some of these guys might finally get their own national endorsement deals.

One of 'em--that bastard who ended the Panthers' dream--might get a lil more than that this weekend. If he does, his career won't be quiet any longer.

A Writer's Guide to Alcohol

2009-03-29T09:08:00.000-07:00

There are an infinite number of combinations of spirits you can pour into your body to make yourself drunk. However, there are only a certain number of base alcohols that can be used to create those drinks.

There's gin. There's vodka. There's tequila. There's rum. There's whisky.

(You could argue for other delicious poisons to be added to the list, but those five are all I'm dealing with today.)

During my drinking career, I've poured a little bit of each of those spirits into my body. And I've figured out how each of them works. More or less.

Gin is slow. It lingers. You won't feel a buzz right away, but when it does kick in, it tends to kick with the ferocity of Chuck Norris. That is, if you've slurped down 10-15 glasses with some gin in them. Anything short of that will kick more like...your girlfriend's kickboxing instructor. Or maybe one of the women in the kickboxing class. The Chuck Norris happens once you hit double digits. Also, the way gin lingers, it has a very cathartic effect for the digestive system. One way or another, something is coming out of you if you drink enough gin. So plan on being near a bathroom the morning after. Or as soon as the Chuck Norris happens.

Vodka is a bit like gin. But not quite as violent. It also works more quickly than gin does. If it takes you two hours to get a good gin buzz, you'll arrive at tipsy in half that time with vodka as your driver. Vodka also tends to be pretty flat. When you're vodka drunk, it'll feel pleasant, but it won't feel pleasant-er or pleasant-est. It'll stay pleasant for as long as it can, then it'll turn almost immediately to pre-hangover or even hangover. There's a reason the Russians can be some mean sonsofbitches. It ain't the communism. And it ain't the weather. It's the vodka.

A lot of folks are scared of tequila. Probably for good reason. It acts fast. Which is good if you're trying to find that good feeling quickly. The trouble occurs when you don't realize you're in the good place and you continue to search for it. You really have to let the tequila work for you. Don't work for it. Inhale a shot. Or three. Breath it out. Let it wash over you. Soak up that buzz. Then manage it. For as long as you can. Eventually, the tequila will take over. And you won't be accountable for your actions. At least you shouldn't be. 'Cause tequila is a helluva drink. The upside, if you drink tequila right, is that it leaves your system the same way it came in. The buzz builds quickly and can wear off with the same speed. Assuming you don't drink all the tequila in Jalisco, that is.

Rum is the stuff good vacations in the tropics are made of. It's very leisurely. Both in how moves through you and what it does as it moves. Rum also works in whatever way you ask it to. If you insist on speeding through it--like you're trying to relax too hard an your vacation--it'll punch fast and hard. And you'll be worn out from it before you hit day four. Rather, round four. On the other hand, if you slither into the rum--like you're lazily unwinding at the beach--it'll treat you pretty nicely for a good long while. Until you get somewhere into the 20s. Which is kinda like forcing a second week of vacation. It sounds like it'd be a good idea. But it really isn't. The downside to rum--like the downside to any good vacation--is that it ends. When it does end, sometimes you need another vacation to recover from it.

Then, of course, there's whisky. The writer's nectar. There are a variety of processes that yield a variety of whiskies. But, whichever you're drinking...they all tend to deliver you to the same delicious destination. It happens almost instantly. For the uninitiated, the natural reaction is to screw one's face up as soon as the whiksy makes contact with the taste buds. For your friendly neighborhood writer, the whisky goes down like water. Or whatever is smoother than water. If you're not used to the whisky, I'm not sure what to tell you...other than...get used to it. Which is also the best way to describe how whisky works. The buzz can be aggressive. But it doesn't have to be. The hangover can be vicious. But it doesn't have to be. Drinking whisky is very much an acquired skill. Even after you acquire the skill, though, you'll probably not master the skill. Just like you won't completely master the whisky. You can make a habit of sipping it and enjoying it. But, every once in a while, it'll get away from you. And it won't be pretty.

Such is life, though. You can blame it on the alcohol if you need to. But you don't really have to.

Me N Dilla

2009-03-21T11:38:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, I looked like the guy in the red Sixers jersey in this video:

Big up to Lamont, Jah and Big Chris.

The Streak Is Over

2009-03-20T09:08:00.000-07:00

It's been over actually. But I hadn't made the time to acknowledge it.

To begin March, I decided that I wanted to test my creative capacity. Like, I wanted to post something new to this blog every single day of the month. Just to see if I could do it. 'Cause if I could push out something new every day in March--when I celebrate both my birthday and the time-honoured tradition of the NCAA Tournament--then I could say that I was in amazing shape. Creatively.

Then work happened. So did life. As they both tend to do. And now...the streak is over. The streak is over. Hey! Hey! The streak is over. The streak is over. Biddle bah bah. Like what he says:

Maybe there'll be a new streak. There was, if you ask Nas or Q-Tip or 50 or LL or Mobb Deep, a new Queens. So...Hey, yo, streak, get the money, long time no cash?

Dumb and Dumber

2009-03-16T09:04:00.000-07:00

For a while now, I've felt like I've been getting less and less smart. Or is it that I've been getting more and more dumber?

Either way, I'm not the only one whose brain is eroding. So is everyone else who is older than 27.

Thank goodness for that. Idiocy loves company.

STFU

2009-03-15T16:58:00.000-07:00

I've participated in one, maybe two, exchanges about whatever it is that transpired between Chris Brown and Rihanna. I didn't raise the topic, but it has interrupted my life just a little bit.

I sincerely don't give a crap about either one of them. I don't root for bad things to happen to either of them. I just don't care what either does with any part of their life.

Like every other person who has swerved in and out of the ubiquitous conversation that lives at Twitter and elsewhere online, I've heard the gist of what happened. And what has happened since.

I've also heard a lot of people comment on it. Online. Offline. Everywhere. Many have responded with some form of breathless, outraged hyperbole.

I get that celebrities matter more than regular people. I also get that the perpetual information cycle intensifies both the volume and focus of the things that qualify as "news" today.

Sometimes, though, I think people really ought to be left alone. No matter who they are. Will Smith agrees with this. About whatever it is that went down, and all that has followed it, he says:

"This is a time where they need to be left alone and if they have things they need to work out, work it out. People should take a minute before they jump on it and judge. We don’t know nothing. If there are mistakes people make, then they should be willing to live up to the mistakes and do whatever penance they need to do. I don’t think it’s up to us, specifically the media, with such a fast hand to try to chop someone’s head off.”

Yeah....what he said.

I Am Looking for Work

2009-03-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

Sorta.

I have a job. It's a decent job. It pays enough. But I would like a different job. And that job is:

Director of Game Experience for an NBA Franchise

I don't care what franchise. Just give me a three-year contract. The wage can be modest. So can the benefits. I just want three years to play with. 'Cause I'd like to reinvent the fan experience for one lucky NBA franchise.

To start with, I'd dump the cheerleaders. They don't lead cheers. They're just there to be leered at. I support leering, but cheerleaders as you know them are a distraction. What if, instead of leering at a distance, you got to sit next to a chick who was cheerleader-hot for the entire game? Like she was your assigned seat mate and her job was to love the team unconditionally and help you personally enjoy the game. (Not like that, dirty.) She's gonna be the first person to leap out of her seat after a heart-stopping play. She'll boo the officials the loudest. And she may even flirt with you if you can keep your eyes out of her cleavage and focused on the court. How much would you pay for that? You don't have to answer. If you're a single dude, the answer is...a lot. I'd hire 20 or so women to be paid fans. I might add 5-10 hunky guys for my female customers if there was enough demand for it.

Next, I'm hiring a DJ for the arena. And I'm instructing him/her to create four playlists of music. One will be the songs that were most popular in (whatever NBA city we're in) from 1970-1990. The second will be the songs that were most popular in (NBA city to be named) from 1990-2005. The third will be the greatest hits of any artist who has ever come from (the NBA city in question) and/or songs about (fill in the blank). The fourth will be a fluid list that the DJ is tasked with maintaining. I don't care what's on that final list as long as it sounds like what it feels like to live in (you know the drill) and it captures the personalities of the players who are the franchise. No playlist will have more than 50 songs. And none of the songs on any of these lists will be played simply to fill a silence. All of them will be catalogued to synch up with some moment. The "our-team-is-
ahead-by-30-in-the-fourth-and-we-need-to-keep-the-crowd-
interested-even-though-both-teams-have-their-scrubs-in" moment. The "we-really-need-to-cut-this-lead-to-10-before-halftime"
moment. The "everyone-wins-free-tacos" moment. And whatever else makes sense.

Then, I'm gonna audit the selections of food and the status of contracts with our arena's vendors. At least 30% of any food and drink you'll be able to buy will come from some local icon. For example, if you're at a Laker or Clipper game, you oughta be able to eat In N Out. If you're in Milwaukee, you oughta be able to sip on some Pabst or some Schlitz. Pending the status of current contracts, I'd propose that we move to make at least 50% of food and beverage choices be locally relevant. If people in Atlanta prefer Papa John's to Pizza Hut, the Hawks should contract with Papa Johns.

Lastly, we're gonna identify a minimum of one seating section and a maximum of four seating sections in the lower bowl of the arena that have historically underperformed or are naturally devalued because of their presumed inferiority. Say, the section that's at a weird angle that costs 40% less on Stubhub that seats at mid-court. We're gonna take this section(s) of seats and block it off for our die-hard fans. You won't be able to buy single game tickets for these seats. Instead, you have to buy multi-game packages. In either 10-, 20- or 41-game bundles. The catch is that these seats are gonna be dirt cheap. Comparatively. If the seats are currently being sold for $80 per game, you'll be able to buy them for $20 per game. Maybe $10. Whatever pricepoint makes sense to move a big chunk of die-hards from the nosebleeds back down to the floor level.

These are just four ideas I have to demonstrate what I'd like to do in my position as Director of Game Experience. Some of them, I trust, are not new. They may already be in some stage of execution for some franchises. If you're an NBA owner and you're reading this, you can crib from this list as needed. If you'd like to discuss how I can further help prevent fans of your franchise from suffering through another sucky game experience...*cough*...*Abe Pollin*...*cough*...*Donald Sterling*...email me at this address.

To F-22 or not to F-22

2009-03-13T21:26:00.000-07:00

An old saying goes that the goal of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other poor bastard die for his. Col. Cesar Rodriguez, US Air Force (Retired) made three poor bastards die for theirs.

He was, some say, The Last Ace.

That article ^^^ is about a month old and it will take you about 20 minutes to read. But it's a good one.

At the end of it, I think you'll be sold on the notion that, regardless of what it costs, the US probably ought to find a way to upgrade our Air Force to the F-22.

Unless, perhaps, there's an F-30 for us to build.

The Dude Abides

2009-03-12T20:30:00.000-07:00

And he makes movies, too.

Some pretty good ones, actually.

Jeff Dowd is The Dude.

And this is his web site.

When Yoink Goes Wrong

2009-03-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

By now, you should probably know what "Yoink!" means. It has to do with taking something. And, in the cartoon world of Springfield, it usually signals good things for whomever does the taking.

Sometimes, the person doing the taking can actually be acting against their own self-interest. That's when yoink goes wrong.

Take Warner Brothers, for example. They spent a ton of money making a film called The Watchmen. Then they put out this trailer months ago to announce its forthcoming release:

If I had read the graphic novel, I'd probably have been excited. But it looked like someone mashed Batman with Heroes and pooped out a billion dollar film that probably wouldn't be interesting enough to pull me away from the NCAA Tournament. Maybe I'd see it on Blu-Ray.

Then, they bombarded me with this trailer:

The film was made to look like an extraordinarily cheap knock-off of Batman. It was a gross affront to my artistic sensibilities. Didn't I just watch that movie 10 months ago? How dare you lazily regurgitate something and expect me to waste my time and money on it! Shame on you Hollywood! Do better!

The second trailer turned me completely off to the film. I believe I said to someone, "After that waste of 250 seconds of my life, there is no way I will ever see that film under any circumstance."

Then, the movie opened last weekend. The homie Trey, who is a fan of the book, went to see it. He told me I absolutely had to see the opening credit sequence and he sent me this link:

http://www.businessinsider.com/watchmen-opening-credits
-are-on-the-internet-forever-now-clip-2009-3

Uh...holy crap. That looks like a spectacular way to spend $12 dollars of my money. In fact, I can't wait to fork it over.

But, like, why in the hell did the studio "ask" the firm that created the sequence to remove it from their site? It's not like yU+co were a bunch of pirates. They were collaborators. And they were sharing one of the most beautiful opening credit sequences to be projected into any cineplex. Also, it was free advertising.

Perhaps there's a principle involved in preventing anyone from sharing any piece of a work to which you hold the copyright. But if the act of you upholding that principle causes a person like me, who has been known to live at the movie theatre, to be so offended by the putridity of your marketing campaign that I committed myself to never seeing your film at all...isn't it a good thing that someone wants to allow the work to stand on its own?

Even if the movie turns out to be a corn-filled piece of cinematic crap, I kinda need to see that sequence on a giant screen with THX sound. And I'm going to plop down $12 at the neighborhood ginormaplex to do so. Right after the Tournament brackets are drawn on Sunday.

And the only reason I will is because I saw the opening credit sequence. Which, for reasons unknown, Warner tried to yoink down. Yoink almost went wrong for them this time. Next time, they should probably just let their collaborators share work.

Or, maybe, don't make crappy trailers for their movies.

Holy Vacancy, Batman!

2009-03-10T13:30:00.001-07:00

I moved to LA just before the Lakers abandoned the Great Western Forum in favor of Staples Center. Their move from South Central to downtown left a giant, fully functioning building sitting unused. More or less. It wasn't unused for long, though. God--or God's people--tend to fill vacancies in this world pretty quickly.

From what the Washington Post tells us today, a similar transition is underway in a Northen Virginia neighborhood I used to call home:

Wall Street and the titans of American commerce might be teetering, but at Sudley Corner Center, an aging business park just off Interstate 66 outside Manassas, the pioneer spirit is not yet vanquished. With low rents and loose zoning restrictions, Sudley Corner Center has become a draw for immigrant entrepreneurs, small specialty stores and shoppers from across cultures and socioeconomic classes.

And lately, as businesses have gone bust, leaving empty storefronts in a community whose Latino presence is strong, it is love for the Lord Jesucristo to which Sudley Corner Center's warehouselike spaces increasingly have become devoted.

I haven't visited that neighborhood since I left there in '06. But...it all sounds about right. Even when there's less than half of enough to render unto Caeser, there's always some scrilla to spend on God's behalf.

The Jerk Theory

2009-03-09T16:53:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I said this:

"North Carolina has just enough jerks on the team to actually win six games. Their most valuable player: Ty Lawson. It's not even close."

Today, I think it's worth explaining what I meant by the phrase "enough jerks on the team to actually win six games."

I can do that. But I'll need to tell you some things about Mr. Tar Heel first.

Tyler Hansbrough is Mr. Tar Heel. But not for his career accomplishments. No, he is Mr. Tar Heel because of his personal constitution. And here is what his personal constitution says:

"I am physically and mentally gifted. I work extremely hard. I am profoundly honest in word and deed. I obey all the rules. I defer to my teammates and coaches. I do everything the right way. I expect to be rewarded appropriately."

Tyler Hansbrough is a nice kid. That's exactly what the average North Carolina Tar Heel is. It's a living tribute to Dean Smith. A long-living tribute that also helps explain why Carolina only won two national titles during Smith's legendary tenure.

Mr. Tar Heel is a loser. He's not a loser because he is nice, he's a loser because he doesn't know how to not be nice.

Remember that famous game against Duke when he had his nose cracked open and blood gushed all over Dean Smith's court? Do you remember the look in his eye?

It looked like he was enraged. And he was. It also looked like he was stunned. He was that, too. His aghast anger drove him to behave rather crazily. As if he couldn't believe anyone would play the game in any way other than the way he plays it. For him, like the average Tar Heel, there is no other way to play. That's another part of the long-lingering tribute to Smith. And, you guessed it, it is the program's tar-splattered achilles heel.

Every winner has a little bit of jerk in him. Some simply are jerks. For those who are only jerks in part, the jerk part is what allows them to disconnect from their sense of honorable/fair play to take what they want when the moment to seize a victory arises. They may win the right way. They may win the wrong way. What matters is that they take what they want and they win.

Sometimes, you can simply be superior to everyone else and that's enough to cause you to defeat your opponents. Other times--like when your opponents are at your level or maybe even a little better--you need to know how to be a jerk in order to snatch a W.

Mr. Tar Heel doesn't know how to be a jerk. Few Carolina kids ever do. Of the ones who do, they're forced to compete against the culture of their own program in order to let their jerk out. That system--Smith's legacy--is why Carolina has four national championships since he was hired instead of, say, 12.

Let's be clear about one thing: All jerks are not winners. Just like all winners are not exclusively jerks. But when the sucker punch of life puts an opponent in front of you who wants to rip from your clutches that reward you believe you are entitled to, you can't respond psychotically. You can't operate irrationally. You have to be able to hold on to your shit. You can't let them take it from you--by force or by virtue of your own incapacity to fight back effectively.

You have to know how to be a jerk. That's what champions are made of. Just a lil bit.

And if you're Tyler Hansbrough, you need to be thankful that Ty Lawson is on your team. 'Cause that's someone who has a little bit of jerk in him.

Championship Week Thoughts

2009-03-08T21:12:00.001-07:00

The Tournament is still several days away. Hell, we won't get final brackets for another week. But I've got college hoop on my mind:

Shame that Davidson lost in the So Con semis. They should get an At-Large. Even though they're not as a good this year as they were last year. If they don't, it's the clearest sign we'll get that the Tournament isn't as democratic as we're told to believe it is.

I love when Austin Peay makes the Tournament. Let's go Peay!

Washington is the team Notre Dame was supposed to be.

No one in the Big 10 conference can score. Except maybe for Purdue.

There are three solid CAA teams. Two of 'em made it to tomorrow's championship game. As much as I hope there's more than just an automatic qualifier, I feel like that's all the conference will get.

What are we supposed to do with Syracuse? Do we really believe in Johnny Guts?

Vermont would have been a great 15 seed. They may still be.

Butler really needs the kid who got hurt on Sat to be ready to play on the 19th.

North Carolina has just enough jerks on the team to actually win six games. Their most valuable player: Ty Lawson. It's not even close.

I haven't made up my mind about LSU yet. Or Wake Forest. But I think I have a feel for Missouri. And it ain't a good one.

Patty Mills should have just enough time to work himself back into St. Mary's offensive and defensive flow. That should make them a popular sleeper pick when they get a 10 seed.

Right now, it really looks like Terrence Williams is trying to get his D Wade on.

I want Texas to be better than they are. But it's not gonna happen. Which sucks for Abrams. He's had a great college career.

I can't tell you how happy I am that Cornell won the Ivy League (Big up to Brian Kreefer!) I hope they draw a team this year that doesn't have twin seven-footers bound for the NBA.

Gonzaga is the team Arizona was supposed to be.

So...Tyreke Evans...He's been playing well. But this Memphis team looks like it should be playing in the Big 10. It lacks the offensive competency Coach Cal's teams are known for.

We will all miss Jodie Meeks when Kentucky gets shipped to the NIT.

A new generation of coaches will make names for themselves this spring. Guys who've quietly been good coaches who just haven't added a major accomplishment to their resume yet.

If you give a crap at all about college basketball, then you should be rooting for a championship game featuring Oklahoma and Pitt. It's the best match-up on paper. You'd get two of the best big men in the country banging for 40 minutes. You'd also get two of the most under appreciated 3s checking each other. Oh...and two great college PGs calling the shots, too. Capel and Dixon are two of the best young coaches in the game. Both squads are very balanced with Pitt having more depth. Which means Pitt is the pick to win that one. If the hoop gods can arrange that final for us, I'd be a very happy camper. It is also the only birthday present I am asking for this year. So...hoop gods...make it happen. Thanks.

judon'tno? #002

2009-03-07T10:44:00.000-08:00

You've seen Babel, right? You know the rave scene? This one:

Anytime Babel comes on cable, I stop what I'm doing and watch just for that scene. The music supervision, sound mix and sequencing of songs is just brilliant. Maybe the very best part of a truly great film.

If you were wondering who to thank for that slice of sonic genius, I believe you'd want to acknowledge some combination of Lynn Fainchtein, Anibal Kerpel, Gustavo Santaolalla, José Antonio García, Martín Hernández and Shinichi Osawa, the artist many know as Mondo Grosso.

On behalf of all of them...you're welcome.

The Sanest One of All

2009-03-06T17:20:00.000-08:00

Of all the pretty young girls and hungry young boys that the entertainment industry and pop culture complex has chewed up and spit out since the VCR was invented, one of the few to survive with any sanity intact has been Christina Aguilera.

Surprised? You shouldn't be.

The hydra that counts Variety, Entertainment Tonight and TMZ among its many ugly heads values appeal and marketability far more than it values talent. So, among all of the aspiring rock stars who have stood before the modern-day Medusa that calls itself Perez Hilton, it makes sense that the one who didn't transform into a desperate, stone-crazy, uber-id is the one who has some legitimate talent. The one who followed, in hindsight, a pretty logical path of personal development while all the world watched.

She was sweet, adorable and aspirational.

Then she was Redman's bottom bootch.

Most recently, she got her art on in a real way.

She is a fully-formed, seemingly rational, working artist.

Granted, there's still plenty of time for Christina Aguilera to cave in completely to the yearnings for validation that drive all creative people a little bit batty. But, for now, I think she's the sanest one of all.

It's a shame we can't say the same about...NAME OF YOUR FAVORITE "ARTIST" HERE.

Everyone's Son

2009-03-05T18:23:00.000-08:00

No matter what you do in life, you will always be your mother's son. Or daughter. She owns you in a way that no one else possibly could.

Some mother's sons grow up to belong to someone else. To something else. Sometimes they belong to the ages. The mothers of those sons--happily, reluctantly or matter-of-factly--share their babies with those others. That thing. Or...as it is in Maureen Yancey's case...the ages.

If you know anything about J Dilla--and you really should--you've probably heard the name, Ma Dukes. She did an interview with Garth Trinidad a couple weeks back on the eve of the debut of the happiest heartbreak that has ever been pressed on vinyl.

You should listen to the interview. It's pretty telling. Mostly for the way she refers to her son. As Dilla. Same way any of us would refer to him. And it sounds just a little bit awkward tumbling off her tongue. It almost sounds like she's referring to someone she sincerely reveres, but who doesn't belong to her. As if she's just as grateful for the gift of his music as all of us are.

Well, most of us are grateful. Some of us are...um...I don't have enough curse words at my disposal to effectively describe the actions of Dilla's estate. There's a war going on outside and, apparently, none of the Yancey family are safe from it.

Which is a shame. 'Cause Dilla doesn't really belong to any one of us. He belongs to all of us. To the ages.

Unless, maybe, Ma Dukes decides otherwise.

Filling Space

2009-03-04T19:09:00.000-08:00

One of the first things I saw this morning when I logged onto Twitter was a link to a newspaper column about the 1979 NCAA Championship Game.

Apparently, there's a new book fresh off the Gutenberg that makes the case for that game--and the season that led up to it--as the moment that transformed college basketball as we know it.

I kinda see the point. However, if we're looking to identify one Tournament final as the tipping point separating the modern era in college hoops from everything that came before it...you should probably scroll through ESPN Classic's program guide in search of a replay of 'Nova v. Georgetown in '85. I could personally make a great argument for it, but that's not the reason I'm here.

Instead, that column has caused me to contemplate the slow death of the newspaper industry. And that's what I'm here for.

The column I stumbled onto this morning is fairly well constructed. The writer is competent. Even eloquent. He makes a point. He supports it. He concludes.

And that's cool. But, to be polite, the piece seems to exist for the purpose of filling space.

I'm not mad at that. Dude had a deadline. He needed to justify his paycheck. So he did. He banged out some copy. His editor gave the thumbs up. And off to the printer it all went. As it was supposed to.

As it WAS supposed to.

Years ago, I subscribed to three different daily US papers. Two local and one national. I read, on average, half of the copy in each of those papers every day. The only section I didn't give a crap about was the Classifieds. Never bothered to unfold those.

I kept that pace up for 2-3 years. Then I moved. From a place near one shining sea to a place near the other shining sea that borders the Lower 48. I was a special kind of broke during the first year I lived on the left coast of the United States. I couldn't afford an internet connection or a newspaper subscription, but I was able to find places to hop online for free. Libraries, college campuses, the office. My news intake habits began to shift.

Fast forward to today...like...a decade later...the last time I regularly read the hard copy of a daily US paper, the Twin Towers were still standing in lower Manhattan. Not reading a hard copy paper, however, is not the same as not reading a "newspaper" at all.

Now, I log onto Twitter. I follow a few different media outlets. C-SPAN, the BBC, NPR and the Wall Street Journal. As well as the feeds of several topical bloggers I dig. TrueHoop, BDL, Both Teams Played Hard. To namedrop a few.

There's also any number of news aggregation sites to take headlines from. MSN, Yahoo, Google, etc. That's on an hourly or daily basis. For more detailed discussion, there are the web sites or hard copy editions of BusinessWeek, Newsweek, Time, Atlantic Monthly, Rolling Stone, Men's Journal, Vibe, Fast Company and Wired. Depending on what your interests are, of course.

Whatever your interests are, there isn't a lot of room available for a newspaper. Not the hard copy edition, anyway. By the time something gets to print for a daily, it's already slightly less relevant. That's not a new observation. But it hasn't become less true since it was first uttered, either.

If there's something worth reporting--or more likely if someone feels like it needs to be reported on--it will be posted somewhere online as soon as the point of the upside down pyramid is punctuated.

For those things that require lengthier consideration and analysis, there are magazines and documentaries. Weeklies, monthlies or whenever HBO wants to produce something.

There no longer is any need for people to simply fill column space. What's more, there isn't the revenue to command someone to create space that would need to be filled.

I certainly hope the guy who wrote that column I read this morning will continue to be gainfully employed. Good writers like him should be. As long as they're not simply filling space.

Simply Begin

2009-03-03T18:56:00.000-08:00

A wise guru once told me:

"It’s often easier for one, to give advice
Than it is for a person to run one’s own life"

Consequently, I tend not to float a lot of unsolicited advice. I will take advice, though. Whether I sought it or not. Whether it was intended as counsel or not.

Last year, I heard one of the founders of this site share some of the best advice that anyone could possibly give...or receive. While discussing how he overcame certain obstacles to launch that venture (the one in the link up there ^^^), he said:

"Simply begin."

He couldn't be more right. You know that anxiety that rumbles your belly and races your head in the direction of an empty distraction or a convenient excuse? You do, don't you? It's the prelude to procrastination and the first step toward quitting altogether. Some people call it second thoughts. Some people call it fear. However you'd like to label it, it's there whenever you're wavering about doing something new.

And, if there's one thing you could ask me to tell you in that moment when you're not really sure you can do whatever it is you kinda wanna do, it's those two words I heard nearly 12 months ago:

"Simply begin."

'Cause that shit has worked really well for me.

"You come up here."

2009-03-02T14:10:00.000-08:00

I watch hella movies. Have done so for years. When I see a movie I like, I tend to watch it over and over and over. I'm gluttonous that way.

One of my new favorites is a film called Watching the Detectives. It's an indie romantic comedy that defies convention. Here's a dope sample of the flick:

The chick is the best kind of crazy. And the dude is the best kind of apathetic. I feel like I know both of them. Really, really well. Like, maybe I've been the dude. And maybe I've chased after that chick. I think I have. More or less.

If you're not a conventional person, you kinda have to find yourself in these kinds or films. Or books. Or songs. Or whatever other debris litters the road less traveled.

You don't really get a choice.

Norms are not your friends even if a great number of your friends are normal. For them, it seems that life plots out with a certain degree of logic. You do this, you do that, you do this other thing, then something else and that's pretty much it. Granted, any one path that connects all the standard milestones in life could be lined with the coolest or most fantastic of experiences. But, if you live long enough and run across enough "normal" people, it seems utterly common that the weight of those milestones blots out just a little bit of the...how can we say it?...the delicious insanity of life somewhere up there.

Up where the conventions aren't very reasonable. Where the milestones are jagged, upside down and sideways. Where the pieces of the puzzle don't really fit, but they do make for an interesting picture.

At least, that's what you tell yourself. 'Cause you'll probably never catch all the way up with the "normal" people striding over the grass that really doesn't need any more wear.

My aTwiction

2009-03-01T14:38:00.000-08:00

"My name is Tim and I have an aTwiction. It's been 20 hours since my last Tweet."

Yeah, I know. I'm not the only one who spends too much time on Twitter. I'm also not the only person who has done so at the expense of a blog.

It's a funny thing, isn't it?

Twitter requires brevity. In doing so, it challenges a person's wit. Which makes it very enticing for a writer. Some would argue. Others might condemn the site as a gross exercise in self-absorption. I'm with with former. Mostly. And I find myself on Twitter. Constantly.

That's probably an exaggeration. I don't live my entire life on there in the way some folks do. However, I've definitely written much more for my Twitter feed than I have for my Blogger blog since I opened a Twitter account last fall.

(If Twitter and Blogger were easy-to-monetize ventures, you'd have to assume that the long-form blogging platform would be taking a big L right now. It may be, but it is owned by Google, right? So things can't be all bad. Can they?)

I'm not the type to make noble pledges. I'm much more interested in just doing some shit.

I'm also interested in writing. Every which way. Every which where.

Some of it may even be worth reading. I make no promises about that, though.

His Heart Goes No Further

2009-02-27T17:15:00.001-08:00

There aren't too many people who come from where I come from. It's simply not a large place. Nor does it produce a large number of people. Most importantly, it's not the kind of place the average person chooses to leave.

It is the kind of place where the gravitational pull of family, friends and the numbingly familiar prevents most people from wandering too far away. The ones who do wander tend to act as emissaries. They are the people who got out. The people who were a little bit bigger than the small towns that birthed them. The people who are celebrated as favourite native sons and most cherished daughters.

Norm Van Lier was one of those people. Norm Van Lier came from where I come from.

He died yesterday at the age of 61. Alone in the City of Big Shoulders, as the news reports tell it.

While the cause of his death has not yet been announced, the culprit is believed to be a heart that had faltered frequently during the later years of his life. An ironic fact given the ferocity with which Stormin' Norman was known to play. Back when he was a skinny kid dropping dimes on the playground in front of Midland High School in southwestern Pennsylvania. All the way to the Chicago Bulls, the NBA All-Star Game and a pugnacious career as a broadcaster. His heart was the one thing that all of us who know the place he came from had always counted on.

It takes a different kind of heart to escape the kinds of places Norm Van Lier and I come from. For these hearts, love is not enough to sustain them. Their valves are configured differently to direct more blood to the parts of the brain that control things like ambition and curiosity--making it impossible to be satisfied only by what is known and what is comfortable. I think. Maybe it's that their hearts have four chambers like a Bar-Tailed Godwit sailing above the Pacific Ocean and not like a simple flock of Finch ambling in search of a convenient new watering hole. That could be it, too.

What we know for sure is that Norm Van Lier's heart has stopped beating. It took him far from the place he and I come from and, in doing so, helped make the people who stayed behind in that small, steelbelt town feel just a little bit bigger than themselves.

Life there will go on. As it always has. As it always will.

judon'tno? #001

2009-02-25T16:12:00.000-08:00

My new favorite record, by far, is the 30th Anniversary Edition of Willie Colon y Rueben Blades' Siembra. The first cut on the album, "Plastico" is probably my favorite:

If you didn't know about this before, now you do.

You're welcome.

Super Inferiority Complex

2009-02-23T17:39:00.000-08:00

You don't need to be a psych major (Hi, Red) or bother thumbing through any psychology textbooks to understand just how an inferiority complex and/or a superiority complex works.

If you were a psych major, you'd probably know a bit about how the two tend to compliment each other. Or, perhaps, you'd already be aware of the behaviour those complexes tend to inform--that urge to shove your competence in someone's face.

What you might not be thinking about is how a Keri Hilson song featuring Lil Wayne articulates the permanent Super Inferiority Complex that lives deep in the spinal court of hip hop culture.

I have read (and written) my share of essays about the psychology of hip hop. They tend to be grossly overwritten and hella tiresome. So, I'll get right to the point here.

Hip hop is youth culture. A significant part of the experience of being young involves proving oneself. Because hip hop is so undeniably linked to the process of growing from youth into whatever comes after youth, there will always be a natural place within the music for some emcee (or some singer) to declare who they are better than or who is not better then them.

Keri Hilson isn't the best example of the Super Inferiority Complex found in so much hip hop music. She's just the latest. 'Cause she's a real woman. And we're all supposed to recognize that.

Or, maybe, she's just fly as hell. And I needed an excuse to watch her video 17 times in a row.

Actually...yeah...I think that's what it was. The flyness. Anyway...carry on.

The New Digital Divide

2009-02-21T11:33:00.000-08:00

While talking with Mom Dukes the other day, she used a phrase I've heard her use many times before: "on the computer."

She was trying to describe a video she had watched. She reported that she had done so "on the computer." The choice of phrase struck me as both normal and mundane. At first.

After I thought about it for a little bit, though, it occurred to me that she had pinned herself on one side of the digital divide. The side that lives somewhere in the middle of the 20th Century. The side that relates awkwardly to the hardware that has invaded their lives. The side that would probably leave their laptops behind were their homes to catch on fire. If they own a laptop, that is.

On the other side of the digital divide are the people who use words like "Google" and "YouTube" and "Twitter" as verbs. The side that relates to the hardware as if it were a car. Or a telephone. Or a TV. The side that creates the software which is used to perpetually reconstruct the framework of their lives. The side that lives somewhere in the late 22nd Century.

I know that the phrase "Digital Divide" is traditionally used to express the access gap between the people who have the resources to get online and those who cannot. But, let's be honest, that application is dated.

The New Digital Divide has much more to do with relatability. It is, simply, the difference between "getting on the computer" and living seamlessly on the interwebs.

I may or may not be late to the party with that realization. But, I'm pretty sure, it's truthier than Paul Pierce and Stephen Colbert put together.

F**k the Spurs

2009-02-14T12:22:00.000-08:00

I am a patriot. As a patriot, I take it as my duty to stand against all of the wicked and evil things in this world that threaten the cherished ideals on which my country was founded. Among those wicked and evil things is the San Antonio Spurs.

They are a quiet devil some patriots are not yet aware of. Consequently, I am compelled to articulate just a few of the tragic ways in which the San Antonio Spurs do harm to this Grand Experiment of ours. Here are 20 such examples:

1) The San Antonio Spurs always leave the toilet seat up.
2) The San Antonio Spurs shot Bambi's mother.
3) Ann Coulter exists because the San Antonio Spurs forgot to pull out.
4) That last slice of your grandmama's homemade sweet potato pie? The Spurs ate it.
5) It was Colonel Mustard in the Billiard Room with the San Antonio Spurs.
6) The San Antonio Spurs wait until after you wash your car before they make it rain.
7) The San Antonio Spurs designed Crocs.
8) The San Antonio Spurs started the East Coast-West Coast hip hop feud.
9) The ingredient in ice cream that causes brain freeze is the San Antonio Spurs.
10) "It's not you, it's the Spurs."
11) After Fidel Castro overthrew the San Antonio Spurs, he became...the San Antonio Spurs.
12) Male pattern baldness was dreamt up by the San Antonio Spurs.
13) The San Antonio Spurs stole Christmas. And refused to return it.
14) The San Antonio Spurs are seeking an overseas partner into whose bank account they will deposit $31 million.
15) THE SAN ANTONIO SPURS TYPE IN ALL CAPS.
16) It wasn't your neighbor's dog who pooped on your lawn. It was the San Antonio Spurs.
17) When your mother broke her back it happened because the Spurs stepped on a crack. On purpose.
18) Prohibition happened after the San Antonio Spurs signed the 18th Amendment.
19) The San Antonio Spurs never leave a tip. Never.
20) The San Antonio Spurs invented cancer.

Closer to God

2009-02-12T22:02:00.000-08:00

My co-worker just announced that her husband knocked her up. (She's due in August.) The big homie and his wife are expecting their first bundle of joy later this spring. (May, maybe.) Somewhere in Youngblood's loins, Niecephew #2 waits for his/her turn to swim. (2010?)

Er'body is preggers. Or probably preggers. Sometime soon.

I'm not. That's neither a tragedy nor a surprise. It's also not physically possible. I'm a dude. Not the kind of dude you find on The L Word. A regular dude. With dangly junk. Without a womb.

Womb. It's an odd-sounding word. Say it out loud. Once. Now again. There's a certain longing majesty in between the sound the "w" makes and the way the "b" disappears into the "m." Almost as if the word wants to betray the consequence yielded by the thing it describes.

What is a womb used for? For cooking babies, of course. Also, I'd say, as a transformational device delivering ordinary human beings into a state of existence that is as close to god-like as any human can aspire to. For many parents, whether they intended to or not, that is where they land.

They don't need to be convinced of this either. Most of them describe how that sweet, screaming, pooping life upended both their world and their worldview. "It changed everything," they'll say.

I believe them. Those new parents. All of them. I think each of them experiences varying degrees of change in their spiritual orientation. But I think they all pass through the same holy portal.

Some of them crave it. As if it were the supreme application of the superego. Others stumble towards it. As if they're perplexed by their own power. There are even those who avoid it altogether. As if they would prefer to embrace their own lesser devils. The devils are, after all, usually more fun. And less work, too.

(If you're childless, go type 150 pages of something. Anything. Genius. Complete garbarge. Whatever. Then print it out. And hold it in your hand. You'll have a scaled down version of the moment every new parent experiences after the umbilical is cut. But you will get an inkling of what goes through one's mind when you hold your own creation in your hands for the first time. And you'll whisper the words "I did that" over and over to no one in particular.)

It really sucks all the air out of the deepest trenches of your belly. Leaving you floating somewhere between Jupiter and Botswana. Thinking, just for a moment, that the world really is yours. And that you can order it beneficently for this precious little creature who has Uncle Lamont's eyebrows and Auntie Tremaine's nose.

But, um, you can't.

I think that's what causes some parents to lose their minds. Others simply surrender control of the asylum to the inmates who do not yet realize there is an institution to honor.

After that momentary authority of the highest order gives way to the happy accident of humanity, you fall quickly back to the terra that doesn't feel as firm as it used to. Knowing what it is to be God. Knowing that you, most certainly, are not. Knowing that the portal is really a revolving door that will spin you back out of that glorious building whether you've been inside as long as you wanted to or not.

Naturally, it's not a hopeless endeavor. Nor is it an unrewarding one. From what I'm told, it's a terrific blessing. (Or was that terrifying blessing? I can't remember.)

I'm not ready for it myself. I have some devils I'd still like to play with.

If you happen to bump into God somewhere along your float, though, tell Him I said what up. That's as close as I'm getting. For now...?

A Gift for Shia

2009-02-03T18:13:00.000-08:00

Assuming that Shia LaBeouf is still working in Hollywood after his 30th birthday, it stands to reason that someone in his camp--perhaps even he himself--will decide he needs to win an Oscar. Which is to say that he'll enter the Will Smith stage of his career.

When he gets there, I have an idea for him. One that NPR gave to me. It concerns the composer Felix Mendelssohn. Here's the pitch:

We open on Germany. Circa 1936. We're in the back office of a library in Berlin. A slender, bespectacled woman whose bunned librarian hair is slowly unraveling scrambles abruptly around the office. She gathers composition sheets that contain lines filled with notes and melodies we do not yet know. Sliding those sheets carefully into an unmarked envelop.

Outside of the library is the prelude to chaos. Soldiers file through the streets. Berlin is not yet a military zone, but it is being transformed into one. Fearful Germans of not-so-pure heritage and the apathetic elite flee the city. Dutifully and orderly.

The librarian slinks through the library's back door to mount a bicycle. She pedals sternly and anonymously. For a dozen or so blocks. Until she reaches a train station where she meets another woman. A slightly older version of herself. The older woman asks, "Is this all of Felix's work?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

The older woman discreetly slides the unmarked envelop into her purse and disappears into the crowd. We squeeze zoom out on that crowd and fade to black.

From there, the story of how Felix Mendelssohn's music nearly became a casualty of history unfolds. We learn about Felix's creative nonchalance, the fantastic popularity of his work, his early death, the posthumous assasination of his character, the valiant efforts to preserve his work after it was outlawed by the Nazi party and the 21st century rediscovery of his genius.

The part of Felix, obviously, would be played by a thirtysomething Shia LaBeouf. If done right, it could be an amazing film. 'Cause it's already an amazing story. And, I'd bet, someone somewhere in Southern California has already blazed through the first 50 pages of a screenplay.

If I were sometimes known as Sam Witwicky, I'd only ask that they attach me to the project. Like, now.

Open Letter #004

2009-01-31T10:36:00.000-08:00

Dear NCAA Tournament Selection Committee,

As a long-time watcher of the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament, I am well aware that the name on the front of the jersey is supposed to trump the name on the back of the jersey. Indeed, there are still a handful of schools whose jerseys are blank on the back.

That said, we all know that individual performances are what transform the annual rite of March Madness into the must-see spectacle your advertisers so desperately crave and fans of the game all pray for.

To that end, I would like to propose that you somehow conspire to give us any or all of the following match-ups during one of the last two weekends in March or the first weekend in April:

Davidson v. Texas
On paper, Texas has entirely too much size for Davidson. Games aren't played on paper, though. They're played inside DVRs. And inside my DVR, Stephen Curry and AJ Abrams have been the two sweetest shooting little men this season. It could be the most memorable duel since Aaron Burr shot Alexander Hamilton.

Oklahoma v. Pitt
Five words: Blake Griffin versus Dajuan Blair.

Georgetown v. Wake Forest
The two most tantalizing NBA prospects in this year's freshman class are Greg Monroe and Al-Farouq Aminu. They may or may not get matched up against each other if their teams were to face off. But, damn. All that length and athleticism? Also, Jeff Teague would be on the court.

VCU v. Gonzaga
As enigmatic point guards go, could you have a better battle than Eric Maynor v. Jeremy Pargo? Both could be in the same class as Teague. But, somehow, they're not. I see each developing into a Derek Fisher-calibre NBA player. Before they do, I would like to see them check each other this spring.

Kentucky v. Louisville
The names on the front of the jerseys should actually sell this one. But...can you imagine the shoot-out that could take place between Jodie Meeks and Terrence Williams? There's Burr v. Hamilton. There's Curry v. James. And then there'd be that. Just wet. Fiercely wet. Everywhere.

Those are the five match-ups I think all of America deserves to witness. Personally, I would also like to see Duke v. Notre Dame (Singler v. Harangody). But I don't know if the new digital broadcasting system is ready for such a profound lack of pigment.

If you could arrange for the five games I have proposed to take place, you would most assuredly be doing your patriotic duty in the highest sense. I encourage you to make them happen.

Very sincerely,

The MGMT

The New, New Colossus

2009-01-21T08:19:00.000-08:00

There are a bunch of words etched in stone beneath the Statue of Liberty. One line goes something like:

"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free..."

If you were in the District of Columbia yesterday, I'd wager that the phrase "huddled masses" has a very new, perhaps special meaning for you.

If you weren't there, then whatever you've seen, read or heard is probably very true. The Inauguration of President Barack Obama was something that will not be seen again. In any lifetime.

Amidst the blur of my own memory (which is admittedly sparse due to circumstances not worth describing) one thing stands out above everything else.

No matter how many people I stood with. How many people I walked with. How many people I tried not to freeze with. There was a profound lack of animosity hanging in the air between us. Over us.

That sense of frustration which often sours the collective joy experienced when masses huddle together to share a moment in time. The kind that creeps up when one too many of the millions bumps into the wrong person. The kind that seeps in when the elements reveal themselves to be patently unkind. The kind that trickles in when a wailing belly, blistering feet or a crooked back muddies up the emotions. That stuff...It was no where to be found. Not in any of the places I looked. And I looked in several places. Several times several.

Which is not to say that no one felt any of those things. Merely that the pangs of happiness and excitement which colored any one person's experience on our nation's mall yesterday far outweighed the pangs of unpleasantness that usually inform the briefer moments of such monumental gatherings. So, I presume.

The question now, I think, is: "How far will that joy carry us?"

Eventually, those bellies that cry out will not go unheard. When their wails drown all other sound, what will that joy do then? Will it patiently deliver sustenance? Or will it find itself sitting on some shelf next to another forgotten souvenir?

It's probably not the question to ponder while nursing yourself through one righteous hangover. But, at some point, the conversation will turn. When it does, I hope the masses who huddled will recall. And that the fear and loathing will be quenched. Again.

Oh Nine

2009-01-02T18:33:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in a gumbo of Gran Turino, Yes Man and Seven Pounds, I have swum into another calendar year.

It's an odd-numbered one. Which tend to be pretty good to me.

And it features a 33rd birthday for this definitively trepid blogger.

33 was good for Thomas Jefferson. He was that old when he wrote the Declaration of Independence.

33 was (you could argue) good for a guy named Jesus. He rose from the dead at that age. (After he was brutally killed, of course. But let's focus on the good part.)

I'm not entirely sure what direction I'm headed in. But the gumbo tastes interesting right now.

Mojo Rising?

2008-12-13T16:08:00.000-08:00

I have been meaning to do two things:

1) Call my car insurance company.
2) Write about my mojo.

Somehow, they have wrapped themselves together in what will be this posting.

I wanted to ask the car insurance company about some information which appeared on my last statement. Mostly, I wanted to make sure I didn't have to do anything to actually renew the policy. I also wanted to inquire about a line item that seemed to indicate my rates were about to decrease.

I had been wanting to do that since...oh...last Tuesday. I kept putting it off and putting it off until this Wednesday night finally forced my hand.

On the way to Trader Joe's to grab some groceries, someone two cars behind me had some trouble stopping. And by trouble, I mean they stopped themselves all the way into the car in front of them which so kindly planted a kiss on my back bumper.

As fender benders go, it was nothing to write home about. But for the damage to the front bumper of the car that seemed to initiate the contact and the rear bumper of the car that kissed mine, it almost wouldn't be anything to write your insurance company about either.

But, since all three drivers exchanged insurance information, I figured I may as well give Progressive a ring and knock out a nest of birds with just one stone.

My mojo has been...how shall we say...off...for a while now. I don't recall when it started. Why. Or how. I just know that I've felt like I'm watching a third-string (or maybe a D-League) version of myself in action for quite some time now.

My stories aren't as entertaining as usual. My jokes don't hit like they ought to. And I've been having trouble with words. Like, I'm frequently blanking out on simple things. Not even stuck-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue blank. More like The-Haitian-just-paid-me-a-visit blank. I can't explain it. I just know that I've felt this way. For several weeks.

(Yes, it is possible that my stories were never entertaining at all. That my jokes are notoriously unfunny. And that I am truly an imbecile. It's all possible. Likely, even. But humor me, okay?)

On Thursday, I dialed Progressive from my office. A woman named Roxanne answered. I've only known a couple of Roxannes in my life and, from what I know, a woman named Roxanne is always equals good.

I explained the purpose of my call and we started into the business. Turns out my policy was scheduled to automatically renew. Also turns out that I was eligible for some discounts I wasn't even aware of. Something to do with level of education. Which lead to a tangent about how Roxanne was still stutterstepping her way through grad school. We discussed it for a good 15 minutes. During which I suggested that she parlay her background in archaeology into a career as an astronaut.

(I know archaeology is supposed to be the study of human culture, but why limit it? Can't it be the study of all sentient cultures? Besides, it made Roxanne laugh. And that's what counts.)

We eventually rounded back to the discounts for which I was eligible. $40 lopped off my monthly charge. And a credit of a hundred-some dollars. I explained to her the story of the fender bender that drove me to call. Which caused us to trade stories of other fender benders for 10 minutes or so before Roxanne reported that no claim has been established for the Wednesday night incident.

We traded another couple of jokes. I opted not to initiate a claim (Figuring one of the other drivers might call and want to handle damages offline) and thanked Roxanne for her help. She thanked me for providing the best little chat of the day.

After I hung up, I stepped out of my office and I felt...kinda...normal. Like my mojo had just returned. I didn't know what to do with it. Other than celebrate it with a sandwich and a cup of creamy tomato soup. And to announce on twitter that I had just enjoyed the most pleasant phone call with a car insurance company. Ever.

On Friday, I received a call from State Farm. One of the other drivers had launched the claim process and my angle of the story was needed. It was...a dry, benign experience. Neither good nor bad for the mojo.

I also got a call from the homie Dominic. He shared an idea that sparked a series of conversations which lead to me vaguely helping him connect with RYZ.

Today, Saturday, the homie Donnie called to share some news about his documentary project on the Finday College Prep Hoop team. I gave him what I hope will be some similarly beneficial information.

And now, as I sit in the basement watching college hoop, I'm feeling a lil more like the starting line-up version of myself. Maybe it's the basketball. Maybe it's the reconnects with the old friends. Maybe it was the phone call with Roxanne. Maybe a lil bit of everything.

Who knows? Who needs to?

The mojo. Is rising.

(Maybe.)

What Is Love?

2008-11-22T12:20:00.000-08:00

There are many splendid arrangements driven by love.

But where human mating habits are concerned, there are really only two motives anyone has for choosing to "love" anyone else.

1) Conquest
2) Companionship

You can think of them as stages that comprise a continuum.

You can think of them as competing desires.

You can think of them...as both.

The Conquest Motive has, at its core, the urge to discover.

For some, discovery is an end in and of itself. They love in order to learn about themselves. To learn about other people. To learn about processes. This application of discovery would seem to contradict the word "conquest." But if you channel Derrida for a moment, you can zoom in on descriptors like "acquire" or "gain mastery of" and the idea of a conquest meant to nurture starts to sound pretty feasible.

For others, discovery is the means that leads to some sort of triumph. The literal application of "conquest." I don't know if people still make notches in their bedposts every time they've finished a new lover, but that's kinda how this one works. Maybe you know the concept as a "Cooch Count" or a "Peter Meter." Whatever the case, this application of discovery is all about victory and volume.

Meanwhile, the Companionship Motive is self-evident.

Most people don't like to be alone. Most people prefer familiar company to share...well...pretty much everything. It can start with a laugh and build up to an entire life. Some of it may be compelled by customs. Like, you're just supposed to get married and have kids. Much more of it is inspired by an innate need for simple human contact that is most efficiently fulfilled by choosing a partner who will promise to provide you that point of contact. Maybe it's a permanent arrangement. Maybe it grows out of whatever is most practical at that moment. Bottom line: people need people.

Of course, there are the unlucky ones. The people who genuinely wish to be alone. Those people don't really have a place in this theory. They are evil and heartless. Sub-human, even. And they are known by their scientific name: the San Antonio Spurs.

Now that we understand each of these motives, how exactly do they work?

If we consider them as stages, at some point every person's hormones will scream at them to go out and discover what that thing is that is making the spine tingle, the belly flutter or the heart pound. Which means that Conquest usually comes first. After a person has discovered enough things, their emotional architecture can transform to house a yearning for shared intimacy. That shift signals the kicking in of the Companionship Motive. Basically, Conquest colors adolescence and Companionship is the driver during adulthood.

However, the motives are not exclusive to those two life stages. Which, in short, is why love is messy. But not for everyone.

Some people do all their discovering. Then they get boo'd up. And they're good.

For a lot more people than that, the motives wage something of a civil war. They want to conquer, but they also need a partner. Or maybe the partner doesn't provide the right degree of human contact. So the urge to discover overpowers that unsatisfied desire for fellowship. Or maybe a person realizes there was more to conquer than they had conquered before they opted to jump the broom. Or maybe they picked the wrong partner, the pairing ended and now they're left to go back to the discovering stage whether they really want to or not. The scenarios for this kind of conflict really are endless.

So...that's love. In a nutshell. It's a whole lot easier to type than it is to do. But it's not nearly as perplexing as it might seem.

It's just a matter of understanding why you're doing whatever it is that you're doing.

First Writing Since

2008-11-19T15:30:00.000-08:00

If you don't know who Suheir Hammad is, shame on you. If you've never heard the poem below, give up the next 7 minutes of your life to change that.

Now that we've got that out the way, this entry has nothing to with Ms. Hammad. (Except for the homage being paid by its title.) Or Sept. 11. It might have to do with anti-Islamism. But only in a very tangential way.

Two weeks have passed since the United States of America elected Barack Obama as its President.

And it still feels weird to type that. Or say it. Or know it to be true.

The pinch-me-ness of the good guys finally winning something big has yet to dissipate.

The piece-by-piece assembling of President-Elect Obama's cabinet tends to bring it into focus and make it feel more real.

I liked the Rahm Emanuel choice. But am feeling underwhelmed by everyone who has come after. Or everyone who has been rumored after.

While I don't doubt that Barack remains the smartest guy in the room, I am beginning to wonder how many concessions he had to make in order to collect the full support of the established Left.

I believe that change happened.

And I hope change will continue to come.

Congratulations to America

2008-11-05T12:19:00.000-08:00

There is a non-descript government building that opposes a McDonald's on the corner of 14th and U in NW Washington, DC. Outside this building, a row of flags--an American flag and a couple of other anonymous banners--sprouts from the sidewalk. On any normal day, or night, it is an ordinary site that plays host to little other than a cool breeze and some passing pedestrians.

Last night--as 50 Stars and 13 Stripes whipped jubilantly overhead--I danced in a drum circle while hundreds of citizens of the District of Columbia chanted "USA! USA! USA!" and a warm, Autumn rain washed all of us.

It was a fine American mess. The finest I've ever seen. Or expect to see in my lifetime.

Many better-informed, better-paid, more eloquent people than I will seek to capture for you what the election of Barack Obama means. They--along with many others who hack away like I do--will probably describe their version of the moment. The moment Barack Obama was elected President of the United States of America. Every version of the moment will contain its own magic. And every description will rise with ambition to approximate the power that surged within all of us last night.

I can list for you the details of my moment. A cubby hole with a liquor license and a kitchen full of delicious. Stone's throw from Howard University. Old friends. Happy strangers. Tears. Hugs. Applause. Smiles wide like it was a wedding day. Sam Cooke's "Change Gonna Come." More tears. More hugs. More applause. A toast. A pledge. More hugs. Smiles still wide, unremoved and beaming.

Eventually, many of us took to the streets after a symphony of car horns beckoned us. Someone handed me a pile of Obama'08 signs to pass out. I kept one for myself and wandered west on U Street trying to pierce the sky with it like any good son of Norma Rae would be expected to do. A young, midnight-complected woman hanging out the passenger side window of an Explorer waved me over, squeezed me as if she was trying to pull me into her skin and screamed "OBAMA!!!" for the entire ether to hear.

That drizzle that fell on our nation's capital late last night fell a little bit harder with each passing minute. Sometime after midnight--after Obama delivered the last word of his acceptance speech--the skies dried up. The rain had come. And the rain had gone away.

The rhythm from the drums grew louder. Police sirens wailed halfheartedly. The rhythm grew even louder. Car horns helped keep the beat. Sub-woofers from stoodstill cars blared whatever song the iPod shuffled up next. Someone started an Electric Slide. Everyone else seemed to join in. It was a celebration worthy of Rick James himself.

To some degree, we witnessed an affirmation of American-ness last night. If we have learned anything about this Grand Experiment of ours, though, there lies a mess beneath the make-believe monolith that is these United States of America. Our one nation, some might argue, is structured in a fundamentally divisible way. You can draw up whatever teams you want. Based on whatever terms suit you. In every case, tax-payers will be pitted against each other. There will be an "Us." And there will be a "Them."

On this day, after last night, "Us" can be defined much more broadly than it ever has been. You didn't need to ask anyone on U Street to know that. Their eyes, their smiles and the hugs they gave declared as much. It was as if a good many of us had finally arrived at 1776.

Much later in the dry darkness of this morning, I sat in my bed in Northern Virginia. Inhaling a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and some McDonald's fries. Bar-b-que sauce dripping on my t-shirt. A good friend called from Texas--interrupting the feast--to celebrate and discuss what had happened and what could happen next. There remains, we agreed, a massive amount of work to be done.

For there is a fine American mess that a very different, brand new "Us" can claim, in part, as our own.

Prepping for Election Night in the US

2008-11-04T13:59:00.000-08:00

I've heard, read and witnessed a wide variety of emotions being expressed today across the United States as decent and not-so-decent Americans alike have made their choices in the quadrennial clash between good and evil.

This evening, predictably, TV sets will flicker late into the early part of tomorrow. Revealing the ultimate deceit for some and confirming the joys of an impossible reality for others.

Regardless of whom you drew your sword for today, we can be certain of one thing:

Celebration and consolation will taste very much alike. They'll both taste like whiskey.

And the first Wednesday in this November will be a pretty shade of ugly. Or an ugly shade of pretty.

Or, perhaps, it will deliver another fine American mess.

Early Season NBA Thoughts

2008-11-01T10:59:00.000-07:00

LeBron James will win an NBA championship before his current contract expires.

I trust Mike D'Antoni. Knicks fans should, too.

D Rose is already the best Chicago Bull.

For as much as people will focus on the importance of New Orleans signing Posey, Mike James and Julian Wright will be the role players who tilt the Hornets' fortunes.

As long as he stays healthy, which he should, D Wade will take Miami to the play-offs.

I love watching Kevin Durant play basketball, but I can't stomach the idea of watching the Oklahoma City whatevers. It just feels wrong.

If I was any player who was nearing the end my third contract and my team was more than 15 games under .500 in Feb, I'd ask for a buyout so I could go play with Kevin Garnett for the veteran minimum.

I'm lukewarm on the Sixers.

I still don't believe in the Rockets.

I do believe in OJ Mayo. And I can't wait 'til he escapes Memphis.

I also believe in the Hawks. Joe Johnson and Horfy are the truth. Acie Law IV is gonna be a ice-cold killer of a third wheel for them. Eventually.

The real Greg Oden won't arrive until sometime in 2010. He'll dominate when does show up, though.

I like the Clipper roster. In a best case scenario, they're this year's Sixers. In a worst case scenario...they're the Clippers.

If the world will simply let Dirk, Kidd and Josh Howard play basketball...I think they'll be pretty good at it.

Tim Duncan looks very fit, very rested, very aggressive and very focused to start the season. He'll probably win the MVP award after the Spurs clinch their division. Unless LeBron or D Wade averages a quintuple double.

Socialism has arrived in America and it wears a Laker uniform. Only two guys (Odom and Ariza) are playing for contracts and neither of them plays a game that requires them to get big numbers to prove their worth. The roster is two (three?) deep at every position. They can play any style they want to play and may invent four new styles this season just for the hell of it. The only thing standing between Showtime 3.0 and the employment of a no-star approach to spreading the stats around is...Kobe. Does Kobe still need the numbers at this point in his career or does he really only care about the ring? Could the effective Europeanization of his team be the intended destination of Phil Jackson's coaching career? I don't know, but it might be the most interesting subplot of this season. And, thankfully, there's reason to believe Mayor Villaraigosa may host a parade down Figueroa in June. Maybe. If Chick Hearn's ghost smiles on the Laker Nation and helps everything break right.

My New Resumé

2008-10-30T11:09:00.000-07:00

I am not currently looking for work. Nor do I have a compelling need to update my resumé. I can, however, reduce my resumé to the most essential information you need to know about my working self:

Tim Adkins
Media Guy/Creative Type/Professional Empathizer

Skills:
Can give a very sincere shit about any problem you have and will collaborate with you thoughtfully and artfully to create a solution that leaves you feeling good about yourself and profoundly satisfied with whomever or whatever I have been tasked with representing.

Salary:
Six figures gets you a conversation. Seven figures gets you a meeting. 18 figures gets you my soul for half of eternity. 36 figures gets it 'til the end of all time.

Name That Tune

2008-10-28T19:26:00.000-07:00

I know this is exactly what Nike wanted bloggers to do for its new Chalk commercial with LeBron, but I'm doing it anyway. Here goes...

What's the name of the song in that ^^^ video?

UPDATE: The answer is "Candyman" from Cornershop.

It took the internet less than 24 hours to answer that one. What'samatter y'all? That's type slow, yo.

Opening Day

2008-10-28T14:00:00.000-07:00

With the Lakers-Celtics Finals and the Olympics, there's been very little time for many hoop fans to feel like our lives have been missing anything so far in 2008.

But it has been, like, two whole months since Team USA vanquished the Spaniards to claim this year's Gold.

Thankfully, basketball is back. Are you ready? This guy is:

Be Don Draper

2008-10-26T11:22:00.000-07:00

If you don't watch Mad Men, you probably should. If you don't look fantastic in a suit, you probably should. If you don't strut around with supreme confidence, you probably should. If you don't drink and smoke constantly...

The Message Is the Message

2008-10-23T07:59:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know Marshall McLuhan is spinning in his grave. Which makes this Thursday no different than any other day that someone has invoked or remixed the most famous sentence that ever emerged from McLuhan's typewriter.

To support the title of this post, I'm sharing two clips from my favourite show on anything, C-SPAN's Washington Journal.

Before I do, I want you to put your own personal opinions on these terrifically divisive subjects on the shelf and really listen to what each of the panelists is saying. Taken together, the following clips provide a master class in message discipline.

This one, on both sides I think, is how message discipline is done well:

Washington Journal 10.22.08
Frank Schubert, Yes on CA Prop. 8, Co-Campaign Manager & Kate Kendell, No on CA Prop 8 Campaign discuss California's ballot initiative on same-sex marriage

This one, also on both sides I think, is how tangential elements of your argument can subsume the core of it:

Washington Journal 10.23.08
Crystal Clinkenbeard, No on Colorado Amendment 48 & Bob Enyart, Colorado Right to Life, Director focus on Colorado Amendment 48, known as the "personhood" amendment, defines the term "person" to "include any huan being from the moment of fertilization."

In the case of the second clip featuring the folks from Colorado, Mr. Pro appealed a little too much to the emotions associated with his debate and, though extremely bold in places, he also came off as a lil bit irrational to me. Mrs. Con, on the other hand, raised her hands in defense, but failed to counterattack what she called mischaracterizations with any substantial data of her own.

Having said all that...I hope both measures are soundly defeated. Like the Celtics crushing the Lakers in Game 6. (Yes, I think I'm finally over the NBA Finals.)

How to Save a Life

2008-10-20T15:20:00.000-07:00

I don't know much about suicide. But I have an idea about suicide prevention. And I learned it from Rocky IV. Let me share two scenes that explain my theory:

The obvious lesson should be that there is no easy way out; no shortcut home. That what you need to do after you've endured yet another wrist-slitting Monday is sprint up a snow-covered mountain while listening to some super synthy '80s music then beat the crap out of a giant, spiky-haired Russian. It will, undoubtedly, renew your purpose. And, quite possibly, you'll vanquish Communism in the process.

In the event that this John Henry mission leaves you at all unsatisfied, then you can also drink two bottles of wine and pass out at 10:30. That will work, too.

Fear Not

2008-10-18T16:12:00.000-07:00

I hear talk that there are some people who confess reluctance about voting for Barack Obama because he is not White. (Not White like them, anyway.)

I also hear talk that there are people vigilantly opposed to Barack because they fear creeping socialism. Or an outright move to the furthest, presumably most dangerous realms of liberalism.

And I see a fair amount of exhortations like this:

Obama '08 - Vote For Hope from MC Yogi on Vimeo.

Put it all together and a person can't help but ask, what, really, is the worst that can happen if Barack Obama is elected to serve as the 44th POTUS?

Seriously. What is the worst that can happen?

And, please, be rational. Keeping in mind that there is a system of hard checks and balances (as engineered by T. Jeff and company) and soft checks and balances (as evidenced by the unwavering influence of philosophical hardliners who remain entrenched in the process of governance) that work in tandem to keep the Grand Experiment chugging along.

Granted, we have arrived at a crucial moment in our nation's history where looming executive decisions could forever alter the course toward which we chug.

But, really, what's wrong with backing a smart guy who inspires people to engage in acts that positively impact the greater good(*)?

Why is that something to fear?

(*) "Good" here really does mean "good". Like, your rights to be better off are preserved. Mine are, too. So are all the rights of all our neighbors. And no one is forced to suffer injustice as we preserve those rights or as any of us try to make ourselves better off(**).

(**) "Better off"...well, I can't really say exactly what that means. Something about life, liberty and the pursuit of driving a Cadillac. Or maybe it has something to do with amber waves of grain and purple haze. It's probably not my place to even say. You figure it out for you. I'll figure it out for me. And if we figure differently from each other...well, I'm pretty sure we both retain the right to punch the other in the mouth. Hoo-rah.

My Christmas List

2008-10-17T14:42:00.001-07:00

I am not asking that any of you buy me anything for the upcoming celebration of the birth of Santa Claus, but if you insist, then please buy me this:

Searching

2008-10-17T07:41:00.000-07:00

It's never a good idea to lose someone's phone number.

Especially when she volunteered it.

Especiallier when she already teased you about why you hadn't called her.

Especialliest when she has a cute sister she might (heavy emphasis on might) be trying to hook you up with.

*Resumes what is now a three-day search*

EDIT: Found it. Um...now what do I do?

"You have one ___ message."

2008-10-16T18:51:00.000-07:00

There is a voicemail message currently residing on my work phone that was left for me two Septembers ago. Which should tell you three things:

1) I'm a pack rat.

2) I've been collecting paychecks from the same place for a while now.

3) It's one helluva message.

Actually, it's not necessarily the message so much as the person who left it. The guy's surname is Teodorescu and with his accent from wherever it is that he comes, the message begins with him saying what sounds like "to the rescue".

Which is fantastically silly. And never ceases to crack me up.

Especially on those days that feel like they last a week. Or during those weeks that feel like they last a decade. Or during those decades...

Lord, I hope I don't spend 10 years in the same place.

Scissor Me

2008-10-15T08:09:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't about South Park.

It's actually about coupon cutting.

And a woman who might be the best who ever did it.

NPR's Morning Edition reports. Circa yesterday.

(Oh, but if you want to see that episode of South Park again, go here. Season 11. The D-Yikes episode.)

Hero

2008-10-08T18:45:00.001-07:00

I. Am. A little bit slow.

(You knew that already, but you probably would like a reminder, no?)

I bought Nas' "Untitled" album when it was released earlier this year.

(May? June? I don't remember. It was a while ago.)

And I listened to it. A few times. It was cool. Didn't change my life. Or even qualify as leaveonrepeatforamonth. Just another record. Among hundreds of others mountaining up in my house.

Couple weeks back I saw it on my work iTunes and decided to give it another listen. It sounded better than I remembered. A little more cohesive. Like it really wanted to say something. Like it wanted to be more than just another piece of sonic detritus filling the pop culture trash heap.

And I think it does. Really. On the strength of one song, "Hero."

It should have been the epicenter of the album, but managed only to rise to the level of lead single. Which is less than the same thing. And which is no one's fault but Nas'.

It's clear that Nas wanted to explore his own iconography while explaining one recent controversy he's been linked to--and he did--but he didn't construct the story that deserved be told. Not exactly.

Verse 1 is the rise of Nas. 12(?) bars of straight autobiography looking at where he is and where he came from.

Verse 2 is...more of the same. With a little bit of reflection on how his idea of what's really good has evolved.

Verse 3 explains how his album came to lack a title and lays out the intent behind his original choice of a title.

Verses 1 and 3 are vintage Nas. Verse 2 is...dope...but mildly superfluous. We got enough braggadocio in verse 1 and could have used a lil more heart in verse 2 than Nas delivered. Less about Nas and more about how Nas thinks the world has changed in correlation to the way he himself has changed. That would have been the ideal connector between the first and third verses. Instead, we got clever redundancy. What we deserved was a full story where the artist contemplates his own journey, the state of the world he inhabits and the political ramifications of his efforts to express himself. Two out of three ain't bad. It's good. Which is less than great.

I lived with the song for three days before arriving at that conclusion. During that time, I fell in heavy like with the beat. The elements are so simple that when taken apart, they might make your average okay-hater cringe. But the way they are assembled is just shy of brilliant. Somehow, Polo layers a poor man's Bomb Squad of a drum break under a potentially cheap sound effect then sprinkles it with some Keri Hilson-ness, some Storch-y keys, and some marching band. It really worked for me. Perhaps because it sounded so dramatic. But I digress. Way too much here.

The point of all this (there is one, if you can believe it) is to commend a good effort. After re-listening to that song--and to the rest of that album--I came to appreciate the thought Nas put into it. It's not Illmatic. But nothing ever could be. (Nor should it be.) It is a good album. With some flashes of greatness. Rather, near greatness. Like "Hero."

Time may be more kind than I've been here. Or not.

It is worth saying that an old MC still has some fire to spit. And that he maintains his sense of purpose. Even if his storytelling abilities have faded a little.

He is still very good. Heroic, even. But not quite great.

Playing Hooky

2008-10-03T16:30:00.000-07:00

There is a pretty famous Englishman who theorizes that public schools often kill creativity. Here's his argument:

Personally, I think he's on to something.

Which is, in part, why I played hooky from work today. Sorta.

Early this week, I got an e-vite for this event.

Which was quite timely as I had just finished reading this collection of mini-essays.

Since Friday is normally my work-from-home day, it presented the perfect opportunity for a field trip.

So I took one.

Naturally, I learned some cool new stuff. Notably from the guy who runs this organization.

Then I wandered DC a lil bit. Checked out a couple book stores. Furniture stores. And some sneaker spots, too. It was, after all, a truly blue sky autumn afternoon in the nation's capital.

Now I'm home. Getting caught up on email. Flirting with some of the "work" I missed this afternoon. And I'm thinking that I've stumbled onto a new rule that would make Sir Ken (the guy in the video up there ^^^) proud.

Everyone should play hooky from work once a month.

It does a body--and a spirit--good. Lotsa good.

The catch, though, is that you probably shouldn't simply sit at home and watch The View. Or ESPN Classic. Or a My Name is Earl marathon.

This rule should have a clause that you have to do something that inspires you. Doesn't really matter what it is. Or even what it inspires you to do. Just that it gets the neurons in your brain firing. That's all.

'Cause the thousand paper cuts of death that await you in the cube farm don't actually need to succeed.

No matter how important that TPS Report is.

A Bunch of Sofa Kings

2008-09-27T08:29:00.000-07:00

I'm still deciding whether I like Santogold or not. I am certain that I like Jack Davey's voice better. But there's enough stuff on Santi's first album to keep me listening. For now.

One song may or may not be construed as a response to Barack Obama. It also might be the mantra of your average hipster.

If you've never run across Adbusters...firstly, you're forgiven...secondly, check this article out. Especially this passage:

"An amalgamation of its own history, the youth of the West are left with consuming cool rather that creating it. The cultural zeitgeists of the past have always been sparked by furious indignation and are reactionary movements. But the hipster’s self-involved and isolated maintenance does nothing to feed cultural evolution. Western civilization’s well has run dry."

If you read the Washington Post this past week, you might make that as an answer to this question:

"The stock market has gone nuts, and the federal government is treating Wall Street with experimental cures that will cost nearly $1 trillion. An unpopular foreign war, now in its sixth year, has resulted in more than 4,100 American deaths. For the first time in history, the presidential campaign includes an African American candidate for president and a Republican female candidate for vice president.

Taken together, these data points give this moment in American history a once-in-a-great-while feel of Something Large. But if this is truly a pivot in time, its most peculiar feature may be how un-peculiar it feels. For all the social and political upheaval, for all the 60-point headlines and for all the bipartisan calls for change, there is plenty of unease -- but a very notable lack of unrest...

...How come?"

To extend a phrase...the kids are alright because the kids just don't care.

Naturally, that's a gross generalization. One that leans heavily on the predictability of teenage angst. And one that relies upon the idea that youth has been extended indefinitely so that traditional teenage angst prevails as the default emotional status of 20- and 30-somethings. In other words, Xers and Millenials never really grow up. Since they don't, they are possessed of the vanity and insecure nonchalance we typically associate with the US high school experience.

(It also assumes that all young people are hipsters. Which they are not. But the point about self-involvement holds true for anyone who has a myspace page. Which is everyone under 40.)

Like I said...a gross generalization.

But is it utterly incorrect?

Kinda. Kinda not.

In terms of historical moments, we can best describe this one by borrowing from last year's live action version of Transformers and Aqua Teen Hunger Force (ATHF).

In Transformers, there's a scene right before Barricade confronts Sam. The one where Mikaela is sitting at a Burger King while Sam is pedaling his mother's bike down the sidewalk as the Decepticon gives chase. Sam hits a crack and flips the bike. Mikaela sees Sam stumble and says:

"Sam...That was, um, pretty awesome."

(I'd link to that clip, but I can't find it online.)

In the scene, Mikaela actually searches for the words to describe what she's just witnessed. And all she comes up with is "awesome." If you've had a conversation with any English-speaking person in the last year you know that "awesome" is the new "like." If "like" were multiplied by "dude" then that sum were multiplied by "cool."

It is spoken. Frequently. Which brings us to ATHF.

You may have seen this scene from the cartoon. Or heard it on the DangerDoom album.

What you wanna pay attention for is the line "Loses meaning." That, I think, is the point of all this rambling.

If high school is the dominant cultural motif of our times (which was being hinted at earlier), then what is the peak moment of high school?

It's four letters long. And it's not lunch. Or graduation.

The Prom.

And what's the prom about? Other than busting your cherry, it's about hyperbole.

Now, if "awesome" is the verbal pinnacle of hyperbole and is also the most conversationally used word in the English language, then it stands to reason that "awesome" has lost all meaning. By extension, meaning itself has been dulled. We wake up expecting each morning to deliver us to the prom. Based in part on the deluge of 60-point type telling us what is happening in the world. Whether or not that day is a prom day, there really isn't anything more to experience. It's that. Or, so it feels, nothing.

Which may or may not be a bad thing.

I really can't tell.

Darling Nikki

2008-08-31T13:38:00.000-07:00

Chris Rock is not going to win an Oscar for his acting.

Or his directing.

But he may win one for casting. That is, if he had any hand in choosing the female lead of his second adventure in directing, I Think I Love My Wife.

(If he didn't, then tall props to Victoria Thomas.)

That's Kerry Washington. Chewing up scenery as Nikki Tru.

If you've not seen the movie--and most of you probably haven't--here's the 40-word synopsis:

Married banker reconnects with smokin' hot acquaintance (SHA). SHA asks favor. Banker delivers. SHA asks more favors. Banker keeps delivering. Emotional experience of an affair transpires, but no sex is involved. Nonetheless, banker's marriage threatens to disintegrate.

Interesting premise. Some very funny bits that feel as if they come from one of Rock's stand-up films. And...this is a KRS-ONE-sized AND...a whole lot of Kerry Washington.

Rather, of Nikki Tru.

I've met Nikki Tru. A couple versions of her. She is always stunningly attractive. Immaculately attired in a way that invites you--commands you--to stare at her. She flirts with you in a way that feels much more like actual foreplay than playful banter. If she doesn't know everyone in the room, then everyone in the room certainly wants to know her. She carries no money because she is her own currency. She lives in every major US city. And there are small posses of her preying on the unsuspecting (willing?) men who live in (or visit) LA and NYC imparticular. You might call her--every her--a muse. You might call her a shatterer of the ordinary. You might even call her a drug. You'd definitely call her "Yes."

That type of woman--for whom sex is a semi-commercial enterprise--affects a man in a way that defies explanation. Your moral fibre may be rich with things like logic, loyalty and temperance. But once a Nikki Tru locks eyes on you, you're gonna do whatever she wants you to do. For the better. (Or what feels like it ought to be called better.) Until something worse occurs. (Something really, really worse.) When the worse hits the fan, Nikki Tru will probably leave you. And if she doesn't, then you might find yourself standing in line at the courthouse trying to file papers to get a restraining order.

This isn't to say that a Nikki Tru is generally a bad human being. Just that she's so good, she tends to be unaware that bad exists. So she does her good thing to you and whatever happens...well, it happens.

I've watched I Think I Love My Wife a half dozen times now. And I'm reminded of that phenomenon every time I see it.

To be honest with you, I envy Chris Rock's character. Well, I envy his character to a point. He makes some decisions I probably wouldn't have were I in his situation.

Which is probably why I'm in my situation. Thinking I need to find me a new Nikki Tru.

Still Isaac Hayes

2008-08-23T20:56:00.000-07:00

Death is a difficult thing to digest.

The gag reflex of the heart (or is it the soul?) tends to produce a vomitous outpouring of sadness, anger and the most profound of all human vulnerabilities: that we are merely human after all.

Somewhere in some Parisian apartment--in the moments just before either of Daft Punk were a glint in their father's eyes--there was, probably, a record spinning on a turntable. This record would have helped spark that glint in their father's eyes. This record would have served as the soundtrack to the session that conceived either of Daft Punk. This record, of course, would have featured the voice of Isaac Hayes.

It's both easy and predictable to say that Isaac Hayes was a bad mother--shutyermouth. It's also true.

A week (two?) has passed since Black Moses suddenly escaped planet earth. I'm sure there have been a dozen kadrillion fitting eulogies for him. Each of them celebrating the epochs that comprised his career. Some of them exploring the man and his choices of faith. And, I'd guess, that a fair amount of them included the phrase "chocolate salty balls."

Ultimately, there's nothing tragic about the death of Isaac Hayes. There is only tragedy in the timing and/or the circumstances of his exit. This is true for all of us. We all finish the human race in the exact same place.

While I know that everyone mourns differently--digesting death individually--I feel a bit dismissive of the whole process where someone of Isaac Hayes' stature is concerned. He became something. Rather, he became several somethings. Equal to the expectations of different people depending on what role he performed in at the different plot points that comprised his career.

I suspect that some of those people feel as if one of their icons has fallen. Truth is, he could never fall. Once he came to stand for something, he would forever stand for that thing. If there's any doubt whatsoever, then put your head phones on and journey back to that day when that bad mother--shutyermouth took center stage at the Los Angeles Memorial Coleseum. The day he performed at Wattstax. Live. Put that CD on. Or pop the movie in. And there he. Still standing. Still the icon. Whatever happened in addition to that moment, there always will be that moment.

Maybe a better example of the permanence of iconography is Michael Jackson. For a lot of people, he's a crazy child molester and that's it. (Which is much more extreme than Isaac Hayes being reduced to Chef.) But, if Thriller or Heartbreak Hotel or A-B-C ever meant something to you, I'd bet that you could listen to those records and still connect with that thing. No matter how far the icon seems to fall, there is still that place where he once stood. And, for whatever reason he stood there, there is always some relic to transport those who bore witness back to that place.

So, there was Isaac Hayes. And there is Isaac Hayes.

Wherever his spirit is traveling to right now, that doesn't change.

He still stands accused. And he's still a bad mother--shutyermouth.

The Future of Team USA

2008-08-22T11:19:00.000-07:00

The first half of the Battle of Beijing is now over. (Getting to the Gold Medal Game)

The second half of that battle will probably be as awkward as the quarterfinal game against Australia. (The looming rematch with Spain.)

Once that game is over--regardless of who wins--then what?

For all the talk about the importance of the short-term mission tasked to this iteration of Team USA, the larger takeaway may be the strategic groundwork that has been laid to re-envision the way our national men's basketball program is run.

(There's also no shortage of talk about Jerry Colangelo's leadership, but humor me here as I break out the crystal ball.)

Assuming that the new permanent rule is to require a multi-year commitment from a pool of 25 or so players who will be eligible to compete for a spot on the national team, what might we be looking at come 2010? Or 2012? Or 2016?

Well, we can expect that at least 4 and as many as 8 (more?) of the guys ballin' in Beijing will suit up in the red, white and blue in London. Certainly for the next World Championships in Turkey.

It's hard to project whom that would be, but you have to assume that Jason Kidd won't be one of them. And you have to hope--or pray--that LeBron James will be.

(Sacrifice 40 goats if you have to, just do whatever is necessary to make sure LeBron plays. And let's pencil in Chris Paul, Deron Williams, Chris Bosh, Carmelo Anthony and Dwight Howard, too.)

The key thing is the pool of players who would even be invited. Right now, the bulk of those players would presumably be younger than 30. And, each would have either proven to be capable as an NBA starter or be widely thought to be a franchise-calibre player.

If we throw the names of most of this year's roster into that pool (excluding Jason Kidd), we would probably add the following guys to the short list of possible, future Team USA team members:

Gilbert Arenas
Michael Beasley
Caron Butler
Andrew Bynum
Kevin Durant
Monta Ellis
Danny Granger
Devin Harris
Josh Howard
Andre Iguodala
Joe Johnson
Kevin Martin
OJ Mayo
Greg Oden
Rajon Rondo
Dereck Rose
Brandon Roy
Amare Staudemire
David West

(Actually, that's not a very short list at all. It safely covers, like 70% of the best US-born NBA players under 30. Naturally, it omits people like Chauncey Billups and Elton Brand who might also be part of the pool. But those guys are the very, very, very-near future. At best. And that's it.)

I don't know about you, but when I think about those players--and consider them alongside the current Team USA--what jumps out to me is that all of the possible combinations of US-born NBA players moving forward look pretty much the same.

Lots of stupidly freakish athleticism. Most guys somewhere between 6'6" and 6'9". Very few with etched in stone positions on the court. And, most importantly, not much in the way of classic pass-cut-shoot basketball that every other country on Earth seems to play.

(It's almost as if all the best American players learned their games on the streets of Chicago. Too much wind to worry about shooting any Js. So just get out and run and try to jump over the other guy.)

All of this to say that the style of basketball we have watched in the 2008 Olympics (the swarming perimeter defense and the offensive acrobatics) is what we're going to get plenty of during the next 10-12 years. At least. And unless some major revolution takes place in the way teenage basketball talent is developed, (Stephon Curry, please save us!) it's entirely possible that US basketball has forever committed itself to that style. (Forever = until David Stern retires.)

Frankly, as we've seen in these games, that's not entirely a bad thing. Our guys can still perform some amazing basketball feats. And the generations coming up after them will presumably be capable of more of the same. And, clearly, the best American ballplayers can generally still kick the crap out the best players any other country can throw together.

We just need to be sure that we stick to what we're good at. And hope that amazing will always be enough to bring home the gold.

Rather, that controlled acts of the amazing will be enough. 'Cause amazing by itself didn't do too well in '02. Or '04. Or '06.

Which means that the coach (whether his name is Krzyzweski, Popovich, D'Antoni, McMillan, Howland or Izzo) is just as important a choice as the players.

The common thread when forecasting the future players and the coaches of Team USA, I s'pose, is that the fundamental challenge facing USA Basketball is to overcome our own predilections for vanity. Which is basically the thing that caused the semi-final game against Argentina to be so close.

'Cause we really are bigger, stronger and faster. (Mostly 'cause we have LeBron and Superman.) What ails us--if anything does--is a queasy gut. It's just too easy to marvel at our own natural brilliance and neglect the little bits of willful effort that yield great champions.

Maybe that's why some people in some countries hate America. Or, maybe it's just basketball and I'm one member of the sad, but likable mass of hoop fans who cares a little bit too much.

Either way, we have met the future. And it is us. As we are now. And will be.

The New Silk Road

2008-08-21T09:08:00.000-07:00

On the new Silk Road, they don't trade much silk. (That I know of.)

And, it appears, that there isn't actually much trading going on.

Just "the most bare-knuckled resource grab the world has ever seen."

If I've emailed you or talked to you during the last 2-3 months, there's a good chance I've referenced the series that follows or even shared these links with you. It is, quite simply, the finest piece of journalism I've come across in 2008.

It is long. But reading it represents a great investment of your time. Whether or not you were curious about the relationship between China and the African continent before you poked your head into this post.

Without further ado...

China in Africa Part 1

China in Africa Part 2

China in Africa Part 3

China in Africa Part 4

China in Africa Part 5

China in Africa Part 6

There is something very pyrrhic about how the people of those African countries have entangled themselves with the Chinese government and the Chinese business community.

Mutually assured destuction is too hyperbolic, but I don't think there's a more fitting phrase to project the outcome for both China and the Continent. It just can't end well.

Open Letter #003

2008-08-19T20:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Lolo Jones,

I, like the rest of America, don't mind that you nipped a hurdle in Beijing.

I, like any reasonable Pac-10 fan, am not particularly bothered that you chose to attend an SEC school.

I, unlike a lot of other curious people, don't really care how many or even which ingredients make up the pretty gumbo that is you.

Mostly, I care that your name is Lolo. Which might be the coolest thing about any person on earth at this point in history.

So...you have that going for you.

That and the perfect URL.

Keep your head up, Lolo. And keep running.

Sincerely,

The MGMT

She Said "JaJaJaJa"

2008-08-06T19:34:00.000-07:00

An email huddled in a long line of unread messages in my inbox when I logged in at work this morning. It was a response from a colleague based in Puerto Rico. She was following up on an interview we were working on. She, the subject. Me, the interrogator. I mean, inquisitor. I mean...aw hell...I was the guy asking questions.

In that message, she commented about one line of questioning and typed "jajajaja" in one conspicuous place that looked like a typo. Which made sense given that she was writing in her second language. Even though she spoke and wrote her second language quite well.

After initially raising a curious brow, I forgot about it and dug into what was a crazy ambitious schedule.

In the afternoon, she and I continued our dialogue on the phone. She does some really interesting work with furniture, space and architecture. Which is cool. But not quite as attention-grabbing as the way she spelled out the URL for her home page.

She said "blank blank blank blank blank blank punta com."

OOOOOHHHHHHHH.

Right.

"Punta" = "point." Or "dot."

And "jajajaja" = "hahahaha."

I get it now.

I think I'll be boarding the small yellow bus today. You s'pose they'll let me have the same seat I sat in yesterday?

I Have a Theory About Cheerleaders

2008-08-01T09:09:00.000-07:00

Whether you read Deadspin or not, stories of cheerleaders "behaving badly"* are probably not new to you. (*FTR..." behaving badly" is an easy headline that really means "having harmless fun.")

It has happened at the professional level.

At the collegiate level.

And, since high school is the place where everyone learns to behave badly, I presume it has happened there, too.

(I, for one, am not googling "teen cheerleader" or posting any pics yielded by an image search. You can if you want. But I'm pretty sure that's the sort of thing that got Pete Townshend in trouble.)

This entry is, probably not so clearly, more than a gratuitous exercise. There's also a point. And it's on it's way.

Where my own volume of experience with women is concerned, I would never claim to be Hugh Hefner. Or Wilt Chamberlain. Or Bill Clinton. But I have known a couple of women in my life. So, I'd like to think I know a couple of things about them.

Rather, I think I know something. Maybe just one thing. And this thing will be called "The Cheerleader Theory."

Remember when I blathered on about The Origin of Yay? Well, this theory is a build on that.

Whereas Deadspin posits that cheerleaders are just a bunch of brazen exhibitionists, I figure cheerleaders are actually a hyperbolic expression of one of the most basic tenets of femininity. Affirmation.

In English, that means any woman--to some degree--is a natural born cheerleader. More importantly, any woman--to some degree--needs to be the subject of cheers. Which is probably why cheerleadering comes so easily to a woman. Because she wants affirmation, she's inclined to give affirmation. The inherent expectation being that giving will lead to receiving. And not just receiving any old thing. But the exact same thing that was given because that thing--affirmation--is assumed to be very high in the remixed version of the hierachy of needs.

It's kinda like what Rosie Perez was getting at here:

It's also a promient theme of Sex and the City. Or in Stuart Smalley's work. Which means that The Cheerleader Theory is much less about men v. women than it is about understanding femininity. Rather, one element of it.

Masculinity is, in part, about confirmation. If you think you can do something or if you claim to be capable of it, then you go out and do it. To confirm to yourself and whomever else might be interested that you can.

Femininity, is in part, about affirmation. If you think something or feel a certain way, then you express it. Once you've done so, you expect someone else to affirm that thing to be so. Or, less likely, to have them argue in the contrary so you can externally elaborate on your position.

In English, that means the masculine thing to do is to get it in while the feminine thing to do is to get out that which is already in.

Which is, reductively, what cheerleaders do. They yell. They yell out positive, motivational things. They affirm.

Just as there are both male and female cheerleaders, affirmation is a pursuit for either a man or a woman.

But, just like there are about a jillion more female cheerleaders than male cheerleaders, femininity is more likely to be exhibited by a woman than by a man. Which means that women are more likely to seek out and give affirmation. More likely to be cheerleaders. Possibly programmed by nature to be.

What exactly does any of that have to do with half naked women posing provocatively?

Umm....I'm not sure. But girls going wild is a good thing, don't you think?

What Would Dr. King Think?

2008-07-30T08:41:00.000-07:00

I love those kinds of questions. For their rhetorical ridiculousness.

No matter how tempting it is to cut and paste the wisdom of those who are no longer with us to understand and negotiate contemporary scenarios, it is hardly in the best interest of anyone.

Wisdom, you see, is a slimy baton.

It exists in and of itself and has value as it is. But the most important thing you can know about wisdom is that it is transferrable. And that it must be that. It is something that can be built on. And something that should be carried. Advanced, even. Wisdom, after all, is as much an act as it is an object.

This makes total sense when you understand that life ain't a sprint or a marathon. It's a relay. And we all have legs to run.

Dr. King knew that. Probably 'cause he had seen the mountaintop. And that was enough for him.

As that speech reveals, Dr. King recognized that the tape stretched across the finish line was probably not waiting for him to break through it. Just as the feet that bolted from the starter's block were not his own.

He carried the baton. Added his own sweet slime to it. And handed it to the next runner.

Just like you should.

(Me...I'm not a runner. I hoop. We're much more about emasculation than emancipation. Some of us might even be just plain ignorant.)

I Think I Won the VietNam War

2008-07-09T20:36:00.000-07:00

I started reading this book, The Best and the Brightest, way back in November. Of last year. On the day I met the single most memorable person I know. For lunch. The day before her birthday. Several hours before I planed across the Atlantic. To the Netherlands. Seven months--and three countries and two broken hearts and one haircut--later, I have finally arrived at its 672nd page. I am done reading it. Finally.

Which is something of a shame.

Firstly, because it is a spectacularly good read.

Secondly, because it never should have taken me that long to slog through it.

Lastly, because that damn'd Halberstam is gonna make me start writing. Again. For the second time.

When I logged entry #100, I thought it a nice milestone to savor. And a good occasion to take a break. Maybe re-design the layout. Possibly re-think my tagging system.

Then I got enveloped by the NCAA Tournament. Swallowed by the NBA Play-offs. Addicted to IBeatYou.com. Wildly distracted by my dayjob. And trudged ever more slowly toward finishing and releasing that movie. You know the one. All of which left me grossly uninspired. Unmotivated. Probably both.

Which is all a tapestry of excuses for saying I had nothing to say.

(Perhaps I still don't. But let's pretend for an entry that I do.)

History exists mostly in slivers. Highlights. This thing happened. Then that thing happened. Now, here we are. Slivers are often bundled together conveniently to express what we come to know as eras. These chunks are charged with telling the stories of the events that deliver us to the holy surprise of right now.

Which allows me to say something like "The '60s" and have you instantly call up the 32kb of data stored in your own walking hard drive to understand what that means.

But in doing so, do you actually understand what took place on the planet Earth from Jan. 1, 1960 through Dec. 31, 1969?

(You don't have to answer that. It's a rhetorical question. Which you knew. But I needed an excuse to plop parentheses here.)

Context is, mostly, a luxury for any contemporary storyteller. It probably should be a prerequisite, but often isn't. In the race to the point, you're often forced to splice in whatever context the attention span of your audience will afford you. That challenge is not unlike the way that warfare is waged during the digital age. Or the last days of analogue. The ones that took place during the '60s.

Which brings me to the explanation of how I think I won the VietNam War.

It is, to be sure, a facetious claim. But one that someone should make. There were too many lives, too many resources, too many careers and too much talent squandered in the accidental, yet desperately purposeful chasing of ghosts in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Halberstam gave us an epic recounting of how many men went so very wrong. And dozens of others--through books, movies, etc--have weighed in on the same. The gift that all of them--especially Halberstam--can offer is the gift of context.

(That, BTW, means you can win the VietNam War, too.)

The war wasn't some monolithic collection of slivers. There were a whole lot of ideas, philosophies, flukes of circumstance and political pressures that delivered us to 1965. And then kept the US tab running until 1975. VietNam isn't simply synonymous with the '60s. And the '60s aren't simply synonymous with VietNam. The decade--like the war--was richly comprised of visible and invisible forces which drove the events--some connected, some not--that unfolded during it. Neither can be neatly captured. And both must be exhaustively recounted in order to really understand what happened.

It's not something you can do in less than seven months.

Apparently.

100

2008-03-21T06:57:00.000-07:00

I'm not supposed to be here.

Probably not at this milestone post. And certainly not in this place. Either in life. Or in this corner of the internet.

But here I am. My 100th post.

(And here I am...well, I'll spare you the as yet untold gory details of my own misspent journey. Today.)

I will confess to launching this thing as an attempt to land a book deal. I figured that a cleverly compiled record of my own travels through re-adolesence would be enough of a hook to grab some publisher's attention and get me paid.

It hasn't quite worked out that way.

This thing has become a cool little hoop in the backyard where I can shoot around whenever I feel the urge. It's also surrounded by a large grandstand perpetually filled with millions of people.

(By "millions," I mean "four." Like what 2 X 2 equals.)

I am not one for ceremony. But I do believe we should pause a moment to celebrate what might be called my:

TENTH TENTHENNIAL EXTRAVAGANZA!!!

BTW...today is my 32nd. If you need to get at me, I'll be at the bar. Watching the Tournament. And the Lakers. Setting a new record on the pop-a-shot machine. You can send a pretty senorita after me if you like. (Preferrably one who looks makey-outy.) 'Cause I'll probably need a ride home.

Humility in the Porn Industry

2008-03-19T15:22:00.000-07:00

I'm late on this. But I only just watched it last night on Showtime when Dr. Insomnia paid me a visit. Not to mention that it's definitely worth sharing.

Of all the absurd moments you might expect from something called the 25th Annual AVN Adult Movie Awards, this one was definitely the most surreal and it offered the tightest statement about the business of intimacy in the 21st century:

Of all the lessons a person might take from watching porn, who'd have thunk that "respect is the key to good sex" would be among them?

The Disappearing Soul

2008-03-17T20:32:00.000-07:00

When a person--or a group of people--is defined by something which s/he (or they) are not, how do they maintain their sense of identity when that negative is removed?

More to the point, when a group of people are bound together (in part) by a shared sense of struggle, of hardship or of profound oppression, how is that group impacted by a potentially positive change to that circumstance?

And perhaps this is the real question: what happens to you when you start to get what you want?

There are several cliched answers to those quasi-rhetorical questions. Most of them involve the costs associated with compromise.

"Compromise" is an interesting word. It is a paradox that can be used in very different, but fundamentally connected ways:

"Blending qualities of two different things"
"Settle by mutual concessions"
"To cause the impairment of"
"To expose to an unauthorized person or enemy"

That's almost a four-step outline of how to sell one's soul.

The first step is fairly benign. If you're Black and you live in a post-slavery, still-segregated America, you'd probably want the freedom and equality that some white dude long ago wrote into the founding documents of the country you might call home.

The second step speaks to the process associated with obtaining that freedom. Basically, the people oppressing you are gonna have to agree to stop that shit and you, as the oppressed group, are gonna have to agree not to kick the shit out of all those people for everything they ever did wrong to you and your folks.

The third step furthers the second by implying that getting what you want (rather, getting some of what you want) will cause you to sacrifice some things that you already have. If you're a group of people who has previously been segregated (either in part or holistically) then your forced and logical communal ties could suffer once you and the group you are a part of are integrated into a larger society. In short, both your collective and individual identities are gonna need to be rethought and possibly re-expressed.

The fourth step indicates that something may have disintegrated in the quest to obtain the goal outlined in the first step. If you're Black and you live in a post-Civil Rights, legally-integrated America...well...I'm not sure exactly how you'd feel. There are millions of people far more qualified than I am to intimately articulate that experience. BUT...from an outsider's perspective...I have to think that you might feel as if you've sold a piece of your soul in order to enjoy the basic rights and freedoms that had been so egregiously denied to you, your parents, grandparents, etc.

At least, that was one of my takeaways from watching ESPN's documentary mini-series, Black Magic.

Frankly, that should be part of the jump-off from that film. Granted, Black Magic is an outstanding piece of filmmaking. Something I wish I would have made myself. Something I will be among the first to buy whenever it's made available for sale. Mostly so I can cherrypick from the craftsmanship of it for my own future reference.

I suspect, though, that Dan Klores and Earl Monroe (along with Ben Jobe, Jon Chaney, Earl Loyd and the rest) would be terribly disappointed in all of us if we didn't dive a little deeper than that after seeing the film.

If you haven't seen it yet, Black Magic is nearly four hours of stories about the forgotten generation of Black basketball players who played at HBCUs during the 50s, 60s and 70s and who integrated that sport while America itself was being integrated. As you can imagine, there's lots of ugly history there which is offset by magnificent stories of personal triumph. Along with some personal tragedies. Both minor and major.

In sum, it argues that the people who just wanted to play ball (at the highest levels) and the people who created the space for them to do so (when the highest levels weren't accessible) gradually sacrificed the integrity of that space in order to obtain the right to play ball at the highest levels possible.

Or so it would seem the argument goes.

Whether it was intended or not, we could scale that argument to apply it to the identity chronology of Black folks in America during the last 150 years. We could also scale it to explore the principles associated with the process of reaching compromise. We could even scale it to the assorted acts of being alive.

Really, that last one is what I s'pose I'm most interested in. On some what is soul? steez.

I have neither the time nor the energy to even count, let alone read about and meditate on all the various ideas and theories about what the human soul is and how it contributes to a person's existence. I do, however, default to Funkadelic whenever anything about the nature of life is in doubt for me.

(If I wore acronymic wrist bands, mine would read "WWGCD?" After all, there may be worse moral barometers (or better ones) than George Clinton, Bernie Worrell, Eddie Hazel, Fuzzy Haskins, Bootsy and co., but what's really funkin' with them? You can have your Moses or your Buddha and I'll be just fine with all the Woo in the world.)

Soul, as Funkadelic would tell us, has everything to do with how you relate yourself to the world around you as well as, conversely, how you digest that world to achieve your own ends.

At some point, every soul arrives at a crossroads faced with two choices: 1) stand on principle every time in perpetuity without flinching no matter the cost or 2) compromise once and once again every day for the rest of your journey because once you make one concession, you'll never reach a point where you concede no more forever.

If a soul (or a group of souls) chooses the path of compromise, it is not necessarily a well tread road to hell. Nor is it an easy path to paradise. It is a struggle. One that is different from its prideful (patently stubborn and generally courageous) counterpart. No less prone to success or failure. Just different.

But (here's the rub, kids) a soul who chooses compromise has to understand the potentially pyrrhic nature of that path. The choice to compromise could be the most mutually beneficial for everyone involved, but it's going to cost someone something. Sometimes, it costs some folks everything.

Going back to the takeaways from Black Magic, I can't say that I feel hopeless. Nor would I encourage anyone else to be. I do believe that enough time has passed since the close of the Civil Rights Era, that we can place certain issues of identity in their proper context thereby adopting a healthier approach to solving today's problems which are clearly rooted in the problems of the past yet are altogether different.

Which is why I'm particularly curious about the dialogue Barack Obama is about to launch concerning race.

If for no other reason than a leading presidential candidate is about to tackle the biggest, meanest elephant that has ever thundered through any room in this old American house.

Certainly because, now that we know the cost of compromise, we might actually be able to address this thing with some candor and without the belligerence that so naturally accompanies it.

All of us may have shaved a little piece (or two) off our souls to get some of what we wanted, but we haven't made them disappear completely.

Not yet anyway.