His Heart Goes No Further

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.

The New Digital Divide

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

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

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...?

The New, New Colossus

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.

What Is Love?

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Opening Day

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:

The Message Is the Message

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.)

"You have one ___ message."

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

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.)

Playing Hooky

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

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

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

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

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.