Me N Dilla

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.

Simply Begin

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."

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.

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.

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.)

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.

She Said "JaJaJaJa"

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 Think I Won the VietNam War

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.

The Spectacle of Safety

The compulsion of fear begets the need to feel safe.

That is "feel" not actually "be." It is a key distinction. And it is that "need to feel" that thing--in this case, safe--which serves as the foundation of so many illusions.

But what exactly is "fear" about? Good question. Bill the Butcher has an answer:



It's a pretty powerful weapon. Maybe the strongest in any man's (or nation's) arsenal. Used wisely, it is a supremely effective agent of control. But to be used wisely, it must be used in concert with something else. In this case, something else is the "need to feel safe."

Let's take, for example, the "war on drugs."

Some people think all drugs are bad, mmmkay? And that's why, I s'pose, we have a war on drugs.

Plenty of people get rich because of drugs. Some of those people are drug dealers. Some are suppliers. Some are attorneys. Some of those attorneys become elected officials. It is a mutually benefical bifurcation. For the most part. Right up to the point where someone gets arrested and sent to prison for a kajillion years. At that point, there's only one side cakin' up.

And how ridiculous is that? In this straight-from-the-gut editorial, one man speaks on it very truthfully:

The truth is, big drug busts do almost nothing to stem the flow of drugs or change the complexion of the culture, save for making a handful of rather uninformed citizens and angry parents feel better for about 10 minutes, and causing the street price of your narcotic du jour to jump 20 percent for a week. Which, I suppose, is a big part of the reason it happens at all, to give the appearance of justice and enforcement and overall safety, to prevent everyone from freaking out and whining to the mayor.

The "appearance of justice and enforcement." Rather, the appearance of safety.

He's right. We don't need to watch The Wire to recognize the cyclicality of the capital-G Game. It goes on. It will go on. You can't stop it completely because you can't fully eliminate human desire. Not collectively anyway.

Which leaves you--and by "you," I mean a so-called "civilized society"--to choose between A) perpetuating an illusion and B) governing yourself pragmatically.

Obviously, no balkanized group of people is smart enough to agree on a practical solution. So, here we are. And there we go. Exciting ourselves about the evil scourge of all drugs--which is another way of saying that we're ashamed of our own humanity--and cheering on the occasional "victory" that the rich guys who allegedly do the least harm can take credit for.

And, in the end, some of us feel "safe."

While the rest of us are in "the bottle."



Say, brother, can you spare a dollar nine?

"He's Named Like My Name."

I used to think "Max Power" was the best name anyone could possibly have.



Used to.

This guy--known simply as Dr. Brilliant--is the new champ.

Dude.

Dr. Brilliant.

Wow.

There's Been a Gil Sighting

Two, actually:





Technically, that's the same event. But you can forgive some creative license where Gil Scott-Heron is concerned, right?

'Specially when the news involves Gil still being alive--and still able to perform.

I have to admit, I was a lil bit surprised. Also a lil bit sad. Though, I s'pose, Gil is exactly where he ought to be in life. A soft echo of a rebel yell released long ago by lungs who sought to collapse themselves.

Take It Back

Not sure if this has always been the case or not, but so much of contemporary rhetoric seems to be about who can hijack the debate and back the other side into a corner they can't talk their way out of--regardless of the legitimacy of their principle. As if the thing you're arguing for takes a fundamentally secondary role to the way in which you argue. Think: Thank You For Smoking.

Most of this hijacking seems to occur as a result of fearmongering or shame tactics. Case in point: the debate about the legal status of abortion.

Some would say the phrase "pro-choice" was the first instance of a hijacking. At the peak of the feminist movement, can you imagine trying to tell a group of women invigorated by such a powerful shift in cultural identity norms that they don't have control over their own bodies?

Others would say "abortion rights" swung the rhetorical pendulum in the other direction. The moral majority claimed to have God on their side and how do you tell someone that "God" is wrong?

With the video above ^^^, I'd say the debate is about to be swung back to those who think a woman should have the right to choose whether to carry an unwanted pregnancy to term or not. Anna Quindlen from Newsweek certainly seems to think so.

But, I wonder, for how long? Surely, talking points from the other side are already being drafted. And when "God" is on your side, then surely you have the certainty of position to lay down a punishment for behaviour you seek to criminalize.

Don't you?

Disappointed in Seattle (And Portland)

Both NBA franchises had nearly perfect draft experiences last night.

Nearly.

Let's start with who gets to suit up for the Trailblazers:

1-Greg Oden
24-Rudy Fernandez (from Phoenix)
30-Petteri Koponen (from Philly)
37-Josh McRoberts
52-Taurean Green ((from Toronto)
Steve Francis and Channing Frye (from the trade with the Knicks)

They also traded away:

42-Derrick Byars (to Philly)
53-Demetrius Nichols (to NY)
Zach Randolph, Dan Dickau and Fred Jones (in the trade with the Knicks)

Oden. Obviously. Fernandez is supposed to be a good shooter. McRoberts makes sense from a chemistry standpoint 'cause he's high-energy and friendly with Oden. But they came up a lil bit short in the PG department. Green is a steal at that spot. And the Finnish kid is supposed to have loads of potential. But there was a guy on the board who could well be the next Steve Nash: Jared Jordan.

I've only seen him play at the NBA draft camp on ESPNU. But this kid was clearly the most astute basketball player on the floor. He made virtually no mistakes. Has incredible court vision. And a serious gift for finding spaces--either for himself or anticipating where his teammates will be. Like I said, maybe the next Steve Nash.

Imagine paring him up with Oden. The next Steve Nash with the next Bill Russell? That would have been a perfect draft. As it were, two-time champ PG Taurean Green is the ideal consolation prize. Yet, even with whatever chip sits on his shoulder coming into training camp, he's stil not as tantalizing as Jordan.

Dumping Randolph? Not a bad move, but I'm not sure they got exactly the right pieces in return. Francis is still a pseudo-nasty talent. But dumping his nasty contract might be the better move.

As for Seattle, I'm flummoxed. Here's who we know will be a Supersonic:

2-Kevin Durant
5-Jeff Green (from Boston)
31-Carl Landry
Delonte West and Wally Szczerbiak (from the Boston trade)

And here's who they gave up:

35-Glen Davis (to Boston)
Ray Allen (to Boston)

Durant. Not enough words to praise his game. But, Green? He's possibly the best all-around player in the draft. Yet it's hard to picture him alongside Durant. It's feels like a redundant pairing. If I were making that trade, I'd have chosen Joakim Noah with the fifth pick.

Noah would make total sense as he would be the yang to Durant's yin. Dump all of the dirty work on him and leave Durant to showcase his transcendant talent. Not to mention that Noah would be able to guard all the 4s and most of the 5s that Durant shouldn't have to focus on in the NBA. Green...he's not gonna be able to do that leaving Seattle to be really creative about their front-line defensive assignments with the two ridiculously talented rookies joining Nick Collison and Chris Wilcox (and Danny Fortson if he's re-signed).

I don't mid them shipping Allen eastward. And I figure Lewis will be on the next plane to Orlando. But it's hard to gauge how well they did with all these moves having replaced perimeter players with perimter players. Meanwhile, Durant will be left searching for a muscle guy(s) to run with him in the NBA. He's much more Michael than Lebron. Green will need to be every bit of Pippen for that choice to be deemed the right one.

Not bad for the teams with the top two picks in a historic draft. But both Seattle and Portland could have done (a lil) better.

R.I.P. The Black Donnellys

I liked the concept. Dug the use of music (especially the Snow Patrol joint in the above clip from the Pilot's climax). And thought the cast was mad authentic--in appearance, manner and portrayal.

But I always felt like the element of redemption was almost impossible to believe. Like, how can you really care about these characters when all you see of them is thuggery? Perhaps the moment when the brothers suffered the ultimate wound to their collective humanity (the death of their father, I presume) was the Season 2 reveal. But now that the original 13-episode order has aired, we'll probably never know.

*Pours a glass of scotch*

"Here's to ya, Irish. It was good while it lasted."

One Word: Rage

A couple of weeks have passed since Rage Against the Machine reunited at Coachella.

I wasn't there. But a lot of other people were. Like Adam Morrison. And, thankfully, some of those people brought back the best souvenirs anyone could ask for: video!


The intro. So simple. So eloquent. So powerful. I got goosebumps.

S/he got really close.

I know her. And she had an ingenious way of getting her camera in.

I'd guess that this is how most people saw the show.

And this is either extremely hopeful or wildly depressing. But it's probably as close as you or I will get to stepping back into that moment.

The Fight

History really does repeat.

"As the fight unfolded there was a feeling that an epic battle would erupt at any moment in the middle of the ring. Unfortunately, the bout never came close to achieving that climatic peak that fans were so anxiously anticipating."

These guys wrote that about a fight that happened in '99. And it was just as true of De La Hoya-Mayweather I as it was of De La Hoya-Trinidad.

This morning, I watched this and mourned for Oscar just a little bit.



The old Oscar was all head and no heart. That's why he couldn't beat Tito. The Oscar I saw last night showed heart. And was his typical heady self. But he still couldn't beat Mayweather. As if it's all too little, too late. The boxer finally became a fighter, but when he did, there wasn't enough boxer left in him to claim his place in history.

Or maybe Oscar was just outmatched. But not by much. 'Cause Floyd, Jr. didn't have enough boxer or fighter in him to overwhelm Oscar and scratch his name alongside Ali, Sugar Ray and Roy. Leaving us with a mediocre, split-decision of a fight.

Which, naturally, left me rather underwhelmed. And now that I'm $60 lighter, I really miss Roy Jones, Jr. 'Cause even when his matches were merely a spectacle, I always felt like I got my money's worth.

Last night, not so much.

Next time, maybe so. As long as that history doesn't repeat.