Weekend Open Thread

The fashion preview must wait until next week when I have more time.

Gonna be in a figurative Caravan to Maryland this weekend, so if you want to rant about the playoffs while I'm gone, do so here.

The Kareem Jacket

The best American Indian basketball player of all time. Only he's not, you know, American Indian. Or normal.

Look, I want you to take 10 minutes out of your day--yes, 10 minutes--to just enjoy this picture and all of the potential jokes you can make about Kareem. He's a legend of the game; one of its twenty best players of all time; and the guy had skills that are now lost, to the game's detriment. But he is also physically awkward like few other elite athletes have ever been, and this picture really helps capture that. As my man Jigga said, "And he wonders why no one will give him a real job."

Read this shit
- Not to turn Straight Bangin' into a Rusted Jesus RSS feed or anything, but you need to get over to that site and read The Jesus's piece about religious intolerance in the United States. No stranger to discussion of religion, I just want to make a general observation about faith, inspired by what my mellow wrote: This is why organized religion sucks.

I am fiercely committed to every American's right to practice his or her own religion in a manner that he or she sees fit. I have no problem with that, and while I do not believe in God and am not a person "of faith," I admire the strength and hope and comfort that belief can provide others. I am especially impressed by those who can find motivation to do good through their religious practices. But this group is obscured and rendered a functional minority in this nation (and really, all around the world) by those who consistently choose to politicize faith. Christian, Muslim, Jew--it makes no difference. From George Bush to Joe Lieberman, politicians and political organizations are far too happy to pimp their faiths, disingenuously using religion as a vehicle for political manipulation. Is their anything possibly more sacrilegious than eroding the significance of one's God by wrongly associating faith with political expediency? It's absolutely disgusting. And supremely unpatriotic, a great irony.

- You MUST read this extensive interview with Darius Miles that was captured by The Oregonian. It's basically a lengthy, hour-long-transcript version of the definition for the word "delusional." Among other gems, Darius tell us:

'Do you want to be here?' and I was like, 'No.'

He asked me why, and I said there was a lot of stuff that went down last year that I was the fallback guy on. That everything was blamed on me, like the whole season. And basically this season it repeated itself. I played 40 games, and if we lost like 61 games, how can you blame a whole season on me when I play only 40 games. It's just been crazy. I feel there is no support, no backbone, they always got a fallback guy.

And:

Q: Darius, going back to the Clipper game, when you asked to go in, and Nate says, ‘Okay, but I want you to play hard’ … I’ve seen you play enough games, and I think I know when you are trying and when you are not. And I think I have seen games when you are not trying hard.

A: Nah, it’s like some games it's like, some games he gets me into the game and some games he wants me to just flow into the game. Some games if I’m not just flowing into the game, and I can’t flow into the game, then he won’t get me into the game.

Q: What, like calling plays for you?

A: The reason I don't want to get into that subject is I don't want people to think I’m all about offense. If you realize my career, I’m not as much of an offensive player as everybody thinks, I can play it. But I don't want everybody to think I’m out there all mad because I’m not getting the shots.

Q: Okay, well remember when you had …

A: 26 against Milwaukee …

Q: yeah, and then you took four shots the next game, and so I asked Nate why you took only four shots, and he said there are only two guys who can’t complain about shots on this team, and they are you and Zach Randolph, because almost every play is run through them.

And:

A: Yeah, you probably smelled liquor on me before. But it’s not like I’m at practice drunk. I’m totally focused. I don't care if you come to practice and take shower, once you go to practice and start sweating, its going to come out. That doesn't mean you aren’t focused or ready to practice. Like you might go out, you might get drunk, and come to the gym higher than a mother, and you sweating, you smell like liquor, and you interviewing everybody. What does that mean? You still 100 percent focused. That's just ridiculous. Ask any other team, little petty stuff like that, if you ask any other coach in the NBA if they smell liquor on a player, any coach would say, every year. Some players go out in every city they go to.

Q: Do you?

A: No.

But that’s the crazy part about it. Why is it me taking everybody out?

Q: I think the thing is that before that, the team had been playing so well (winners of seven of 12) and there wasn’t any distractions, no going out, and you rejoin the team and players are out until 3 a.m.

A: I can’t get into that. That’s just like dry snitching. That’s stupid.

I added the emphasis, because that's just too good. He also said this:

I was loved by everybody. When I first got here, the half season I played, I was in every commercial, I’m marketed like so crazy. Why once I get a contract it’s like a whole another story and I’m this bad person.

Q: But the contract is part of it. Once you get that big contract, more expectations are put on you.

A: But look, you all put more expectations on me when I gotta share minutes with another player off have to come off the bench. I can’t produce.

Q: But this year you had it.

A: But I got hurt. I missed 34 games. And before I got hurt?

Q: You averaged 18.2 points.

A: All right. So, everything … it just don’t add up. Every team I was on, and you ask every coach I’ve had, and I’ve had like seven coaches in my career, ain’t none of them have any problems. Haven’t heard nothing about me, no negative energy from the Clippers to Cleveland, and the half season (here).

Look at this season: I’m your franchise player, what is a Darius Miles bobble head like? Didn’t have one. And every time they had those little things with players talking on big screen, you ain’t never see me saying nothing on that do you?

Q: Why?

A: Your guess is as good as mine.

Q: Does that bug you?

A: It’s like you are telling me I’m this franchise player, but hey … once I noticed it, and I was like dang, I don’t have no bobble head? They tried to get me one at the last minute, and I was like, ‘No, I’m fine.’

But I don't want to sound like I’m whining. But this is what you all are telling me. You mean to tell me, if they have a Steve Nash, a Raja Bell, Amare Stoudemire, and a Boris Diaw bobblehead, they wouldn't have a Shawn Marion? But I don't want this whole interview to sound like I’m whining.

As bizarre and oddly amusing as Miles is, I can't help but feel sad and disappointed whenever this guy gets his ass in trouble. He could have been Kevin Garnett, but instead he's one of those people who just always have excuses for everything as situation after situation erodes or fails to improve. Miles hasn't even reached his prime yet and he's already been on three teams; this summer, he'll wind up on his fourth. After a while, you have to think that the problem is with Darius and not with everyone else. And that's when the somber feelings set in: he was this seemingly youthful, well-intentioned leader of the revolution who was happy to carry the high-school-to-NBA mantle and redefine what that kind of a player could accomplish. Instead he's a disturbance who sweats off the liquor from nights out and has purposely and inexcusably disobeyed two coaches in as many years.

At this point, it would almost be poetic were the Knicks to acquire Miles this summer. He has a bad attitude and a bad contract riding inside the Trojan horse that we call his potential. Combine those elements with Brown DMC and you could have the most explosive and enthralling train wreck of all time. Imagine the fight: In one corner, world-weary, self-absorbed, lugubrious Larry Brown; in the other, always into somethin', obdurate, external-locus-of-control having Darius Miles. Both dudes are articulate; both give a good interview; and both are happy to light an antagonist's ass up in the press. Since the Knicks will suck anyway, I pretty much want this to happen. Maybe it would finally drive Brown DMC out of the league while simultaneously helping Miles soar to new heights of infamy, all before his 26th birthday.

- Why was Rip even playing?

- Bill Russell, Wilt Chamberlain, Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Karl Malone, Tim Duncan, Bob Pettit, Moses Malone...and Steve Nash?! That's the list of players who have won the MVP twice. Which of those names doesn't belong? (Hint: he just won his second-consecutive MVP award.) My position on Nash is well known: great player, worthy of praise, but not the MVP. We got into this over at Free Darko today. Peep the discussion.

- Kelis on MySpace. It would be nice if you could actually, like, read the page, but this is hip-hop, so it's not fair to expect everything to make sense. Want to stream "Bossy"? Enjoy. I'll be checking for this album in June when it leaks July when it drops. Tasty was hot.

- Some people whose taste I respect have been putting me onto the Procussions. Are heads feeling them? Watch their video for lead single "The Storm" right here. Like it? Download it here. My biggest gripe with this group so far--although they're alright--is that the second dude who raps sounds like he's trying out for a Beastie Boys cover band, and I'm not really feelin' that. What with the Beasties being the most overrated rap act ever. Right, dunny?

- Peep game: Empires Fall

- Peep game: The Illest Spot

- MF Grimm, "Watch Out"
An important lesson about how to catch a snitch, set to an uptempo, playful beat that sounds like theme music from an introductory montage in some cheesy comedy. It's not bad, but it's also just kind of "meh."

- Coming tomorrow: The Straight Bangin' Spring/Summer Fashion Report...

Lookee, Lookee

Shouts to Altrap for this:

Steppin' Out

It's that time again

Another something-for-everyone post as I try to work, sleep, blog, and engage in the paralyzing neurosis that comes with rooting for Michigan sports:

Music for a Tuesday
- Cam'ron and Prince ft. Juelz Santana, "Byrd Gang Gold"
I won't front: this beat really works for me underneath the goofy, spliced Juelz ramblings and the repetitive Cam'ron clips. The Diplomats are about so many stupid things, and yet the word play and the beats (this not an original, obviously) make the music much more aesthetically palatable than the usual degrading hip-hop.

- Mobb Deep, "Daydreamin'"
From what will be the best-selling abortion of the year, Blood Money, I present one of the few tracks that I am not wholly embarrassed to listen to. Aside from the singles--"Outta Control," "The Infamous," "Put 'Em in Their Place"--there is almost nothing else that is listenable. And that's not saying much given how pedestrian this effort is. These dudes need to retire. Or hop in the wayback machine. Or something. This is sad.

- Da Backwudz ft. Killer Mike, "Getting 2 It"
This Backwudz album, Wood Work, is one of those half-and-half joints: Half of you hates it because there is so little stimulating rhyming, and half of you likes it because the production is anywhere from tolerable to really good. Kind of like Diplomatic Immunity, a record that was offensively stupid but brimming with heatrocks. Wood Work would almost work better were it a hip-hop version of those Benedictine monk CDs with chants looped over melodies. That's basically what so much of this Southern party music is anyway. At least, the club-oriented stuff that emerges out of Atlanta.

Da Backwudz use sampling to a greater extent than many of their geographic peers, and I think it makes their music slightly more interesting.

- Prince Po, "I Got a Right to Know"
I'm a little late on this track, but the simple piano sample and the Casio drums sound alright. On top of that, the rhymes are a little more substantive than usual, though perhaps of the trite and wheels-spinning-in-place varieties. It's just too bad that some jerkoff screaming constitutes a chorus.

- This is likely a sign that the end is near, the sort of thing that Common's dad would ramble on about at the end of an album. Only 144,000 will be saved!

- Ghostface hates D4L

Television

Sensitive thugs, y'all all need hugs

- Artie Bucco is the Sopranos equivalent of a MySpace or studio gangster, and I feel bad about that. Not because I want dude to genuinely get caught up in the life--he's not of that ilk--but rather, because Artie is so conflicted and so unhappy. I spent the first 20 minutes of the show this week convinced that he was going to commit suicide (and I think it could still happen at a later date).

- It's weird enough having to watch Vinnie Delpino, Racetrack Higgins (!) play a mobster. But to watch him pull a hot-ass goomah? That's too much; it's ruining my childhood.

- Prison Break needs to not be on next season. The show has gotten out of hand in a really bad way. Anyone who watched North Shore--easily the best non-HBO drama to come on television in a decade--knows that the best trashy television always feels as though it's written from week to week as the improbable becomes the standard and nothing exists beyond the realm of reality. Can't explain a character's motivation? Just invent some long-lost relative. Want to make the audience sympathize with an imbalanced protagonist? Conjure an abusive relationship. You know? Well, that's what Prison Break is devolving into.

Now, were the premise of Prison Break something like "Ten hot twenty-somethings work in a minimum security prison where the day's challenges bring the heat...and the night's passion makes it downright steamy!" I could live with the way things are going. The premise would be absurd, and I would have bought in with a certain set of expectations. But this show takes itself seriously and would like for us to do the same. That can't happen as characters like a mob boss who loses four pints of blood when his throat gets slashed returns to prison as a born-again zealot who is suddenly part of the insidious power structure that, of course, only operates in the shadows and pulls so many central strings while dwelling on the periphery that it controls all and is seen by none.

In the show's defense, though, it's obvious that the writers have admirably explored all of the conventions of pop-culture's portrayal of prison: this week, one of the characters broke down while in the yard, crying that he'd wound up, "Sitting on nickel, getting turned out like a little bitch." If only he'd said "twisted out"; then, I could have made that the slogan of this website.

NBA
- Ron Artest should not have been suspended. I know that he's somewhat of a rabble rouser and that the man has a history that surely compelled Stu Jackson to act with a haste that a similar transgression committed by a different player would not have caused. Please don't cite those as reasonable explanations for the suspension. They may be the league's reasons, but the mere presence of a motivation does not inherently make it right. Artest gave a hard off-ball foul, something that's common, and in this instance, it wasn't even deemed severe enough to elicit a flagrant foul. But he got suspended anyway. The NBA has effectively suspended Ron Artest for being Ron Artest. That's not right, and it's really not fun.

- Why is Rip even going to play on Wednesday? Detroit can win without him; why risk further injury?

Concert Review: Ghostface, Papoose, and Slick Rick

Ravishing

As noted yesterday, I was unable to attend Saturday night's Ghostface show at the Nokia Theater in Times Square. However, Straight Bangin' correspondent JAEL filed the following eyewitness account. Please note that the author has purposely employed a simple, brief style. It's admirable:

Started the whole thing a little late as I was going with the woman and she takes longer than most to prepare for the outside world. Turns out it didn’t matter as the doors opened at 7 but nobody went on till 9. We met my friend Tony and went downstairs into the Nokia Theater and managed to finagle a table by one of the bars. Wedged ourselves into the seats for a couple of cold bevys and waited for the woman’s friends to arrive. At this point we were missing M1’s set but one could see it on the giant TV they have and hear it, if one was so inclined. After another reasonably priced beer we headed into the mess.

We get in as they are setting up for DJ Premier. I would have to say that this may have been the best ‘performance’ all night. He did an amazing job hyping the crowd playing old classics and coming with some new songs, running the gamut, and finishing with a bunch of Gangstarr songs. I would guess about half way through, there was a cameo by Jeru the Damaja and unfortunately I had taken a trip to the toilette and missed the majority of it. I vowed not to leave again. Papoose was up next, and having not heard very much or know very much of him, I was not disappointed. He walked on and hit alphabet aerobics a la Blackalicious but with more strict rules that ‘a’ means everything begins with ‘a’ and ‘b’ means the same. A full alphabet later and I was impressed and waiting for the rest of the set. With a couple of verses I recognized from other songs and ‘Faces of Death,’ the whole experience was almost overshadowed by the tiny (5ft 5?) white/Hispanic guy on the side of the stage who was trying to bounce to the beat out of stride and was mouthing incorrect lyrics. However, I left realizing I needed more Papoose in the iPod.

Slick Rick came on next and had a short but amazing set. I am biased he played some oldies, ‘la di da di,’ ‘Hey Young World’ and ‘Children’s Story’ and some selected picks off The Art of Storytelling. Also stopped to break down his wardrobe, which included about 5 or 6 large gold chains holding an assortment of symbols and animals, also gold. Rocking old school Adidas and a green ‘suit’ with a “$2, any store” wife beater, we go the full break down on the wardrobe. The diamond eye patch and gold rings were par. Short but sweet.

Trife came on next and went through the motions while it appeared they were looking for Ghost off stage. Finally, he came out and rocked the place. I went to one other Ghost show at B.B. Kings and have to say the smaller venue lends itself to a different, and I think slightly better vibe. It was still a more than solid set with a similar lineup to the last show I saw. There were stops along the way, ten seconds of silence (that was actually almost complete) for ODB followed by a complete blackout for Shimmy Shimmy, with the crowd doing all of the lyrics. The mandatory stop for turning the lights off, except for the red ones, and playing some old soulful joint, “some of you were rocking diapers when this was out, ya parents used ta fuck to this shit.” And various classics along the way, ‘Ice Cream,’ ‘C.R.E.A.M.’ etc. etc. Also the verse from ‘Run’ where everyone actually runs across the stage and where I keep expecting a Jada cameo but it never comes. There was a dabble in the Fishscale but noticeably missing was “The Champ” as I had been going around all week shouting ‘Godzilla Bankroll’ to anyone and everyone. Also absent was my personal favorite off Fishscale, ‘Shakey Dog,’ though I may be alone on that one. A showing by Ne-Yo for ‘Back like That’ was interesting and I think played well to the crowd. By that point Ghost had already called a bunch of girls up to the stage and was shunning most of the girls trying to rub up on him. (Ed.'s note: No girl can freak Ghost; he's just too nasty. These girls should have known that ahead of time.) He did single out a girl for ‘Back like That’ though. All through this, Slick Rick kept coming out on stage for 30 seconds at a time to go chill with Ghost and then go back off stage.

There were no Wu cameos either, but the concert was an utter success.

Going Hard

"Heavy rain fucked my kicks up"

One of the worst-kept secrets in my life is that when The Jesus, my part-time roommate from Amherst, rolls through New York City, special shit breaks out. It's not always the decadent destruction of a Labor Day tailgate, but it's always something. It could be getting hit on by some hicks (women); getting hit on by some weirdo (a dude)(); consuming culture and pursuing foreign women--you name it. This weekend was no different.

The festivities started with the loft party that Q-Tip was running. You know in movies when they show people in New York going to these glamorous, well-attended parties in big, open spaces? And everyone dances well and has fun and all that? Well, this was the kind of thing that all those directors and cinematographers have in mind when they're conceiving their versions of New York. The joint was not packed, it wasn't beautiful people only, and there were no blue or black lights, but the music was great, the room got steamy, and the Bacardi was non-stop all night. (If you mix Bacardi Grand Melon with ginger ale, the shit tastes like watermelon soda and you don't get hung over. I ain't mad at that. At all. Especially when the drinks are free.) The best portion of the evening was when Tip threw together a fantastic Jay Dee tribute replete with "Fall in Love" and "CB4."

It was also great to be dancing to sounds provided by a DJ who actually has good taste. I can't tell you how tired it is for these zeitgeist-jocking idiots to ruin a night with a non-stop procession of Sean Paul. All things in moderation, dunnies! Tip mixed it all--Luther, the Intruders, Mobb Deep, Black Rob, anything that thinly jacked his own music (I see you, T.I.). He probably could have hit us with some more hip-hop--there was too much reggae--but it was a mixed crowd, and as is often the case, my taste tends to differ from that of the general music-consuming public. I mean, if I ruled the world, 50 Cent would be working at McDonald's, Young Jeezy would be in prison for selling drugs, Kanye would still make hip-hop records, and Posdenous would be more famous than Eminem. But that's just me. Thank god Yayo is finally free and home from prison, right?

The loft party yielded the desired outcome: errbody, namely The Jesus and I, got sweaty and tired and tipsy drunk. Shouts to the Dork Set for runnin' shit, as usual. Some fam was missing, though. And happy birthday, Marsha. Keep that Brown 712 held down!

Saturday was all about two things: the Wu-Tang Clan and Michael Jordan. It was like 1995 all over again. Actually, that's a lie. The basketball portion of the day was all about next year's crop of college freshmen, 20 of whom were selected to play in the Jordan All-American Classic.

I had initially intended to check out Ghostface in concert with Papoose, Slick Rick, and friends on Saturday night, but I wound up with some welcomed social obligations that precluded my attendance. (The Human Resource took my ticket.) Instead, I caught Ghost performing in the afternoon at Columbia University as part of the annual Bacchanal celebration.

Unlike past years, the Bacchanal organizers dispensed of any false pretense--you know, like trying to expose students to all kinds of music, or trying to give some shine to someone's mans an' 'em who like to get high and freestyle--and just stepped, quickly giving up the goods: GZA and Ghostface. I hadn't seen GZA by himself in concert in a while, and I have shamefully allowed Liquid Swords and Beneath the Surface to fall out of my rotation in recent months. As a result, I was treated to the melancholy serendipity of rediscovering my love of the GZA. It's the hackneyed writing that usually makes me cringe when I read it in a magazine or on a message board, but if Ghostface spits darts, then we can say that GZA really does wield swords. I mean he just slices his way through beats, streaming together these unrelenting flows and never wasting any bars as he creates vivid images.

The obvious criticisms of GZA are that the guy is no frills to a fault and that his personality is so muted that he'd easily be the first forgotten member of the Wu-Tang Clan were Masta Killa not spending his career in the functional equivalent of a witness protection program. This personality deficiency would seemingly be a problem at a live show since so much of effective live performance is predicated on engaging your audience, but GZA was surprisingly enlivening thanks to his regular lyrical mastery and his deceptively deep catalogue of bangers. I don't know that most of the crowd--a hodgepodge of college hip-hop heads; college drug enthusiasts; college hipsters; run-of-the-mill pop-culture-aware college students; rich white college kids attracted to the Wu-Tang because they've been socialized to think of it, as a concept, as cool; older hip-hop fans (I don't count; I'm talking 30+) from beyond the Columbia community--was best suited to actively celebrate dude's catalogue, but I fully enjoyed the escorted stroll down memory lane. I mean, think about it this way: Liquid Swords dropped in 1995. Your average college senior was ten- or eleven-years-old.

GZA blended old and, um, older, running through "Labels, "Liquid Swords," "Crash Your Crew," "Cold World" and the like. He was joined on stage by Dreddy Kruger and a miscellaneous weed carrier from somewhere in Shaolin. As one might expect of both GZA and an outdoor venue (oh by the way, it was steadily raining the whole time), the stage show was simple, with a good-natured GZA spitting his tracks and regularly scolding the DJ for lulls, always explaining "I don't need no break, man." All in all, it was a strong performance that forced the more erudite listeners to remember just how strong the dude's work is and challenged the more casual fans to ignore bullshit (and don't think this isn't getting blogged about later this week).

The Jesus captured some video of a GZA freestyle:


When that freestyle ended and the Michael Buffer clip came on, shouldn't Ghostface have come out and gone immediately into "Champ"? I'm sayin'...

And here's video of some dude, the one in the green coat, dancing to "Crash Your Crew." This guy--50-ish and about 3 feet tall--was so nuts that the security guards were taking pictures of him with their camera phones. This video doesn't really do his routine justice:


After GZA did his thang thang, it was...GHOSTFACE TIME. And the charming insanity tour was in full effect, as usual. Kind of.

Given the rain, the mixed college crowd, and the second show later in the evening, Ghost was a little less irreverent than he might usually be. Sure there were the bizarre proclamations--he told everyone that the rain was good because it was pure; because it was cleansing; and because "God is cleansiness" (yes, that word doesn't actually exist)--the usual outbursts of scattershot profanity, and even the sprawling catalogue (dude trotted out the "Freak'n You" remix, replete with Jodeci's part!), but Starks wasn't in a comfortable rhythm. We didn't get any blue light specials, we didn't get much Fishscale (only "Be Easy" and "Back Like That"), and we didn't get the sense that he and the show were always teetering on the ledge above the chasm of chaos.

What was hilarious, though, was that as Ghost went through the array of hits--"Ice Cream," "Apollo Kids," "Mighty Healthy," "Cherchez," "Fish," "Child's Play," "Run" (without the usual disoriented dashing around the stage)--he also oddly chose to sprinkle in "Triumph" nearly in its entirety. This works with a Wu-Tang crowd. With the Columbia crowd? Most people didn't even know when to say "I bomb atomically." The moment was great. Not great was that Cappadonna wasn't there. At this point, since he basically seems to be anywhere that he can get in, I assumed he'd come running out with Lee Bollinger on his back, a text book under his arm, and yell out something like "Yo, yo, The Yin and the Yang in stores; cop that shit!" I would have been equally prepared for him to come swinging onto the stage from atop the Columbia library as an homage to Spiderman. Sadly, none of that happened, and Ghost turned in a solid though unspectacular set.

After the show, it was off to the Jordan All-American Classic. I won't bore you with all of the esoteric details of who looked great and who didn't, but I do want to say a couple of things:

1) T.I. performed in between the local all-star game and national all-star game. This was horrible. His audio kept cutting out; there was no stage, so he spent the whole time running around the perimeter of the Madison Square Garden basketball court; he had no stage presence; and no one really seemed to care about most of his songs save for "What You Know." I saw Outkast in concert once and it was thrilling. This was not, and it augured poorly for the "new" southern sound properly translating to the stage.

2) Kevin Durant, who will bide his time in basketball purgatory at Texas for a year, would be one of the top five picks in this year's draft were he eligible. He's 6'10"; he sees the floor well; he makes good choices with the ball (although, this was an all-star game, so take that for what it is); he runs really well; he handles better than any guard on the Michigan roster; he can stop on a dime behind the three-point line and nail a jumper; and he has a great frame. He was easily the most gifted player in the event, although he didn't play as many minutes as I would have liked.

3) Thaddeus Young, headed to Georgia Tech, is going to be the ACC Freshman of the Year.

4) Most importantly, the basketball-specific coded language of obvious racial bias was in full effect at the Classic. Twenty kids were invited to play in the Classic, which is a national all-star basketball game. For $5, a person could purchase a program to read about the kids and where they were going to college. There were something like 15 black kids, 4 white kids, and 1 Hispanic kid in the game. You can find their bios right here for free. Here are excerpts about some of the black players:

- Tywon Lawson - "He has an incredible ability to run an up-tempo style and penetrate through a defense."
- DaJuan Summers - "Defenders have a difficult time matching up with his athleticism and quickness."
- Wayne Ellington - "Ellington...has emerged as one of the superior athletes of the class."
- Curtis Kelly - "Kelly...uses his size and quickness to dominate opposing teams."

And here are excerpts from bios for some of the white players:

- Brian Zoubek - "Brian Zoubek is a fundamentally sound big man with an ability to create high-percentage shots for himself around the basket...A cerebral player..."
- Jonathan Kreft - "On offense, he has solid fundamental low-post moves and a nose for rebounding."
- Spencer Hawes - "He puts out 100% effort on each play..."

Are the white guys not athletic? The black players not cerebral and hard working? Shouldn't they have just written of Zoubek, "He's a tall, white stiff (Ed. note: he was not impressive) headed to Duke where he will always be underwhelming given the hype surrounding his arrival." To be fair, there were some exceptions--Duke's Jon Scheyer, white, was described as possessing "quickness," for instance--but on the whole, my friends and I were struck by how sad it was that the bios trafficked in stereotypes. I guess it's de rigueur in basketball discussions, but that doesn't make it right.

Even worse, in a recent article about LeBron James--perhaps the most physically gifted person on the planet--Sports Illustrated rightly wrote the following ($ub. req.):

"It is an exceptionally nuanced perspective for a third-year pro who skipped college. His coaches say that after a play is explained once, James can envision all five Cavs' roles as a series of interlocking pieces. At one point James describes having Cleveland forward Drew Gooden's man 'in attendance,' saying that he could dribble all the way back to half-court and the defender would follow. At another point he explains how the movement of point guard Delonte West, who is the Celtic farthest from the ball, will affect the type of pass he throws on a pick-and-roll to Eric Snow -- whether he should set up Snow to penetrate or shoot. This type of awareness is what makes James such a challenge to contain. Bulls center Tyson Chandler, an excellent help-side defender, says he has to disguise his intentions around James. 'A lot of scorers get tunnel vision -- you can help and they're just looking at you, waiting for the opportunity to go,' Chandler explains. 'But with LeBron, you help and he burns you. He hits your man or he makes you think he doesn't know, then he drives at you, makes you come up and kicks it to your man. It's like when you watch Magic back in the day, thinking of plays before they happened.'"

Imagine that, acknowledging that a great black athlete is also smart and perceptive and hard working. What's the Jordan Classic's excuse?

Saturday night ended with some more drinking and some more dancing, so overall, it was a great few days. For more on the weekend, check out The Jesus's takes here and here and here.

URGENT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE GET ME A PHOTO OF THE JACKET THAT KAREEM ABDUL-JABBAR WAS WEARING AT THE LAKERS-SUNS GAME? HOLY FUCKING SHIT!

While Y'All Stuck on "Laffy Taffy": Day Two Open Thread

Trailblazer stay ballin'/Revenge is my arts is crafty...

There would be a poetic symmetry to today's games if Kobe, Captain Evil, did what we all think he might do, wouldn't there?

I was at the Jordan All-American Classic last night, and the crowd was all but elated: It had started the day agog, excitedly yearning for LeBron James, The Savior, to do something transcendent, and that's what it got. Now it's on to Kobe, another player for whom the seemingly improbable is very much attainable. Maybe he drops 50? In a sick way, I'm rooting for it, just as I always like it when Magneto succeeds; when Adebisi succeeds; when Tony Soprano succeeds. The illicit tantalization engendered when refined evil masquerades as a thrilling manifestation of the admirable is a compelling agent of emotional contrast. It makes us feel so much better when the villain ultimately fails: We can rejoice in the safety of a triumph for good while still acknowledging the formidable potency of the nearly countervailing force.

If Kobe hits for 50 and the Suns win, that would be great. And it would balance the karma created yesterday. Read here for a more articulate explanation.

And P.S. Dwyane Wade, who I love, gets more calls in the playoffs than anyone at this point. Discuss...

NBA Playoffs Open Thread: Day One

Terry cloth robes/Crisp hundreds in the envelope

As Jim Nantz once breathlessly asked of a certain mullet-wearing golfer who carries two drivers and pushes three bills, "Is it his time?"

Consider this your forum for all NBA ruminations that come up today. Maybe we can get some nice discussions going. I'll be in and out, as I have a big day planned (Ghostface in concert; Jordan All-American Classic). Check the schedule:

- Wizards vs. Cavaliers, 3 PM, ABC
- Kings vs. Spurs, 5:30 PM, ESPN
- Bulls vs. Heat, 8 PM, ESPN
- Nuggets vs. Clippers, 10:30, ESPN

NBA Award Tour 2006

Paging Mr. Nash. Paging Mr. Nash. You must return the statue now. Thanks.

UPDATE: Now with awards picks...

(Don't get it twisted: this, too, is a tradition unlike any other.)

As we suffer through these long days that break up the NBA's regular season from its playoffs, there is one question that routinely comes to my mind: Was this a good year for NBA basketball? I am not sure that the answer is all that clear.

Without hesitation, some people would argue that yes, it was a good year: LeBron and Dwyane plyayed like the superstars who will assume control of the Lig as the first of the post-Michael next-generation leaders begin to slide down the bell curve toward their respective professional denouements; the Pistons and Spurs emerged as two elite teams who may very well define this brief moment in NBA history; Kobe Bryant embraced the role as That Baller You Love to Hate, turning in an incredible performance befitting the most complicated and enthralling villains; the Association was filled with ascendant stars like Chris Paul and Danny Granger; and some also-rans of recent vintage, like the Clippers and the Hornets, developed into competitive outfits.

But others could quickly contend that the truth really is found in the contrary: The superlative performance of the Pistons combined with the decline of the Pacers and the absent cohesion of the Heat made the Eastern Conference boring; too many stars, from McGrady to Garnett to Duncan to Kidd to Stoudemire, were out or hobbled by injury, depriving the league of the fuel that it needs to burn brightest; the small number of true contenders and the preeminence of the playoffs mitigated the significance of the smaller stories that often carry the Lig from month to month; the elevation of Mike Breen and the generally unpleasant ABC/ESPN coverage has made nationally televised basketball nearly unbearable (this is sadly true).

Sadly, I think that there are valid arguments in both directions. And it's sad because a paradox seemed to emerge this year: On any given night, in any given game, there were superb, captivating performances. Talent is so diffuse that now more than ever, you can watch any NBA game and see something wonderful. This made each night fairly exciting. Michael Redd bombing from behind the arc, Boris Diaw playing like the guy we all wanted Lamar Odom to become, Ron Ron lifting his team while locking people down--there was a lot to watch. But oddly, few of these attractions contributed to a larger narrative arc that could successfully organize and unite each evening; the individual strands of excellence never became a rich fabric.

It was almost as though each night happened in a vacuum. After big games, you'd say "We'll see what happens in the playoffs"; after less consequential affairs, you'd say "Well, that was nice." The only real continuity seemed to run along team lines: Cavaliers fans could grow with their team; Nets fans could enjoy the second-half surge; Warriors fans could taste the bitterness left by failure to meet expectations. Those were all fun stories, but by definition, they were exclusionary and really only meant much to the fans of each team. The Pistons were clearly better than everyone else; only three teams can win the West; and that was basically that.

I wouldn't say it was a bad season, though. That would be both wrong and too simple. There was a lot to love and a lot going on this year, it just didn't carry with it the sense of something greater. Thankfully, we still have the playoffs, an event that always puts the right frame around the sometimes disjointed images.

Ten Most Memorable Storylines
10) The Ship Be Sunk - Maybe this is my own geographic arrogance--you know, to assume that the whole country cares about what happens here in Gotham--but it seemed like in all NBA ports, the downtrodden, no-account, disgusting, boring, mirthless Knicks elicited laughs and jeers and jokes. Isiah Thomas has officially enshrined himself as the worst person in the history of the world. Think about what that means. And Brown DMC is not far behind.
9) There's a dress code? - We haven't all wasted so many brain cells and so many words on something so ultimately irrelevant since...um...raggaeton?
8) Your Boy Cubes - I used to think that Mark Cuban was a whining, self-involved media whore. But this season, the dude won me over () thanks in part to his smart comments about the dress code and this awesome episode.
7) Can't Spell "Loser" without "KG" and "TMac"? - This hurts, because these are two of my five favorite players, but we're now well into both of their careers and something is not right here. This is the second-straight year that the playoffs will be held without Mr. Garnett, and it's the seemingly one millionth straight year that we'll watch a second round without TMac. Both guys were hampered by injuries this season, but it's starting to feel as though these two will become the Ewing and Barkley of their generation. Dat not good. At all.
6) NBA Players Say the Darndest Things - So many ridiculous personalities.
5) Land of 1000 Chances - It was a great year for comebacks, as Vince Carter, Paul Pierce, Ron Artest, T.J. Ford, and even Vin Baker got back on track.
4) Things Fall Apart - And by "things" I mean bodies. Tim Duncan, Shaq, KG, TMac, Amare, Jason Kidd, Larry Hughes, Manu, Emeka Okafor, and Jermaine O'Neal were among the many significant players who missed too much time due to injury, marring the season to some extent.
3) "The Hot Boys/The Hot Boys (we on fire)..." - LeBron and Dwyane and Carmelo (kinda) cometh.
2) Firing on All Cylinders - This season was pretty much about the Detroit Pistons more than anything else. Well, except for...
1) The Rehabilitation of Kobe - I mentioned this during All-Star weekend, and really, it was a constant theme throughout the year. This was the season that Kobe struck back, burying the rape charge, the public's animosity, and his feud with Shaq underneath an avalanche of points and timeless skill that affirmed his place (already) as one of the best players of all time. Man, does it suck to have to write that.

Carter Memorial Biggest Punk Award* - Darius Miles, Portland Trailblazers

This is Darius's second nomination and second win...

Last year, this motherfucker was running his mouth and pissing off Maurice Cheeks with his lazy-ass inconsistency. Somehow, he got a huge contract in return. This year, he pulled the same shit with Nate McMillan. Last year, Miles's team lost 54 games; this year it was 61. Last year, Miles publicly humiliated his coach, using racial epithets and acting in a generally obdurate fashion; this year, his attitude was similar and he instead chose to show up his coach by changing into street clothes at halftime of a game last week. What did a superstar who believes himself to exist beyond a coach's rebuke produce for the worst team in the league? 14 points and 5 rebounds per game on 46% from the floor and 53% from the line. And he's still owed $32 million over the next four years. I am going to have to change the name of this award if Darius keeps the shit on lock. Kudos to you, Darius, for again proving to be the most detestable player in the Lig.

Bust of the Year - Larry Brown, New York Knicks

A rare moment of silence as Brown DMC searches for another insult.

This is the easiest award to hand out in the entire Association. Larry Brown was paid $10 million this season to get the Knicks to--all together now--"play the right way" and develop a young nucleus around which the team could build for the future. Instead, Brown DMC (Depressed Monotonic Coach) failed in predictable fashion, surprising only his legendarily idiotic boss, Isiah Thomas, as Brown DMC sighed and screamed his way through a 59-loss season that alienated all but ten of the remaining Knicks fans. He used about 600 different starting lineups, he yanked around the young guys, he failed to teach any discernable basketball skills or savvy, and as it always is with this lugubrious asshole, the story had to be about him. Brown DMC spent more time talking to the media and purposely trashing his own players than he did teaching defense or motivating his team, and the results were catastrophic. Larry Brown is a nasty, arrogant jerk with failing health and a deluded sense of what's right. I wish he would get fired or quit.

Charles Oakley All-Gully First Team

Unfuckwithable

C - Kendra Davis - This woman will start shit.
F - Chris Andersen - Getting suspended for reasons they're scared to discuss? Gully.
F - Ron Artest - Lifetime member, sort of like China on the Security Council.
G - Stephon Marbury - Dude might play soft at times and he may never win anything, but the guy spent the last two months of the season declaring that he wasn't playing anyway but how he wanted. Fuck a coach. Would you wanna mess with dude right now? After this season?
G - Sebastian Telfair - Trying to bring a gun on a plane + blaming it on your girlfriend = Gully.
Coach - Jerry Sloan - Still tougher than just about everyone ever.

P.S. There wasn't enough fighting in the NBA this season. I'm being serious.

Brad Lohaus All-Non-Gully First Team

Isn't it cute that the ribbon matches the vest?

C - Michael Olowokandi - You can't get called a "pussy" by an opposing coach and still be gully.
F - Matt Bonner - Many things (smart, curious, thoughtful), but not gully by any means.
F - Mike Dunleavy - Lifetime member, sort of like Britain on the Security Council.
G - Michael Redd - Anonymous, not infamous. Great, not gully.
G - Kirk Hinrich - Doubles as team mascot.
Coach - Lawrence Frank - Have you seen this man? Great coach, but still...

Coach of the Year - Flip Saunders, Detroit Pistons

All league stompin'/Rippin' and rompin'

There were numerous admirable coaching jobs this year: Scott Skiles got a limited roster into the playoffs; Terry Stotts got his ass in the playoffs; Mike Dunleavy got the Clippers into the playoffs; Brian Hill had the Magic contending without a real point guard; Pop remains a star; etcetera. But this award goes to Flipalicious () because the Pistons had the league in a headlock from day one, and the team never relented. Lest you retort that the Pistons are a veteran, championship-caliber team and thus, their success is not as impressive, I'd like to remind you that as great as this team was under Brown DMC, it would go through maddening spells when it would drop 4 of 6 while looking somnambular. There was no such listlessness this year. Plus, the Pistons again wound up as a top-five defensive team while significantly increasing their scoring potential.

2) Phil Jackson, Los Angeles Lakers - I didn't think that the Lakers were making the playoffs; I didn't think that Phil would be able to work well with KB8; and I didn't think that Lamar Odom and the rest of the team would produce enough while toiling in such a bizarre work environment. I was wrong. Phil showed us all something this year, finally bereft of the two best players in the L.
3) Mike D'Antoni, Phoenix Suns - He lost his best player, a budding all-star, and the league's leading three-point shooter and yet his team still won its division. D'Antoni has done a masterful job of implementing his style and finding the right players for it.
4) Avery Johnson, Dallas Mavericks - Dallas is finally playing defense after years of futile efforts to reform.
5) Byron Scott, Oklahoma City Hornets of New Orleans - Be honest, you didn't think that this guy was worth anything without Jason Kidd, did you? The Hornets had a shot at the playoffs for almost the entire season. Chris Paul is great, but there was some good coaching involved, too.

Most Overrated Coach - Maurice Cheeks

We don't get it either, Mo.

So last year, the popular theory among people like me was that Maurice Cheeks was a good coach saddled with malcontents in Portland. Once he got to Philly, he was gonna preside over an East Coast revival: A.I. would enjoy playing for a coach with a more relaxed demeanor; Christopher Webber would better understand his role; Andre Iguodala would blossom into the all-star he should be. It was all gonna come together under the benevolent Cheeks regime. Well guess what? The Sixers are a team that has effectively been held hostage by the whimsy of its aging stars, and Cheeks did little to impact the season. I mean, if Cheeks weren't in Philly, and someone else were, would things be dramatically different? This is the second-straight year that Cheeks has sort of been shoved aside by players doing their own respective things. Am I wrong about this?

Executive of the Year - Larry Harris, Milwaukee Bucks

Hopefully Bogut has gotten better-fitting clothes since this day.

He drafted a big man who will be, at the worst, serviceable for 15 years; he stole Jamaal Magloire, a move that might prove its ultimate worth this summer when Magloire gets moved; he retained Michael Redd, the best shooting guard who was ever really on the market; and he signed Bobby Simmons. In a year, his team went from the top pick in the lottery to the NBA playoffs. 'Nuff said.

2) Bryan Colangelo, Phoenix Suns - This is not a typo. Before leaving for Toronto, Colangelo was smart enough to bring in James Jones and Raja Bell; to trade for Boris Diaw; to avoid overspending on Joe Johnson; and to get the interior defense he needed when he acquired Kurt Thomas. The dude is a star.
3) Elgin Baylor, Los Angeles Clippers - I didn't think that bringing in Sam Cassell was gonna be worth it, but it was. I also give the man dap for trusting Quinton Ross and for trading for Cat Mobley. Another guy who got his act together and his team into the playoffs.
4) Danny Ferry, Cleveland Cavaliers - See the conclusion above.
5) John Weisbrod/Dave Twardzik, Orlando Magic - Combined, these men brought in Dwight Howard, shipped out an unhappy Steve Francis, and landed the suddenly producing-auspicious-performance Darko Milicic. They also brought back Brian Hill, who has done well.

Worst Executive of All Time - Isiah Thomas, New York Knicks

It's not good when getting sued for sexual harassment is among the more benign happenings in your life.

I'm gonna be honest: I literally do not possess the strength necessary to fully catalogue all of the reasons why I hate this man. It would take far too long and would likely kill me. Instead, just read this, this, this, and this to begin to get a sense. Moving on...

Rookie of the Year - Chris Paul, Oklahoma City Hornets of New Orleans

The best point guard since...

2) Charlie Villanueva, Toronto Raptors
3) Andrew Bogut, Milwaukee Bucks
4) Danny Granger, Indiana Pacers
5) Channing Frye, New York Knicks

Sixth Man of the Year - Mike Miller, Memphis Grizzlies

Still the ugliest motherfucker in the L.

2) Maurice Williams, Milwaukee Bucks
3) Jerry Stackhouse, Dallas Mavericks
4) Shareef Abdur-Rahim, Sacramento Kings
5) Antonio McDyess, Detroit Pistons

Most Improved Player - Tony Parker, San Antonio Spurs

Ian says otherwise, but all you men know that you're jealous.

2) Boris Diaw, Phoenix Suns
3) David West, Oklahoma City Hornets of New Orleans
4) Carmelo Anthony, Denver Nuggets
5) Nenad Krstic, New Jersey Nets

Defensive Player of the Year - Ben Wallace, Detroit Pistons

Like we always do about this time.

2) Andrei Kirilenko, Utah Jazz
3) Bruce Bowen, San Antonio Spurs
4) Ron Artest, Sacramento Kings
5) Shawn Marion, Phoenix Suns

Most Valuable Player - Kobe Bryant, Los Angeles Lakers

Game recognize game. Begrudgingly.

2) LeBron James, Cleveland Cavaliers
3) Dirk Nowitzki, Dallas Mavericks
4) Chauncey Billups, Detroit Pistons
5) Dwyane Wade, Miami Heat

All-NBA First Team
C - Shaquille O'Neal
F - Dirk Nowitzki
F - LeBron James
G - Kobe Bryant
G - Chauncey Billups

All-NBA Second Team
C - Ben Wallace
F - Elton Brand
F - Tim Duncan
G - Dwyane Wade
G - Steve Nash

All-NBA Third Team
C - Yao Ming
F - Shawn Marion
F - Kevin Garnett
G - Paul Pierce
G - Jason Kidd

Hardest omissions: Allen Iverson, Gilly Arenas, Chris Bosh, Pau Gasol, Rasheed Wallace, Vince Carter.

Straight Bangin' Select List**

Still the greatest

Hall of Fame members: Scottie Pippen
Coach: Jeff Van Gundy
Also receiving votes: Carmelo Anthony, Dwyane Wade, Rasheed Wallace, Andre Iguodala, Josh Smith, Chris Paul, James Jones

10) Charlie Villanueva
9) Tim Duncan
8) Larry Hughes
7) Chauncey Billups
6) Antonio McDyess
5) Kevin Garnett
4) Ben Wallace
3) LeBron James
2) Manu Ginobili
1) Tracy McGrady

* This award was created at the height of Vince Carter's Bitch Period. Last year, he outdid even his usual bitch-ass, always-injured, no-account self and earned this award's naming rights for all of time by playing gutless, immature, selfish basketball in Toronto. No supposed "superstar" quits on his team and sulks his way into a trade; then, after forcing said trade, starts doing his Half-Man-Half-Amazin' thing again instantly and shamelessly; and later admits to tanking! If there is any karma in the universe, Vince will get hurt in the playoffs, cost his team a playoff series against Miami, and watch helplessly as his career falls into a Grant Hill-like downward spiral, replete with injury after injury but without the comeback. Vince Carter is still such a sucker-punk asshole--even though he remains an excellent player. I wish that Charles Oakley would come back and pretend that Carter were a money-owing Tyrone Hill or a girl-chasing Jeff McInnis.

** Simply a list of my ten favorite players, most chosen for inexplicable, esoteric, and/or capricious reasons.

Please Note:

- There will be a bevy of album reviews coming this weekend, mixed in among the predictable NBA Playoffs-inspired hysteria. FYI.

- You MUST check out this video at Reef's.

- One question: Why?

Punch Line of the Year

Yeah he got now, and he always got next 'cuz he seize every moment.

- Little Brother ft. Skyzoo and Chaundon, "Speed Racin'"
Listen to that last verse; it's Chaundon's. Not his best verse, and not the best verse ever, but the dude is hilarious. And he's smart. And he's perceptive. And he's got charisma on the mic. And he drops the punch line of the year:

"This is that crack/This is that coke/Said a few drug references, now they say I'm dope."

All you bullshit hip-hop critics and Young Jeezy lovers, take fucking note.

The Imperial Like Margarine, I'm Butter

Don't stop/Pop that pussy/Let me see you doo-doo brown!

Yes, that really is Greg Oden--high-school sensation, soon-to-be illiterate, and presumptive top-pick in the 2007 NBA Draft. I just thought you'd like to know. He's not the one in pink, FYI. And obviously, he's the rare young man so dedicated to his future profession that he's already practicing how he will handle the circumstances that inevitably come with the lifestyle once he embarks on his basketball career in the fall of 2007. (Check that: He'll be getting paid next year while doing his bid at the Columbus Minimum Security Prison and Home for the Mentally Challenged.)

This photo raises an obvious question, though: Did Oden flunk history? Doesn't he know that the revolution was televised?

Moving along...

My job and my social life recently entered into a mutually lucrative agreement to occupy most of my time. As a result of the conditions of this accord, I have been kept away from the blogosphere for a while and would like to now compensate for the dereliction of participation by recapitulating some old(er) news and new(er) happenings that may or may not be: a) fresh; b) interesting; c) amusing; d) any of the above; e) other. (And of course, this site may not ever be anything good, so please pardon the narrow, presumptuous choices with which you were provided.) For the convenience of you, the reader, and born of my recognition that Straight Bangin' caters to multiple constituencies, I will be breaking up the subsequent content of this post into three sections: Music, Sports, and Politics. Read all that interests you. (And yes, the tacit message implied by this organization scheme is that the Oden picture and the accompanying text related to Mr. Oden were required information for all.)

How ya do/How ya do/I got the joints to make ya...jump!
- The Bun B vs. Bol Etherfest spilled over from the internets onto wax. And by wax, I mean digital audio: Bun B went on Kay Slay's Streetsweeper Sirius Satellite program to discuss the beef, and Kay Slay seized the opportunity to address his own internet imbroglio, alluding to this incident and the commentary it inspired. Peep game (and audio).

My favorite part of this whole thing is listening to Kay Slay, a complete fucking moron, trying to project gravitas by slowing down his delivery and claiming to have saved DJ Raedawn's life (I think that's what he's talking about). I also like it when Bun B and Kay Slay share a good life about interneters wielding no influence as they spend 13 minutes talking about the internet on a syndicated satellite radio program. In their defense, no one ever said Bun B and Kay Slay were geniuses.

- While I fully enjoy the freedom afforded by the Bangin's format, this sort of focused writing inherent to a blog with a narrower focus (and I mean that in complimentary fashion) is admirable.

- Humanity Critic recently posted that he found Dynamite Hack's version of Eazy-E's "Boyz in da Hood" to be a pleasant remake. I wrote that I find it to epitomize the condescending, obnoxious attitude with which many people approach hip-hop when they try to have a laugh at its expense by disingenuously participating in it. What do others think?

- Ghostface Goes Green

- Rock the Bells (movie)

'Cuz it's the Chattanooga champ/Takin' a train...train...train...
- I done wrote this last year and I'm finna write it again because, well, it's that time of the year again. You know, the time when everyone rushes to get on some bullshit: Steve Nash is a nice guy. He's a really good player in possession of a unique style and a horrible haircut. He's even an engaging interview subject. But he's not the most valuable player in the Association. He's not even the best point guard--as Straight Bangin' West-Coast Sports Bureau Chief Nate Jones points out, that designation rightly belongs to Jason Kidd. It even belongs to him when he's Ason Kidd, because whether he's scoring and hitting jumpers or not, the dude makes every single one of his teammates better. The same can't be said of Nash, a player who only became the difference once he found the right coach and the right system. In Dallas he was a player who made bad decisions at crunch time, dribbled too much, and didn't get the ball to Michael Finley and Dirk Diggler when and where each needed it. Jason Kidd is the best point guard since Magic Johnson. Arguments that Nash is better than Kidd are just silly.

- At this point, I guess I need to concede that Barry Bonds is a horrible person.

Objectively, I always knew he was contemptible, but I was usually quite happy to look past his obvious personal shortcomings and instead celebrate his Herculean accomplishments on the baseball diamond. The potential that one can be a witness to historic athletic greatness is among the few indomitable forces in this world, and resultantly, no true sports fan can resist its seduction. That's why I rooted for Bonds: his homeruns and gaudy walks totals and general, unprecedented offensive potency offered an opportunity to indulge in the sublime helplessness engendered by true greatness, a tantalizing emotion that has been missing from the national sporting scene since the second part of the Bulls dynasty ended. Not since Michael had an athlete offered us a credible reason to believe we were living in unique sporting times. In 1996, Michael Johnson briefly took us to that place, but the Summer Olympics are fleeting. And while Tiger Woods is surely a transcendent figure, he is still measured using the metrics created by Jack Nicklaus; Woods has not yet eclipsed our notions of the possible and replaced that which he obscured with something greater.

Barry Bonds offered that, and perhaps he even attained it in good faith. But his alleged (and likely) use of steroids has forever challenged the integrity of his accomplishments. What's sad, though, is that he's gonna go out like a punk. It would have been exciting to have seen a great player--who is a total jerk, much like Michael Jordan--do something special while carrying the weight of universal suspicion. I just hope that his erosion this season is not cited as incontrovertible proof of previous steroid use. I think that his knee and elbow are good enough explanations. And it's not as though steroids made the dude's judgment or eyes any better.

- This is sick. Motherfuckers had better be buying shit so that they can burn and hang the lacrosse team in effigy.

- The annual and always right-on Idle @ Work Thuggin' NBA Awards

I don't sassafras/I put the foot up the ass

I have a new-found appreciation for the Beatles.

- You MUST visit this link and listen to the song. (Thanks to my mother for passing this along. Yeah, she reads this site.)

- Even for a proud liberal like me, it seems difficult to directly attribute Iran's growing nuclear capabilities and obstinacy to President Bush. Iran would likely be a quagmire for anyone, like, say, Al Gore. THAT SAID, the current administration has diminished the United States' diplomatic power and prestige by unnecessarily invading a country unprovoked, knowingly antagonizing the Arab world, and irrevocably compromising America's ideals. I don't know how this Administration thinks it can command diplomatic respect and extract adherence given its brazen, sloppy behavior abroad. And, similarly, people should be SO PISSED OFF that the U.S. must now confront a real problem (Iran) weaker than it should be thanks to a fake problem (Iraq) that was built on a foundation of lies and is now beyond U.S. control.

- Be very afraid.

Q-Tip Is in the House

You on point, Tip?

This is a GOOD FUCKING LOOK, courtesy of the Native Dork Family.

Paul Wall and Papoose Collabo; Internets Diagnosed as Crazy?

As you watch this video (sent in by Straight Bangin' Internets Bureau Chief James of Dem Dork Boyz), please think back to a simpler time, say, five years ago. Back then hoes didn't want me Funk Flex was just trying to get this car-show thing poppin', and your boy-boy fortuitously came into possession of a ticket to the inaugural show, held in Englishtown, NJ. (Most of you know that place by its other name, Who Gives a Fuck.)

I had never been to a car show, let alone a hip-hop car show, so I didn't really know what to expect. Chrome, Escalades, impractical stuff from a Ruff Ryders video--those were foreseeable features. But I didn't really know what to expect--I mean, are you watching this video?

Sure enough, the scene was surreal: hip-hop fans from across Metropolitan New York had descended upon the middle of nowhere to...to...um...well, I don't really know why we were there. At least, those of us who don't think that five hours of one's life can really be amusingly filled by looking at cars. Yeah, a baby-blue Bentley donated to the show by P. Diddy (or Puff Daddy--I can't remember which name it was at the time) might elicit some marveled gasps of appreciation as the crowd simultaneously realizes that it won't ever own one and vicariously hops in the driver's seat, but that's not a whole day's activity. At least, not anywhere outside of Houston or other communities where candy paint is a more common catalyst for conversation than the weather or something actually, like, interesting.

That's not to say that it was a lost day, though. Not by any means. First, it afforded me an opportunity to rock some Jordans and matching plaid shorts with a Funk Flex tee among the demographic most likely to appreciate such a bold and meticulously crafted sartorial creation. Second, there was, indeed, live music: Wyclef performed, Busta Rhymes performed, Foxy Brown performed. Third, I got to tell people that I had actually been to an event that was talked up on radio as though it were gonna be worthy of Summer Jam-screen infamy. And fourth, I got to hear the featured participants--Busta, 'Clef, Flex--drop gems on the crowd like this, from Busta: "Yo, motherfuckers, I just want to say that none of my shit is rented. These whips? I own them shits. Don't be runnin' 'round in a video with rented shit. I brought two Lamborghinis so that y'all could see that I ain't playin'."

That is an actual quotation, something I have carried around as though my memory were a bag, these words tucked underneath more pressing matters but never buried at the bottom of the satchel amidst the mental scraps of paper, pen caps, and other everyday detritus.

Bangin' Poll: This Dude or Mike Jones?

Seriously, who's a better rapper? (And I don't remember where I got this, so call me a biter if you want; I am not claiming to have unearthed this gem.)

Bangin' Poll: Cool or Douche?

Watch the video--especially the second half--and then vote in the comments section. Is this Penn student cool or is he a douche? I don't want to bias the results, so I'll wait to chime in...

Been Busy

Will resume regular activities this evening. Take it easy.

Like B.I.G. Watching Me

His name, coming soon to a concert near you...

As you've likely read by now, Proof was killed yesterday after getting clapped in a nightclub. Perhaps it's just me, but after learning of this and reflecting on the inherent sadness of someone's passing, am I the only person who immediately thought "Here we go, one more name for the obligatory hip-hop-concert fallen-soldier memorial section"? Honestly. And I don't mean that in no nice way.

I'm not breaking any new ground here, but it warrants repeating: Rappers, you do NOT need to list every dead person you've ever heard of when paying homage to Biggie and 2Pac in concert. And you don't even need to still be doing that. I go to lots of concerts, and at nearly every single one, we get shout outs to Big, Pac, Big Pun, Big L, Left Eye, Aaliyah, Freaky Tah, ODB--the list goes on and on. Heads are still shouting out Darren "Buff" Robinson from the Fat Boys, and he died more than a decade ago after having not been relevant for almost a decade. I'm not trying to cheapen the significance of death, but it's enough already. The high volume of these sprawling remembrances diminishes the intended effect of each.

As a service to the rappers, the fans, and the hip-hop community, I thought we might establish some ground rules:

1) It's enough with B.I.G. and 2Pac - Look, I can understand the urge to shout out Biggie and 2Pac. And I'm not denigrating the abilities or contributions of either. Ready to Die is a classic. Both dudes were transcendent talents whose deaths sadly defined an era in hip-hop; most rappers would like to think that they're somehow both honoring and succeeding these two; everyone loves beef; etc. I get all that. But every fucking concert? Is that really necessary? Can't we all try to move on? (Jay-Z, are you seeing this?) With all due respect, it's not like we're mourning Martin Luther King or Albert Einstein. And on top of that, if you all love these two so much, find some other songs of theirs to play, because "One More Chance" and "Hail Mary" are tired. Give me "Party and Bullshit" or "Pain" or something.

2) Big Pun and Big L needn't always be included - Was the Big Pun catalogue really so distinguished? I liked Capital Punishment, but Yeeeah Baby never did much for me and that was basically it. I know, I know, What about that amazing Little Italy line from the "Deep Cover" re-make? Yeah, that was nice, too. But Big Pun has neither the oeuvre nor the influence to justify the incessant name invocation. It's almost like he benefits from some kind of posthumous hip-hop affirmative action as the token non-black MC who people actually liked. Plus, he helped prolong the career of Fat Joe, and that isn't something I really appreciate. As for Big L, well, see what I just wrote about Big Pun. Catalogue? Influence? You dudes make it seem like L invented hip-hop. DJ Premier can do and say what he wants; everyone else needs to perhaps find some perspective.

3) "The East Coast ain't got no love for Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg?" - And by that, of course, I mean Eazy-E. If rappers want to run around bigging up dead rappers of significance, why aren't they talking about Eazy-E before Big Pun? Have they heard of N.W.A.? Are they aware that most of them probably owe something to Eazy for leading the ascendancy of what the media calls "gangsta rap"? The Game made a tribute album to Eazy-E called The Documentary (it was subtle, but you might have caught Eazy's name when Game dropped it a few times), but what about everyone else? Why does Left Eye get more shouts than this dude?

4) Actual legends deserve dap - I'm not one who stands on ceremony or tradition when it comes to hip-hop. For instance, I don't accept as settled doctrine that someone like KRS-One or Kool G Rap is necessarily a better MC than Ghostface just because the first two were working at this before Dennis Coles. They might be better, but it's open for debate. There is a difference between skill and influence, though, and you can make a strong argument that both have wielded greater influence than Ghost. So goes it for someone like Jam Master Jay. If you want to shout him out, go ahead; he and RUN DMC earned it. I suppose one could make a similar case for Biggie and Pac, but neither of them effectively shaped hip-hop during its primordial state. And unlike Jam Master Jay, B.I.G. and 2Pac are usually just reflexively acknowledged because it's just the thing to do. You know?

5) You couldn't have possibly known all of them that well - At some of these concerts, rappers seem like they're reading a list as they go through everyone they've ever heard of who has died: Keep those hands up for Aaliyah...Now throw up those L's for Left Eye...When I say "O.D." y'all say "B"...Don't forget my man John Ritter; Three's Company was some funny shit...Props to Milosevic, he kept it gully...And one more time, Freaky Tah--Peace! Only Russell Simmons could possibly have been closely associated with all those people. Everyone else? Well, when I heard Memphis Bleek shout out Jay-Z's accountant, I knew that there had to be limits. So let's agree to this: If you worked closely with someone; or if you were married to someone; or if you were otherwise related to someone, you can shout him or her out when that person passes. Mr. Cheeks can give it up for Freaky Tah; R. Kelly can publicly mourn Aaliyah; T-Boz and Mack 10 (by marriage) can shout out Lisa Lopes; etc. You get the picture. But if you're just some rapper who doesn't have enough songs to fill your time on stage, don't just make a list of dead people and then ramble on about them. I'd rather get more music from the house DJ because I usually haven't heard "Mad Izm" in months.

What am I forgetting?

Ridin' Dirty

We in the glass house smoked out...

- ESPN does a lot of dumb shit and tries as hard as it can to ruin my life, but sometimes it gets things right. Witness: PTI is now available in podcast form. Not as good as the real thing, but probably better than any thirty consecutive minutes of a Kay Slay mixtape.

- Speaking of ESPN and dumb shit: One of the funny, perhaps unintended consequences of the internets is that no local sports columnists are actually local anymore.

There used to be something quaint about waking up on Sundays and watching Sports Reporters so that I could listen to opinions to which I didn't regularly have access. Bob Ryan? Tony Kornheiser? The dour, rambling fat guy from Philadelphia? Skip Bayless? I had no idea who any of these people were, but they were on ESPN, so I assumed that they were each kind of a big deal in whichever places they lived. They'd fight about sports; Mitch Albom's ears would gross me out; William Rhoden would make everything about race as he stammered along--it was great. On top of that, when I would leave New York and travel to a city where the local sports-journalism celebrities had been on ESPN, I could front as though I were some erudite news junkie who was well aware of the local media market. Like I said, it was great (except for the eternally annoying, sniveling Mike Lupica, who ruined that show every time he was on. And, of course, he was always on.)

Those days are gone, though. These days, you can read almost everything that's written by anyone anywhere if you so choose. Suddenly, I'm sick of everyone (except for Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon) because they're all unavoidable. ESPN has leveraged this access by putting on a lot of guys who had previously only known regional prominence, and really, most sports writers who contribute to ESPN.com are kind of like UGK now (ask Bol): They may have been previously underappreciated, but now they've collaborated with an entity that can give them greater prominence and help them do major numbers. And guess what? They aren't that good and have become ridiculously overrated.

In this analogy, Skip Bayless would probably be Bun B--when isn't Bayless available? He hosts a show, he does guests spots on others, and he writes about everything. (OK, so Bun B doesn't rap about everything.) With all of these appearances and columns (or, in the hip-hop case, verses) in circulation, sometimes you gotta just phone it in. Bun B can drop 16 about being from Houston and having a car at any time, and Bayless seems like he usually just throws darts at a board to figure out how to be controversial and save himself time. As a result, I don't really care for most of what Bayless has to say, but this week moment, I agree with him on something. Phil Mickelson may have won the Masters and may have played smart golf, but I think Tiger lost the tournament more than Phil won it. Do people realize that Tiger needed 33 putts on Sunday? If he instead only puts up 27 (which is not even that amazing, and the number he put up in the third round), he shoots an 8-under 64 and probably wins.

- Read Jeff's piece about "Rump Shaker" and video chicks.

- HR gets it right on Condi and The New York Times' bullshit.

- Underappreciated rappers.

- This sounds good.

National Disaster

Golf Shocker: WASP Wins, Hugs Blindingly Blonde Family

Fuck!

I just want to say that no one with a greasy-ass mullet that parts in the middle should be on television, let alone beating Tiger Woods for anything. This blows.

I'm the Best and All the Rest Know It

Is Boots Riley gonna have to choke a Bush?

- The mainstream media is always reliably behind the times, idn'it? I realize that the ascendancy of all these rappers who traffic in hedonism and a certain sort of social nihilism is all the rage as mainstream outlets churn out stories about what's going on in hip-hop, but grills aren't new. Popularized by Nelly? New fashion trend? I thought that "Grillz," though a bumpin' beat, was kind of corny since it was a recycled topic. What's next, that "new" Cross Colours trend?

- Jim Nantz supports the war in Iraq, an ominous national deficit, and a loss of civil rights.

- Peep game: Michigan Sports Center

- Re-peep game: Broke BBoys done up and moved.

Some new shit to rock this weekend...
- The Coup, "ShoYoAss"
No so-called "political" group ever made tracks that had such perfect party beats. It's like cognitive-dissonance rap: you hear the beat and you want to dance; you listen to the lyrics and you want to punch something.

- The Coup, "Ass-Breath Killers"
What ever happened to just rapping about cocaine and hustlin' and bitches? Haha. I love this track.

- Clipse, "We Gangsta"
Yeah, now this is what I'm talking about. Or, as Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force might say, "Yeah, this is frickin' bad ass!" Hard-edged guitars; some Silverhawks-like sound effect in the background; B.A. Baracus; T-Mac; Ocean's 12; and, of course, dope to push, a corner poppin', and a Taliban invocation. Hip-hop!

- Cam'ron ft. Hell Rell, "War"
The bass in Hell Rell's voice lends his otherwise unremarkable rhymes an ineffable something that makes me care, at least for a few fleeting moments, about what he's saying. He just calls attention to himself for some reason. But as I "said," that only gets you so far. Cam's verse is fairly weak given what he's capable of crafting. "I stab a bitch over ice/Nancy Kerrigan" is about as "good" as it gets here. The best part of this track might just be the innocent-sounding kids yelling on the chorus of this characteristically grimy song.

- Papoose, "Faces of Death"
This song is why Papoose can make you crazy. In a macro sense, he vacillates between idiocy and intelligence. And in a micro sense, how's this dude gonna spit a grizzly, violent chorus and follow that up with these tales of woe that, at the least, indicate a certain sort of awareness?

Jim Nantz's Transformation: More Than Meets the Chai

Not to worry: this man can still join you for a game of polo by the family stables.

NATIONAL NIGHTMARE OVER!

It was all a false alarm, folks. The mystery has been solved (kind of): My mother, a reliable reader, sent this to me in response to my search for Jim Nantz's true identity. I am excerpting the crucial portion:

That brings us to Jim Nantz, who Don is trying to get on the show again this week, and new information has come to light that suggests that Jim is Jewish because his daughter is partaking in a Jewish tradition this week. Robb says if the wife is Jewish, then the daughter is Jewish. So then they try to figure out exactly what religion Jim is, and they confer that he's probably Baptist.

So I guess Jim kind of wanted into the Tribe (or, at the least, a partial excuse to make some of the jokes) and married a Jewish woman. I've got nothing to say about that; I'm just overcome with joy that Nantz is still a WASP. I don't know what would have happened had we been forced to confront a national crisis of identity like that.

Welcome back to WASPiness, Jim! It's like you never left. I hope that your wife enjoys Passover and that you do something really special for Easter.

Now tell us all about the nightclubs, and the discipline, and the anti-gay thing going on within the PGA Tour again. Your douchebaggery was really starting to come out nicely. Oh--and say it like you would if this were the back nine on Sunday at Augusta. 'Tis the season, as they say...

Things That Are Funny

My take: you're worthless

- George Solomon (pictured above) waking up each morning and trying to convince himself that his job means something.

Solomon is the ombudsman for ESPN. Theoretically he's an independent observer meant to assess what ESPN does and serve as a conduit through which the public can give the network empire feedback. In a recent column, he focused his scrutiny on Dick Vitale, a polarizing figure if there ever were one. Here's some of what Solomon had to say:

Vitale has been covering the college basketball scene for the past 27 years, following stints as the head coach at the University of Detroit and the Detroit Pistons. His familiar voice, unerring personality and smile have become the face of ESPN's college basketball.

"Dick is the signature voice of college basketball," said Norby Williamson, ESPN's executive vice president for production. "He lives and breathes college basketball. When you assess Dick, you have to look at his whole body of work. And that would include an unmatched knowledge and passion for the game."

Regarding criticism from some viewers and newspaper critics that Vitale goes out of his way to prop up perennial ACC power Duke and coach Mike Krzyzewski, Williamson said: "I don't buy it. Duke is no different from any high-profile, successful team such as the New York Yankees or Dallas Cowboys. But while he gives Duke its deserved accolades, he's been critical of the team when necessary."

Vitale, who has a reputation for being sensitive to criticism, responded to the same negative comments he's heard for years.

"I try to be as objective as I can," he said. "But when I'm assigned Duke games, you have to understand their success warrants, for the most part, positive comments. And while I've been critical of, say, their defense, you can't satisfy all the people all the time. People hear what they want to hear.

He concluded with his patented "my take" summation:

My take: Williamson is so right about Vitale's passion and knowledge of the game. While some viewers may be turned off by Vitale, he is the network's signature face and voice of college basketball and that's good. He's entertaining. Also, his studio performances during the NCAA Tournament have been top-notch, adding to the coverage and overall event.

But everything and everyone evolves, and perhaps in future game coverage, Vitale might consider toning down the "awsomes" and "oh, oh, ohs," give us fewer "Diaper Dandy" rants and cut back some of the tributes to coaches. He also might use his vast knowledge to occasionally point out flaws in the college game in general. All this, while still remaining Dick Vitale.

First of all, Vitale is full of shit. While his "If loving this game is wrong, I don't want to be right" routine is preferable to the stubborn, crabby vainglory that Billy Packer gives us whenever he's caught in one of his lies, inaccuracies, racial prejudices, social transgressions, or moments of ignorance, the Vitale routine gets old quickly. You could send Vitale to any game in America and he'd only talk about Duke, North Carolina, Kentucky, "Robert Montgomery Knight," and the usual array of other canonized coaches. Thus the justification that he tries "to be as objective as [he] can" is laughable if not insulting. "But when I'm assigned Duke games, you have to understand their success warrants, for the most part, positive comments"--what about most of the time when you AREN'T assigned to Duke games? What then?

Irregardless, though, the real point is that Solomon is a tool. Let's take this piece by piece, shall we?

"Williamson is so right about Vitale's passion and knowledge of the game."
This man actually thinks that Dick Vitale's knowledge of the game is unmatched? He follows the sport for a living and used to coach--he thinks about basketball a lot. We get that. But Solomon should listen to Vitale call a game and compare than to the way that Rick Majerus does it. Or the way that Steve Lavin does it. Or the way that Fran Fraschilla does it. Does Solomon really want to argue that Vitale knows more than these guys? That he imparts more knowledge in a viewer than any other "analyst" does on any given night? Maybe all that knowledge gets dropped off camera when Vitale is done drooling over the sacred cows of college hoops, but I honestly can't remember the last time that I watched Vitale call a game and learned something. And don't give me those "Freeze it!" moments that we get when ESPN comes back from commercial breaks as proof; most sports fans could break down a back-screen alley-oop if given three minutes.

"While some viewers may be turned off by Vitale, he is the network's signature face and voice of college basketball and that's good."
Written like a man who truly shills works for a company that has systematically eroded the integrity of sports broadcasting, prioritizing vacuous yelling over substantive discourse.

"He's entertaining."
Not since 1995 or so...

"Also, his studio performances during the NCAA Tournament have been top-notch, adding to the coverage and overall event."
Maybe my brain was still functionally paralyzed after having heard Digger Phelps garble his way through his own regular inanity, but I don't recall hearing Vitale in the studio and thinking anything other than "Yes, I completely don't agree." I found that after suffering through Vitale screaming his conventional wisdom and inaccurate generalizations, I usually was certain that the opposite was true. Actually, as I think about it now, no moment in 2006 was worse than when I heard Vitale pick UConn to win the national title. That's when I knew--deep down some place where the persistent Michigan angst lurks--that Connecticut wasn't cutting down the nets.

It's not just Solomon's treatment of Vitale that is so frustrating, though. Are we really supposed to respect the independence of a figure whose explicit purpose is to ensure quality by holding his organization accountable when he fills his writing with hollow inward-glancing compliments? I mean, is there anyone who actually thinks that Phelps and Vitale spouting off from a studio somewhere in Bristol, CT enhanced the NCAA Tournament to an extent that warrants recognition? Did they even enhance the thing at all?

And where are this dude's balls? It seems as though he passes on far too many opportunities to contribute thoughtful criticism, oftentimes opting for banal platitudes instead. For instance:

College football commentator Kirk Herbstreit is in the second year of promoting a growing high school football tournament that will feature nine games over two days next September, in his hometown of Columbus, Ohio. Herbstreit has the blessing of his ESPN bosses, but others might see his participation as a conflict of interest.

"I'm doing this to promote high school football," he said. "I believe it's all positive -- with no conflict."

My take: With high school sports becoming more of a business -- too much so, I believe -- Herbstreit should know his involvement, even with all of its good intentions, will be closely watched.

Herbstreit should know his involvement will be closely watched? Should he take it game by game? Let the game come to him? Play within himself? Score the ball?

What the eff is this? Why not take the time to explore whether a prominent football tournament held in Columbus, Ohio and hosted by one of the three people setting the agenda in college football--and one who is fiercely proud of his Buckeye heritage--is a significant conflict of interest? Why not offer a stronger stance regarding a relatively esoteric topic that might serve as a platform for smarter, nuanced sports discussion?

Oh, I know why: Because that might entail actually judging ESPN, something this ombudsman is loath to do. Given what seems to be growing animosity toward ESPN among sports fans, it's especially disappointing that the company has a gutless dipshit filling one of the few positions that could catalyze any sort of fan-driven reform. I guess we should all just be glad that Solomon hasn't been selected to serve as ombudsman for the Bush Administration. Lying to the public in order to instigate a war and invade a country is not the best idea, and America should know for the future that it's being watched.

- Dirk Nowitzki writing and performing his own basketball-related songs.


The internets got him goin' nuts

- Bun B losing his shit because Bol rode out on southern hip-hop (most of which does, in fact, suck). Here's what Bun B--yes, that Bun B--wrote:

Who the fuck are you to sit behind you safe little cubicle and criticize who we are and what we do? For more than 20 years. Southern Artists and fans have faithfully supported any and all hip hop that was offered. We accepetced everyone on their own merits, gave evryone a fair listen, and then spoke. In light of you comments and views, it occured to me that you haven’t given near as much open mindedness to our music as we have to yours. The reasons I say yours is that it doensn’t what type of music came out, we supported it, so we in no doubt supported whatever the fuck you listen to. To think that all we know is what we do, or that we may know nothing at all is preposterous. If you’re a paying member of Soundscan, you can see that ALL MUSIC SELLS IN THE SOUTH! 5 percenter? Bought it. Backpackers? Bought it. Black power, Wu-Tang, horrorcore, need I say more? Meanwhile, after 25 years of unconditionally holdin down all forms of rap/hiphop music, as soon as we even try to join a club we bought and help build the clubhouse for, they wanna deny us access. Well guess what you Elks lodge habitatin, Masters in Augusta wanna-be, finger-pointin behind the bushes, throwin a rock and runnin ass nigga, I just thought I’d tell you to take whatever preconcieved notions you have built up in your air and watertight cranium AND STICK IT IN YO PUSSY! I guarentee you the TRUE FANS AND MAKERS OF HIP HOP JUST MIGHT DIFFER WITH YOU! I know this because I am friends with Cool Herc, Grandmaster Caz, Melle Mel, Big Daddy Kane, Kool G Rap and other extremely well known originators and creators of this artform. The problem now is the act of causing division and dissention amongst the fans by people whom are not in the know. You see, YOU may not like Laffy Taffy or DFB or whoever, and you know what, that’s your GOD-given right. Hate all you want on the South, Southern rappers, or just Pimp C, since you brought him up. IT STILL WONT HELP WHOEVER YOU LIKE SELL SHIT! Talib Kweli: close friend of UGK. De La Soul: close friends of UGK. Kanye West, Common, Dead Prez, close firends of UGK. Jam Master Jay, 2 Pac, Biggie Smalls: ALL FUCKING FANS OF UGK, and I dont say this from second hand conversation. These people told me this from their own mouths, yet you would have people believe otherwise. They could learn to be openminded about the music the listened and the regions the music was popular in, so it should come at no surprise these people went further thatn the average artists. Whatever alterior motive you may have is trying to bring down the Southern rise, it won’t work. God kills hate with love. Oh yeah, by the way, as far as your comments on my brother and his reason for incarceration, he pulled a gun on a group of people thrreatening him in a mall. Only the girl went back and told the police, that’s why it seems as if it was between only him and the girl. The problem is, misinformed people give misinformation and cause misfortune to the learing. I hate to call this the blind leading the blind, because by the look of your commment posts, they know what’s up. So instead of just going to New York, screaming and ranting in White Nigga’s office, I came to see you on your turf, because I’m no coward. I’m willing to come in your yard: care to come in mine? Right a rhyme, let;s see what you have the hip-hop community musically. Oh and make sure it’s Grammy-nominated when you do it, because mine was. And while you’re at it ask Nas, Jay-Z, Papoose, Camron,, Russell Simmons, 50 Cent, Fat Joe, Chino XL, Self Scientific, Cyrpess ill, Snoop Dogg, Ludacris or anybody else in this industry you like if Pimp C is wack. I bet they bark on you louder than I want to. God forbid you’re in the wrong place and the wrong time like Pimp and have to spend 4 years of your life behind bars. You’re a black man, so fuck how educated and well read you are. You’ll ride just like Pimp, and you’ll be sorry about it, just like Pimp. The only difference: nobody’s gonna wear a fuckin t-shirt with yo face on it. Leave the South alone, becausse we’re just tryin to eat. Quit bloggin and write a book if you got more goin on besides gossip and shootin slugs. Because after blogging has come and gone, and XXL is no longer on stands or online(which I would hate to see), UGK and our musical legacy will survive. Will your triflin rants sustain?

I don't even know where to start with this. I'll leave the condemnation of Byron and the making fun of Bun B to others. That shit's pretty easy, and other people can do it better than I can.

What most resonates with me, though, is how effective the internets are at connecting people with their constituencies and fostering dialogue. It's not a new idea, and this isn't the first manifestation of mass communication bridging social gaps, but I can't recall an instance when a rapper and a fan could interact instantaneously. (Well, at least, I can't recall such a situation that didn't involve a bathroom or a limo or, in the case of Pimp C, a mall.) These two men have never met face to face, do not live near each other, do not work together, and do not know the same people. But that doesn't prevent them from interacting. I know I am supposed to be insulated from authentic emotion by the blogger ennui that they email to you when you begin authoring your own interweb, but the overall situation is pretty fucking awesome.

And Also...

You're probably gonna want to read the Straight Bangin' exclusive that Jim Nantz might be Jewish. It's big news (and a wonderful way to punk someone without the usual blunt profanity popular in these parts).

But once you've done that, you might also want to check out some music that you may have heard elsewhere. Sort of. Enjoy...

- The Dells, "I Can Sing a Rainbow/Love Is Blue"
The lyrics on what this was turned into are, like, much, much better than these.

- The Stylistics, "You're a Big Girl Now"
I believe that I've written this before, but this joint just begs for the blue light, doesn't it?

- Ray, Goodman & Brown, "Special Lady"
Kind of slept on.

- Archie Whitewater, "Cross Country"
Honestly, this might be one of my favorite samples ever. Whatchu know about Ynot

Jim Nantz, Jewish Operative?

The greatest self-loathing Jew of all time?

In this American metropolis filled with MCs country it's hard to be a number of things: A liberal. A woman. A person of color. A poor person. A Muslim. A Jew. A Knicks fan. All of these things. Chingy. You get the picture. It's a Christian nation for rich white men, and everyone else is just glad that those who run it also needed the protections theoretically ensured by the Bill of Rights at some point in history.

These not-so-subtle biases that help comprise our national culture (there's that word again) have routinely compelled some members of various non-privileged groups to feel bad about themselves for not being rich white men, and this self-loathing has manifested itself in a number of ways. For instance, O.J. Simpson (formerly rich, a Christian, and a man, but not white) doesn't appear to like being black, and thus, he slays (literally in at least one case) every white chick he can get his hands on.

It's hardly just black people, though. The self-loathing is common among lots of "out" groups. Take some Jews, for instance. In how many movies does Allen Konigsberg--you know, Woody Allen--grapple with his insecurity about being Jewish and living up to all of the limiting stereotypes Americans are taught to embrace? Larry David, another Jewish comedian, even includes a bit about Jewish self-loathing on Curb Your Enthusiasm: In episode 13, he yells out to one of the many in an endless procession of antagonists, "I do hate myself, but it has nothing to de with being Jewish." The Jewish self-loathing is everywhere.

And now, sadly, I do mean everywhere.
...
Forever, golf has been a bastion of WASP culture, the external bulwark of exclusionary country clubs and exorbitant prices protecting an exclusive Xanadu of well-manicured grounds, seersucker chic, and loafers without socks. As things like the rhetoric of "equality" washed over the American landscape, we could always rely on golf to remain a haven for the in crowd. Even today, when the best golfer in the world is black and the second best is Fijian, the most popular is a pudgy prodigal son of the WASP world who grew up with money and blond people in a state that had to be forced to celebrate Martin Luther King's birthday. Golf has always been a sacrosanct realm of the elite.

For those of us who are not rich white Christian men but enjoy playing and following the sport while doing so with a knowing condescension directed toward its conventions, there has been no greater champion of the sport's establishment than Jim Nantz. Simply put, he is the blazer-clad apotheosis of the golf WASP. The big smile, the soft hair, the conservative sensibilities, the ersatz charm, the Pollyannaish morality, the bland sense of humor--he's got it all.

And for years, he's masterfully executed everything that a proper golf WASP should. He grew up playing golf at a championship-caliber club with a name that might also be a color scheme at some pretentious furniture store (Bamm Hollow); he attended college on a golf scholarship (at the University of Houston); and he lives with his family in Connecticut. Nantz says things like he wouldn't shop for his wife at Victoria's Secret and all he wants for the holidays is some time at home with his family. He enjoys working with his dear friend (the otherwise universally reviled) Billy Packer; he golfs with his dear friend President Bush (the more competent of the two); and he's so straight-laced that he makes the unbearably conservative Joe Buck seem like Howard Stern.

On top of all that, Nantz can talk the talk required to defend the walk. Read this interview with Sports Illustrated that ran in last week's Masters preview. Which is more impressive, his earnest treatment of Augusta as actual holy land; his prideful WASPiness; or his indignant conservatism? I mean, check out some of these excerpts:

"SI: Is the Masters better than the Super Bowl?

JN: Better than any event I could ever cover. People in my industry chuckle when I say that. They call it a momentary loss of sanity. But when a guy comes walking up the 72nd hole at Augusta, my heart gets going.

SI: Does your pulse really speed up?

JN: Yes, and when I open my mouth I'm talking from the heart.
...
SI: The negativity of the print press seems to trouble you. Do you think we're biased toward sensationalism?

JN: I think golf gets a bad name from the mainstream media. Somebody needs to defend the good name of the sport, and I'm ready to do it.

SI: The mainstream media?

JN: People outside the sports department often say, "Oh, there's a controversy brewing in golf." It might be about Casey Martin or Martha Burk. "Let's write an editorial about those stuck-up snobs and their elitist game." And when all the top mainstream columnists come barreling down the interstate, guns in the air, what do we in golf do? We step aside. Instead of pointing to the First Tee program and other good things about the game, instead of saying, "William Safire and Maureen Dowd, you're full of you-know-what," we act as if we buy their idea that golf is for people who are out of touch, don't care about mankind, stuck up, elitist, racist -- the horrible stereotype. We're too willing to let them sabotage the great reputation of golf.
...
SI: An SI poll found that almost 90 percent of Tour players said invading Iraq was a good idea, and zero had seen Brokeback Mountain. Is there something beyond socioeconomics going on? Something about golf that suits a conservative temperament?

JN: I don't think golf gives you a political bent.

SI: Is it about control? Focus? Discipline?

JN: Golf is an individual sport. You have to be disciplined. Not that I'm saying liberals are undisciplined. I'll give you my political leanings when I run for office in a couple of years. But do I substitute the word discipline for conservative? Maybe. Guys in golf aren't hanging out in bars late at night, by and large, or trying to find the great nightclub at this week's Tour stop. If you do, you won't succeed. So it's a regimented group. You need discipline to get to the Tour in the first place. You need discipline to hit balls, to train. Nobody's going to cover for you out there -- it's just you."

You can just hear him blurting out lines from this interview with that precious, breathless style, or that oh-so-measured steady narration that have both become staples of Sunday afternoons in the spring and summer. Can't you?

Well, sadly for all of us who have so much invested in Nantz as a WASP paragon, something may be amiss. I don't know how to put this delicately, so I should probably just come right out and "say" it: Jim Nantz might be Jewish!
...
OK, have you been revived? Well, I know that this seems like poppycock, but please just consider the evidence before making a final judgment. First there's this, an article from the Jewish Federation of Greater Hartford:

Click, Bid and Live Generously
We're launching other initiatives, including e-philanthropy, to help us reach that goal. You can now make a Federation donation online. Click here to learn more. Two custom designed Tzedakah Boxes by Isaac Mizrahi and Jim Nantz are currently being auctioned through October 2 in a national eBay UJC Online auction, with 100% of the proceeds earmarked for our Federation. Click here to bid!

As you can see, Nantz is advertised as having designed a Tzedakah box, and he's listed as a celebrity alongside known Jew Isaac Mizrahi. At first, I thought this was a misprint, or something libelous, like an ad highlighting an unauthorized celebrity endorsement. But then, I saw this:

We did it eBay
Isaac Mizrahi and Jim Nantz designed one-of-a-kind Tzedakah boxes for our Voices and Visions events this past Spring. They were recently auctioned on eBay and raised $676 for the Federation’s annual campaign as well as Hurricane Katrina Relief and the bone marrow drive to benefit Tali Trager.

It wasn't a misprint; Jim Nantz designed a Tzedakah box. Um, how does he even know what that is? From what I can tell, it has absolutely nothing to do with golf or Christianity or men. It does have something to do with money, but not with being rich. Maybe he though it was one of those UNICEF boxes kids carry around on Halloween? Maybe he thought it was a new tip jar for the guys at the club?

Please, tell me that this man isn't Jewish. I can accept that the dude is an unctuous, conservative lame who is whiter than white. That's what I like to dislike about him; he's so ridiculous. I can even tolerate that he's a refined version of Mike Breen, a pedantic, intrusive play-by-play man who, amazingly, sucks up to Billy Packer. But don't tell me he's Jewish; don't tell me that the King of all WASPs is just a self-loathing Jew who immersed himself in an alien world. That would be so dishonest. That would be such a con job. That would be such a mindfuck. That would be...that would be like finding out that A Tribe Called Quest had signed with G Unit: My world would come crashing down upon me, trapping me underneath the heavy debris of disillusionment and confining me to a miserable eternity of disappointment.

Jim Nantz is supposed to be Captain America. Isn't he?

Music for a Tuesday

- Peep game: The World According to Pooh

- Peep game: The M Zone

- Rhymefest ft. Swing, "Swing and Fest"

- Rhymefest ft. Twan Gabbz, "Steppers and Skaters"

- Rhymefest ft. Mikkey and Twan Gabbz, "Southside"

Opening Day Was Saturday

These pictures are the only reasons to hate the Pistons.

As I've written before, I'm not in the picayune business of denigrating college basketball in order to glorify the NBA or vice versa. They're different enterprises, and you can enjoy both, recognizing the unique merits of each. Besides, there are better sports targets--like the taste in women common among sports journalists (I mean, come on, Danica Patrick? Maria Sharapova? Get out some times!); like the romanticized boredom that is watching any baseball on television that doesn't include a Barry Bonds at bat; like the whitest man in America, King of Conservatives Jim Nantz (please come back tomorrow for that); like Bill Simmons--for my fire and venom.

Appreciating the college game and the pro game necessarily entails recognizing their differences, though, and this past weekend was a fine reminder of why each is what it is.

Life is all about compromises, and that was never clearer than on Saturday, when those of us who had spent the previous two weeks enraptured by the excitement of what, through the conclusion of the Elite Eight, had arguably been the most enjoyable NCAA Tournament that I can remember had to meet with Satan to go over the terms of our agreement. The meeting went something like this, if I am recalling it correctly:

Us: This Tournament has been unbelievable. Upsets each day; heroic performances; buzzer beaters; a bevy of competitive games; anarchy in the office pools---this is too good to be true!

Satan: Yes, that is actually correct. Pursuant to article 17, subsection 32b, paragraph 9--the standard Consequences for Too Much of a Good Thing clause--the Final Four must be comprised of the following elements, including but not limited to: two of the ugliest motherfuckers on the planet (see here and here); two anti-climactic games that make you earnestly intrigued by the notion of switching over to Erin Brockovich on TNT; the failure of everyone's favorite breakout star (see the first name listed) to make a significant contribution, severely dampening the enthusiasm; the early death of a protagonist playing the token Cinderella role; and the worst announcer tandem on the planet (this last aspect is non-negotiable and is applicable in perpetuity).

Most of you were at the meeting, too. That's pretty much how it went down, right? I'll assume so. Thus, we all suffered through a horrible Final Four, a fitting measure of karmic balance. This Final Four was nearly everything that can be bad about college basketball. The talent deficit can be staggering at times, rendering strategy and coaching nearly obsolete. Incongruous styles can make for ugly games that are lopsided even as the score remains close enough to kindle some kind of hope for drama. And when teams don't possess individual players who can create their own shots with regularity, the level of basketball is left at the mercy of system execution. That's a deceptive duality, of course. We are thrilled by West Virginia but driven mad by the inadequacies of the LSU perimeter attack. And when a system breaks down, well, honestly, that's just not fun.

None of this is intended to mean that college basketball is bad, though. To the contrary, I love it. I love that it's a coach's game; that the Tournament regularly draws out performances that are entirely unexpected and unprecedented; that teams can draw emotional strength from cohesion and faith in a well-devised style; that the ball and the players regularly move freely. It's all great stuff, and it is an annual affirmation of the wonderful product generated by teamwork. But it's not without its flaws, and those were apparent this weekend.

They were made to seem even worse as the NBA officially seized control of the spring and early summer over the weekend, something it does each year around this time.

As Tony Kornheiser would say, nothing makes the needle move like Tiger Woods contending for a title (especially at a major championship), but these jolts of sports energy are fleeting in a macro sense, and they are only continual and not continuous. We don't get to follow Tiger Woods from week to week because he doesn't play each event, and the many variables at work in professional golf necessarily undermine most attempts its denizens undertake to create cohesive narratives. The Big Five; the Young Guns; the not-so-secretly hoped for animosity--none of these stories is reliable, and none of them is part of something larger. I can't wait for The Masters, and I love the challenge presented by a U.S. Open course, but those are momentary fits of excitement. The NBA offers a spring and summer of compelling storylines that culminate in the seductive fashion that characterizes the best works of literature.

Every year, there is a predictable rhythm to the Lig. It opens with fantastic energy, as fans eagerly seek answers for the myriad questions that arose in the offseason. By Christmas, many of the recurring storylines that will help organize NBA information throughout the season have emerged. The all-star break is simultaneously a sublime celebration of what's been accomplished and a doorway through which we can begin to see the final third of the year. And by April, as the college kids are finishing up, the NBA's regular-season stories crystallize and set up the playoffs, the most dramatic and enthralling event in sports.

Unlike a formulaic movie, though, the drama of the NBA's regular-season conclusion is not characterized by a second-act lull meant to provide an emotional juxtaposition for a thrilling third act. Rather, it's a time of intensity that hints at the crucible of the playoffs, and that was apparent as Dwyane Wade and LeBron James dueled on Saturday. Threes, drives, assists, steals, rebounds--they were doing it all, their play epitomizing everything that separates NBA basketball and elevates the league.

Great NBA basketball is about the triumph of individual skills. And not to the exclusion of team play, but rather, as a means for it. Damon Jones and Donyell Marshall hitting crucial baskets; Sasha Pavlovic throwing in a ridiculous put-back dunk; Anderson Varejao grabbing boards and finishing at the rim--these manifestations of refined skills were all happening in crunch time on Saturday, and the action owed to the greatness of James. Whether it was his passing, the spacing he created, or his ability to break down the defense, LeBron's skills were the catalyst for the Cavalier team effort. Similarly, you couldn't help but assume that Antoine Walker and Gary Payton and Udonis Haslem were gonna find ways to hurt the Cavs given the attention Wade commanded and the opportunities for his teammates that this attention was creating. If he wasn't getting an offensive board and finishing at the rim, he was setting up a teammate. In the NBA, the outcomes of the games are placed in the hands of individuals, and those who find success are the ones who understand how to work with their teammates. In fact, teamwork built upon a foundation of maximizing individual abilities helps to bestow an ineffable emotional quality on a team, and this intangible lift often yields better execution down the stretch.

But it's not the same thing as Florida getting Joakim Noah touches or UCLA running a high screen for Jordan Farmar. As you watch the college kids do as they've been instructed and attempt to get the basketball to players in positions from which they can do something, you don't have the confidence that they will be able to improvise if they fail to recognize the situation. You don't trust that the five guys on the floor all have a basic level of basketball competency that makes the extraordinary possible. This doubt is part of what makes the NCAA Tournament thrilling; you're always a little anxious about whether what you're seeing is real. Did those kids really just run that play? This kind of skepticism doesn't exist in the NBA because you're conditioned to make certain assumptions as you watch. The players are such great athletes and can do so many things at such a high level that it's not a matter of basic comprehension. You know that they know what to do; the variable outcomes are all within reach. An NBA player might not always hit the shot or make the right pass, but you aren't regularly surprised when he does.

And that was the case on Saturday, as the two best players in the Lig "made their teammates better" in a way that was reminiscent of Bird and Magic and Michael. LeBron and Dwyane were playing the NBA game at a high level, exploiting their gifts to create scoring situations--some familiar, some not--for themselves and their teammates. And as you watched, you weren't so much surprised as you were excited: Of course these guys can make those plays; I just didn't know that they were going to.

It was more of the same on Sunday as the Pistons and Suns staged an incredibly enjoyable late-season game with the character of a playoff showdown. For 48 minutes, two teams found ways to maximize the talents of their respective rosters, and everything from heady outlet passes to deep threes to improbable runners delighted an audience that didn't know what was coming next but was certain it was gonna be something. And as Hubie Brown would say: That's what you love about this Lig. These guys are the best athletes in the world and so many of them can do so many things. You aren't always sure what it's gonna be, but you know it will be spectacular and you know it will be done at a high level.

What more can you ask for heading into the playoffs?

"Could Be a Crackhead..."

I don't know what to make of this video. Is it racist? Is it regionalist? Is it even real? Is it OK to find it funny? I'll be honest, I do. Not in a vacuum, otherwise I wouldn't be ambivalent about it, but come on--this video is just so ridiculous.

Given the glut of race-conscious news articles to which we were all treated by The New York Times recently, it seems like race is again an in topic. (You know, because all racism stopped in 1968.)

My man HR posted this insightful and poignant piece a few weeks ago, and it came to mind again last weekend as I read Orlando Patterson's op-ed in the Times. As Patterson suggests, isolating the root causes of obvious social problems is an imprecise process that requires both the uncomfortable truths yielded by cultural analyses and the safer quantitative analyses we read about as depressing figures about who graduates, who goes to work, and who goes to jail surface. The notion of measuring--and, in effect, grading--culture is one that makes me uneasy, though, and the unease it can engender is likely why so many academics and reporters happily stick to numbers. Safety is a luxury afforded by raw data: you can be insulated from charges of racism or bias if you're simply measuring the number of people who graduate high school. But citing value systems and behavior patterns as the causal factors that produce social problems is far less comfortable, and far more ominous.

Attributing one monolithic culture to any group--especially a racial group, given that "race" is, itself, a social construct--carries with it unfair generalizations and hurtful consequences. Do all white suburbanites behave a certain way? Do they share identical values? Do they all live debt-free? Do they all have the same sexual predilections? Do they all make the same choices about drugs? Do they all emphasize education to the same extent? What about first-generation Indian-Americans from Oakland County in Michigan? What about a mixed-race group of people who earn comparable incomes and live in the same Manhattan apartment building? If individual members of these respective groups don't fit the profiles that I construct, are they deficient? Off? Not really white and suburban? Not really Indian and suburban? Not really from Manhattan and living a certain way?

It would be dishonest were I to pretend as though it is folly to attempt to capture shared values held among groups of people. Patterns of behavior shouldn't be denied. And sadly, so many of the stereotypes in which we all traffic--we each have our own, but we each have them--are reliable points of reference for us as we make judgments because experience has taught us that they are often correct. Fuck, most of what we all find funny--like, a comedy routine by Dave Chappelle or Chris Rock or Jerry Seinfeld--depends upon the absurdly comical reliability of life patterns. I probably should give each hooded, foul-smelling, loudly yelling vagrant that I see the benefit of the doubt because you never know. Right? Well, I don't, and instead, I instinctively get nervous around them. I find them threatening. It's probably wrong to assume that all the women I know love Grey's Anatomy, but I have not been proven wrong with a regularity that would disabuse me of the notion yet. And anyone who has seen Inside Man knows that much of the film's charm comes from the humorous exploitation of stereotypes.

Cultural analysis is important because culture can be observed and to deny its effects is to be foolish. But this strain of social science also lends itself to cooptation as a vehicle for advancing predetermined prejudice. A bigot reading the Times likely has found more justification for his or her intolerance lately. As HR notes, less than half of inner-city black men finish high school, and 60% of this group has been in jail by the time this population reaches its mid-30's. So do these numbers indicate a supposedly deficient culture specific to black men living in cities? What about the 40% who do graduate? Are these people of a different culture? And what about the white men, living in cities or elsewhere, who don't finish high school and work on farms. Or in factories. Or not at all. Or who turn to crime to make money. Are we examining this group? Are we reading articles about it? I would never criticize the Times or any other publication for attempting to catalogue our problems, and I would never argue that we're paying too much attention to the plight of the underserved. I just think that we must remain wary of cultural generalizations because they may serve pernicious purposes. Uncomfortable truths should be confronted; ugly manipulations should not be tolerated.