Music for a Monday: Muxtape.com

My man James () just put me on to this new site, one where users can upload songs and make stream-able mixtapes. I threw one up for fun. Peep it.

The Straight Bangin' Baseball Preview

- Major League Baseball won't be as much fun without Barry Bonds. And what will ESPN cover now?

- Jose Conseco will continue to be a loser. An amusing one, but a loser...

- ...And A-Rod may wear additional lipstick this season due to his emotional fragility and the reopening of the Conseco-related wounds.

- Red Sox fans will be as insufferable as ever. They will continue to celebrate their racist little hamlet as though it were the center of the world; they will continue to congratulate each other for participating in the rituals and rhythms of a routine which they find to be oh so precious; they will remain a fan base of whom it can be said that at any time, anywhere, they will gladly participate in a "Yankees suck!" chant. Even at a library or a wake.

- No one will notice or care that they're now just the Rays.

- The Yankees, Tigers, and Mets will all need pitching of some kind.

- Roger Clemens will receive undue attention.

- Hank Steinbrenner is good for baseball because he's actually interesting.

- Stories to recycle again this year: The Braves are overlooked but still a strong organization; baseball is about to be led by a new crop of young stars; oh how we admire that Billy Beane and his numbers.

- Joe Buck will be incrementally more moralistic and unbearable.

So She'll Be Crying and "Finding Her Voice" by Tuesday?

"...And then those two guys called me names, so I had to tell the teacher."

Saw this in The New York Times. I may be jumping the gun, but I'll assume it's true:

In a conversation with two Democratic allies, she compared the situation to the “big boys” trying to bully a woman, according to interviews with them.

I am so tired of this shit. She only runs as The Female Candidate when she is complaining about her plight or trying to exploit her gender for politically expedient purposes. At all other times, she is just a regular political attack robot human who would like to be president.

All I'll say is this: "the situation" which she is facing is that she has collected fewer votes, delegates, and states than her opponent. That has nothing to do with gender. And it has nothing to do with a "big-boys" network attempting to advance some kind of nefarious subterfuge at her expense. She just isn't as popular as her opponent. Maybe it's because she isn't a real liberal. Maybe it's because she is insincere. Maybe it's because she seeks to maintain the political practices that have grown so odious. I don't know the precise reason, but she's losing fair and square.

If she wants to cry about gender, maybe she should cry that she is doing a disservice to women's rights by repeatedly attempting to play the victim and fallaciously insinuating gender bias when it is not the rightful bearer of blame.

An Open Letter to The New York Times

The frowning face of dishonesty and laziness.

To the Editor:

When it was announced that you were adding William Kristol to your roster of regular columnists, a friend of mine sent you a letter expressing his disappointment. You replied as follows, and please note that I have added emphasis to make sure we're clear on the issue:

Thank you for your e-mail concerning Bill Kristol. We appreciate your interest and your taking the time to let us know how you feel.

Mr. Kristol's column will be appearing on the Op-Ed page, where we offer a range of diverse opinions--often differing from our own editorial opinions. Given that we are a news organization that believes in vibrant political discourse, we have brought Mr. Kristol on board after a long and thoughtful search through the ranks of strong conservative voices.

Will you--or will we--agree with him? Probably not very often...but that is the point of offering multiple views and providing intellectual diversity. We hope the column will engender open debate and discussion in the democratic tradition of newspapers. And we hope that you will continue to read and to express your views to us. We very much value your readership.

To summarize, you said that Bill Kristol would enhance "vibrant political discourse"; that he was chosen after a "long and thoughtful" search; and that you think his column will facilitate debate in the "democratic tradition of newspapers."

Given these parameters for his selection, I would like for you to explain how his column from Monday, March 24, 2008 fits your criteria. I read it and was taken aback by its intellectual dishonesty, its happy distortion of the facts, and its sneering tone that in no way invited vibrant discourse.

In assessing Barack Obama's touchstone speech about race, Kristol wrote:

The real question, of course, is not why Obama joined Trinity, but why he stayed there for two decades, in the flock of a pastor who accused the U.S. government of “inventing the H.I.V. virus as a means of genocide against people of color,” and who suggested soon after 9/11 that “America’s chickens are coming home to roost.”

But orators often ask themselves the convenient questions, not the difficult ones. And Barack Obama is an accomplished orator.

It's an argument that neglected several central points of the speech. While Obama does not condone all of Wright's messages, the pastor, like anyone else, is more than a collection of sound bites. To only consider the words outside of their respective contexts and to divorce them from the social and economic circumstances that inform them is to unfairly ignore this nation's history and persistent ills. Surely if I was able to understand all this, Mr. Kristol--who writes with a smug air of authority--was able to, as well. And assuming he did, in fact, grasp the subtle and not-so-subtle messages of Obama's speech, it is nothing other than lazy, pusillanimous writing for Kristol to completely omit these crucial points. How is that democratic? How does that enhance anything?

Even more shameful is that Kristol repeated this cowardly act of rhetorical deception throughout his column. He also wrote:

Nor was I shocked when Obama compared Reverend Wright, who was using his pulpit to propagate racial resentment, with his grandmother, who may have said privately a few things that made Obama cringe, or with Geraldine Ferraro, whom “some have dismissed ... as harboring some deep-seated bias.”

After all, politicians sometimes indulge in ridiculous and unfair comparisons to make a point. And Barack Obama is an able politician.

And I didn’t shudder when Obama said he could no more disown Reverend Wright than he could disown the black community. I did think this statement was unfair to many in the black community, and especially to all those pastors who have resisted the temptation to appeal to their parishioners in the irresponsible and demagogic manner of Reverend Wright.

But ambitious men sometimes do a disservice to the best in their own communities. And Barack Obama is an ambitious man.

If I'm keeping track correctly, Kristol again dispensed with all context in order to tar Rev. Wright as a racist provocateur; to pass uninformed judgment on Obama's connection with family members in the name of a well-known Conservative canard; and to question Obama's commitment to the black community, a group from which Kristol--the privileged kid who went to largely white schools and has run in elite, largely white circles since forever--could not be further. Again, I am struggling to understand how this unintelligent, fetid failure of logic and honesty promotes dialogue or encourages democratic debate. I am reading the works of a ideologue who is too lazy to explain himself, too thoughtless to craft an respectable argument, and too zealous to honor the truth.

Amazingly, Kristol's column only got more offensive. Without sharing the sort of data or evidence that often informs smart writing, Kristol dismissed Obama's thoughtful and nuanced racial exploration by saying (emphasis added):

The only part of the speech that made me shudder was this sentence: “But race is an issue that I believe this nation cannot afford to ignore right now.”As soon as I heard that, I knew what we’d have to endure. I knew that there would be a stampede of editorial boards, columnists and academics rushing not to ignore race. A national conversation about race! At long last!...

Racial progress has in fact continued in America. A new national conversation about race isn’t necessary to end what Obama calls the “racial stalemate we’ve been stuck in for years” — because we’re not stuck in such a stalemate. In fact, as Obama himself suggests in the same speech, younger Americans aren’t stalemated. They come far closer than their grandparents and parents to routinely obeying Martin Luther King’s injunction to judge one another by the content of our character, not the color of our skin.

Over the last several decades, we’ve done pretty well in overcoming racial barriers and prejudice. Problems remain. But we won’t make progress if we now have to endure a din of race talk that will do more to divide us than to unite us, and more to confuse than to clarify.

Without even getting into how Kristol is possibly qualified to make those judgments, let's agree on this: to summarily brush off a detailed, 35-minute oration addressing a layered, complex subject without one fact, one study, one proof point, one anything is insulting. Not just that, it's the sort of mindless, reactionary hokum that impairs meaningful conversations. Obama shared personal anecdotes, historical facts, and a careful consideration of many factors. Kristol shared nothing of the sort, declining to anchor his argument in reason.

To be generous, it was as though he was so intent on marginalizing something with which he disagreed and by which he was likely threatened that he lost track of his own argument. And to be far more realistic, let's just agree that overpowered by Obama's intellect and motivated solely to advance his twisted ideology, Kristol effectively resorted to name calling and vague generalities. There is absolutely nothing intelligent, democratic, or "vibrant" about that.

The Times claims that it selected Mr. Kristol to be a contributor after a "long and thoughtful search." You must not have consulted the internets when conducting your scan of the Conservative landscape. Otherwise, you might have found a man with a track record of dishonesty, both intellectually and when recounting the facts.

The Times claims that it wants Kristol to "engender open debate and discussion in democratic tradition of newspapers." However that seems almost impossible when his writing amounts to little more than ill-informed, purposely obfuscatory Conservative bluster.

There is nothing wrong, of course, with presenting a range of viewpoints. It's noble, and it is constructive. But masquerading as though Bill Kristol's writing honors that intention is an insult to the mission. And, of course, it is demeaning to all Conservatives that Kristol is the person you've chosen to represent them, standing alongside hopelessly out-of-touch David Brooks. The Times should be able to do better, at least insisting upon honesty, original thought, and precise articulation.

So that leaves me with just one question: why do you give this small man such a large stage?

Sincerely,

Joey

Music for a Monday: A Mind Flush with Questions

We're more than slangin' raw

A few questions that came to mind while listening to this (on repeat at the grocery store):

Big Boi ft. Andre 3000 and Raekwon, "Royal Flush"

- Won't it be a shame if Andre's next album is another exploration into the musical outposts given how nice it has been hearing him rap on so many tracks over the past 18 months?

- How did Big Boi make it sound like this was recorded 15 years ago?

- What am I missing? Rae's verse is that fictionalized Wu-Tang criminology...and it's immediately followed by Andre's consideration of the social and economic pressures of poverty. Is that deliberate? Isn't that kind of ironic in some way? Is the latter an apologia for the former? Or maybe no one was in the studio together but all had verses to contribute.

- How funky is this? Shit knocks.

- Who does Andre rap for? What's his audience? Do younger folks care for his admonishments? His deep thinking? Do the sorority girls who like OutKast really think about his criticisms? About his playful approach to sad subject matter? Is he striving to reach the "conscious" set? I'll say this: though it may be somewhat trite to congratulate rappers who call foul when assessing the industry and the hood, they have to keep doing it because things don't change. There is something poignant in Andre's whimsical approach to some serious shit. Further, his articulation of the confounding circumstance whereby achievement and success are causes for ostracization shouldn't be marginalized by grouping it with other common criticisms voiced by the "enlightened" rapper. Say what you will about bemoaning poverty in verse or using generalities to unite ghetto experience, but specifically targeting the pervasive hostility toward accomplishment is not common.

- What happened to prompt Big Boi's impromptu lecture on international security policy? What else might he know about intercontinental ballistic missiles?

- What does Raekwon do all day? He isn't making albums.

- How badly have I over-thought this serendipitous banger?

Ladies Playing Basketball?

I think that someone was playing telephone and got the message wrong. Women's tournament?

I suppose that this would qualify as "old news," but it's a point I'd like to make anyway: there is something (not so) insidiously problematic about ESPN so thoroughly dominating the sports agenda. The women's NCAA basketball tournament is a case in point.

First, let me get disclaimers out of the way: I think it's great that women play basketball. They should. Women should do all the things men do, and vice versa. Women should ball, men should be allowed to stay home with the kids, and we should all get equal pay for equal work. I fully support women's rights; I am a feminist.

I am other things, too, a sports fan among them. And as a sports fan, I can tell you that I mostly couldn't care less about the women's tournament. If UConn wins, that's great. If it doesn't, I hope Tennessee doesn't, either. And that's the end of it. I think most sports fans, men and women, probably feel similarly. How many people are in office pools tracking the women's tournament? How many sports fans can even name ten teams in the women's tournament with certainty? I can't. Connecticut, Tennessee, Rutgers, Maryland, North Carolina all come to mind right away. After that, I'd be guessing. Women's basketball is what it is, and it seems unlikely to ever take on a more significant role in the public sporting life.

But you wouldn't know that if you only followed ESPN. Here is what the ESPN homepage looked like tonight around 8:



Notice the big red arrows pointing to the prominent coverage of the women's tournament. For the sake of comparison, here are the homepages of SI.com and Yahoo! Sports, also captured at 8:





Let me save you some time scouring the SI homepage; there is no coverage of this tournament there. As for Yahoo!, you wouldn't know there was a women's tournament if the red arrow weren't pointing to the tiny word linking to the coverage.

One way to go with all of this is to applaud ESPN for championing the cause of women's sports and attempting to insinuate the women's tournament into the mainstream sports consciousness. But that presupposes that ESPN would have an organizational moral compass and take a principled stand. And that just isn't a leap of logic I'm willing to make. After all, we're typing about a company that either still counts or only until recently stopped counting Mike Patrick, Sean Salisbury, Dick Vitale, Digger Phelps, and Michael Irvin among top-shelf employees. This is not possibly a company that insists upon doing the right thing.

I think the cynic would instead be correct in this instance: ESPN places those stories so prominently because ESPN also broadcasts the women's tournament and surely would appreciated the bump in ratings that might come with shoehorning that event into the universe of what matters to sports fans. Never mind that other influential news outlets that also cater to sports fans don't consider it to be a key story. Never mind that ESPN purports to be a journalism organization and is obviously aware that story placements--in a newspaper, in a magazine, on a website--are a key part of reporting what's happening. Never mind that, as noted, most people, and particularly sports fans, care not for the women's tournament. Nothing like corporate synergy!

Wouldn't it be nice if the ESPN media empire were such that more competition could exist? Or that ESPN weren't so brazen in its endless drive toward watering-down and manipulating its journalism? This is just one more strike against the monolith.

Happy Tournament Day

I don't know. It has brackets in it.

For the first time in a decade, I am somewhere other than my couch to take in the day's festivities. Such is life as middle management in corporate America. I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday this weekend. Oh, enjoy Easter and Purim, too.

Picks will be up at 12:21...

Picks:

Round 2 Winners

East: UNC over Arkansas; Notre Dame over Winthrop; Louisville over St. Joe's; Tennessee over Butler

Midwest: Kansas over Kent State; Clemson over Vandy; USC over Wisconsin; Georgetown over Davidson

South: Memphis over Mississippi State; Pitt over Temple; Stanford over Marquette; Texas over Miami

Midwest: UCLA over Texas A&M; Drake over Connecticut; Baylor over Xavier; Duke over West Virginia

Sweet Sixteen Winners

East: UNC over Notre Dame; Tennessee over Louisville

Midwest: Kansas over Clemson; USC over Georgetown

South: Memphis over Pitt; Texas over Stanford

West: UCLA over Drake; Duke over Baylor

Elite Eight Winners

East: Tennessee over UNC

Midwest: Kansas over USC

South: Texas over Memphis

West: UCLA over Duke
Final Four Winners

Kansas over Tennessee; UCLA over Texas

Championship Game

Kansas 77, UCLA 70

Barack Obama Reminds Me of Paris Hilton

I don't think I ever wrote about this due to principle, but my most worked up and distraught day in recent memory came last June when Paris Hilton was released early from prison for no apparent or legitimate reason. It consumed me, rendering me incapable of working. I was so animated--and I can vividly recollect this--that I had to walk away from my desk and pace for fifteen minutes while on the phone with my parents and then my sister. I think I next proceeded to gchat with about twenty friends, writing with a righteous indignation that I summon only in my most emotional moments. I was almost delirious, seething with frustration. It was one of the few times I have ever completely agreed with Al Sharpton.

Obviously, this all reads like a wild overreaction. All that because of Paris Hilton? But that was part of what made me so angry, and that was why I never wrote about this episode to begin with. Why even waste my time on someone who is absolutely loathsome and worthless, literally among the handful of the world's most disgusting humans (alongside George Bush, Dick Cheney, and a few others). I was offended that I even knew who she was, let alone that she was receiving preferential treatment for, from what I could tell, merely being rich, blond, and white.

The racial implication of the episode was sickening and upsetting. We can even set aside that as a drunk-driving recidivist, Hilton posed a serious threat to everyone's safety. The mere fact that someone like Generlow Wilson wasted away in jail while Hilton was crying and whining and buying her way to freedom overwhelmed me. Of course, they were not imprisoned for analogous crimes, but their respective stories illustrated the racial divide that persists in this country, and the prison system was a sadly ideal theater in which that drama could play out, because if nothing else, this is a country that loves disproportionately locking up black people.

My personal Hilton hysteria remains a powerful object lesson in just how deeply race resonates for me. To appropriate a trite expression, that day was one during which I felt shaken in an elemental way. Something about that patent violation of decency and justice, that sickening illustration of a seemingly intractable racial problem--it summoned an almost feral despair. Dispensing with the condescending and dishonest apologies for sustained institutional racism, I defy anyone to objectively assess America and conclude that it is not afflicted by damning racial inequity. Further, I'd issue a similar challenge for anyone to look at the foundation for the United States of today--the federal policies that grew out of World War II--and explain how racism has not permanently scarred our society. I don't think a person can while remaining honest. And as a result, I don't understand how people can accept it.

Barack Obama gets this. And far from overly emotional or compelled to take up a cathartic crusade as an outlet for my zeal, I watched his speech yesterday--the one you can view above if you have not yet seen it--and felt an odd sense of vindicated calm.

Don't get me wrong, I thought Barack was inspirational. I thought he was smart and thoughtful and confident and charming. But to hear someone so eloquently and smartly and rightly string together his personal identity, his politics, his faith, and the historical narrative of race that dominates our social economy was reassuring. To hear someone acknowledge that the FHA was a tool of oppression; that a crisis of masculinity coupled with few resources can result in dysfunction; that we too easily rely on caricature to find simplistic balms for complicated wounds was to hear the steam released from my valves. Suddenly, if fleetingly, the pressure was reduced, the system eased, and an emotional equilibrium was reached. There aren't many moments that offer such a soothing articulation of truth. Obama's speech conducted an awesome power that was fortifying but not combustible.

And I felt thankful. For once, political discourse was not manipulative and empty. The loud candor of racial dialogue was not muted by caution. Instead, Obama opted to be blunt but kind when addressing his critics and, more importantly, leading a conversation about issues that really matter. Anyone who wastes his or her time worrying about gay people getting married or trying to mandate that students never hear the word "sex" in school should feel ashamed that they ever presume to hold up such vapid causes as the things that matter. Even petty and intellectually dishonest attempts to belittle a captivating moment seem laughable when measured against a comprehensive and thorough consideration of our society. If people tell you that Obama skirted the issues, engaged in circumlocution, or "called out his own grandmother," you should pity them. They missed a special moment.

I don't know if Barack's speech will make a lasting impact on this campaign or this country. But I do know that for at least one day, the United States was treated to the sort of honest scrutiny and hard conversation that it needs. For at least one day, we spoke about race in all its nuance, rather than ignoring it or minimizing it through convenient simplicity. And that felt wonderful.

All Hail This State of Emergency

David Stern is now an official signatory.

Ladies and Gentleman,

I think it's only right that we take a moment to honor Isiah Thomas. His unyielding march toward the depths of basketball and the immortality of ignominy has reached far over the horizon and arrived at a remote, little-visited outpost that many basketball pioneers could only dream of. Isiah arrived at managerial Valhalla yesterday: The commissioner of the NBA, Mr. David Stern, had no problem being quoted in a newspaper as saying that off-season change for the Knicks was imminent and would be "transformative."

At this point, were you not already sitting down, you must be now. I'll give you a moment to compose yourselves.

Do you realize just how horribly you have to screw up an organization for the commissioner of the league in which that team participates to all but insinuate himself into your team's dealings? Shootings, drug abuse, sex scandal, perennial ineptitude--many teams have transgressed many times in many ways. But few and far between are those where management's failures are so completely and consistent that the commissioner of the entire league has to step in to halt the slide.

So please join me in saluting Isiah Thomas for a job done just about as badly as possible. In this lifetime, we may never again witness such a circumstance.

Tough News for Unbearable Internets Rap Critics

Pause

Your man-crush hero got booed off the stage and punked in London. Someone get Tom Breihan extra knee pads; Wayne will need loving upon his return.

I feel like it's my birthday.

(HT: HR)

Nothing Says "March" Like Old Assholes

The ability to enjoy televised college basketball is significantly diminished by the absolutely atrocious announcers who are collectively the lead voices and mouthpieces of college basketball. It's not the same in other sports. NBA games, certainly the important ones, are covered by people who know what they're talking about, who can keep viewers engaged and informed. Same with golf; just listen to Johnny Miller. Mostly the same with non-FOX-broadcast college football (save for the stultifyingly sycophantic and idiotic Mike Patrick). The NFL and baseball suffer from a similar malady that afflicts college basketball, but it's far less pronounced. Only in college basketball are the signature moments and "critical analysis" (that's an oxymoron, I guess) left to such thoughtless, platitude-trafficking, ass-kissing, sometimes-cantankerous, broken-English-speaking old windbags.

So enjoy th Madness, everyone!

Dick Vitale


Digger Phelps


Billy Packer

A Breath-Taking Work of Frenetic Genius

He's about to orchestrate the offense.

It usually starts with the arm waving. There is a lot of it. And the pointing. Lots of that, too. That stuff tends to be what catches my attention when watching the Hornets. If I happen upon a New Orleans game, I just wait for a dead ball, or maybe a slowly developing offensive play, watch for the guy waving his arms, and then I'm all set. That's how I find Julian Wright.

Why am I looking for him? A more appropriate question would be, Why aren't you? A quiet story of this NBA season has been Wright's emergence as one of the league's most fascinating players. And I don't write that trying to sound all you-should-be-up-on-this cool. It's not an affectation. I am completely serious. Watching him is mesmerizing.

I suppose that describing how he plays might begin to validate my argument. I've begun taking notes when I watch the Hornets because Wright is unique. Here's a sequence I jotted down from a game against the Nets played a little more than a week ago. I think it's instructive:

Julian sets a pick at the top of the key; sprints to the elbow to whiff on a second pick; catches the ball and rifles a pass; then he runs down across the lane just to elbow a defender who is trailing another Hornet; then he leaks out to the corner before sprinting and leaping to crash the boards.

Please think about those words. Do you realize how much energy he expended on that single play? And for the record: he was looking for contact the whole time.

Some more, from the Rockets game last weekend (as in, not the two days just past, but the previous weekend):

- Hornets on offense. Out at the top of the key, hurriedly waving a teammate to come through a screen; shot goes up and he dashes into the paint; misses board and sprints back down court.

- Hornets on defense. Meets Scola at the three-point line, throws an elbow to feel for contact; switches onto McGrady through a pick; ball is passed to one side of the floor, Wright shades that way; skip pass to opposite corner; Julian sprints to close out; runs underneath to look at who rebounds (Chandler); seems happy and inconvenienced.

- Timeout. Grabs Pargo around waist and points no fewer than six times while discussing broken offensive play; can't tell if he's asking questions or dictating.

- Hornets on offense. Standing in corner looking for kick out; motions for Peja to run somewhere; very focused on action; leaning in.

- Hornets on offense. Spends possession in corner; just dashed in for a tip.

- Close talker. Always in someone's face, but not aggressively; might be the headbandl wears it like earmuffs; probably hard to hear.

- Hornets on offense. Passes ball with a motion as though he finds it offensive; good passer, nonetheless; horrible mechanics; backpedals after miss; runs like his limbs are too long.

- Hornets on defense. As Rockets come down, he stands at top and points out defensive assignments. I think.

- Hornets on offense. Dribbling. Catches the ball and squares up; 20-feet from basket; stares at shot; fakes with jab step; dribbles behind his back; passes to teammate; runs across lane and sets pick; spins into lane and jumps for rebound.

Hopefully, an image begins to emerge. If not, let me help: picture a smart but inexperienced rookie. Make him about 6' 8" and gangly, with arms that never end. Give him your favorite video-game aesthetics--headband over the ears, knee-high socks. (Leave out the goggles because, well, no one wears them--except Marcus Landry.) Now, throw in an impressive skill set. He can shoot it from twenty feet fairly well. He can leap. He can run, albeit with an odd form, his legs churning, his arms waving, and it all seeming a little disjointed. He is a willing passer and a good one, throwing a soft ball even when he looks as though he's hurling something too hot to hold. He's energetic, he's hungry, and he is always trying. He jumps, he flails, he sprints, he dives. He is constantly doing something. And most importantly, he never stops orchestrating. He points and he waves and he directs. He'll hold the ball at the top of the key and wait for his point guard to spot up on the wing. Or he'll dribble around the arc and throw an entry pass. Or he'll seemingly carry out an entire offensive set all by himself. It's a melange of disarming activity and idiosyncratic behavior, ultimately manifesting itself in something ill-defined but highly effective. You can't really explain it, but you know it when you see it.

That's Julian Wright, the assertive, goofy, unofficial floor general. The point forward in his own fucking mind. Never has a rookie seemed so at ease bossing around his teammates. Wright is admirable, exciting, effective, ascendant, hilarious, unwitting, deliberate. And much like the The Kramer, I can't look away. Let's not forget this insightful musing from our man Shoals back in December:

I can't even begin to describe how jarring his time on the floor is. He's so active it's silly, without ever submitting to the indignity of hustle: guarding three people at once, going for the steal just long enough to run after rebounds, altogether amped about making the entry pass. Wright's also the most bossy, or maybe just cerebral, third-string rook I've ever heard about. On offensive possessions, he shouts out directions and points furiously about spacing. During free throws, he earnestly confers with guys who actually touch the ball, or even pow-wows with Byron Scott near the bench. True to the scouting report, Wright carries himself like a key player who doesn't even need to matter.

I've always been a Julian Wright fan. Almost two years ago I fell in love () with a flawed Kansas team largely due to Wright's varied skills and prototypical frame. At the time, I remember thinking he was a new-age big man, the sort who would play a role in the continued evolution of post play thanks to his perimeter skills, selfless attitude, and talent around the basket. I didn't realize he was instead some other kind of archetype, transitioning into the professional game as a perimeter forward. (Or maybe he's not a replicable model in any way. He might just be a dicrete entity with a singular style.) And I never realized that after Chris Paul, he would be the Hornet who most carried himself as a floor leader, conductor, and on-court Vitruvian resource. Yet here we are.

So please join me in taking a moment to salute Julian Wright, a league leader in serendipity, unintentional humor, and endless intrigue.

Thank God for White People

Right, Hillary?



(HT: Wonkette)

Cooked Stats and Cheap Clearences

Halcyon times

I watched the finale of The Wire with two friends of mine whom I've known since college. It was only the second time I'd ever watched a first-run episode with anyone else. Fittingly, both of those occasions came this season, when everything else about The Wire--the pace, the focus, the quality--was different.

My Wire experience was always intensely personal. I stumbled upon the show on a Sunday night during the summer of 2002 as I sought to steal away a few more fleeting moments of personal time before bed and then work the next morning. I had come home from a dinner out with my parents and retired to my room. They had no interest in the show; I don't think they'd heard of it. Walking around Tribeca in May of that year, I had noticed a work shed poster advertising it, and I liked the font in which the text was written. That's what got me hooked. That and the HBO imprimatur. Back then, HBO could do no wrong as far as I was concerned. (Times sadly change.)

The first show was confusing. I didn't fully understand what was going, I had a hard time picking up some dialogue, and nothing seemed to happen. But I stuck with it. Sunday nights were a sanctuary for me, HBO was the attending clergy, and I usually found calm. The Wire became a part of this routine. And then it became something else.

As had happened with Oz and Sopranos, watching The Wire took on special meaning. After three episodes, I was enraptured. Never had I seen something that resonated so deeply, that moved me to so often scream out "yes!" as the show wielded its righteous indignation. Never had a television program synthesized so many strands of my life--my politics, my interests, my attitudes--into this rich tapestry, simultaneously presenting a powerful and harrowing commentary on a reality that I thought (and think) was too often ignored. Of course, this begs the question of why a show about blacks, impoverished drug dealers, blue-collar dock workers, and working-class cops could mean so much to someone who is none of those things, but to not be of something doesn't mean one can't care about it. It's unfairly cynical (but still funny) to insist otherwise. Those Sunday nights stirred something in me that culture rarely can reach.

And as had been the case with my beloved by overly violent prison drama and my favorite expose of suburban America, not a lot of other people were living the thrill with me. Oz remains a cult thing while Sopranos didn't find a broad audience until it got going for a bit. So I was left to enjoy this distinct pleasure in isolation, and that somehow enhanced the experience. As often as I would extol the show's virtues, and as excited I was to talk about it, I also found a quiet intensity that came with membership in a remote and limited community. Further, the cocktail of natural Sunday night introspection and on-point cultural critique rendered each sublime hour fuel for an ongoing internal dialogue.

The Wire consistently rewarded my fervor over its first four seasons. That's no revelation. And as the program's audience grew (somewhat), watching each episode on my own proved to be an ideal compromise: I still enjoyed quiet, reflective moments while benefiting from the collective wisdom of friends with whom I could review each installment, from large themes to the sort of minutiae that makes great pop art stand out.

We've discussed this already, but Season 5 wasn't the same. Not for the show and not for me. A diminished product absent its usual flourishes, loaded with hasty storytelling, and overrun with personal hostilities dovetailed not so much with the sometimes bland critical milieu but rather the standout amateur dialogue. Having meaningful conversations about The Wire steadily became easier, culminating in a season's worth of emails and phone calls and bullshit sessions that I'll always relish. But the content that was being hashed out faltered. And when anything gains so much scrutiny and praise, it almost can't help but fall flat, even if it stays the same. That The Wire didn't manage even that made its flaws more pronounced and denouement more merciful than celebratory.

On Sunday, when it was all over, my friends and I didn't have much to say. It was what it was, to appropriate a phrase we heard more than once this past weekend. There was some hope. There was some happy. Obviously, there was a ton of pessimism. A heaping portion of the status quo. And more than anything else, there was a void. Yesterday, when speaking with some other friends who had become Wire acolytes, the conversations were generally dispassionate and forced. What did you think? Did you like this? Did you like that? We were left with little more to add, partially because The Wire had already inspired so many exchanges, and partially because the show left with a relative whimper.

Even if you account for some kind of obvious potential bias, the Baltimore Sun's review of the finale got it right:

The decline in the emotional power of the cop-shop story line is best suggested by a wake at Kavanagh's Irish Pub in the finale. I will not spoil what satisfaction the scene might offer some viewers by revealing details, but as I watched, I couldn't help but compare it with the profane, sweaty and gloriously poetic wake written by Dennis Lehane and staged in the third episode of Season 3 for Detective Ray Cole (Robert F. Colesberry).

Except it wasn't just the cop shop. Across the program, emotional heft was missing. It's not easy to end things, and I do not own the show's vision--that belongs to David Simon--so it probably isn't my place to prescribe specific fixes that would have made Episode 60 and all of Season 5 more powerful. But as a fan, and as a dedicated follower, I can say unequivocally that Sunday night felt cheap. McNutty turned good guy and did the right thing. Bubs made it out of the basement. Michael became Omar. Dukie became Bubs. Herc reaped the benefits of a problem he had sewn. Levy finally got bloodied. And so forth. It wasn't that things ended, or that they ended a certain way. It was that all of those knots meant to tie up the loose ends meant less than I would have liked. In the show's ten-episode sprint to the finish, we just never saw the depth to which we were accustomed. And on a personal level, to have started out my Wire experience sitting on my bedroom floor, raptly leaning in toward the television, only to end it slumped back in my living room chair--it was a melancholy end.

So was Episode 60 good? I don't know. In some ways it was sweet (see: the McNulty story arc and final moment). In some ways it was right (see: the steady drumbeat of political maneuvering). In some ways it was sad (see: Dukie's further descent into vagrancy). In some ways it was proficient (see: Kenard in bracelets). But in all ways, it was somewhat hollow. Episode 60 was sort of like seeing Michael in a Wizards jersey--we knew who it was, and we knew what it had been, but it certainly wasn't the same, and the ending, largely triumphant when considering the whole, was marred by a disappointing final chapter.



You will be missed, dear friends. You already have been.

Why?

Loves that new Roots song. Hopes they appear in the next High School Musical.

You motherfuckers. You get my hopes up with Thought doing his thing...

- The Roots, 75 Bars (Black's Reconstruction)

...And then you follow that up with something brolic, making this new record seem like it's gonna be brooding and focused and awesome...

- The Roots ft. Peedi Peedi, Dice Raw, and Jazzy Jeff, "Get Busy"

...And then you fuck up my excitement by making something that sounds like an embarrassing, boring dub cover cooked up by a 13 year old...

- The Roots ft. Some Punk Ass from Fall Out Boy, "Birthday Girl" (aka, "We Are Idiots")

I still can't wait for Rising Down, but come the fuck on.

Really?

How the Biggie Casting Really Went Down

Programming Note: Still in Mourning

We will discuss The Wire tomorrow...

Music for a Monday: We'll Need to Remember in December

Better after all these years? No. More interesting? Arguably.

You'll have to excuse me, but I find it very hard to know what, exactly, we are to make of Snoop Dogg these days. Fifteen years removed from what remains his greatest album, Doggystyle, we cannot reflect on a career spent cleaved to the West Coast style that was very much his signature (and something at which he excelled). Nor can we really recall on a career spent dedicated to the art of rapping. What the fuck does that even mean? Well, De La Soul's been around for even longer than Snoopy, and I don't think anyone has every questioned its intention to make premium, carefully crafted rap music. Can we really say the same for Snoop?

More than anything else, the Calvin Broadus of today is a lifestyle brand, first, and a rapper second. (What that lifestyle is remains open to interpretation, as it defies a neat description given its many, sometimes-conflicting components.) He must retain a strong identity as an MC, of course, but this is a man whose unique, absurd persona has allowed him to do just about everything: pimp it out, wear perms, front as a don, serve a tenure on the purgatory that was No Limit, clown himself, channel Cameo, put out a porno DVD, make reality TV, go to trial for murder, withstand a torrent of middling records that might have undone rappers whose origins are not as revered. When you think of Snoop, who blankets airwaves, travels up and down California for basketball games, and gets arrested for weed carrying on a semi-annual basis, his music is almost tertiary.

In a weird way, this makes sense. The many facets of Snoop's public identity help to explain his inconsistent catalogue. From G-funk (it has its own Wikipedia entry!) to Southern, timeless to tired, going in hard () on "Deep Cover" to breezily floating through "Sexual Eruption," hip-hop classics to country experiments, Snoop's music--its quality, its style, its intent--reflects a life of consistent exploration and reinvention, with all forms oddly coherent thanks to Snoop's unflinching assertion that in all endeavors, he does nothing but honor his personal code. Snoop would tell you that he's always keeping it real, and that makes sense so long as it's accompanied by an understanding that his reality overlaps with ours but is wholly distinct. Launching a clothing line, hosting a television show, putting out porn--none of it may excuse the wild variance in the quality of Snoop's music, but it may help to explain why it can sometimes seem like an afterthought.

A paradox of all this is that in recent years, as the extracurriculars have become his primary curricula and his music has been seemingly subsumed, the albums have gotten better. In true Snoop style, he's had many artistic rebirths, and he's spared few resources in advertising these moments of significance. He left Death Row; he signed with No Limit; he reunited with Dre; he left No Limit; he hooked up with the Neptunes; he affirmed his position as an industry leader--lots of pivot points, all of them largely public-relations ploys. But Blue Carpet Treatment and now Ego Trippin', each without the commensurate fanfare of previous releases, have seen the man we used to call Doggy Dogg find an artistic style that seems to fuse his many interests without compromising the need to produce something that people might actually want to hear more than once.

It goes without saying that Doggystyle will forever be Snoop's towering achievement, and I don't think it's a stretch to argue that he might have been better served had he chosen to make more records that sounded like it (were it possible). There's even incontrovertible, objective evidence of its enduring power: it's rated as the 17th best hip-hop record ever made. But Ego Trippin' is a new standard for a new Snoop. Having left behind the flannels and the Boyz N the Hood (maybe Friday?) identity, Snoop is now a guy at ease remaking songs by The Time (word), attempting country songs (ugh), affecting a post-modern Cameo identity, and, of course, serving as the preeminent West Coast rap veteran, doling out easy rhymes and studio anecdotes layered in the distinct vernacular of the genre. Such varied fare can invariably miss the mark at times, but Ego Trippin' is a surprisingly strong record given all of its sounds and just how well they all come together.

As was the case when I gave Blue Carpet a few proper listens, I continue to think that Snoop's at his best when he finds a fairly simple, mid-tempo beat over which he can spit a solid (think density, not just a nebulous compliment) verse packed with boasts, colorful images, and the rhymes that reinforce his casual edge. "Think About It" was an example on the last record; "Press Play" measures up on Trippin'. But there's a lot more to like on Trippin', even once you account for the excellent and fun 80s synth tracks, "Eruption" and "Cool." A track like "Neva Have 2 Worry," for instance, is something I was happy to disregard when I first listened to it outside of the context of a full album. But when taken with everything else, its understated reminiscence provides a welcomed contrast in energy and style while also reinforcing an appreciation for Snoop's range. It's the sort of song that just sounds good when heard along with the stuff around it.

Lots of Ego Trippin's songs carry that distinction. I don't think I'd like most of them as singles. And a fly-by listen, jumping from track to track each minute, would not do them justice. Almost all of them are enhanced when given some time, when heard along with the other music, and when considered as demonstrative of the contours, discussed above, that shape Snoop's life. (A prime example is the Neptunes beat that's on here, which is initially unassuming and requires a few listens. I see you, Trey.) Ultimately, the record's context is also one of its key shortcomings. You wouldn't want to listen to this joint on shuffle. And, to be fair, while Ego Trippin' is an intriguing musical mixture, it is bloated and not without its share of duds. "Let It Out" and "My Medicine" need not remain on anyone's hard drive. There are probably five or six songs that need not receive all that much attention.

The other primary criticism that seems reasonable to highlight is that no new lyrical ground is broken on Ego Trippin', and the hip-hop platitudes are not in short supply. Though, the other side of this proverbial coin is that Snoop, a charismatic vet, still acquits himself well as a rapper when measured against many of his clumsy contemporary colleagues who litter the hip-hop landscape. And his rhyming style, which is a functional narration that relies little on simile, metaphor, and word play, instead emphasizing declarations and imagery, is one that does not always lend itself to the sort of lyrical dexterity that is widely praised but not without its own shortcomings. Moving things along has merit, and the word pictures can be engaging, after all.

Snoop's rhyming style is of special significance to Ego Trippin' because the record's greatest attribute is ultimately experiential. From the opening, when Snoop says, "I want you to just lay back one time, and let yourself unwind...I know y'all trippin' off how I be doin' my thug thing on TV, but I never forget about what I love the most, and that's making music," the album unfolds as an exercise in record making, and a celebration of Snoop's many interests, influences, and abilities. Trippin' is almost a perfect outlet for someone who rhymes as Snoop does and enjoys the position which Snoop inhabits. "MC," and perhaps not "rapper," is the best way to label Snoop's role. And with that in mind, Trippin's many elements all comes together as a highly enjoyable record that is less about high-level rapping and more about having a good time.

This, so far, is the best album of the year.

- Snoop Dogg, "Press Play"

- Snoop Dogg, "Those Gurlz"

Snoop Dogg Gets His Prince On

Throw some, throw some purp on that bitch.

Snoop Dogg, "Cool"
Wow. This electro-retro kick Snoop has been on needs to stick around for a bit. This is premium party music. "Cool" is probably my favorite pop song of the year.

My Second Home

I summer in midtown.

I'll probably get a hot dog at the game. And a kinish. And a soda. Maybe M&M's. That's four of my favorite foods, probably my favorite meal. My dad won't say no. Those are some of his favorites, too. At least, I think they are. He eats things that he says aren't good for him, but if you're hungry, you should eat, right? My mom always seems really impressed when I tell her how much I can eat at the game. I really like it when me and Dad get hot dogs together. He puts too much mustard on his, and sometimes it gets stuck in his mustache, but it's fun. It's part of what we do. The ones we get at the game taste better than the ones we have at home, although they don't have any beans at the game. I wish we could have those, too.

We'll have to got them either during warm-ups or after the first quarter. I don't want to miss the game. And we can't miss the introductions. I like it when they announce Oakley. He is funny because he can't jump, but he's still good. And he's strong. I like that he tries so much. My dad says he isn't an all-star, but I think he should be. He deserves it. An all-star is one of the twelve best players in the Eastern Conference, but lots of people care too much about scoring. What about defense? And rebounding is a part of basketball, too. Honestly, Karl Malone is a really good power forward, but who else is better than Oakley? Probably no one. Trent Tucker should be an all-star, too. He's such a good shooter. And he can shoot three pointers super good. I bet he is almost as good as Michael Jordan. I know he isn't, but it's close.

I want to get soda from one of the guys who walks around saying "Sssssssssssssoda." It's fun to imitate that. I do it really well. More of the vendors should sell soda. A lot of them have beer, but that's gross. Same with cotton candy. I had that with my grandparents once and it was like eating sugar. And, it gets in the way. Last time, I had to get out of my seat to see the game while one of those cotton candy guys stood in the way forever. Sometimes I yell, "Sit down."So does my dad. I heard a guy say it with the f-word. I don't think Dad likes that word.

My dad says that Patrick Ewing is "limited," and I agree. He isn't as good as Olajuwon or Parish or David Robinson. I never saw muscles like those. He looks like Real Deal Holyfield. And Patrick always gets slayed by Parish. He is good, and we need him, but he just is limited. I agree with Dad. He goes for too many head fakes, and he doesn't get up like some of the other guys. Plus, he doesn't have good enough hands. I see him fumble a lot of passes. Did you know that Patrick lives next to Aunt Carol and Uncle Frank in New Jersey? Last time I was at the game, I got to sit near the front and I kept yelling "Hey Patrick, how's Oak Trails?" I think he heard me. I want to go to his house one time. Maybe we can do that. Aunt Carol says she doesn't know him. If I lived near him, I would go over and say hi. Maybe I could talk about basketball with him. I know a lot. I watch SportsCenter all the time and I like to read the newspaper when my parents are done with it. My mom usually doesn't want to read the Sports section. How come they don't always publish the full list of league leaders? I like seeing more than the best scorers. That's always Michael Jordan.

The funniest thing happened tonight. Me and Dad were driving to the game and we heard that song by Rick Astley, "Never Gonna Give You Up." We hear it every time we go to a game. I'm serious! It's so funny. Every time we go to a game, we hear it. It's probably one of the best songs out, and it's always on. Whenever we get into the car, we hear it. He has another one, too, but I don't know what it's called. They all sound the same. I like some other black singers, too, although I mostly like rap. I watch Yo! MTV Raps a lot, and in the car, we listen to Hot 97 and Kiss FM. Driving to the game is a lot more fun than taking the train. And my dad always knows where to get a good spot. We never have to pay for parking, and we never look around too much. My dad works near the arena, and he knows the neighborhood so well. Sometimes when we walk from the car to the game, my dad talks about some places he goes when he's at work. If I was him, I would come to Cosby's all the time. They have all the best jerseys, and not just the replica ones. I bet they have the most jerseys of anywhere. And they have so many cool ones--Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson. I even saw one for Clyde Frazier and for Dominique.

The best cheer is the one for defense. Duh-duh, d-fense; duh-duh, d-fense; duh-duh, d-fense. I am good at it because I know exactly when to say it, and I can usually get some people around me to go along. I don't always know when to stop. I don't like it when they cut off the music but I keep saying it. And why do some people do extra clapping? How do they know how to do it? I want to know. I also really like that Gary Glitter song. I know all the words and all the parts.

One of the best parts about going to the game with my dad is that he knows more about basketball than anyone. And I think I am starting to know almost as much. I can list who starts for most of the teams, and I know where players went to college. That's how you know a real fan. A lot of people say they like basketball, but they don't even know the starting back court from UNLV, and they don't know that Charles Oakley went to Virginia Union. Do you know about Mark Eaton? Some people don't, but I follow all the teams, not just the Knicks, although they're my favorite.

A screen is when a guy doesn't have the ball and a pick is when he does. They get that wrong on TV a lot. Even my dad can't always remember, but those of us who are big basketball fans care about that.

Bill Russell is underrated. So is Gerald Wilkins.

...

If there is an arena that plays more music than this one, I can't think of it. It's just not possible. And why even give us the opening note of "Crank That"? Seems kind of dumb. Either play the song or don't. And stop playing so much Fat Joe and Rihanna.

So the Knicks are trying to come back against the Hornets with Wilson Chandler, Jamal Crawford, Randolph Morris, Malik Rose, and Jared Jeffries? Fi-re Is-i-ah; Fi-re Is-i-ah; Fi-re Is-i-ah. Honestly, I think that's mostly why I came tonight. At least I got to do that a few times.

This is all futile. Robinson's played well, the Hornets have looked tired (second night of a back-to-back), the Knicks have been OK...and Chris Paul is about to come back into this game and end it.

God, is he smooth. There's effortless and then there's Chris Paul. On four straight trips, he's gone jumper, jumper, layup, jumper in the lane. No one can handle him. How did he become this good this fast? And it's not just his scoring. That's almost secondary. I love how he creates easy angles, not just easy shots, for his teammates. He'll dart into the lane, draw a few defenders, and leave a lane in his wake that Tyson Chandler can easily fill. Or he'll use a pick to take a help defender across the lane and leave a 45-degree opening for David West to easily bank the pop. Nash finds teammates in their spots, and Amare works the pick-and-roll so well, but no one creates space for his guys like Paul. It goes beyond the passing, alone. He just moves in ways that make the game feel orchestrated. And he doesn't seem to try hard.

Eddy Curry just has absolutely no basketball skills beyond a few post moves. He just passed out of a quasi, half-hearted double team by throwing the ball over Robinson's head and across halfcourt. Tyson Chandler, about 70 pounds lighter, just used him in the paint. He has yet to box out anyone, and his rebounding seems to happen accidentally, as though he doesn't mean to do it. What a disaster. Fi-re Is-i-ah!

This chicken sandwich was OK, but I should have had a hot dog.

I find the dancers to be depressing. That is what they count as their jobs?

No Julian Wright and no Hilton Armstrong. The Hornets game against the Sonics was more fun.

Democrats Are Idiots

But I deserve it; I'm Hillary Effing Clinton.

I bristle when people call me a Democrat. I take no pride in nor feel any connection to the blundering fools who "lead" the Democratic Party in the House and Senate, day by day pissing away voting majorities, factual veracity, and voter will. I find no common ground with the increasingly popular protectionist rhetoric espoused by far too many pandering candidates. And most importantly, I detest lying, duplicitous people like Hillary Clinton, who proclaims that she will deliver solutions despite a record that suggests she is nothing more than an astute political operator who takes no risks and stands for nothing.

What I am is a liberal, and a proud one. Sadly, we don't have our own viable party, so we have to vote for Democrats, because they, despite their foibles, still do profess a dedication to sensible, decent, important values. You hear Democrats talk about helping people. From what I read and see, Republicans mostly just repackage the same failed economic policies and divine meaning in coded language meant to advance their ugly and hypocritical social norms. But really, having to choose either party is an unfortunate dilemma, not least of all because a major problem with the Democratic party is that it's filled with other Democrats.

Other Democrats like the voters in Ohio, who gave Hillary Clinton a blowout win on Tuesday night. To watch Hillary's victory speech was an exercise in seething frustration and utter confusion. Here's something she said:

"America needs a president who's ready to lead, ready to stand up for what's right even when it's hard."

Then the crowd cheered.

Excuse me for one second: WHAT?

Seriously, what? Hillary Clinton says she is ready to stand up for what's right even when that's hard to do? Does she not know that she voted for a war in Iraq? Does she not know that she voted for predictably destructive No Child Left Behind? Does she not know that she twice voted to sacrifice liberty and civil rights by authorizing the Patriot Act? When has she ever stood up for what's right? Seriously, when? What principled movement has she led? And, why were Democrats in Ohio cheering for a woman who sells out Democratic values on a regular basis?

People were euphoric about a candidate who, so desperate to win, tried to not only besmirch her opponent, implying that he could be a Muslim, but insulted an entire religion? Who stole Obama's campaign slogan since she couldn't think of her own? Ohioans fell over themselves to vote for a candidate who found it so inconceivable that she could lose that she singlehandedly lowered this election's decorum and quality of debate through her petty antics while also passing herself off as a victim? These are the people I am forced to share a party with? It figures: these are the same people who support a corrupt, cheating football program as though it were coached by the Pope.

Tuesday was a disaster for liberals. Hillary Clinton's candidacy lives on, and with it the misleading notion that she speaks for progressive liberals. She only speaks for us when it serves her selfish purposes. When the climate gets tough, and being a liberal becomes harder, she abandons us, disowning the values we espouse through her cowardly votes and absent advocacy. Barack has been far more resolute, and he does not have the same track record of betrayal.

Worse than just losing out on a chance to cement Obama's candidacy, liberals must now also endure the specter of the Clinton political machine manipulating and conniving its way back into the White House. It starts with an inconclusive pledged delegate count; it continues with makeup contests in Michigan and Florida; and it culminates in a superdelegate fight during which Bill, Hillary, and hacks like Terry McAuliffe can call in favors, apply historical pressures, and trot out the entire cheap-trick play book to steal away the nomination. All of sudden this election got a lot less fun, though being a Democrat hasn't been for a while.

Gun Powder. Paper Money. Nintendo. Infant Beatles Tribute Bands.

There's more here, here, here, and here.

Germany Invades Russia

This does little to disabuse me of the much-cherished bias that Euro ballers are goofy and awkward.

At this point, Dirk Nowitzki is due a lifetime achievement award in unintentional basketball humor.

Dispatches from My iPod

Naledge is the name, Hustle is the crew.

I'll get back into some more thoughtful music writing later this week, but for the time being, witness some stray ideas that have floated around in my mind during its daily immersion in the sonic soup I construct each morning on the train:

- The Roots, "Black's Reconstruction"
Ooh wee. 75 bars from Black Thought, who goes in hard on this one (). Tariq's thudding consonants, unrelenting stream-of-consciousness flow, and defiant bravado are reminiscent of why hearing someone rap can be so much fun, in and of itself. It's perhaps trite but nonetheless true that Thought remains an underrated rapper. He's a technical marvel, a smart lyricist, and the dude can flow.

Given how much I enjoyed their last record, which was hailed as dark and political, I can't wait to see another such offering from the Legendary later this year.

- Ed O.G. and Da Bulldogs, "Acting"
Ed O.G. is sort of like an anachronism. He's got an old-school cadence that is fairly direct and unwavering. It would never work on some of the more modern production that complements sing-song deliveries, purposely stilted flows, assonance plays, ad libs, and everything else that contemporary MCs showcase. And I am not trying to disparage anyone; that's a description, not an insult. Were he a basketball player, Ed would likely be Kurt Thomas. Sturdy. Solid. You know what you're getting. It's workmanlike but effective. And you appreciate his fundamental proficiency.

- Re-Up Gang, "Rainy Dayz"
First, just about anyone--Raekwon, Ghost, Malice-T (because they often sound the same to me), fucking Ne-Yo--sounds good over "Rainy Dayz," an all-time classic beat that probably isn't thought of in high enough esteem by a large enough audience.

Second, if you're a coke-rapper--and that's what the Clipse are, despite protestations to the contrary--you probably should be required to put out a tape with Cuban Linx beats. As soon as you finish watching Scarface.

Third, if you haven't bought the Clipse hype, these mixtapes are pretty much perfect: you need not wade through a studio album's worth of middling Pharrell beats, and operating without the normally reasonable assumption that a studio album should not be terribly boring by its end, you can appreciate the Clipse for what they are--EP rappers with drug-fantasy witticisms for days.

- Pete Rock ft. Jim Jones and Max B, "We Roll"
I posted a leaked version of this track last year, but I'm throwing up the studio version because the mastered sound is just luscious. The woozy melody, the horn samples over the chorus that sound like Kool and the Gang, the subtly brisk tempo--Chocolate Boy kills it with this beat. The rapping is pedestrian, but the beat makes that almost irrelevant.

This NY's Finest album, solid but not spectacular, would have been better if half the songs weren't old shit. It's nice that Lords of the Underground get some burn.

- Soulbrotha, "Dedication"
A new cat from Houston. Some laid-back, introspective, pro-black, let's-be-friends shit. Pretty easy to just throw on. And SB rides the beat well.

- Black Milk and Fat Ray, "When It Goes Down"
Another sonic shibboleth from Detroit. Black Milk is unquestionably one of the illest dudes making beats when he's not just creating filler. As an MC, I'll stand by what I've said before: his lyrics will never blow you away, but he can flow. Oddly, his shit is sort of off-kilter party music in its own way. it certainly sets a mood.

- Kidz in the Hall, "Dreamin' (Baby I'm the Shit)"
Naledge is my kind of lyricist--witty, funny, assured, observant, informed. Some of his ideas take him down the path of being corny or perhaps a little too self-indulgent, but it's a tendency happily suffered. He reminds me of Phonte from Little Brother, although they construct their verses and deliver their rhymes differently. Phonte is perhaps a little more sarcastic, a little more polyrhythmic. He can adopt various styles. Naledge doesn't have the same sort of restraint. He just kind of spits, although you do get moderation. Both make the rhyming process feel as though it's natural, not something they are laboring to do or even really need to think about.

And the entire premise of this Geniuses Need Love Too tape is some funny shit.

24 > 23

It's hard to yell when the barrel's in your mouth.

Since last season, when Kobe became something different, and ultimately better, I've struggled to recalibrate the inalienable basketball truths that have long ruled my life. He had begun to challenge my closely held conventions. Among them was that Michael Jordan was the best basketball player of all time.

As I've written before, "best" is amorphous, as is "greatest," and that subjectivity is part of the fun when doling out superlatives. Just what does "best" mean? And how can we decide who is "greatest"? I don't know. I have no answers that will illuminate the persisting dark of this confusion with the brilliant, enduring rays of clarity. But I do know this: Kobe Bryant as we now know him is a better scorer than Michael Jordan was. And, Kobe, more physically gifted than Michael and already among the twenty best basketball players of all time, appears to be on the threshold of an unspeakable greatness.

At 29 years old, Kobe is a better jump shooter than Michael Jordan was at the same age. Just as Michael was, Bryant is an accomplished and tenacious defender. In his aggressive and unrelenting assault on the basket, Kobe plays with a focused ferocity enjoyed by few, the sort of desire, when absent, that has always kept even great players from running alongside the all-time masters in the pickup-game parlor discussions popular with the basketball set. And Kobe's late-game cunning is unparalleled in the Lig. To call him ruthless is the sort of high compliment that fans and foes were left to offer when describing Michael's sinister greatness. In the fourth quarter, Kobe comes for your heart. He comes to cut it out and stomp on it before handing it to your mother with the stern, cold glare that will keep you from coming back. Kobe wants to decimate you, as Michael did.

But it goes beyond the tangible and palpable on-court similarities.

One of the least satisfying and most misleading ways that people "prove" Michael Jordan's greatness is when they assert that he'd pass to his teammates. Michael was great; he made his teammates better; he passed to them. Remember when he passed to Steve Kerr? People still say that today. I suppose it's not wrong. It is, in fact, an affirmation of his ability to play the team game with others, though that is a fairly basic competency. But beyond the fact that he was a skilled passer who could help his team by exercising that ability, the significance of Michael giving the ball to others was not merely that he'd defer to teammates so that they could score. It wasn't even that he symbolically trusted them in those moments. Michael Jordan was great because he generally emboldened his teammates.

Bounce passes and chest passes didn't inherently make Steve Kerr better, didn't make B.J. Armstrong a household name, and didn't make Bill Wennington a champion. There was no magic coating the ball as it made its way through the triangle. But how he talked to them, day after day; how he played with and against them in practice; how he carried himself; how he spoke to Phil; how he treated them on the plane; how he worked out; how he behaved in the huddle; how he made decisions--that is how Michael Jordan elevated his teammates. So when it came time to hit a big shot, Kerr and Armstrong and Wennington were already better because all of the little ways that Michael led them made them believe that they could contribute. Not to mention that they felt plenty big as Michael sealed games at the rim, the elbow, and the free throw line. Michael's passing was the cherry on top; it wasn't the whole sundae.

That was resonant yesterday as Kobe feasted on the Mavericks in the fourth quarter, and the Lakers again looked like a champion. To see him not only scoring but counseling Lamar Odom, passing to Pau Gasol, defending Josh Howard, boxing out Brandon Bass, gutting the Maverick defense, and turning in a virtuoso performance was to see a player akin to Michael. And like Jordan's Bulls, these Lakers seemed greater than the sum of their parts, each player doing more, doing better. Kobe is not just the best player in the NBA, but he is suddenly (finally?) challenging Michael's place in the basketball hierarchy. He has ascended to a new level, one where he not only controls a game through his unrivaled scoring, but does so as his team wins and his teammates excel. He's made them better. And to deny it is to fundamentally misunderstand what it means to be a great basketball player. Sure, he passes to his teammates, just as there are time when he doesn't. But to rely on something so simple and specious as passing volume, or some other phony metric, is a disservice to transcendent, all-time basketball.

We must now begin to consider that Kobe Bryant might be better than Michael Jordan. Them rings and things you sing about--we'll need to see if Kobe brings 'em out. But to think he won't, a theory to which I was previously a devoted subscriber, is to neglect the greatness that stares back at us from L.A.

Let's Re-Up

Good police.

We'll get to the particulars of Episodes 8 and 9 in a moment, but first, let me drop some general hater knowledge, which will be all the more effective as a contrast:

This has been the worst season of The Wire. How bad? Two of my favorite moments have been: 1) seeing Jim Jones standing on a street corner for about a second in Episode 8; 2) hearing Method Man blast Ghostface's "Be Easy" as he rode in his jeep to the re-supply spot in Episode 9. Of course, I have distinct tastes, but still, neither of those moments should have been able to overshadow the usual plethora of "Wire moments." However, that vast array of special television doesn't exist this year.

For illiterates out there, let me be clear: I am not saying that the show is bad. Nor am I saying that I don't love it. But a range of negatives have all coalesced this season, hurting what should have been a triumphant denouement. To list a few:

- 10 episodes, rather than 13, sucks. Period. The truncated schedule made the season's first half feel much too rushed and unsubtle. Gone were a steady procession of moments like Randy's cameo this year, or Kima fussing with the Ikea furniture, or Gus and his cohorts watching the Clay Davis verdict announced on TV. Those moments--when the show has traditionally made some of its most resonant points, or imparted observations that went beyond the substance of the show and spoke to some other truths that endeared The Wire to its fans--have been much too limited. The lessons that come from the contrast of Bunk quietly working his cases and getting no help while McNutty makes a spectacle out of nothing and earns a deep sea of support are more interesting and poignant than they are when Lester sits at a bar and simply proclaims that no one cares about mass murder if it happens to black people. However with ten episodes, you don't have the same opportunity for carefully crafted storytelling. You kind of need to just get through the plot.

And that's a good segue into this...

- The hastier narration has been especially detrimental because it has precluded a deeper understanding of the Stanfield crew, which is what this season needed were it to wield the same emotional heft of its predecessor.

What, ultimately, is interesting about Marlo? We know he has an impressive polo collection. And we've seen him lose his shit a little--"My name is my name!" But so what? Is there more to him? Is he just solely intent on owning the drug game? He is a decidedly shallower character than a Stringer or a D'Angelo. He's not even Frank Sobotka or Bodie. Marlo is almost more of a symbol than a person, an embodiment of the corrosive ills that run wild on the corners. The same is true of his peoples. What do we really know about Chris? Why does he work for Marlo, when so often he appears to bear burdens for which he doesn't care, incur risks that should not solely be his, and reap few rewards? The uncertainty and muddled view surrounding such important characters is very dissatisfying, and three more hours of Season 5 could very well have forged emotional connections that would have made the series' ending far more meaningful.

As it is now, The Wire goes out as a flawed incarnation of something we all know was great but now is something less.

- The media angle has been almost laughable in its simplistic construction. Templeton is evil; the publisher is evil; the managing editor is evil. Gus is good; the old guy who cracks grammar jokes is good; experienced reporters, like good police, are good and being squeezed out. David Simon knows how to run a newspaper better than, well, everyone. That is kind of what it boils down to, no?

It's been painful each week to watch Simon's heavy-handed portrayal of the Baltimore Sun, with a crusading editor who's never wrong and a publisher that defies belief in his obtuse out-of-touch-ness. The focus on the Sun is a story line devoid of nuance and intricacy, overrun by embittered distortions and grating absolutes. It goes without saying that in an era of Fox News and Wolf Blitzer, valid and smart media criticism cannot be voiced loudly or often enough. But to waste such an opportunity with a story that strains credulity through its pettiness and simplicity--who would have imagined that David Simon wouldn't deliver on something like this?!--is a disservice to the valid arguments that The Wire has clumsily sought to advance. The only parts of this element I've liked are the impact Templeton's lies have had on the other reporters (like when Daniels wouldn't speak with Alma) and the redhead who was an early Templeton skeptic. She's easy on the eyes.

- Weeks ago, I watched the show with a few friends one Sunday. We ended our time together by laughing and scoffing as McNutty turned out a woman on the hood of a car; Omar strolled along in a Caribbean paradise; Michael and Dukie got white girlfriends-for-the-day; and Marlo got familiar with the nuances of international travel. Nice Dolphin, n***a. I said at the time that in lieu of declaring that things--people, shows, whatever--had jumped the shark, we should instead start saying that such-and-such "had gone to the Antilles." I stand by that. We all knew at that moment that something was up. And sadly, it has been. The Wire went to the Antilles this season, literally and figuratively.

Episodes 8 and 9 stand in distinction of my criticisms. The last two weeks have been better. They've been slower while telling the story; they've given the characters and plots some room to breathe; they've left things unsaid, thereby saying more.

Omar's death was obviously the headline moment from two weeks ago. That it was Kenard who killed him was satisfying in Wire context the same way that the Sopranos ending only disappointed people who watched the show for vicarious violent fantasies. On a normal TV show, Omar would have had a showdown with Marlo or a Stanfield proxy, maybe Chris. But after honoring his code and making his point, Omar was ultimately no match for the institution--street life--with which he struggled. And he was got by just another wheel spinning as part of the endless cycle. I wasn't rooting for Omar very much this year. I found him less interesting, perhaps because, like other parts of the show, he was almost a caricature of himself. But nonetheless, it was still troubling and sad to see him fall victim to a system he fought. Particularly because his work was left unresolved. And yet, his death was sickly satisfying if you watch the show with the understanding that good things don't happen to the good people, and victories are never anything more than incremental failures or the fleeting stemming of an uneasy tide.

Episode 9 was a monster. Lest I start to ramble, let me record my thoughts as succinctly as possible:

- First, Bug and Michael parting ways made my unsentimental ass incredibly upset. Even worse was Michael's aunt closing the door on him, leaving Michael alone without a place. Dukie's sad withdrawal into the solemn and scary life of vagrancy is truly a story of a person without a home, but Michael is in similar limbo. He is not a soldier, and Snoop articulated something that has occurred to anyone who's watched since last season: he never was. Never was one of them, one of the Stanfield crew, one of the corner boys. He could play the role, but acting only got him so far. And so he is bereft of community now. He has no family, and as I wrote, he has no place. Bug, school, the game, his friends--all gone. It's so unsettling. To witness what has befallen Michael, Dukie, and Randy since last year began is an exercise in bleak reality.

- Chris, Cheese, Marlo, and Monk in prison was a great scene. Watching Marlo get worked up, put Chris in his place, assert his authority over Cheese and Monk--that was fun to watch. My man HR says that in establishing a connect with the Greek and killing Prop Joe, Marlo established depth for his character, demonstrating a relentless focus on running the Baltimore drug game that explains how Marlo behaves. I am not satisfied by this, as I find it to be somewhat threadbare and a colossal failure of Simon's ability to tell stories. But at the same time, the scene of the four men in prison, coupled with Marlo's jail-house conversation with Levy, did give Marlo more of a personality, as we saw his emotions and calculations. There had been plenty of the latter, of course, but when taken with the former, it made for a better character. And I suppose that in a season of lessons learned for Marlo--how to get a passport, how to manipulate the co-op, how to launder money, how to behave once on top--the startling realizations that came with being in jail were fitting extensions of the theme.

- The Bunk is good police who has done things the right way. As a result, only he will see any result next week when shit hits multiple fans and the McNutty-Freamon subterfuge comes undone.

- Bubbles is still boring, maybe more than ever now.