Hold Hands and Bow Your Heads

Not the story of the night. But still...

Since Straight Bangin' took up residence on its own internet, it's been an unapologetic admirer of the San Antonio Spurs. That the Spurs are so popular in this precinct of the interwebs is almost poetic, as the team, at once nothing and everything that there is to love about basketball, captures an ambivalence that runs through much of the SB curriculum. Hate that ignorant rap music, love that Cam'ron; hate those stereotypes, love those comedic generalizations; hate that Prodigy, love his blog.

The Spurs are horrible for basketball in some ways. There are entire halves during which the team plods along, eschewing motion and defiantly lobbing the ball into Tim Duncan even when everyone knows it's coming, as if to say, "Fuck you, stop us." They complain like no other team. They flop too much. They rely on limited players to execute their roles with a precision and expertise that is devoid of flair and at times imperceptible. San Antonio is content to choke you out, 85-78, and not just blow you out by getting up into the 120's. Even when winning, their passion is muted, and joy is almost a projection of the audience. The Spurs just aren't much fun sometimes.

The Spurs also are wonderful for basketball, though. They have reigned over the league by dispensing with the pretense of celebrity that can misleadingly suggest a certain basketball substance--just ask the Nuggets--and instead focusing on true teamwork. The Spurs are a kit of parts that, when assembled, form a whole much greater than its individual components. Lug nuts like Michael Finley and pistons like Tony Parker and seat belts like Robert Horry ultimately compose much more than a simple car. Bowen only plays defense and hits those side jumpers, Manu is the bailout man far less the part than a McGrady or Wade, Bones moves the ball around the perimeter and spots up--it doesn't seem like a championship nucleus, but it has regularly worked because they each take pride in doing what they do. Further, San Antonio has consistently demonstrated that beauty remains in the fundamentals, no matter how methodical. Watching the team consistently lay waste to flashier outfits--those often driven by emphasis on a more "modern" approach--by picking-and-rolling, funneling penetrators to Duncan, closing out and then boxing out has been a joy for those who appreciate that a complicated orchestration comprises so many simple, elegant movements.

(I am, of course, neglecting the all-time greatness of Tim Duncan, but that is a subject for further reflection a different day.)

On the Bangin', both truths are acknowledged, but the latter has always been more persuasive than the former when appealing to emotion. San Antonio has been a team to root for, to cherish, even. If nothing else, it has been a singular outfit whose effect was never to be so easily dismissed amidst gripes about aesthetics. That always seemed like an argument that lost the forest from the trees.

Regardless, San Antonio has been a singular outfit whose time appears to have come. Last night's game will likely be overshadowed by the controversy of the last play, but that is crime against history. What was most evident in San Antonio on the evening of May 27th, 2008 was that a champion that had always relied on its unparalleled versatility and mechanical efficiency finally needed repairs.

Duncan doesn't get off the floor as he used to, and it was apparent all season. A growing number of his shots are awkward and labor-intensive. Manu appeared worn down, and his shot-making and energy were in short supply. Too many guys are suddenly impotent in their roles, from Finley and Barry's inability to penetrate, to Oberto's limited repertoire, to Horry's inability to, well, be Horry. To paraphrase my father and Shoals, respectively: you know you're in trouble if you need points from Bruce Bowen or a season-high night from Barry. If the regular season hinted at some infirmity and the Hornets exposed a weakness, then the Lakers have shown resoundingly that if all of the parts begin to wear down, the sum is diminished in a way for which there is no compensation.

This all leaves SB in a mild state of mourning. Kobe's return to the Finals, and to triumph, will be satisfying and perhaps offer our era new definition. Seeing a good team lose to a better team resonates in these quarters. There is much to celebrate, still. But acknowledging and embracing the good need not obfuscate the bad. A beautiful game has grown uglier, to every basketball fan's detriment.

And for the record: I'm sure Joey Crawford didn't see planes flying into the World Trade Center, either.

Music for a Monday on a Tuesday: New Muxtape

Songs You Forgot You Used to Kinda Like:

1) Slimm Calhoun - It's OK
2) U-God - Supa
3) Snoop Dogg - Not Like It Was
4) P. Diddy - PE 2000 (Spanish Version)
5) Trick Daddy - That's Just My Baby Daddy
6) Bad Azz - How We Get Down
7) Terror Squad - What You Gonna Do
8) Rappin' 4-Tay - Players Club
9) Luther Campbell - I Wanna Rock
10) De La Soul - Lovely How I Let My Mind Go (ft. Biz Markie)
11) Big Pun - You Came Up
12) Westside Connection - Foe Life

Peep the tape here.

Now All She Needs to Do Is Marginalize the Holocaust

The many faces of a singularly awful opportunist.

Politico reports that Hillary Clinton believes her historic grueling politically expedient effort to receive votes from states that knowingly broke election rules is just like those other monumental social battles that have shaped our national history:

Hillary Clinton compared her effort to seat Florida and Michigan delegates to epic American struggles, including those to free the slaves and win the right to vote for blacks and women.
...

Clinton, at times sounding like a modern history professor, praised the abolitionists, suffragettes and civil rights pioneers and talked about her own efforts to fight legislative redistricting and voter identification initiatives that she said dilute minority voting power.

"This work to extend the franchise to all of our citizens is a core mission of the modern Democratic party," she said. "From signing the Voting Rights Act and fighting racial discrimination at the ballot box to lowering the voting age so those old enough to fight and die in war would have the right to choose their commander in chief, to fighting for multi-lingual ballots so you can make your voice heard no matter what language you speak."

The nerve of this woman--this disgusting person who offends the notion of "public service" by masquerading around as anything other than a selfish narcissist--is galling. To equate her craven attempt to steal a nomination from the grasp of a candidate her own party prefers to cataclysmic struggles for suffrage; to disingenuously cast a knowing transgression of the rules as some kind of crime committed at the expense of unwitting parties--it is beyond disgusting. She is loathsome.

And as she continues to operate in this boorish fashion, she is probably only helping John McCain. I, for one, have never voted for her and never, ever will. It appears as though she shares few of my values; I don't trust her judgment; and she is a prominent blight on our political system. People like Hillary Clinton are what's wrong with American politics. People like her and the national Republican party.

If CDR Is Wrong, I Don't Want to Be Right

With the sixth pick in the 2008 NBA Draft, the New York Knicks select...

A constant this past college basketball season was the devastating effectiveness of Memphis's Chris Douglas-Roberts. Playing in the Tigers' dribble-drive motion offense, he was getting to the rim off the dribble, creating for others, or, my personal favorite, knocking down midrange jumpers and runners with stunning regularity. CDR showed a midrange game that is the proverbial "lost art," and to be a little less precious and pedantic, incredibly useful. His was a multi-skilled arsenal further enhanced by a willingness to pass, an ability to play off of the penetration of others, and a sharp mental acumen. On defense, CDR was a guy who used his long arms to impede would-be dribblers, whose height allowed him to bother other perimeter players, and whose hands always seemed to find their way onto loose balls. I saw Memphis in person twice, I watched the club on TV a few more times, and throughout the Tournament, I caught the Tigers as they were televised. After almost every game I saw, I came away enthralled by CDR's well-rounded game and impressive basketball IQ. He was the only player in the country whom I thought should have been a unanimous All-American.

The NBA draft being what it is, Douglas-Roberts is, of course, projected to be a lottery late first-round pick. ESPN puts him in the value bin at #29; Sports Illustrated has him as a Nugget (a Carmelo replacement?) at pick #20; and always-weird NBADraft.net has my man going twenty-second. Why? Well, he isn't seven feet; he doesn't jump out of the gym; he's not crazy fast; his workouts may not be revelatory; and he probably is not a good-enough shooter to be an ideal shooting guard nor big enough to be an ideal small forward. Further, since he's probably as NBA ready as anyone not named "Michael Beasley," there's no "tremendous upside" to gush about. He's just a very good basketball player who was very good against other very good basketball players, and that's boring.

But it could also be ideal for the Knicks. So let it be said here first: New York should take CDR with the sixth pick.

In a perfect world, we Knicks fans would be girding for the excitement that would probably come with a likely all-star point guard or a dominating front-court player. In this perfect world, New York's new GM and new coach would happen upon draft fortune that yielded a magical superstar-to-be.

But that's not the reality of this draft. And to be honest, though this year's class appears deep, it also appears to be largely devoid of potential franchise cornerstones. Instead, I see a lot of questionable guys whose potential says one thing but production another. And for a team that needs almost everything, with upgrades across the roster, there should be nothing wrong with drafting a guy who appears to be a future starter at worst, has potential to become something beyond ordinary and competent, and has already shown that he'll perform.

And it goes beyond mitigating risk or settling for consolations. That is a frame for the conversation that does a disservice to Douglas-Roberts. The Knicks will most likely be playing a style of ball in which versatility is emphasized, slashing and hitting jumpers becomes the currency of success, and play making at both ends takes on special significance in the wide-open scheme. CDR appears well suited to fill a role in this schematic. Further, he has some familiarity with an up-tempo and loosely structured system, so his learning curve may be flatter than most rookies', and he could perhaps contribute to a turnaround right away. To quote Shoals, CDR is pretty D'Antoni.

There is also something to be said for common sense. If a player has excelled at a high level in college while playing against the competition that he will again meet in the NBA, it stands to reason that he would continue to have the ability to be a good player. Of course, there are no absolutes, and glaring exceptions like J.J. Redick--a one-dimensional player who in fact struggled when playing NBA-caliber defenses and guarding NBA-caliber players--exist. But Douglas-Roberts doesn't appear to fall into that category. Instead he is what he is--not flashy, not a next-level athlete, and someone who will probably out-produce 90% of the combine- and workout-superstars with better measurables.

I hope that this new regime in New York sees what I see and demonstrates some worthwhile daring. Otherwise, they'd better not trot out the latest Euro sensation or teenage bust. It will be damning when that dude gets resigned for more money than he's worth as CDR helps make a bad team better or a playoff team a true contender. Because he's that kind of a player--a reliably good one.

50 Cents Away from a Quarter

Y'all know the legendary Roots crew...

I have sat down to write a review of Rising Down about a dozen times and have never gotten through more than two paragraphs. Too many ideas come into my head, but they're usually manifestations of a certain obstinate creativity, the compulsion to conjure something great to write. Sometimes it's easiest to just be blunt, though, so here we go:

The first seven tracks on the Rising Down are collectively great. They capture an elemental boom-bap oftentimes eschewed by newer-sounding music. And beyond the sonic impression, they convey a seething anger and hostility that is sadly engendered by and appropriate for these troubling times. It is perhaps hackneyed to laud the Roots for tapping into this vein of despair following the excellent Game Theory, but it's no less true of this record, and it may be even more pertinent now. There are times, occurring too frequently, when I read the news and find myself paralyzed by a sudden flood of anger. This record speaks to those of us who feel that way. It's oddly reassuring, and it is a crisp, enlivening sensation to hear that kind of frustration given voice with potent concentration.

Rising Down's first half, with its precise instrumentation and sharp rhymes--not just the lyrics, but the cadences, the pauses, the flourishes, the assonance--also reinforces a fundamental pleasure of the Roots experience: these are exemplary musicians. From Black Thought juxtaposing the question of "Who got the politicians in they back pocket?" with the image of a pimp slap on "Get Busy," to Ahmir's serious but joyous drumming on "75 Bars," to the excellent sequencing, the listener is treated to rap music that is meticulously and thoughtfully crafted. There is a an intangible value that comes with recognizing this quality, particularly in an era of cheap-thrill hip-hop when a supposedly "great" rapper can put out garbage like this. The first time I put on Rising Down, I couldn't get a satisfied smile off of my face. It just felt good to hear something that is smart and carefully executed.

But as noted music critic and cultural scholar Ian Cohen once said of the Roots, they're easy to appreciate but hard to love. And that is the unfortunate reality of tracks eight through twelve, on which the Legendary lose the sonic cohesion born of the opening half's fury and instead wallow in boring beats that run underneath unremarkable verses and at times irksome hooks. It's directionless music that sounds as though it comes from another record (and one that shouldn't have been released). Black Thought tries to do his thing, but amidst the milquetoast production and regrettable verses from a dude named P.O.R.N. and old standbys like Dice Raw and Talib Kweli, the whole thing comes undone. It is almost devastating, because after the record's first movement, a Roots fan is likely inclined to think he's experiencing some classic isht.

Luckily, Common, a brooding melody, militant drums, and a re-centered BT come along at the end, on "The Show," to get the record back on track for its strong conclusion. "Criminal," with Saigon spitting a matter-of-fact, mid-tempo guest spot over production that sounds almost post-pissed and as airy as angry can be, is likely my favorite song on Rising Down, but "The Show" is its essence, and not far behind. When taken with the opening "Pow Wow," which gives you an early interpolation of "The Show" underneath ?uestlo yelling at some A&R, "The Show" completes the album's own Greek rhetorical circle, bringing it back to the focused, intense discontent and smart insight that give Rising Down its auspicious first half. The official close is then "Rising Up," a lighter jam with Wale lightening the vocal tone, the subject matter affirming hip-hop as a form even while lamenting the current state, and the go-go rhythm offering a hint of the fun that you tend to see at a Roots concert. It's a fitting end that articulates the group's ethos while also salvaging a record that started strong and then ran afoul of the right course.

For those of us hopelessly in love with the Roots (), Rising Down is perhaps disappointing given its potential but still superior to so much else, and far more provocative. We can all be thankful for that, just as I am to finally have this review recorded for posterity.

Missing: Ray Allen's Game

Where have you gone, Ray Ray?

Have you seen Ray Allen's game? Good-looking jump shot, lots of 3's, quick release, ability to pull up, comfortable going to the rim, can finish on either side of the basket? It was last seen about a month ago. Yesterday, its absence was especially notable, and he'd like it back. We are also looking for Ray's crunch-time minutes; those have gone missing, too. If either found, please return to: Ray Allen, Wellesley, MA; or, Boston Celtics, 226 Causeway Street, Boston, MA 02114.

Please help if you can. It will be sad if Ray has to retire.

It Was Cool, but There Was No Glowing

From what I could observe on Tuesday night, it's difficult being a high-school girl these days. First, you have to be thin. Otherwise, you can't fit into the tight pants or the shortest cootie-cutter shorts possible. And that's what you have to wear because, well, everyone else is. Second, you need to know what Dunks are, and you need to have a pair. It gets tricky because you can't have the same colorway as anyone else, and when you and all the other high-school girls wear them, you need to make sure you've paired yours with the right black leggings and tank top. Third, you can't be claustrophobic, because if you attend an event--say, a Kanye West concert at Madison Square Garden--you're gonna find yourself standing with 40 other high schoolers in a space only meant for 20 people along the railing in the upper tier. You'll all be on top of each other, linking arms, holding hands, playing with other people's hair, dancing. Fourth, you have to deal with the douchey high-school boys, some of whom will mean mug in their trendy t-shirts and designer sunglasses, others whom will wear their desire to be down on their sleeves, and still more whom will demonstratively seek out cigarettes all night, even as older people admonish him for smoking and lampoon his crusade to seem mature cool by asking if he has any weeeed, maaaaan. Oh, and fifth, you need to know all the words to "Hey Mama" (or, as my homie was saying, "Barack, Barack Obama/Barack, Barack Obama...") so that you can participate in the school-choir-like rendition that breaks out among your peers.



That's a lot for a girl to deal with. And it was a lot for me to observe as my friends and I took in Kanye at MSG this past week. Despite being one whose behavior shades toward the immature end of the spectrum for 26-year-olds, and despite using an assortment of interwebs to remain up on a specific cultural zeitgeist, I couldn't believe how thoroughly out of touch I am with the always fascinating high-school-girl demographic. I need to start going to more Fray concerts or something.

Anyway...

An abiding rule of this enthusiastic concert-goer's philosophy is that when a big-name rapper comes to town, you go and see him. Period. Unless it's a bum like Curtis. You go because he'll work hard to impress the New York crowd, he'll want to honor the amorphous hip-hop heritage that always lingers over these events, and he'll bring out great guests. It's New York; that's just how it goes. (And I will surely hate myself for having left when I find myself at the Murphy Lee concert next year in St. Louis and the crowd goes wild for Chingy.) That I love College Dropout, very much like Graduation, have made my peace with the Late Registration era, and practically discovered Kanye West made the decision to see him at MSG an even easier one. "Good Life," "Through the Wire," "School Spirit," and think of all the guests! Common! Talib! Jay! Yes!

Well, the joke was on me. There were no guests. Befitting a person who--and I write this without any kind of sneering or disappointed judgment--truly views himself as the biggest star on the planet, Kanye did 75 minutes of music by himself. At the end he and weed-carrier Lupe performed "Touch the Sky," but that felt like an economies-of-scale thing, and not a celebration of collaboration. I mean, Lupe is getting paid to be on the tour, anyway; might as well have him put in the work.

The Kanye experience was extravagant. There was this colorful, talking video screen; there were aliens; there was someone's annual salary's worth of smoke from smoke machines; there were pyrotechnics. And there, of course, was Kanye, who got a sweat going quite briskly and spent his evening running through hits, doing those awkward dances of his, and working so hard.

The truest words Kanye's ever said about himself might be, "Or use my arrogance as the steam to power my dreams." That came through on Tuesday. If you hate him, there's no shortage of material. If you love him, there's no shortage of material. But regardless, what appears beyond dispute is that this is a person who works hard, refuses to hear "no," and remains driven in a way that can only come from a certain sort of narcissism. Kanye outwardly projects the sense that he deserves his success, deserves your affection, and deserves to stand on an expansive stage by himself and stare out at 20,000 people looking on with rapt attention. As someone who lost his voice rapping along with song after song, who worked up a sweat dancing to so many favorite beats, I really wasn't mad at that. It was fun. It was 75 minutes of closely orchestrated, well-rehearsed fun, during which the music, though great on its own, became a medium that connected the audience with Kanye in a personal way (). It transcended a mere performance, or the transactional nature of a concert (we pay, he performs), and was more about fans communing with a hero. That reads grandiose, and I don't mean to equate Kanye with something greater than he is, but Tuesday night was more than just music.

All that said, a fitting bit of irony was that during the final opening act, Rihanna brought out Chris Brown to perform "Umbrella." There was not a single ovation all night that was louder than the one Mr. Brown received when he quietly strode onto the stage in his understated cardigan to deliver a simple rendition of his verse. But, what else do you expect when surrounded by high-school girls?

Where Best College Football Program Ever Happens

Only three and a half months away...

Dispatches from My Life's Upheaval

Starks is not a likely guest at my mother's next feminist seder.

Few are the days remaining before I give up my apartment, my job, and, ultimately, my life in New York. Soon I will be living at home (again, and just briefly) before moving to Missouri. In advance of my homecoming, I have been putting in work at the original Straight Bangin' headquarters. A scene from this weekend, while cleaning my room and organizing sneakers:

Me: Let's put on some music.
Mom: Sure.
Me: Prepare for a hip-hop experience.
Mom: (silent)

Pharcyde: ...If Magic can admit he got AIDS/Fuck it/I got herpes...
Mom: Herpes? Nice. What a sweet song.

Kidz in the Hall: ...Get a little drunk/Get a little naked...
Mom: What is with these songs? Ugh.
Me: What? You don't like the adult content?
Mom: It's just...so...silly.

Ghostface Killah: ...Next thing you know I'm in this bitch's crib chillin'/Told her my story and like this I had her legs in the ceiling/Cookin' me fried fish sticks, hot side of them biscuits/While she doin' this, the bitch still slidin' on lipstick/Now I got the fat stomach on, she crackin' a dutch/I'm playin' with her pussy on the couch, I'm ready to fuck...
Mom: Ugh! Joe, what is this?
Me: A love story. It's Ghostface, my favorite.
Mom: What? With her fat stomach? Nice
Me: No, his stomach is fat. He's being nice to her--he's extolling her ability to multitask. She made him that food while putting on lipstick.
Mom: (glares)
Method Man: ...Now let me put my drawers on, n***a what kinda dope you on?/Should've knocked before you came in the spot, Ghost you wrong/Bustin' in here on the government shit/Got this chick screamin'/Grabbin the sheets tryin' to cover her tits...
Mom: Tits?! This is so horrible to women
Me: The Wu-Tang Clan keeps it real. I guess you just don't like the Wu-Tang Clan.

Dad: What are you guys doing?
Me: Dad, Mom has decided that the Wu-Tang Clan is her favorite rap group ever.
Dad: That's the group with the ODB, right?
Me: Yeah
Dad: Right. From Shaolin.

Association Notes

Is the guy on the left available? I'd give limbs for him.

This will likely surprise those of you who've come to recognize that I usually know everything, but I am not quite sure how I feel about the Knicks hiring Mike D'Antoni, and my first instinct was that this is a mistake.

A mistake for the obvious reasons:

1) D'Antoni coaches a style of ball that emphasizes rapid pace, good decisions, precision shooting, and smart passing, none of which these Knicks can reliably execute.

2) D'Antoni is not a coach who's proven that he can teach defense, something that these woefully inadequate Knicks need in abundance.

3) D'Antoni couldn't get over the hump with Phoenix's roster, so why are we to expect that he ever will while coaching teams that will likely never be as talented?

4) $6 million a year is a lot for anyone, D'Antoni or otherwise, forced to win with a roster that lacks talent, leadership, and the fiscal flexibility needed for sudden change.

This fourth point of hesitation underscores the sad reality of the circumstance, though: there is no coaching panacea walking through that door. The sorry Knicks are who they are. It is true that New York will benefit from a coach who has a set rotation, who can command the respect of players, and whose grasp of strategy goes beyond "questionable at best and oftentimes baffling." The presence of a true professional, alone, may help to elevate this team toward true mediocrity. But the Knicks as we know them have a relatively low ceiling.

And for this reason, oddly enough, I have come around from my initial skepticism and think that D'Antoni was the best possible hire. Now, that's kind of like saying that one consolation prize is better than the others, but it's a start.

The Knickerbocker organization, like Michigan basketball when Tommy Amaker was finally fired, is a franchise with a broken culture. Ever since Jeff Van Gundy's unceremonious departure, the Brickers have been a group whose collective identity is mired in the negatives and has given rise to a culture without accountability or professionalism. For most of this decade, the Knicks have been a sad joke around the Lig--the overpaid, under-talented team with the uncouth, incompetent owner and the endless circus over which he has presided. The last coach was--well, we all know what he was: a con man. He couldn't coach. He couldn't lead. Isiah Thomas got by on his smile, his history, and his sinister charm. It led to embarrassing basketball, outrageous distractions, and chaos. Before him, the Knicks were led by a depressed narcissist who degraded his players and excused himself from any culpability. Before him, it was the lame duck. See the pattern?

If nothing more, Mike D'Antoni offers the promise of good-humored restoration. He will restore order, accountability, and professionalism. In :07 Seconds or Less, D'Antoni comes across as an amiable, witty guy who respects and loves basketball. He governs a team for which playing basketball is a job and a focus, not merely a means for a paycheck. That is a foreign approach for these Knicks. Routines will be enforced. Responsibilities will be made clear. Repercussions will be meaningful and consistent. The minutiae of the game, the angles that lead to layups and not jump shots--that will become the dialect of the organization. Changing the culture of the team through these sorts of seemingly mundane processes will mean improvement. And as sorry as that is, it's necessary, and D'Antoni seems like a good fit to help bring about the revolution.

What will D'Antoni do with his roster? I have no clue. Assuming that Donnie Walsh engineers no miracles and that D'Antoni wants to play :07 Second basketball, I'd imagine that he will try to get Stephon Marbury on board, because the team needs a conductor and distributor. After that, were I D'Antoni, I'd try to make Jamal Crawford my destitute man's Joe Johnson, asking him to spot up along the sidelines and slash for the midrange J's and the layups when available. Nate Robinson (gulp) would be my Barbosa, an off-the-bench combo guard who'd push the ball and help break down a set defense (I know that this is a reach). I have no clue who will attempt to replicate what the Amares and Shawn Marions and Diaws of the world have done. The Knicks don't have remotely analogous players, though David Lee can surely apply his hustle game to enhanced effect in a system where running is placed at a premium. And given D'Antoni's European stylistic lineage, maybe he will find a way to better utilize the shooting range of Zach Randolph.

But the other possibility is that D'Antoni has been brought to New York because he's a respected pro and because he is a proud basketball radical. Maybe his understanding with Walsh is that aside from insisting upon order and professionalism, there are few rules and he's given license to play cooky conjurer, doing whatever constructive things he wants in the name of improvement. I don't know if this will work, and I'd rather not be relying on someone who gets his lunch taken by Pop every spring, but it'll do for now.

And that brings me back to my first point--now. Now, the Knicks are dysfunctional. They barely resemble respectable pros. The future can't come soon enough because the future will mean salary-cap flexibility and freedom from the dead-weight yokes that the franchise carries around. But that's a few years off, and it will mean nothing if it's squandered amidst a gang of losers who don't know what success looks like. Luckily, D'Antoni can help to show them. He can help to make the Knicks proud, if not successful. And pride must come before the rise, because the team probably can't fall any further.

Welcome, Mike. We need you. For now.

P.S.
The next NBA commercial should be "Where Awesome Happens," and it should simply be this clip:


(HT: Skeets Skeets Skeets)

Can we all take a moment to fully appreciate what happened? First, this was inarguably the second-best moment of the entire, horribly boring series (the first being LeBron's subsequent jam on KG in crunch time. Sorry, Kevin.) Second--WHAT?! The most freakish athlete on the planet is tackled by an NBA all-star, both of whom go careening into the crowd as the the protagonist's mother gets in the face of the antagonist, only to be calmed down by an NBA hall of famer before also being scolded by her own son as he makes his way to the free-throw line. Again--WHAT?! This was surreal and awesome and hilarious all at once. And it only could happen in basketball. Such a great moment.

As I Was Saying

Receipts? Receipts?! Why not release a fucking documentary?

Remember when I wrote this?

I am also still wary of Mayo, though Floyd's account of the New York Times story's subjects fills in some gaps. I don't want to vilify someone whom I don't know and who's in a situation with which I am unfamiliar, but as a sports fan, especially one who follows college sports and the tawdry world of recruiting and alternative compensation for athletes on campus, how can you not be suspicious of a rising freshman who has already enumerated goals of marketing himself and earning recognition as a program's savior? No matter how Mayo and his advocates frame those goals--maybe it's part of a next-level marketing plan, maybe it's hubris--aren't they similar to so many of the problems teams encounter when players are selfish? Don't they seem to lend themselves to problems that already afflict the USC sports culture, one in which celebrities crawl the sidelines and agents may or may not be making illegal contact with players? Again, the rules and conventions of our college-sports system may be built on a misleading foundation and should perhaps be significantly changed, but until they are, shouldn't we be concerned about abiding by them?

And this?

As many know, he's committed to playing at generally non-basketball-inclined USC next year because, as he's said, he wants to attend a school where he will not be upstaged by any sort of heritage, and he likes Los Angeles because he can market himself before getting to the NBA. As a result, through a handler hanger-on, he told the coach, Tim Floyd, for whom he'll play that coaches don't call O.J., he calls them, and that he doesn't give out his phone number. He also said that he'd take care of additional recruiting. I can only imagine that when practice starts next year, he'll take care of installing the offense. And that on days when he's late, he'll explain that much like a wizard, he's never early or late, but arrives precisely when he means to.

Coaching Mayo next year will be a thankless task.

And this?

As has been well-established by O.J. Mayo, Tim Floyd doesn't call the shots at USC. Neither does Pete Carroll, apparently. The players run things at Southern Cal, and the "school" is proud to boast that it's a haven for superstars as they sort out the latter stages of their adolescences and then go pro, either as athletes or losers or whatever else guys who max out in college go into. That USC even continues the charade that it cares about educating its revenue-generating athletes is admirable; other schools, like the Ohio State Joke of a University, don't seem to. Buckeyes are just proud that their "student athletes" make it through five-credit courses like History of Rock and Roll or put in extra "classroom" time over the summer taking golf and AIDS awareness (for which the final exam is a one-question retrospective: Is it good to get AIDS?). And, I can only imagine that the faculty and the non-celebrity students at Southern Cal are thrilled to be at a place with such proper priorities.

Well, how's that whole O.J. Mayo thing working out? One-and-done; first-round flame out; possible probation. Totally worth it, Tim Floyd. Totes.

To be fair to USC, let's ask the obvious question--what timid response do we expect from the gutless NCAA? Maybe they'll take USC off TV for three games? Maybe the team has to perform community service one afternoon? Sell girl-scout cookies at Matt Leinart's crib? Floyd and Mike Garrett must wash cars? Yeah, you show 'em, Myles Brand!

The Mayo skeptics were legion, so I don't entertain fantasies of possessing some unique, insightful sports prescience. But still, let's also not neglect that this mess was, uh, predictable.

Oh, and how about making kids go to school for three years so that they're more accountable, schools have more incentive to maintain institutional control, and the product on the floor is better?

Swagalicious

New shit from my dudes () at The Real. My favorite part is that "Ballin'" slide.

Music for a Monday: While We Wait for Joey--Elzhi!

Um, yeah. Dope.

I would very much like to write some posts of greater substance, but...

...my job won't cooperate.

...I am moving soon and have had to put in early work because my upcoming schedule sucks.

...the NBA Playoffs have shifted into neutral for a moment.

...I am having a hard time fully articulating what I like and don't like about Rising Down.

...new shit keeps coming out and stealing my attention.

Pursuant to this last point, please enjoy two songs from another album-of-the-year contender, Elzhi's real-hip-hop Euro Pass. If there are five current rappers better than Elzhi, I want to see the list. How people can hear a record like this and still tell me that I need to cop that new Lil' Wayne will forever confuse me.

P.S. Black Milk kind of pwns motherfuckers these days. The dude is a monster. Probably my favorite producer currently working for real.

- Elzhi, "That's That One" (prod. by Black Milk)

- Elzhi ft. Royce Da 5'9", "Motown 25" (prod. by Black Milk)

In Crowd, Indeed

Bow down.

Ladies and Gentleman, we have a new clubhouse leader for record of the year at the 1/3 mark. Kidz in the Hall's In Crowd is like a mid-90s rap orgy. And you know that works for me. The production knocks; the rhyming is on some Pharcyde shit. Just a monster of a throwback.

I still owe y'all a Roots review, don't I? Later. For now, enjoy...

- Kidz in the Hall ft. Camp Lo, "Snob Hop"

- Kidz in the Hall ft. Donnis and Chip tha Ripper, "Mr. Alladatshit"

I bought a ticket to see them at S.O.B.'s on May 20th. Best $12 I've spent in a long time.

HR on HRC

HR has an ill piece of political satire. Well worth your four minutes. Watch the whole thing.

The Force Is with Us

Um, yeah. The part of my constitution that compelled the rest of me to wait in long lines to see Star Wars movies is tingling. Pause.

It's Enough Already

Leave us alone.

I like this:

For Mr. Obama, the outcome came after a brutal period in which he was on the defensive over the inflammatory comments of his former pastor. That he was able, at a minimum, to hold his own under those circumstances should allow him to make a case that he has proved his resilience in the face of questions about race, values and patriotism — the very kinds of issues that the Clinton campaign has suggested would leave him vulnerable in the general election.

New Dilla

Greater in death than idiots like Rick Ross ever will be while alive.

Some previously unreleased joints Jay Dee recorded for MCA. This new Pay Jay album has a few songs I've heard live--"Fuck the Police," "Diamonds"--and a bunch that are new to me.

- Jay Dee, "Pay Jay" (prod. by Kanye West)
Feelin' the muscular Doors sample. For a rapping producer who spent most of his time rhyming about drinking and women, Dilla was pretty dope. I continue to hear his shit and think I am chatting with a buddy. I think it's partially because you can hear how much he likes hip-hop in his rhymes and his delivery. He just goes in and has a good time.

- Jay Dee, "Remember That" (Remix) (ft. Bilal and produced by Peter Rock, I believe)
Zone out.

- Jay Dee, "No One Knows"
Wow, I love this. Floral sounding, if that makes any sense.

Gonna Be a Hot Summer?

Judging by this trailer and the dope Iron Man, it may, indeed.

Music for a Monday: New Muxtape

New muxtape for a new week.

1) Wu-Tang Clan, "Older Gods"
2) Common ft. Canibus, "Making a Name for Ourselves"
3) Redman, "What U Lookin' 4"
4) The Roots, "No Alibi"
5) Mobb Deep, "Still Shinin'"
6) Busta Rhymes ft. Mystikal, "Iz They Wildin' wit Us"
7) AZ ft. Nas, "Mo Money, Mo Murder"
8) GZA, "Puplicity"
9) The Firm, "Throw Your Guns"
10) A Tribe Called Quest, "Pad & Pen"

Indepdendent System Operator P

Seeing beyond "science" and understanding the real energy system? Thoro.

And I quote:

MANY IMPORTANT STRUCTURES ARE BUILT ON THESE CROSSING GRID LINES. THIS NATURAL SOURCE OF ENERGY CAN ALSO BE USED TO POWER THE WORLD WITHOUT ELECTRICITY, NUCLEAR ENERGY, GAS, FUEL OR ANYTHING ELSE THEY’VE GOT TO ENSLAVE, POISON, AND OR MAKE PROFIT OFF US ALL. BUT THAT IS A TOPIC FOR ANOTHER DAY.

This, like everything he writes, begs a few questions. For example...

- What are the social laws of prison that govern e-thugging?
- Forget "Is American ready for a black President?" Forget "Is America ready for a female President?" The real question of the time--"Is America ready for a Mobb Deep secretary of energy?"
- Do the writers of Lost consult with P, who clearly must be serving in an unattributed role?