Those Thugs Most Delicate Among Us Yearn for Embrace

It's OK. It's been hard since 9/11.

I can't front: this new Dream song is on in my car a lot. Musically, it sounds as though it's just kind of over it all--heavy synths, the choral chants that accompany so many southern songs, the snap rhythm. It somehow conveys the sense that he's beyond it while simultaneously standing as a good-faith addition to the catalogue. It's also crazy catchy. And it could very easily be an R. Kelly song.

- The Dream, "Rockin' That Thang"

I hit the Left Coast tomorrow to see the fam-a-lam, stalk Anthony Randolph, reconnect with Jamal Crawford (Go Blue!), and attempt to ascertain what, exactly, The Buckets does with her life these days. (We know it's not blogging.) Posting may be sporadic over the duration of this week.



One for the road:

- The P Brothers ft. Boss Money, "Cold World"

Zeus was right about these dudes--this record *knocks.* They don't make New York records like this anymore (except for that NYG'z joint from last year).Only a question of how high it climbs on my year-end list.

Saturday Quick-Hitters

He's even a nice guy!

- As I watched the end of the Hornets-Thunder game last night, three things struck me:

1) While wearing these new colors, the Sonics Thunder look like completely new players. They don't play like completely new players (they still suck), but they don't look the same. 54 on the Sonics with those hulking shoulders (pause)? That was an easy one--Chris Wilcox. The dude in white, wearing 54, with the headband? No effing clue. Ditto for all those bald dudes--Wilkins, Petro. It's like I had never even heard of them before. I think that is, perhaps, the ultimate referendum on how bad and boring the Thunder is (are? Pick a plural name!)

2) I saw P.J. Carlesimo on the bench, and I immediately wondered something that often comes to mind: "Why is this man an NBA head coach?" Guess I wasn't the only one.

Here's the deal: P.J. has a career winning percentage of .408. He's not anything special. He's kind of like a paragon of underwhelming traditionalism, really, and I write that with ambivalence because I do not want it to in anyway reflect poorly upon his tenure working for Pop, my dog. P.J.'s one of those career retreads whom other coaches and old people like but who does nothing innovative and is never cited as a coach players want to be around. He's kind of like a "friend" who gets invited because he's innocuous enough to fall short of being actively negative and can pick up on the jokes and social rhythm well enough to get by. But you aren't pumped when he shows up at the door, and when he tries to make jokes, you only laugh because it's polite.

3) JULIAN WRIGHT REMAINS A GOD AMONG MEN. Thank god last night was a blowout W for the Hornets. It allowed Wright the room he needs to breathe and lose himself in the point-forward space. I don't think his stat line does his 19 minutes justice. To be blunt, he was a force. When off the ball on offense, he'd set picks while simultaneously directing the motion, waving his arms, pointing out men and spaces. When on the ball, he was popping pull-up j's. He was rocking the ball between his legs before running a pick and roll, or dumping off a bounce pass to a man cutting from the wing, or even trying to underhand one through the defense like it were handball. He was a 6'8" initiator, and it was gorgeous. Even better, he's completely sincere. He doesn't go out there and play to the crowd or goof around. He is doing what he thinks he should be doing. I find it disarmingly honest. He is easily among my favorite dudes to watch.

- Stephon Marbury is a dog. He quit on the Knicks and the Knicks quit on him, but there is something perverse about him choosing to perpetuate the tit-for-tat. I wish he would get traded within the division just so the Knicks could maximize the benefit of him corroding the culture of another franchise.

- Thank god this Michigan football season is over. I don't care about the score, that the Buckeyes extended their current ownership of the series, or the fact that today should have been a de facto funeral for Nick Sheridan's scholarship. This entire year, perfectly captured in today's horror show, was about transition. And transition, in turn, is about accepting your failures and improving upon them. Now the improvement can start.

I don't think anyone outside of the program fully appreciated how much Michigan had failed toward the end of Lloyd Carr's tenure. With a senior at QB, a senior at RB, a #1 pick at LT, and two NFL wide receivers on the outside, last season was a sort-of-fun mirage. Its culmination, that great bowl win over Florida, almost obfuscated the problems. But let's be real: 1) Michigan under Carr missed out on roughly 95% of the top-level offensive linemen, linebackers, and defensive backs it recruited over the past five years; 2) Michigan had stopped developing quality depth, coupling incomplete recruiting hauls with antiquated training methods and a relaxed culture that did little to hide patent favoritism and cronyism. Those are institutional failures that require time and hard work to reverse.

This season was a disaster as a result. Of course, Rich Rodriguez and his staff performed poorly in almost every way, as well. UM looked undisciplined. The play calling was baffling and almost counterproductive. The fundamentals were lacking or wholly absent. The same mistakes got made over and over. Cherished streaks ended, embarrassing records were set, and the fleeting moments of positivity are hard to recall amidst the maelstrom of inadequacy. It was a tour de force of suckitude. But, to be fair, this coaching staff inherited a deeply flawed roster.

So now, we move forward. Workouts get tougher. More of this staff's players arrive. A year in the system helps everyone better understand what to do. And so forth. Just look at the nascent transformation underway with the basketball program: 10-20 can become a win over UCLA and a respectable loss to Duke after just one offseason of continuity. As critical as I am, and as hurt as I felt all fall, I remain not only optimistic, but excited. Congratulations to every school that managed to beat the worst Michigan football team of all time. I hope you enjoy this moment while it lasts. Let's talk again next year, maybe; let's definitely talk in 2010. Wisconsin, Minnesota, Miami (OH)--you are just pathetic. And Penn State--every dog gets let out of the house occasionally. But that doesn't change that you still have an owner.

- P.S. This is awesome. Especially because Ethan Johnson got hit. Good thing he chose ND over Michigan.

When Can I Buy My Knicks LeBron Jersey?

To sleep, perchance to dream...

Well, it was fun having a watchable team for ten games this year, but that's a wrap.

Jamal, Z-Bo, Mardy Collins out; Al Harrington, Cuttino Mobley, and Tim Thomas in. Whoa.

Positives of the day's (trans)action(s):
1) Tim Thomas is a player I love to hate. He even has that devastatingly perfect nickname, "Fugazi" (wasn't it cute when he and Kenyon Martin were feuding as though either of them would ultimately matter?) Now he's back and the Knicks will be atrocious, so the enmity will rain down upon him. If he even plays.

2) I have always liked the idea of Al Harrington, and I am excited about finally experiencing the crushing reality up close.

3) This seems a little more prescient. (You know, because it was so hard to summon this obscure theory.)

4) David Stern is elated, and that makes me happy.

5) We still can look forward to the day that Stephon is cut, traded, bought out, or found with Mike Tyson and Zab Judah somewhere sketchy doing something very bad.

6) The Knicks will now have enough cap space to sign LeBron James in two summers. Blahblahblahcaveatsblahblahblah. Don't ruin it for we Knicks fans just yet. Thanks.

Negatives:
1) Jamal Crawford is a nice guy.

2) Z-Bo was having a nice year.

3) The Knicks were watchable. And fun. And scoring enough to make a game out of any given matchup.

4) What is going on with this lineup now? Who plays center? Who even starts? Duhon, Q, Chandler, Harrington, and Lee? That is a horrible, horrible team.

5) Relatedly: the Brickers are going to be absolutely atrocious for the rest of the season.

I kind of can't wait to see this. I may finally understand the appeal of NASCAR.

It's Great. To Be. A Michigan Wol-ver-ine!

Yessir.

When, EVER, has a Michigan basketball game upstaged the UM-OSU football game?

FD Shouts Us Out. In the New York Times

Props, Shoals.

Always.

Update This Site!

Here's your wedding video of the week--white people doing what they do best.

Seriously. Sorry, folks. Been a little busy at ye olde law school. Normalcy returns this weekend. We'll talk some NBA (Z-Bo, Andres Nocioni rocking the single worst haircut of all time, etc.), some Michigan, and some hip-hop. Must review: Q-Tip (solid). Kanye (disaster). Ludacris (better than expected). And some more.

Until then...

Inside the Mind of Jim Jones

Courtesy of brooklynradio.net.

Ballin'?

Saddest Day of My Life

I don't have words for this. Tell me this is a joke.

FUCK.

(Do You Want) MORE:

As I have written before and explained to friends more times than I can remember, the internets, and blogging in particular, are one of the best things to happen to me. (That makes me sound like I am transmitting from my mother's basement somewhere, but I had a dork-off with a friend today, so I guess I am not really betraying myself too much. Anyway....) I am someone whose life has been filled with wonderful friends who share my values and many of my interests, but a regular part of my experience also has been spent seeking a community where people are as passionate about music and basketball as I am. I get that from the internets.

Those rivers of passion which run through my life collect from streams emanating all over. And a Roots concert has always been a delta, of sorts, where my hip-hopness has emptied out and been shared with a larger body. Thus, it's only fitting that I take a moment on this site, among people who can relate, to properly acknowledge just how important seeing the Roots has been. And note that while they will still be around--and more visible, in some ways--there is, indeed, a change coming.
...

It was isolating, in some ways, to always have a new hip-hop record playing in my head but so sparse an audience that seemed to care. It wasn't all bad, of course. Rap music offered me some definition; it helped to cut a specific figure. But it was nonetheless different, for the most part. There was the friend who liked some gangster shit he'd heard on the radio; the friend who took up hip-hop out of boredom; the friend who was a "conscious" listener. But none of them experienced a sense of ownership, or communion. I stood alone.

Never did this upset me, or throw me off course. However, it was a badge of distinction but not honor or pride for a long while. Then I went to a Roots concert.

The Roots were transformative.

In the latter stages of my adolecense, I was finally beginning to understand those parts of my constitution that were permanent and those that were merely convenient, easily molded to or adapted from the immediate circumstances. For instance, did you know that I was resolutely bored by American politics for a time in high school? I was an officer of the Model U.N. club and limiting my political passion to the United States seemed oh so quotidian and myopic. That wore off, of course. But hip-hop didn't. It wasn't a phase, and it wasn't solely of social utility. I discovered that when I first saw the Roots, because only once before had I felt personally awakended by something that appeared organically connected to my soul. (The other was, collectively, a childhood of nights spent at Madison Square Garden.)

The way that the Roots rejoiced in performing their music invited me in, as though they wanted a new friend with whom they could celebrate their work. The way that they took pride in their showmanship, sprinkling in covers and musical references and stagecraft, was a de facto offer to join them and get in on the jokes and shared knowledge. The way that their set built up to an enthralling finale and encore, somehow validating the hours upon hours I had spent listening to their music and to other hip-hop propelled by a thirst for more of this thing, this music, this experience that was so naturally appealing. I was jubilant to have found a home, of sorts, and so happy to be among neighbors from the community who had moved in for the same reasons.

A Roots show became a staple of my life. I could mark off time by the concerts I'd see. I could strengthen relationships by taking in a night with the Roots, my friends, and my sister. I could find time for myself as I stood among strangers doing something that felt quintessentially me. I always had a bedrock foundation for whatever it was--whatever it is--that comprises what it means to be who I am. Aside from the company of some close friends, there is almost nothing that sets me at ease like a Roots show.

That's why news of a scaled back touring schedule caused my dismay. I don't want to move. I don't want to give up something so important. I hate that I am losing out to Jimmy Fallon, the least funny, least deserving "comedian" in the world. I am happy for the Roots if this is what they want, if this helps them get (more) paid, if this is good for them. But nonetheless, it's bad for me. Especially because I live in effing Missouri these days. This feels like losing friends because even if I don't always see them, I used to know that they were always there for me. Now, it will be different.

So, tell 'em why you sad, son? Well, because this is like losing a piece of me.

USC Basketball's Mystifying Roster Changes

Pictured above is a screen capture from ESPN's preseason men's college basketball power rankings. The comments about USC read:

"One super-frosh is gone in O.J. Mayo, but another takes his place in DeMar DeRozan"

I think this naturally invites a few questions:

1) Which "super-frosh" is inside of O.J. Mayo? How did he fit? Does O.J. know?

2) The "super-frosh" inside of O.J. Mayo used to be inside of DeMar DeRozan? Who is the new guy inside of DeRozan? Is he the same size as the guy now inside of Mayo? Because, really, that seems like the most sensible and least painful solution.

Nice writing, team!

Quantum of Awesomeness

In advance of the realness dropping this Friday, I thought it was only right that we prepare by checking in with the three greatest Bond theme songs of all time. Choosing "Goldfinger," what with it being iconic and all, is easy, but the song's fame has, in some ways, transcended its more humble beginnings. The song is now less evocative of Odd Job and a fake Fort Knox than it is of itself. So "Goldfinger" is retired from consideration. So, too, is "Diamonds Are Forever" because its second life in the annals of hip-hop has made it inextricably linked to Kanye and Jay. (Also, no one even likes that movie--Wint and Kidd? Come on.)

Instead, we focus on three songs that were and are quintessentially Bond: of the time when their respective films were released; riddled with goofy lyrics reflecting the unfortunate necessity of writing a song to fit the narrative of an action movie while also standing alone as a work of "art"; unquestionably catchy.

Lulu, "The Man with the Golden Gun"
Nothing like a song that sounds like it were ripped off from some weekly cop show and retrofitted with an Asian vibe. That's so 70s! It's also incredibly memorable--the frantic opening that gives way to the reassured guitar riffs and the steady melody is distinct. As for the movie, Man with the Golden Gun is slept on. Yes, it suffers from the universal Roger Moore bias, the bizarre third-nipple bit, and the fact that Christopher Lee plays a Cuban exiled to the South China Sea. But it has those awesome scenes of cigarette-laden Asian gambling, it's a briskly paced film, and Herve Villechaize is a manservant who puts Fonzworth Bentley to shame.

Duran Duran, "A View to a Kill"
I think I hated this movie. The opening ski chase sequence in Siberia is one of the most egregiously horrible stunt-double stand-in episodes I've ever witnessed. The girls aren't that good looking. Grace Jones creeped me out. The part in Paris was stilted. Causing an earthquake in San Francisco seemed like a waste of Bond's world-saving capabilities. Roger Moore phoned it in (it was his seventh Bond movie). Just not good. To be fair, Christopher Walken was dope as Max Zorin.

But this song took on special meaning for me after I had spent a week regularly reading the Duran Duran Wikipedia entry and subsequently realizing that I secretly love that Duran Duran was so popular despite appearing so lame at almost all times. (100 million albums sold!) Say what you will about their music, but has any mega-popular group ever been less cool? I know that sentence shocks the conscience of many British people in their thirties and fourties, but it's the truth. "Kill" happens to be a great 80s hit, though. It's all synthed out and ersatz emotional. And the lyrics--Jesus: Until we dance into the fire/That fatal kiss is all we need/Dance into the fire/To fatal sounds of broken dreams. Reality is better than fiction. This is the only Bond song to ever reach #1 on the Billboard charts. Suck on that, Shirley Bassey.

Gladys Knight, "Licence to Kill"
Robert Davi as Franz Sanchez, the watered-down agglomeration of every South American drug kingpin stereotype. Felix Leiter eaten by a shark. Grand L. Bush as the token black buddy. Davi and Bush reunited on screen following their memorable pairing as the agents Johnson in Die Hard. (This is easily my favorite part of the movie.) The end of Timothy Dalton. The horrible British spelling of "licence." Simultaneously a great and comedically horrendous volume in the Bond catalogue.

The song engenders similar ambivalence. On the one hand, it's dripping in overwrought emotion, and it's fun to embrace that element when you're feeling condescending and relishing a chance to lampoon flawed works of popular culture. On the other hand, this is Gladys Knight. Gladys Knight. Singing this weirdo song for a movie starring Timothy Dalton. Ugh. Still, a pretty awesome slow jam, one that summons memories of my hours and hours spent in various Cape Cod Papa Gino's working the jukeboxes.

Wedding Video of the Week: Cha Cha Now, Y'All

Smith wedding, six hops this time!



Stephen and Aneela, techno mix!



Robbie Stuerman and the woman who looks like she's wearing a bra, stomp your left foot!



Every-body clap your hands!



Bonus: the 7th Graders of the American School in Ramallah (45 seconds in...)

Go, NY, Go, NY, Go

Been sitting on this. It cracks my top 50 songs of the year, I think.

Morning in America

Yes We Can

The block Obama.

Vote today. For Barry.