Thursday Heat

Just tweeted this, but eff it. Don't mind the redundancy.

You *need* to start your day, to enliven your day, and to end your day with some overlooked DMX and Cam'ron. Why? Because the tempo is perfect, and both gentlemen spit decidedly un-gentleman-like things. Because the soul-sung interludes evoke the kind of New York you see in a Tony Scott movie. Because the stabbing horn sample is a little violent, and you might want to mean mug while you nod along. Because they both sound like they're supposed to. Because it's pretty awesome.

- DMX ft. Cam'ron, "We Go Hard" (we got it 4 cheap)

An Open Letter to Harry Reid

Lloyd Braun is quite the salesman. Harry Reid should get him on staff.

The election cycle last fall was so grueling for me, an avid reader, that I stopped following the news for a few months. I came back to it after the holidays, but with diminished enthusiasm. As excited as I was about an Obama Administration, I was no longer so angry, and I had less energy for it. That might be a shortcoming of mine, though indignation does have its place.

Early into this administration's tenure, there were howls that Obama's first 100 days had not been radical enough: he had not vindicated the liberals who suffered through a diaspora during the Bush years. I didn't subscribe to this theory, not least of all because 100 days really isn't that much time, because no true judgment could be properly rendered then, and because I was tired of being upset and hysterical. The bad news for Barack, for the Democratic leadership, and for you, the blog reader, is that a hater can hibernate for only so long. This has been a freewheeling summer for me, a Summer of George, if you will (with a job but without a mustache), so let me invoke a notable Costanza-ism: George is getting frustrated!

It starts with the bailout situation. Not even the bailout, really, but the less glamorous discussion about financial regulation. Approve or disapprove of the bailout if you will. Of the rapid Chrysler and GM bankruptcies. Of the entire premise behind the government owning so many businesses. Feel as you may. Just don't neglect the underlying systemic issues, and the feeble efforts to address root causes. I am not an economist, and I don't intend to wade into the details today, but I'll stand by something Joe Nocera wrote: "the Obama plan is little more than an attempt to stick some new regulatory fingers into a very leaky financial dam rather than rebuild the dam itself." My conviction that this will be completely mangled was sparked by this story and the shockingly offensive arrogance among finance people that Nick Paumgarten catalogued ($) in the May 18th New Yorker.

This isn't even a post about economics, though. This is a post about the timid, calculating politics which Democrats have adopted as a pathetic brand identity. The Democratic leadership worked hard to gain majorities in Congress ostensibly so that it could then administer a comprehensive cure for the ills either created, exacerbated, or ignored over the past eight years. But now that it enjoys said control, and has an ally in the White House, it does nothing but protect turf. Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi are apparatchicks, nothing more than political operators bereft of ideals and devoid of vision. They seem content to horde control merely so that they can say so. Neither creates meaningful change; neither even pushes hard for it. They just want to win elections, play the game, and hope you'll donate so that they can keep on keepin' on.

Health care legislation is a perfect example. Sixty-one percent of Americans think employers who don't provide insurance should pay money as a penalty; fifty-eight percent say rich people should pay more money into the system; and three quarters say they want a public plan that would compete with the HMO hegemony that currently under serves the country. (Wonkette kills it, as usual.) And yet, the compromise bill which Harry Reid endorses, and the matching bill which will come from the House, will not actually contain these provisions. Why? Because Democrats are horrible at taking a stand, marshaling the facts (which are usually on their side) in service of their arguments, and adhering to any philosophy. People like Reid and Pelosi don't have philosophy, or ideology, or even real goals. They just have big offices in which they'd like to continue working. So they kowtow, they concede and call it compromise, they abandon what they should be doing and then seek out approval, as though it's enough that they simply got dressed and showed up.

I find it infuriating. I don't want these people to speak on my behalf. Worse, I don't want them to claim that they do, or for them to be conflated with what I actually believe just because we all usually vote for the same presidential candidate. So I wrote a letter to Harry Reid today. It will surely not be my last:

Hi Senator Reid,

I hope that whichever member of your staff reads these emails will deliver the following message: you are losing my vote.

I am a lifelong Democrat who recently moved from New York to Missouri and registered to vote in my new state because I wanted my vote to count. I will still be here in 2010 when midterm elections take place. I will probably remain a Missouri voter for the rest of my life, just so that I can continue to exert electoral influence.

If you and the pitiful Democratic caucus continue down the path you've chosen and pass meaningless compromise healthcare legislation that cures nothing, I will not be voting. And neither will my friends and family. Not only that, I will campaign against you and your candidates. I won't campaign for a Republican, but I will work pretty hard to let people know just how badly you are squandering the 60 seats you worked so hard to capture.

What is the point of controlling the Senate when you do nothing with that control? Reform and promises of change have actually just led to more of the same. Bills still get loaded with erroneous extras, national policies continue to fail those in greatest need, and you do nothing to combat the powerful special interests from the financial and healthcare sectors.

This middle-of-the-road healthcare bill is a farce, and I suspect you know it. It does not deliver universal healthcare, it does not expand coverage enough, and it does not sufficiently seek to limit the anti-health policies of the HMOs. Worse is that you still would let it go forward, pissing in America's ear but telling us that it's raining.

Do not pretend that activity equals accomplishment, and do not continue to preside over such ineffectual Democratic control of the Senate. With the White House and the House also under Democratic control, the Senate should be capable of implementing meaningful governance that heals the wounds inflicted by the Bush Administration. If you can't do this, then what difference does it make who is in control?

2010 is fast approaching...

Serenity now.

Suggested Reading

House of Flying Cleavers?

Did my thing a little in these last 24 hours:

First, check out my Michael Vick post (which, of course, is also below).

Second, hit FreeDarko for a post about Antoine Walker, with some stray Iverson and Marbury thoughts thrown in for good measure.

A Synagogue of Satan

Roger Goodell was once an interior decorator who killed 16 Czechoslovakians and then stole Carmela's It's-OK-That-You-Take-Your-Goomah-to-the-Stugots make-up coat.

I know thy works (behold, I have set before thee a door opened, which none can shut), that thou hast a little power, and didst keep my word, and didst not deny my name. Behold, I give of the synagogue of Satan, of them that say they are Jews, and they are not, but do lie; behold, I will make them to come and worship before thy feet, and to know that I have loved thee. Because thou didst keep the word of my patience, I also will keep thee from the hour of trial, that hour which is to come upon the whole world, to try them that dwell upon the earth. I come quickly: hold fast that which thou hast, that no one take thy crown. Revelation, 3:8-11

The Book of Revelation is many things, most of them fodder for passionate debate on all sides. For instance, it may or may not portend how this mortal world shall end. Skeptics might point to the hallucination-like levels of violence as evidence that John's apocalyptic vision is insane and fictional, but at the same time, the world doesn't end every day. Maybe the cataclysm foreseen in scripture is of an appropriate magnitude if time is to end.

As a piece of literature, Revelation stands out for its patent efforts to literally demonize "others." The excerpt above is a perfect example: non-believers are not only guilty of forsaken faith, but they are from a gutter system. The alleged heretics are tarred as evil minions of the Devil--not merely as those with different beliefs--and then cast as the wrongful Jews who worship in a house of damnation, a "synagogue of Satan." Given the historical cleavage which saw some Jews stake a claim to the "true Judaism," Christianity, Revelation makes sense on this level as propaganda. An effective way to legitimize something new is to undermine the alternative. The net effect is that Jews are made out as inferior, and those who would opt to participate in a debased tradition shall be punished through subordination. Particularly clever is the threat that non-believers shall know that the Lord loved their righteous conquerors. Turns the idea of chosen people on its head, doesn't it?

Constructing frightful "others" is a human tradition, and its practice is well honed in America. That so many religions--not just Christianity, of course--traffic in this process only serves to illustrate how foundational it can be. (It does seem fair to point out, though, that Christianity is the dominant faith in the United States, and it professes a distinctly graphic conception of how dissenters shall perish and suffer.) From American Indians, to black people, to Asians, to Communists, to Muslims, and beyond, American history is filled with synthesized villains. Americans just like things to be this way.

Aside from Christianity, America's reigning faith is football. The NFL has become a civic religion, consumed year-round, treated as sacrosanct, and even worshiped on Sundays. It reaches into all communities, driving social life and Main Street commerce (games shown here!) around the country. Only Americans play it well because we invented it, and yet, football is a cultural export important enough to draw more viewers to its yearly signature event than anything else on the planet. The NFL is massive business with the power to preempt, or merely trump, almost everything else. The beer industry, the car industry, the entertainment industry, the gambling industry--they all need football. In turn, the economy does.

Over time, as a result of these deep, far-reaching roots, the league has become a microcosm for the nation. It's now a venue where American issues, not just football ones, play out. Geopolitics, social concerns, cultural zeitgeist all regularly intersect with the league. As a collective people, we project so many emotions onto the NFL and its personnel. Persistent matters of national constitution--like drugs, violence, domestic abuse, class strife, race relations, gender identities--all find a football theater. And it's not just that these externalities influence the sport; rather, we place tremendous emphasis on how they interact and what results. Witness Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson. Or Michael Jackson's legendary halftime show. Or Terrell Owens hugging Nicolette Sheridan. Or even Lyle Alzado.

So we've turned football into any other of our sacred belief systems. Like Christianity, we now ask it to read a moral compass, to wield righteous power, to villify and then punish others. That's how Americans like it.

Roger Goodell is the high priest of the NFL, and it's a role he relishes. Since ascending as Paul Tagliabue's successor, he's rarely hesitated to mete out moral punishment, almost always with the weight of an approving public making the sentence that much heavier. The NFL under Goodell's direction specializes in morality plays, and in almost all of them, the black player engaging in moral terpitude gets it as the audience cheers. The legal system may have its say in these affairs, but ultimately, it is the NFL that renders true judgment.

This is why Plaxico Burress will ultimately have to answer to Goodell, regardless of what a court decides. This is why Adam Jones had to do everything but pee into a cup as Goodell watched. And this is why Michael Vick will now be suspended after having already gone to jail. The civic religion of the NFL does not suffer black men who offend moral sensibilities. Matt Leinart can drink with minors and neglect his child. Tom Brady can rule the world and sire children out of wedlock. That's fine. But black men? That they're systematically summoned to New York as supplicants who must satisfy Goodell's skepticism concerning their remorse only invites echoes of "I will make them to come and worship before thy feet." Goodell's NFL appears to view these black men as members of Satan's synagogue.

How else can we reconcile the punishment doled out to Vick? He, like Jones, and Burress, committed a crime. No one argues otherwise, and no one excuses running afoul of the law. However, the legal system has already rendered its judgment and exacted its measure of retribution. A debt to society has been paid. What remains for Vick, then, is purely theater, one of Goodell's "scared straight" exercises in embarrassment, one meant to satisfy the lusting masses who find Vick repulsive. It's disgusting.

Since he was first covered by the media, prosecuted by the government, and admonished by the NFL with such brio, Vick has served as a vessel for the country's anger toward black men. There was little effort made to understand what he did and why he did it, as though stopping to do so would necessarily excuse it. Beyond this lack of general curiosity and empathy, there was an ugly racial element. To be blunt, Vick's crime was a black one. This does not mean that dog fighting is an exclusively black precinct. Rather, it means that Vick's crime naturally came out of the specific poor, black community in which he was raised, and in which dog fighting was a norm for him and his peers. There wasn't much room in the narrative to acknowledge this caveat. Instead, it was easier and more satisfying to carry that knowledge unspoken and merely draw upon the emotion it engendered to make an example out of an abject black sinner. There was perverse zeal behind the collective desire for an other--a poor, black other who suddenly represented the things people don't like about poor black people--to answer for not only his actions, but for being different in the first place. Newport News might as well have been Smyrna.

Beyond the the much-embraced absurdity which sanctions the NFL's elevation above the governing legal system, this formalized, wink-wink racial hostility sits next to an unnerving sense that Vick hasn't suffered enough as the disturbing results of the entire ordeal. The latter first: the man is bankrupt and spent two years in prison. That is punishment, and punishment dictated by the law. Why must he be punished again? What is the point? What is the value? And sorry to crass, but for dog fighting? When people who kill others or hit their spouses do far less jail time?

And about the former: how can the NFL countenance its treatment of Vick when contrasted with its treatment of white offenders? Vick committed a crime, but again, we have a legal system for that. The NFL takes action on moral grounds. It says nothing about the moral transgressions of white stars, as noted above. Further, it did almost nothing to a white man, Bill Belichick, when he was proven to have undermined the integrity of the league's greatest asset, it's games. Belichick paid a fine and lost a draft pick. For cheating. Michael Vick went to jail, and now he is suspended and subjected to boundless paternalism that dictates he submit to Goodell and Tony Dungy. Why wasn't a white sinner, any white sinner, placed under similar league monitoring for his sins?

Race is the answers, of course. The NFL, a civic religion and as American as apple pie, adjudicates the moral conflicts which inhere to its privileged position. It embodies American values. And as such, it treats black men with a disdain that is oft reserved for those others whom we wish to cast out.

Music for a Monday: On the Road to Riches

Bang!

Really, it gets no realer than this.

Was in a New York state of mind all weekend, so I thought Monday might start with this street banger from the NYC. The hard-rock guitar riff and the Redman sample are perfect. So is Torae, who excels in a way that recalls the time when mixtapes were Zapruder-film-like, and hype was something infused by mythology and hearsay, not just the volume of internet posts. He's got a steady voice, punch lines for days, and there is wit conveyed by most of what he does. Torae's been dope for a minute, now.

I also like these other two dudes. Their sufficiency is colored by a clunkiness, and something about them screams out J-Hood, Drag-On, or, really, any other generic rapper who could spit a verse alongside some NY MC and primarily stay in that lane for life.

Seriously, this shit knocks. Welcome to the work week!

- DJ JS-1 ft. Torae, Pumpkinhead, and Block McCloud, "Bang da Underground"

I Drive a Dodge Stratus!

Yeah, brah

The first African slaves arrived in the United States in 1607. The Thirteenth Amendment, which outlaws slavery, was ratified in 1865. The Civil Rights Act, which was needed to cure discrimination in public places, was passed in 1964. Another Civil Rights Act provided for equal housing opportunities, and that wasn't passed until 1968. Speaking in rough terms, black people in America weren't counted as humans for the first 258 years that they lived here, and they didn't enjoy full legal equality for another 103 years after that. If we draw a line at 1968, we can say that black people have been on equal legal footing for just over 40 years, while they were institutionally undermined for the previous 361. That's a ratio of 1:9.

I read Ross Douthat's Monday column about ending affirmative action, and it summoned this staggering historical imbalance that haunts the country. In many ways, Douthat is right: affirmative action is flawed but understandable; economic-based preference systems might be a smarter way to redress unfair imbalances; and the system, intrinsically good or bad, creates tremendous hostility among people who perceive themselves to be victims of it, especially white men. I quarrel with none of that. Moreover, you can count me among the Cosbys who agree with President Obama that personal responsibility is a good thing to be championed.

And yet, there was something about Douthat's column which irked me. Discussion of the coming "minority" majority and the likelihood for a minority spoils system read like white angst. But even that wasn't really it. I had a similar sense when Tom Coburn invoked Ricky Ricardo at Sonia Sotomayor's confirmation hearing. Sure, they were joking around. But for Coburn to instinctively invoke this Latino stereptype as he questioned a woman whose ethnicity was a focal point of her nomination felt insensitive. As it would have been to ask a Jewish nominee how many banks he controlled. I had a discussion with a buddy of mine who didn't think Coburn's comment was a big deal, and I tried to articulate why it was the wrong thing to say, why it was offensive. I am not sure I made my point.

Then I read about Henry Louis Gates getting arrested, and my misgivings about the affirmative action discussion and Senator Coburn's comments were tied together. All three of these recent events are stark reminders that the controlling white majority which runs this country doesn't fully understand how other people live. That may be too generous a characterization, in fact. White people don't seem to care how non-whites live. Not all whites, but plenty. And beyond indifference, there is almost antipathy among this group, as though minority populations seeking equal treatment, or who would have the temerity to point out inequality, are burdening society with their gripes. End affirmative action, put up with a crude reference, just deal with being arrested in your home. It's enough, it was a joke, it was an accident. Stop making so much noise.

I return to that ratio from above. Blacks aren't Latinos, just as Latinos aren't American Indians, and so forth. But 1:9 is instructive because it is emblematic of an apparent unwillingness to accept the experience of others. The Douthat column, even if unintentionally, leaves little room for acknowledging the historical imbalance that remains. Maybe affirmative action isn't the answer, but shrugging off the country's racial problems as cured over the past 40 years is foolish when they're weighed against what preceded them. Psychologically, Americans remain far, far away from equality, something fairly evident when you talk to that one loony grandparent, or even a twenty-something white person who is happy to use the word "ghetto" as code for black. And it's not just blacks. As the Sotomayor episode illustrated, the white mainstream continues to neglect a true consideration any other group's experience in America.

None of this excuses exploitation of systems designed for redress, nor Sharpton-like demagoguery, nor even yelling at a police officer. White, black, Latino, Asian--you don't yell at the police. But Douthat's column completely misses the heft behind something so jarring as 1:9, and he unwittingly illustrates why it's so shocking.

Music for a Monday: Checking in with an Old Friend

For most of 1997 I was 15-years-old, and I spent a majority of that summer at camp either sleeping; drinking beer on train tracks; eating ice cream at Friendly's; teaching tennis; guarding life at the camp's lake; trying to hook up with a 19-year-old from some part of the United Kingdom (can't remember which); consuming massive amounts of soda in one sitting just to see how much I could drink; or washing dishes alongside some dude who would go on to hook up with a 12-year-old boy (I think).

The dish washing was the worst part of the summer, and it wasn't close. I had to get up early, stay late, and get dirty, one of the things I hate most. There were industrial-sized baking sheets with gravy baked onto them, bowls covered in syrup, spare chicken parts strewn about all manner of sharp utensil. We had to unload heavy, sprawling Sysco shipments. We had to wager on how much skin we were willing to sacrifice to the scalding hot stream of water that served as our primary instrument. Invariably, the day ended with me soaking wet, covered in generic Kool-Aid powder, and cursing that my sneakers had again endured so much trauma. It sucked.

The saving grace, other than a premium spot in line and first dibs on the best meals, was that the cooks had a radio which we could use as we wanted. Since my kitchen partner was always late or simply missing--between molestation, phantom illness, smoking drugs, and general dereliction, there wasn't much time for him to do his job--I had free reign over the music. And that summer, I was only hearing two things: Puffy's enduring showcase, No Way Out, or Wyclef's Carnival. I learned damn near every word to both records--even the Creole parts toward the end of Clef's classic--and developed a particular affnity for Wyclef.

Clef is easy to hate on, of course. His catalogue is pretty inconsistent, and the slope has been slanting downward. Worse, for me, is that he's sort of artistically bankrupt, having spent so much capital wandering back and forth across the line that separates worthwhile appropriation of rap tropes from stupid cliches. Dude will say the right things and demonstrate obvious intelligence, but then turn around and make songs that are either foolishly simple or inauthentically hackneyed. So much of what he's put out this decade leaves a Carnival fan with the unshakable sense that he could have done much better. In that way, Wyclef is a study in unfocused talent and something of a cautionary tale: he illustrates the misbegotten rap careers produced by the imperative to make club records or happen upon a trend. His earnest interest in world music and a range of styles is undermined by how poorly he's introduced those elements into his commercial endeavors.

Having conceded all of that, I am now free to add that I continue to love him. My experience bonding with him through The Carnival created a lasting appreciation for a rapper so clearly perceptive, funny, and musical. As a rapper, he's always been effective in his simplicity. A Wyclef verse tends to be straightforward and technically threadbare, with the narrative meant to occupy your mind. There are flourishes when he'll show off his vocabulary, self-aware digressions into wordplay, and purposeful mixtures of delivery schemes, but none of these elements is ever sustained long enough to usurp primary focus. The style suits him, though. Wyclef's songs overflow with genuine musical curiosity, and so there are instrumental breaks, and interpolations of other melodies, and immitations of conventions from rap and pop composition. Wyclef usually imparts the sense that he's had fun making his records, and a simple rhyming style is of a part.

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time with his mixtape from earlier this year, Coming to America. In particular, I really like his Michael Jackson tribute with Lauryn Hill, and also the classic-sounding Fugees track about which I haven't heard or read much. Both capture the unique energy and craftsmanship which always resonated across Wyclef and Fugee albums. Neither is a towering accomplishment in innovation, or even rapping. But both are these wonderful encapsulations of Wyclef's musical modality and whatever ineffable things made Wyclef so intriguing in the first place.

- Wyclef ft. Lauryn Hill, "Been Away Too Long"

- The Fugees, "Endless Flight"

PSA: There Are Two Kinds of Dumb People

There is this woman, Michele Hernandez, who compared her ability to read college applications for other people to brain surgery:

“It’s annoying when people complain about the money,” the Vermont-based counselor, Michele Hernandez, said. “I’m at the top of my field. Do people economize when they have a brain tumor and are looking for a neurosurgeon? If you want to go with someone cheaper, or chance it, don’t hire me.”

And then there are the morons who would pay her tens of thousands of dollars to raise their children in lieu of them.

This country is so effed.

Weekend Ride Out

Best of both worlds.

A few joints for the weekend:

- Jay-Z, "Song Cry" (over Dilla's "Coming Back")
For months, I've been yearning for a credible MC to use this beat. I'd still like for Elzhi to do it, but in the meantime, this works. The original "Song Cry" always left me wanting more. The essence of the song was that it dripped pathos, yet I always found it to be a little boring. This updated version, from a fan-fiction mixtape about Dilla producing The Blueprint, replaces the sparse music with backing that is much more active. There are fewer voids. It's now a different song, and the trade that's been consummated--swapping out some of the original's stark, lonely emotion for a more listenable version that is less obviously impassioned--is not insignificant. But I am feeling this, even though I listened to Blueprint straight through so many times that it's a little weird hearing these words extracted from the usual context.

- Killer Mike ft. Big Kuntry King, "I'mma Fool with It" (Clean)
When Killer Mike raps, I always feel like I've been caught stealing. His voice comes in with such clarity that it straightens my spine. This track is all about that, not so much because he's so angry (I guess he's on his break), but because it's not much of anything if you don't appreciate how he sounds.

- Inspectah Deck, "House N***a" (Joe Budden Diss)
You've heard this. I'm only mentioning it because, uh, this is the only rap beef I would care about. Not really sure anything will come of it, but Wu-Tang vs. Slaughterhouse would be furious. I wouldn't even care if it were a grand marketing scheme in the tradition of 50 Cent, because more music like this would make me so happy. Especially if Joey, Royce, and friends brought M.O.P. along. This feels like Super Friends! And Inspectah Deck is huge in Ethiopia and Croatia.

The 189-Day Check In: Music of the Half Year

Now that we're 51.78% of the way through calendar year 2009, it seemed appropriate to hit you with a post commemorating our arrival at and passage of the halfway point.

Rap's been fragmented for a long time. That's nothing new. Niche audiences have abounded for years, and this large set of disparate audiences has only amplified the success of universal stars like Kanye West. In an era when the hip-hop constituency is no longer monolithic and easier to reach but harder to control, the few transcendent personalities who seem to matter among a majority of rap communities deserve credit for this mass appeal. Which is not to say that their music is beyond criticism, or that they're even especially good. Acknowledging their ubiquity is just that: simple recognition.

I've returned to the fractured hip-hop populace again and again this year because 2009 has yet to see a cohesive musical element emerge. Whatever consensus there is in rap music appears weak at best. The artists who usually sway large groups have momentarily receded. We don't even really have a song of the summer, and it's already the second week of July. At the moment, the prevailing hip-hop sense seems to be whatever you'll make it. Not a bad thing, necessarily, but worth noting, anyway.

As always, a few caveats:
- Things may change between now and December 31st.
- My taste, like yours, is not static.
- Songs may be dapped up for all kinds of reasons.
- All lists are in alphabetical order, by artist.

Let's do it...

45 Best Songs of the First 189
- 50 Cent, "Tia Told Me" - 50 is a complete douche, and his routine gets tedious. The phony beefs, the media spectacles--all of it. But he is a savvy practitioner, and this joint was pretty funny. Now, it even seems timely, given Michael Jackson's passing.
- Al Be Back ft. Naledge and 88-Keys, "Walk on By" - Not really sold on Al Be, but Naledge and 88-Keys work this beat nicely.
- Big Scen ft. Sean Price, "Broke as Fuck" - Sean P, as gutter as it gets, rapping about being from the gutter? Yessir.
- The Black Lips ft. GZA, "Drop I Hold" - I think the Black Lips are some kind of indie-rock sensation (I don't listen to that music), and I am not sure what bloggers are supposed to say about them. But whatever: I love the washed out sound and the melodramatic moaning
- Busta Rhymes ft. Uncle Murda, "Director's Cut" - Some Coming-era Busta, at least in overall feel and aesthetic.
- Cam'ron, "Cookin' Up" - Crime Pays was a letdown. Everything sounded like Cam-lite. "Cookin'" was among the few that approached the sound and quality for which one might have hoped. And it has my favorite diss: "Killa/You Andre Miller/Got a basic game." In the same verse about being the Black Gallagher.
- Cappadonna ft. Lounge Lo and Ghetto Philharmonic, "Somebody's Got to Go" - You didn't even know Cap put out new music this year, did you? The lazy, soulful horn piece is just ill.
- The Cool Kids, "Cinnamon" - Captures what the Cool Kids do, for better and for worse. Laid back, inward focused, almost spacey in its playful rhyming.
- DJ JS-1 ft. Craig G, AG, and Ed O.G., "Original G'z" - This is what it sounds like in my mind when I remember being 12 years old.
- Drake ft. Elzhi and Phonte, "Think Good Thoughts" - Not "Hoe Cakes," but that may be an unfair standard. Phonte and Elzhi remain two of the better rappers. I love hearing not just their rhymes, but how they pick out the images they'll use in similes. Dudes are perspicacious and engaged.
- The Dream, "I'm Not OK" - Wish it were on his album. Smooth joint easy to have on in the background, and yet emotionally engaging in the cheesiest way possible. A guilty-pleasure pick.
- Finale, "Heat" - So many elements go into this record--Finale's focused, intense flow; the cutting in between verses; Sean Price-like grunts; a tinny sound. Feels gritty, and very much of the D.
- Focus ft. Slum Village, Frank Nitty, and Illa J, "Homage to Dilla" - Speaking of Detroit...Focus just nails these homages, recreating signature sounds so well. This is cheating, in a way, but it's nice hearing S Villa over something Dilla-ish.
- Focus ft. Royce da 5'9", Phonte, and Stat Quo, "Homage to DJ Premier" - Not that you would forget, but it's staggering to consider what Premier has done for hip-hop.
- Focus ft. Big Pooh, Sha Stimuli, and Kurupt, "Homage to Pete Rock" - Those echoing horns....
- Freeway, "For the Money" - Whatever part of me still loves chipmunk soul can't get enough of the sample that drives the song's melody.
- The Game ft. Snoop Dogg, "On the Block" - Game does Game, sounding at home over production that is pleasantly generic. And Snoop's sing-song shit works over that Cheers-theme interlude.
- Ghostface Killah, "Forever" - Even when he's not being especially kind, Ghost manages to sound earnest and endearing.
- Jadakiss, "Magic City" - I admire the hardworking style of this track. Lyrical content aside, it's sort of bluecollar--stays at it, masters nothing but does many things well, and ultimately gets the job done.
- Jadakiss ft. Swizz Beatz, Eve, DMX, Styles P, Sheek Louch, and Drag-On, "Who's Real" - Double-R nostalgia!
- Jay Dee, "Coming Back" - Beautiful soundscape. Calls out for Elzhi.
- Jay Dee ft. Blu, "Smoke" - Kind of a dumb song, but immensely listenable, as Blu sounds great.
- Lee Bannon ft. Sha Stimuli, Skyzoo, and Donny Goines, "Volume" (O.G. Version) - I'm on record about why this song works so well. Such a great joint.
- Method Man & Redman ft. Bun B, "City Lights" - As he does for most of the album, Meth sounds a lot like he did back when he was most prominent. He's mellowed some, but he retains this air of cool control.
- MF Doom, "Gazzillion Ear" - Very Doom-ish, no?
- Mos Def ft. Slick Rick, "Auditorium" - Among the more engaging songs. Requires that you pay attention. And Rick's verse is particularly dope.
- Mr. Hudson ft. Kanye West, "Supernova" - The musical equivalent of orange juice out of a can--it is weird, and it can almost be bad, yet something about it (Hudson's melodic whining; the metallic aftertaste) oddly calls you back.
- Nas, "Fear of Mandingo" - One of those quasi-intellectual Nas raps. This one is memorable for its blunt treatment of a topic usually skirted around.
- Ne-Yo, "To Be Continued" - He might be a closet case, what with the endless scarves and rarely actually appearing in the same frame as the women in his videos, but whatever. Ne-Yo consistently makes great pop songs. This one is a little more mature and muted, which gives it some heft.
- Raekwon, "Resolution" - The rhyming is a little rote, but the words are bathed in a gorgeous soul sound that suits the strained, raspy, aged Rae Rae voice.
- Raekwon ft. The Game, "Flashback Memories" - Game and Rae sound great over this woozy track. It's casually impressive.
- Raekwon ft. Method Man and Ghostface Killah, "Wu Ooh" - Best song of the year? Probably. So far. Meth marshals the troops and gets them ready to go in; Rae spits a dense coke-crime fantasy; Ghost gets energetic and cinematic; and Meth goes the extra mile by slaying his verse, controlling his cadence so well. Among the most fun songs.
- The Red Giants ft. Ilyas and Donwil, "Nati Niggaz" - Another track I've discussed. G-Funk isn't a bad look.
- Rick Rowss ft. The Game, Fat Joe, and Ja Rule, "Mafia Music" (Remix) - Yeah, they're all kind of idiotic and a little silly, but they do arm up pretty well using a sinister beat that is only missing Shyne.
- Ron Artest, "Michael, Michael" - Is there a more curious record? No.
- Royce da 5'9", "Count for Nothing" - The most furious rapper alive. He murders damn near everything.
- Serius Jones, "Help (I Been Robbed)" - Dude really rides this beat, and he infuses the tough talk with a knowing amusement that makes me think he was smiling while he rapped.
- Sha Stimuli ft. Ne-Yo, "I Miss You" - A nice, sincere, accessible song. Just wildly pleasant. Plus, Stimuli calls himself "corny," so that's not really much of a criticism to level against it.
- Slaughterhouse ft. M.O.P., "Woodstock" - Hardest rap track alive.
- Steve Porter, "Press Hop" - Hilarious. Can never get enough Dennis Green.
- Tanya Morgan ft. Blu, "Morgan Blu" - My own, personal summer joint. Put this on in the car and instantly feel good.
- U-God ft. Ghostface Killah and Scotty Wotty, "Train Trussle" - "Praise be to Allah!" I like any track that samples Mr. Tyson. And I like the Wu-ish sound that is revived on the track. You rockin' a shit bag!
- Usher, "What's a Guy Gotta Do" - Pharrell commands a certain production aesthetic that instantly evokes the sense that everyone should be wearing white. It's airy and breezy. It's fans blowing. It's natural light. It's twirls in the video. Basically, it's this song.
- Wale, "Penthouse Anthem" - Not sure why, but this kind of tugs at me.
- Wu-Tang Clan ft. Inspectah Deck, Sadat X, and U-God, "Sound the Horns" - Ever since Tribe's "Steve Biko," I've been a sucker for well-deployed horn riffs.

9 Worst Songs of the First 189 (Or, at Least, 9 Songs that Stuck with Me for Being Bad)
- Beyonce, "Diva" - The most annoying song I can remember, so grating, and repetitive, and noisy, and ugly. It would also be nice if Beyonce's voice didn't combine with the music to sound like shrieking.
- Busta Rhymes ft. Demarco and Jelly Roll, "We Miss You" - I felt like someone was raping my ear.
- Cam'ron ft. Vado, "Horror Story" - *shakes his head* What were they thinking? Honestly, what? Who thought this sounded good? To anyone? The only thing they got right was the title. Zing!
- Diddy ft. Ying Joc, "Diddy Bop" - What would happen if a reTARD read a keyword cloud on some hackneyed hip-hop site and then found his dad's synethsizer.
- Jeremih, "Birthday Sex" - If only we could rename this song "Boring as Fuck."
- Lil' Wayne's rock music
- Naledge, "Lovin' Ya Life" - This hurts, because I am a big Naledge fan, but the track was just off. It was shrill and the rhythm was stilted. Really not a good look.
- Peter Bjorn and John, "I'm Losing My Mind" - Sounds like a sad experiment in INXS imitation. Or something.
- Slim Thug ft. UGK, "Leaning" - Incredibly generic, sort of antiquated, and forever cursed by Pimp C's whiny, awful voice.

3 Most Disappointing Songs of the First 189
- The Clipse ft. Kanye West, "Kinda Like a Big Deal" - Once you get past that these dudes are kind of like a big deal, you're left with a lazy, bland song that is amazingly forgettable. And the Clipse, whom their fans consider to be masterful, sound pretty tame and unimaginative. Boring, really. The only unqualified positive is that Kanye doesn't sing into the computer.
- Jay-Z, "DOA" - More ground I've tread. A totally discursive, frivolous song that did little more than mask activity as accomplishment.
- Jay Dee ft. Havoc and Raekwon, "24K Rap" - It could have been cool. But the Dilla minimalism isn't carried by standout verses, or a proper relationship between beat and MCs. Instead, this is lifeless and stale, sounding too stitched together. Havoc kind of sucks these days, which is sad.

4 Artists Who've Won the First 189
- Drake - Dunny is everywhere. No? Dunny just signed with one of America's most beloved tatted-up midgets. No? Dunny's getting lots of radio play from a song he made last year. No? Dunny is linked to a grip of good-looking women. No? Life is good for the Drake.

- Raekwon - Rae is rapping well this year. His ever expanding catalogue of unofficial music has enjoyed a renaissance as he's recaptured an element of MC'ing that makes his verses lively. Set to a range of soulful, calm music, the reinvigorated Chef now seems like a sort of worn veteran who is comfortable in the role and eager to make meaningful music. OB4CL2 is probably the most important remaining rap thing of the year, and it wouldn't be were he in an artistic stupor.

- Rick Rowss - Despite running out of ammo against the relentless Mr. Curtis, an ignominious past that people, not least of all bloggers, won't allow him to forget, and his ever hulking bosom, Rowss has managed to scratch out a place at the big-boy (no pun intended) table. Thanks to a well-made record that compensated for medium-level raps with fantastic music, Ricky, inexplicable, seems credible for the time being. And his beef made him current, sadly.

- Royce da 5'9" - Most exciting rapper in the game. He bodies almost every track he gets on, and he combines that energy and intensity with impressive, intricate verse construction. Royce will never receive the credit he deserves, but he's charting a nice course right now, with Slaughterhouse, his relationship with Black Milk, and his excellent mixtapes.

7 Songs I've Kept on the iPod for Most of the First 189
- 50 Cent, "Play This on the Radio"
- Al Tariq, "Nikki"
- Jack Wilkins, "Red Clay"
- The Kinks, "Living on a Thin Line"
- The Lonely Island, "Who Said We're Wack"
- Love Unlimited Orchestra, "Theme from Together Brothers"
- Q-Tip, "Let's Ride"

4 Most Annoying Things about Rap in the First 189
- Drake - Hate the Drake. Well, not really, but I think he's overrated. His mixtapes are technically impressive but loaded with boring music. That sing-song shit he does is a little played, not only because it grows tedious but because it sounds too much like fad music. And, to be completely unfair, I can't get past his cookie-cutter professional background; it's hard to ride for a Degrassi rapper. Plus, his look is always off, be it his hair or his clothes.

- Internet MCs and the Website That Love Them - No shots are being fired. Let me be clear. I have great respect and admiration for the rap websites that serve as RSS feeds for the community. They are incredibly useful. I read them every day. But the downside of being so diligent in the coverage and so accepting of submissions is that rap music is becoming impossible to manage. Seemingly anyone with an mp3, an email address, and a headshot can wind up being promoted as a next big thing. Or as someone doing something worthwhile. The hype, and really just the unwarranted attention, is almost cumbersome. Sure, a reader can choose against certain posts and need not listen to every song put out by someone with a funny name who thinks it's cool to wear women's pants. However, the culture has changed, and the gates appear to have been flung wide open. It's democratic and incredibly cool in some respects. But it also encourages lax standards and empty product, and it's self-perpetuating.

Don't even get me started on the quasi-credible artists who can't release one effing album but can tweet all day and flood inboxes with new joints.

- Lil' Wayne as a non-rap expert - Not sure when this happened, but I blame Jennifer Lopez. In America, the people who run media companies seem to think that talent is fungible, so that if someone excels in one area, he can rely on this talent to morph into a new form that can be applied in another capacity. J-Lo's career is one of mediocre music, dancing, and acting, all of these disciplines self-reinforcing. Oh my, she sings, too! Feel me? Well, Wayne appears to be benefitting from similarly stupid thinking, what with his burgeoning rock career and his residency at ESPN as a supposed sports expert. It's embarrassing, to be honest.

- Living in St. Louis - Look, people, I don't really know what informs your taste, but it's regrettable, if not pathetic, that you seem happiest when every song on the radio is indistinguishable, with all of them sounding like "Stanky Legg"/"Bust It Wide Open" inbreeding.

5 Worst Albums of the First 189
- Alchemist, Chemical Warfare - The rapping is OK, and there are a few joints, but the production is almost antagonistic in its jagged, hard, dystopian sound. Really expected a cleaner iteration of the style, but this is grimy and noisy, albeit not always loud.
- Asher Roth, Asleep in the Bread Aisle - Whatever. He might be dead at this point, and I doubt it would even register anymore. Thank Jesus.
- DJ Drama, Gangsta Grillz, The Album, Vol. 2 - I listened to this several times and have almost no recollection of it. That can't be good.
- Eminem, Relapse - Sort of a sad album.

- Maino, If Tomorrow Comes - I almost thought this was a joke when I first heard it, as though someone had to settle a bet about how unremarkable and forgettable a record could be.

3 Best Mixtapes of the First 189
- Rhymefest, The Manual
- Skyzoo, The Power of Words
- Wyclef Jean, Coming to America

5 Albums I Wanted to Like More Than I Actually Do
- Busta Rhymes, Back on My Bullshit - It's got some bangers for sure--"Conglomerate," "Shoot for the Moon," the second part of the intro. But overall, the production is too inconsistent in style, too messy in execution, and generally unpalatable. It's not really an enjoyable record to listen to. And Busta's whole thug routine has always been a little insincere and now has worn thin.
- Jadakiss, The Last Kiss - Jesus, Jada, why can't you make a cohesive album? Your ear for beats is awful.
- De La Soul, Are You In? - It's a running mix. With that caveat, it's still really bland.
- Jay Dee, Jay Stay Paid - The posthumous Yancey releases should probably stop now. We appear to have reached the end of the quality beats. For that matter, I am tired of namebrand rappers doing inadequate work with his music. This album was just up and down, and probably should have been an 8-track EP. As that shortened product, it would be excellent.

- Peter Bjorn and John, Living Thing - Following up a rich, melodic, poppy album like Writer's Block with an album far more minimal and sharp made Things hard to digest. Once past that stylistic diversion, though, we're still left with a lot of songs that are too threadbare.

13 Best Albums of the First 189
- Amadou & Mariam, Welcome to Mali - The rhythms and melodies are infectious. Great music to throw on for almost any occasion.
- DJ JS-1, Ground Original 2: No Sell Out - Overall, best-produced album of the year. And unlike some formal mixes, nearly every one of the tracks feels right, like a nicely developed snapshot of a certain rap landscape.
- Finale, A Pipe Dream and a Promise - Detroit music, unapologetically so.
- Grand Puba, RetroActive - Puba's still got that soft voice, that funny preference for singing off key, and that newjack persona. You'd think he's sound terrible, but yet, he makes it work. Sort of fun for an old(er) head.
- Kenzo Digital, City of God's Son - Best piece of art that will be made this year, I'd imagine.
- Method Man & Redman, Blackout 2 - Low expectations may have enhanced this album's impact because almost anyone can look spry when the bar is set low. However, Meth and Red find a rhythm, use smart music that complements them, and rap like it were 1996, or at least 2000.
- Mos Def, The Ecstatic - I'm just glad he chose to make an actual hip-hop album again. The Middle East-infused scoundscape is a little tricky, and perhaps not as inviting as lesser music made more traditionally, but this is a smart, provocative record. A rap record.
- Rick Ross, Deeper Than Rap - Great beats. Unintentionally funny man rapping over them.
- Ryan Leslie, Ryan Leslie - Easy-listening R&B. Not as good, but the vibe reminds me of John Legend's debut. Perhaps an obvious, not wholly correct comparison, but I couple them in my mind.
- Tanya Morgan, Brooklynati - Album of the year so far? Really solid rhyming, cohesive sonic and narrative arcs. The tone might be a little soft for some, and it could easily be denigrated as some bastard child of the okayplayer realm, but that carries with it an agenda. Artistically, it's a very good product.
- Torae, Double Barrel - New York boom bap.
- U-God, Dopium - Sleeper album of the year. Who knew U-God could pull off a project that is more than half good, and very much of the Wu-Tang Clan?
- Wu-Tang Clan, Chamber Music - Speaking of--this is not a real Wu record. It doesn't have all the MC's, and Chamber Music was explicitly an experimental project with a live band and guests. But this does recreate some vintage RZA sounds, and the MC'ing is professional, though not exemplary.

Matt Light Should Never Work on an Election Board

Matt Light seems like a perfectly nice man, and he is apparently quite dedicated to charity work. One thing at which he may not be so good, though, is discerning between a majority and a minority. Or, perhaps his point in the paragraph highlighted above was that a slim majority of NFL players do bad things, but a sizable minority deserves credit for its good deeds, despite being outnumbered.

If what he says is true, then yes, he and his kind-hearted, benevolent souls should receive slightly less than half of the coverage we confer upon the true American pastime. But really no more. According to Light, somewhere above 50% of the NFL's players are doing dirt, and it should be covered.

Either way, I hope that Light is never asked to count ballots. That could be confusing for everyone.

Ron Artest's Tribute to Michael Jackson

Download is here. I really don't have the words to do this justice. "He inspired Jamie Foxx and Usher, too?" That's proof of Michael's greatness? "Even though I'm always strapped, I'm puttin' down my mack for Mike Jack." Really? WHAT?!

Also, doesn't it sound like David Banner is singing on the hook? Or that he should be?

Now Is Rasheed's Moment

We've had our differences, but he's the man. Still. Kind of.

Rasheed Wallace is going to join the Celtics on Wednesday. It will be a sad day for me, as I love Roscoe (despite my Pistons-related frustrations) and hate the Celtics. I especially hate that with Sheed and KG, Boston will now employ two of my favorite players from these past 15 years or so. What I don't hate is that Boston will be the most profane team of all time, and in this summer of missing pieces, Roscoe may finally have an opportunity to succeed on his own terms.

I wrote a piece about some of these feelings over at FD. Please check it out.

Music for a Monday: An Epic Better Than Yours

Dunny has fly ankles

Let's take it back for a moment, today, and dwell upon the sort of either-or that would give your average Straight Bangin' fan some wrenching moments of soul searching: Cam'ron or Ghostface?

Who used the beat better?

- Cam'ron ft. Juelz Santana and Jim Jones, "Come Home with Me"

- Ghostface Killah, "Interlude" (from Bulletproof Wallets)

Perhaps the relevant inquiry should be, Which song better distills the artist's unique brand of rap lunacy?

First, make it a fair fight--don't consider Jimmy and Juelz's verses. OK then. So..."CHwM" has some classic Cam raps. He is flexing that bizarrely prosaic storytelling where he either talks about outlandish happenings as though they were normal, or he's finding creative ways to say fairly mundane things. Or he's being insanely, awesomely corny and weird. Consider:

"Where my mother found my crack platter/Threw it away so I snapped at her/Back-slapped her/She picked up a bat like McGwire, for that matter"

"Cam if you need dome, hit me"

"Where a n***a make star bucks/I'm about to have a Starbucks"

Then there's Ghost, who goes to that special place only he can, and starts rapping with the manic intensity that makes his rhymes seem urgent and visceral. It's half-yelling, really. In characteristic fashion, he paints a picture using those snippets of vivid detail, putting words and phrases to use in a way that conveys meaning and information beyond what's just on the surface. I think starting any verse with "A yo, he said I had fly ankles" might win on a compulsory basis, but I will hear other arguments.

(HT for the suggestion: Ian Cohen, long-time SB fam.)

Ron Artest Signs with the Lakers

Straight up, there is no one with whom I'd rather spend an afternoon:

Happy Happy, America

Beautiful and Imperfect

Yeah, see, give me all yaw money, see.

There Will Be Blood was my favorite movie of 2007, followed closely by No Country for Old Men. The former was distinguished by its beautiful look, a score capable of making a silent movie gripping, and Daniel Day Lewis's outsized portrayal of Daniel Plainview. Plot was almost incidental as the movie wore on, because TWBB was primarily a sublime character study. Had Plainview delivered newspapers or made oragami cranes, I probably wouldn't have cared. The oil story, and the larger narrative about America's development, was perfectly raw, but other stories would have been sufficient. No Country was an engrossing thriller, the sort made rich by colorful, engaging characters whose personalities and motivations enjoyed a certain symbiosis with the movie's arc. It also benefitted from camera work and direction that played with the material; lesser directors could have made a lesser movie with the same script.

Public Enemies falls somewhere in between these two fantastic movies, and while still quite good, it is a diminished product as a result. Never fully committing to either an immersion in character or a fabulously crafted tale, it instead seems conflicted, wanting to be both. The somewhat lurching plot told through connected vignettes invites the expectation of deep character understanding. However, the movie never explores what lies beneath passable but obvious motivations. In turn, the failure to create a showpiece for the movie's protagonists is articulated further by an action movie that is surprisingly tame. The violent sequences look great, and they especially sound great, but such technically impressive movie-making renders the material remote, paradoxically. The events of the film are decoupled from any true tension or gripping air of danger. As Johnny Depp, Christian Bale, and Billy Crudup turn in wonderful, restrained performances, an audience is left to politely appreciate their expertise but wonder why it wasn't more satisfying to watch the movie play out. Enemies is a film caught in the limbo between probing depth and satisfying thrills. It's too shallow but not easy enough.

Michael Mann doesn't fail, though. He's made a really good movie in a really good way. Enemies is gorgeous: the high-definition camera lenses and cinema-verite shooting angles vividly bring to life 1930s America. All movies should be shot exclusively in HD if this is what they would look like. Gazing at the screen can transport you to a museum as you consider such nuanced, carefully crafted, engaging images. So, too, does the sound put a viewer in the midst of the material. Even someone as desensitized to violence as one can be will surely feel a tingle as gun shots explode with a sickening echo.

Authentic flourishes enhance acting that is never visible. The ensemble cast is excellent, and the three main actors are so comfortable in their characters that you regret Enemies' failure to better explain their respective origins. As for the larger cast, each actor has the right look and feel in his or her role. That might be an ultimate compliment for the casting director. And any person whose pop culture tastes mirror mine will be delighted to see McNutty's judge as John Dillinger's laywer; Anna, from Big Love, as Dillinger's friend; Tommy from Snatch as a gangster, finally more comfortable with, and more justified for, carrying a gun; and so forth. You even won't mind seeing Claire off the island and without her baby. Enemies brims with a certain professional vitality.

If only it didn't suffer from such an identity crisis. There is something sad about the film that goes beyond its plot, and I think it's because Enemies could have been a classic. It is forced to settle for better than most.

With a Little Bit of Gold and a Pager

Really, Joe? Really? You just committed your cap space to Ben Gordon and Charlie Villanueva? You turned Rasheed's expiring contract and Chauncey Billups into an embarrassing first-round flameout, a streaky and undersized sixth-man, and a mercurial forward who gets hurt fairly often? You took a team that as recently as two years ago was a decent rebounder and another guard away from the Finals and turned it into one that probably can't hope to be any better than seventh in the East? Your second-highest-paid player plays the same position as your highest? The same highest-paid guy who shouldn't have such an onerous deal in the first place?

And you're going to hire a retread coach to polish up such worthless scrap metal? You went from league elite to miserably mediocre in two seasons? As you look up at teams led by so many players you passed on? I know it wasn't wholly predictable, but still, that was the karmic tipping point. It's been almost all bad since then, hasn't it?

The fuck?

Sorry to say it, Joey, but you need to update your resume, because you played yourself worse than Jay on "DOA."

Lee Bannon, "Me & Marvin"

Been waiting for this joint ever since "Volume" first dropped. (And I actually prefer that leaked version to the re-mastered one.) Enjoy a free download, and have a nice Wednesday.

Download

Norman Einsteins, Vol. 2

The latest issue of the Norman Einsteins, a sports culture online magazine, has been posted. It features a piece about the NBA Draft from yours truly. Check it out and support the project. Also, to stay current, sign up for the mailing list.

Call Dr. Cusamano

The final episode of The Sopranos aired on June 10, 2007. By my count, that puts us 752 days (don't forget the leap-year day!) out from the show's last installment. It took me about five seconds to calculate that number because I have talked about Sopranos literally every day since it ended. As such, I am often tracking this number. The Wire may have been better and may have meant more, but Sopranos endures as my slight favorite.

I had a Tony Soprano moment yesterday. As is my workday habit, I was calmly sitting on the Metro Link train coming home. For a few minutes, I emailed some friends, and then I played BrickBreaker. It was fairly mundane stuff, like watching ducks in a pool or reaching for capicola. So naturally, my mind wandered, landing on whatever subconscious demons were writhing beneath the surface.

All of a sudden, I felt flush, I had the uneasy realization that sweat was pouring down my neck, and my chest tightened up. I was overcome by anxiety, and breathing deeply did nothing to immediately shed the sense of crushing dread. My undershirt suddenly clung to my back, the air conditioning was conducted by the moisture on my legs, my heart was pounding. Not only was I uncomfortable, but I had that awful, meta understanding that I hated feeling so miserable.

In that moment, as all of my senses conspired against me and wrought some inescapable discomfort, my mind locked onto the trigger for the attack: I was terrified that the Knicks would spend too much on David Lee and any money, at all, on Jason Kidd. If only Carmela had been there to find my uncscious self figuratively sprawled across the floor.

Today is the start of NBA free agency in its latest incarnation. I have not the energy or the inclination to sort through every rumor or possibility, but let me say this: I am both titillated and miserable. As evidenced by my panic attack, knowing that the future of the Knicks may well be decided this week or month is somewhat haunting. I do not want Jason Kidd. Whatever passes he may have left to throw, his defense is a liability, and the team is already saddled with a coach who generally couldn't care less about it. Further, Kidd is everything the Knicks need to stop being; New York can no longer harbor the has-beens, long-shots, and sensational stop-gaps. Nor do I want David Lee at $10 million a year. On a team that needs everything, even $8 million seems like a lot for a player who can't block shots and can't shoot a jumper, though $8m seems more reasonable. I shouldn't even have to mention that the Brickers may well have drafted Mr. Lee's superior. (Or not, of course.)

If training camp opens with Lee at a good number, Gortat in the middle, Hill off a strong summer, cap space in abundance, and without Nate Robinson and Kidd, that would be a good start. If some other point guard could be there, perhaps for the price of Wilson Chandler, that would be even better. If Lee is gone to some other team in exchance for a point guard and a shooter, that would be fine, too.

For the record, I came home yesterday and immediately ate some Italian salami. It seemed cruelly appropriate.

UPDATE: Stephon Marbury, doing what he does.

On the Knicks and D'Antoni's indifference toward defense:
"I wouldn't want to play in that system...That system can't win championships. You can't win championships if you don't talk about defense. In Boston, the coaches even play defense."

Discursively, on money:
"They spent 3 million on a 29th pick. They could've given $3 million to Anucha (Browne-Sanders). I knew it was personal. It's about ego and power. I've never been so happy to be out of someplace. The way I was treated, lied to, grown men doing this that have stature."

On commiserating with Larry:
"When Larry Brown saw me in Charlotte when we played them, he said, 'It looks like you died and went to heaven.' I told him, now I know what you went through."

On how the Knicks (don't) make decisions:
"Mentally, what I had to deal with, the process with D'Antoni, the president [Donnie Walsh], it was mindboggling...Two people can't make a decision and they have to go above them to Mr. Dolan."

On the emotional trauma of being a baby and dealing with an inept organization:
"Mentally I was damaged and didn't even realize it...Going back next year, I'll be free. When you're weathering the storm, you're not thinking how bad the storm is. You're just holding on, trying to get through the finish."

As much as I can't stand Stephon, I also love him. And now, if you'll pardon me, I am going to throw up.