Thanks for New Memories

So, here we go. It's a big day. Book first, games second.

Today is the official release of FreeDarko Presents The Undisputed Guide to Pro Basketball History. I recommend that everyone buy it. I am biased, of course: I contributed thinking and writing to the book. My name is in it among the authors. I went on the radio in Houston to talk about it. I am proud to be associated with it, and I will readily disclose that bias. I wouldn't be riding for the cause so often, and so freely, if I didn't believe in it. It's not as though I excitedly promote everything that I've done. Let's be real: Has anyone seen End of the Bench (boring; deceased), Schembechler Hall (strained; deceased), or What's Really Good (floundered; deceased) discussed in these quarters anytime recently?

In February, Straight Bangin' will turn six years old. By then, this internet will be slowly working on its second million site visits, with the first likely to be closed out sometime in the next two weeks. That is small potatoes for many websites, of course. Six years to get a million visitors? Were Straight Bangin' a money-making endeavor or an attempt at fame, I'd be poor, living in the cheapest reasonable place I could find, and asking the government for money. I know this because that is how I live now. Luckily, I will rejoin the workforce next fall, and Straight Bangin' is not motivated by profit.

Instead, Straight Bangin' remains one curious, passionate person's attempt at conversation. This website has a simple origin story, one fit for a 30 Rock flashback with purposely bad wigs and a wink toward everyone's small, vulnerable moments. I was bored at work one day, I typed "hip-hop blog" into Google, I found Different Kitchen, and then I found religion. I realized that there were people online who were as dedicated to the things that I love as I am, and that they were eager to discuss them. After a few short months of spirited comments-section residence, I realized the American dream and got my own place. I was grateful for the opportunity to share my ideas, and I welcomed the catharsis. Just as addictive, I became enthralled by the inventive, insightful thinking I found among blogger peers, many of whom intimidated me with their brilliance, their eloquence, and their facile internet powers.

Chief among these new voices of authority was FreeDarko. To be honest, I hated FD at first, but it was undeniably powerful. I had no idea what it meant for a player to be "FD," and I mistook the site's fervor and conviction for online overcompensation. I also envied the site's gorgeous prose, and the ease with which its writers appeared to command so much information that was Lingua Franca in my world. Everything from music to literature to racial politics was on dazzling display, and it was interwoven into a rich basketball tapestry. FD's novel voice consistently called me back, despite my ambivalence, and steadily, my misapprehension dissolved, replaced by better understanding that enabled thorough amusement and deep respect. I had found my own online voice, as well, and that allayed the insecurity of my initial impression.

One thing which never changed was my reverence for Bethlehem Shoals, Dr. Lawyer IndianChief, Brown Recluse, Esq., and the entire squad. I have thrown myself into my collaborations with FreeDarko because working with people you appreciate and respect is an important kind of pleasure. Those guys, people like Eric Freeman and Tom Ziller--they think and write about basketball in ways that encourage my best effort. They challenge me to get better, as a writer, but also as a person (and a Tweeter!) I am fortunate to have found such a gifted, diverse group of people with whom I look forward to discussing so many of the pursuits that give my life dimension.

This deep esteem for my co-authors made working on the Unidisputed Guide a pleasure and the highest honor. I wrote most of my contributions last spring, while in the midst of completing a law review note, completing a semester, and completing a summer-job search. Diverting time from reviewing the laws that govern initial public offerings so that I could articulate for posterity all of the reasons why anyone would have ever watched the Knicks and the Heat was a unique joy. I felt like I was stealing. And I was a motivated criminal, because I couldn't let down the squad. More than anything, that burning desire to carry my weight and reward the faith placed in me fueled my contributions. I could not fathom disrespecting my friends, my co-authors, my inspiration by failing to put forth my best effort.

Of course, I have no idea if what I wrote is any good. I hope it is, and I hope that it delivers on audience expectation while enhancing the book. I also hope that it stands up as a sufficient contribution when considered alongside the companion work that I know to be sublime. The Undisputed Guide is a beautiful, compelling basketball history. The artwork is intricate, personal, and mesmerizing. A person can't help but return to the illustrations over and over. Even better, Jacob Weinstein's unique style is an organic complement for the writing, which is characteristically well crafted. The other writers have imbued this retelling of basketball with so much personality, wit, and irreverence that even well-worn parables shine in a new light. The writing is personal, accessible, and elegant, the knowledge dropped deeply. And, also, the statistics. Jesus. Silverbird 5000 is a genius with that shit.

There. I've now written all of that. I am hugely proud of the book, and strongly moved by the opportunity I've enjoyed to collaborate with people whose work is so impressive. Get the book for yourselves and tell me that I'm wrong, bias and all.


(When is someone turning this into the best CGI movie of all time?)

There also is an NBA season starting today. I guess that might interest a few people. The summer demanded so much energy that this October has felt both stymied by off-season fatigue and quietly energized. Free agency and big names are looming, sure to be relevant all year, but that conversation is a little played until games of consequence get going. Only recently did I move on from the anonymous bubbling of the Summer League, just to replace it with the innocent intrigue of an inconsequential preseason. Meanwhile, the loud proclamations of new eras dawning that preceded previous seasons feel insincere, or at least thou-doth-protest-too-much-ish, when juxtaposed with this year. More naturally and at a quieter volume, the NBA feels saturated with potential finally brimming over. The wardrobe for the fall has been button-ups, not jerseys, so far. Someone tell Jay-Z, Kanye West, and Three Stacks, all of whom might be entitled to royalties.

So, then, like a long, drawn-out deep breath before the plunge, the season has been building, but not aggressively. The out-there preview posts and soaring rhetoric don't feel right. Although Nike may have pushed everyone over the cliff a day early:



That ad is 90 seconds of invincibility and defiance. He doesn't apologize, but he also doesn't celebrate or mean mug. Lebron is confident without gloating, and his active sense of humor--an asset from the jump--cuts through residual tension and disdain. Even someone disinclined toward the Heat and predisposed to hate on LeBron has to admire such a knowing, even-keeled statement that is nonetheless resonant and powerful. LeBron strikes the perfect tone, something with which he normally struggles. I've long admired his intelligence and observed his perspicacity, but been puzzled by his inability to communicate better. Perhaps his probing disposition and self-assurance obviate the measured strokes of a political artist.

Mostly, I am thankful for this spot. Over the past week, I drafted LeBron in two fantasy drafts, hoping that having to rely on him would allow me to again think of him without overriding frustration. I stand by much of what I wrote this summer, but hysterics are tiring, and it feels like it is time to move on from active disapproval. Nothing will change what happened, Miami is living history all the same, and a player can be wrong without being discarded. The new Nike commercial expands the surface area upon which the wary can find area for attachment.

Now, of course, what I most want is for the Celtics to intimidate Chris Bosh into obsolescence. I hope Miami wins a close game tonight because I can't root for a Boston team, but I also hope that the Heat endure some incoming warning shots. Fairly or not, I will cling to my suspicion that Chris Bosh isn't built for this until he shows out against the men who control the paint for Boston. And Rondo, whose left pinky is gullier than the accumulated sum of everything Chris Bosh has ever done.

Now I am all fired up and ready to go. Cue John Tesh...

I Used to Let My/Close Partner Keep Chewbacca/In My School Locker

In 1972, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. In 1977, Star Wars came out. In 1981, I came out. In 1990, I "borrowed" a family friend's Star Wars tapes and never returned them. (Oops!) In 1995, I started super-nerd high school. In 1997, Star Wars was re-released, and I waited in line at the Ziegfeld Theater for hours to see it on the first Friday.

I think this is all meant to explain that while Straight Bangin' does not always make it clear, I *love* Star Wars because I am a dork. A colossal dork. And because of this, I have watched the video enclosed below about 100 million times. Honestly, it is incredible.



(via)

G.I. Thuggin'

The pandering in which public figures engage is often amusing, if not always for the nicest reasons. Ted Kennedy memorializing the herculean accomplishments of “Mike McGwire” and “Sammy Sooser” remains hilarious. As does everything John Kerry ever said about Buckeyes, Packers, and the like while taking vacations from his vacations to run for president. (Boston stays losing.)

Rappers are no different. When they come to your town, they want to get a rise out of the audience. Actually, it's not just rappers--all musicians do it. ("Oakland, do you wanna ride?!") Rappers might do it most memorably, though, because geography is so commonly shouted out on wax, and the medium accommodates conversations from the stage better than rock music does. (Though Eddie Vedder tries his best to destroy this truism.) The significance of geography in hip-hop has been sadly morbid at times, and though these are better days, repping one's community maintains special import. As does carefully acknowledging a host forum in a manner that allows for comity, if not ownership. Go to any rap show if you are skeptical and keep track of how often the performers shout out where they're from, where they're performing, and from wherever the audience originates. It's pathological.

Geography is so important because it provides Cliffs Notes for authenticity, and authenticity persists as the paramount hip-hop currency. Geography matters. Though they change over time, maybe taking on nuance, maybe shedding components, hip-hop's regional archetypes inform prevailing sentiment about who's phony and who's fake. New York rappers sound a certain way, rhyme about certain things, and invoke certain touchstones. That's the accepted thinking, and it has propagated for a reason. Same for South Central rappers, who have their respective models. Ditto Atlanta rappers. The list goes on. (Deviate and it gets confusing; you may wind up in blog-fetish purgatory.) An individual's perceived authenticity ultimately is an image cobbled together from many sources, of course, but geographic profiling has always been a useful, superficial inquiry into who keeps it real. Black Milk coming to New York and acknowledging the host town's sense of self while also honoring his strong Detroit roots is a process saturated with meaning, the stakes much higher than when Vampire Weekend (meekly) says, "Hello, Philly."

Since forever, the Game has imparted lessons about this delicate pursuit of acceptance. It was never enough that he started out sponsored by Dr. Dre and 50 Cent. That surely relieved some economic pressure, because his career was propelled forward with the strongest commercial engine available at the time. Game wanted, and needed, to stand as his own man, though. Weed carriers, whether at an intimate club or tripping over wires on the biggest arena stages, are still toting for someone else, after all. Establishing his own place required that the Game cultivate an independent authenticity quotient. To do this, he checked the West Coast playbook out of the library and returned it with nearly every page missing. Game so meticulously parroted back so many West Coast cultural markers--lolos, Chronic tapes, Crips and Bloods, Laker games, Crenshaw--that he betrayed any assured sense of truly belonging. Decide for yourself whether Game lives the life he claims and comes from the communities he celebrates, but do not look past how self-consciously he has conjured his public identity. It is impossible, to be honest. Just as his conspicuous invocations of other communities are sometimes painfully contrived. Game's music, exaggerated bluster and boasting, portrays intimate frailty at times, strangely leaving him as a sympathetic figure. He just so badly wants to be down that he will do and say everything that Los Angeles has taught us to look for.



Back in August--which feels like the 1900s in blog time--I caught Freddie Gibbs at S.O.B.'s, performing for a small New York audience. The crowd was sparse, really, no greater than 100 people. Half of them didn't seem to even know what was going on or who was performing. In the past, ascendant phenomena like Kanye West (October 1, 2003!), Wale, and even Little Brother had packed S.O.B.'s with hundreds of industry people and a critical mass of New York hip-hop enthusiasts. I assumed Gibbs would command a similar welcoming committee given his popularity online for most of 2010. (It was a Tuesday night in early August, so maybe everyone was working or on vacation?) I was wrong, but delighted to see him, all the same.

The Gibbs stage show was tame. Really, it wasn't a show, in the sense that there was no spectacle or theatrics beyond a man rapping. Freddie's DJ for the night was Statik Selektah, and Gibbs was accompanied by a weed man dressed like Raiden from Mortal Kombat. That was it. For the next hour, he paced back and forth a little, he took a few puffs from a joint or two, he removed his shirt at some point, and he spit his way through a jungle of songs from various mixtapes and the Str8 Killa EP. He also kept it realer than any rapper I can recall.

A telling moment came during "National Anthem." I've often described Gangsta Gibbs to the uninitiated as a dude from Gary, Indiana who raps like it's 1993 and is perpetually auditioning to craft a song for the Menace II Society soundtrack. "From tha G" actually ends with a Menace sample, so it might logically serve as the quintessential Gibbs track given my well-rehearsed elevator pitch. However, I think "Anthem," with its crisp flow, restrained energy, and pained languor, has earned that distinction. "Anthem" is everything I love about Freddie, and it is always the song I pick when I try to learn someone some Gangsta Gibbs.

"National Anthem" also might logically serve as the best concert track for Freddie Gibbs. After the second iteration of the chorus, the song's bridge kicks in, and Freddie just shouts out America's urban experience:

I'm G.I. thuggin'/I'm Chitown thuggin'/I'm Detroit thuggin'/One time, fuck 'em
I'm NY thuggin'/I'm Illadelph thuggin'/I'm DC thuggin'/One time, fuck 'em
I'm Inglewood thuggin'/I'm South Central thuggin'/I'm Oaktown thuggin'/One time, fuck 'em
I'm ATL thuggin'/I'm Memphis Ten thuggin'/I'm H-Town thuggin'/One time, fuck 'em.

If ever there were rap lyrics made for in-concert geographic hype, you just read them. Not only is that bridge a roll call, but "thuggin'" keeps the sentiment in the streets, and there's cursing. Crowds always love cursing along with their favorite rappers and singers. On a night when an audience of relative ingenues had barely made it out of the house, Freddie could have seized upon "National Anthem" as a chance to plant his own flag, overemphasize the NY thuggin', lay down some purported local bona fides, and whip up the crowd's energy. A lesser rapper would have. The Game certainly would have. Game lives for that kind of plotted, choreographed, cheap thrill.

Freddie Gibbs didn't, though. Freddie played it cool, casually breezing through the New York red meat as he completed his song, and that was probably the ultimate validation of his authenticity. My man HR leaned over and said as much: "This dude is everything Game wishes he were."



Regardless of how you want to classify Gangsta Gibbs, he just does Freddie. Laconic and workmanlike, Freddie Gibbs can't help but seem real. His dense, efficient flows are delivered so coldly that they seem intuitively felt, not prepared for performance. On another track, "Crushin' Feelin's," he says, "Rap ain't nothin' but talkin' shit/I'm just the best at it," and you believe it when you see him live. Dispensing with the usual rap brio, Gibbs emits something that approaches ennui, and just like the unobtainable, the impression that he cares less than you do makes him all the more seductive. He may very well be a superbly understated showman with the most refined hip-hop persona today, but even great ones who feign indifference have rarely been as convincingly cunning.

Gibbs is an outlier thanks to his talent. His rapping is so sublime--and no one on the internets needs to be convinced by me--that he is the rare MC who stands on his own merits and naturally enjoys the benefits which inhere to being real. Gibbs abandons archetype and the contrived moments meant to reinforce one. (He even sounds natural on a range of production that is evocative, at times, of Houston, Chicago, New York, and Los Angeles.) A paradox, passively resisting the conventions of hip-hop has allowed him to cultivate distinctive authenticity with a chilling undercurrent of menace. In interviews, in music, and in person, he is unnervingly straightforward and unconcerned. Gibbs is callous, in fact, and, characteristically, not in the rap tradition. N.W.A.'s "She Swallowed It," for instance, is a charged, excited moment in hating women that likely grew out of steady effort. That song is "unfeeling" to the extent that it lacks compassion or affection, but it is angry and hostile. Alternately, on "Best Friend," Gibbs affirms that he "loves these hoes" by quietly explaining that they're great because the bring Hennessy, dank, and dollars through his door. That's what they're good for, in case you hadn't noticed. Ho hum; back to work. Or the television. Or pretty much anything else. Freddie ain't paying attention to you, me, or anyone.

That is his power. Freddie Gibbs is committed to telling you what he's about and what he isn't. Being honest in both directions doesn't embarrass him, and he has no real attention to devote to how you feel about it. Right or wrong, nice or mean, that is pretty fucking real. And as a result, Freddie Gibbs is sitting on a huge pile of rap money, so to speak, regardless of where he's thuggin'.



P.S. This song is ridiculous

Baracka Flacka Flames

This is *well* done.

(via)

Rise and Fired

First things first: press play on the above video and use it as a soundtrack as you read this post. Now then...

So passes Gus Johnson. He has been fired by the Knicks. Why? James Dolan and his crack management team weren't pleased with Johnson's side hustles, even though his famous CBS work is why Johnson is beloved by sports fans. And I write "beloved by sports fans" on purpose, not as some platitude. I know many people who are heavily invested in sports, and not a single one fails to at least appreciate, if not celebrate, Gus Jonhson's exuberance. Mostly, they celebrate. Johnson is loud, irreverent, and purposely out of control during crucial moments, but his vigor is part of what makes sports fun. Johnson broadcasts with a fan's passion and a child's excitement. Who wouldn't like the voice of the fan and the spirit of children?

The Knicks, of course.

The Knicks don't like anything other than money, with fun, logic, and honesty chief among the proscribed. You wonder if Johnson's real crime wasn't simply failing to find a bank sponsor for his signature "Ha-Haaaaaa!" That kind of exclamation could have been tolerated.

Nestled away in the World's Most Famous Arena, Knicks management has grown so far removed from reality that Madison Square Garden is now a citadel of the insane. Recalcitrant fans with jeering signs, no matter how warranted, are asked to leave. Broadcasters, no matter how hard it is, are asked to stay positive. Were the building's theatrically dim arena not filled on basketball nights with devoted, erudite fans, the sterile commercialism providing the only bright lights of recent years would be even more obvious. Glowing ad displays are everywhere, to the point that championship banners and retired jerseys hang from the rafters as though they were meant to be stashed out of sight in an attic. Corporate money is a reality across basketball today, but the dollar grab feels so much more hostile when enthusiasm for the sport, ardor from the fans, and other untidy intangibles are vigilantly washed away. Dolan, impetuous and impressionable, both profligate with his dollars and miserly with his sense, is a put-upon tyrant. He is Denethor, Son of Ecthelion, peering down onto the world, seeing nothing but inconvenient fools, and floundering about, angry that nothing goes his way. A pity that this multimillionaire rich-man's son hasn't enjoyed any luck.

Well, there has been some: Despite his ignominious record, Dolan somehow escapes the searing scrutiny affixed on Donald Sterling and other men who serially lead the list of awful owners. Dolan also enjoys the good fortune of being surrounded by people who continue to countenance Jimmy's terrible decisions. Who cares that their fealty is extracted by fear? This brain trust has watched Dolan fire Marv Albert when the legendary broadcaster--likely the signature voice of the entire sport--spoke too much truth as the franchise fell on competitive hard times. Just as it continues to abide the Cablevision scion's eternal love affair with Isiah Thomas. That sacred flame cannot be extinguished. Never mind that Zeke was already terminated after costing the Knicks $11m for sexual harassment, years of competitiveness, and incalculable prestige for all of his outrageous, comical incompetence. Running off Johnson, then, is just the latest bad decision encouraged by yes men indifferent toward Dolan's sclerotic sensibilities. Dolan should be thankful that these people exist. Just as he should savor the approval he earns from rare reporters like Phil Mushnick, who has already been appropriately dressed down by the invaluable David Roth on Can't Stop the Bleeding.

The Knicks will go on, of course. As will Gus. With Amare Stoudemire, a new cast of D'Antonio types, and lingering cap space, Knick basketball promises to be engrossing, if not actually successful. And with college basketball season on the horizon, Gus Johnson will have opportunities to work, and to scream out more of those signature calls. His dismissal leaves an uneasy feeling, all the same. Beyond the shrieks, Johnson crafted a particular kind of broadcast, one filled with streetball allusions, knowing shorthand, contemporary perspective, and a respectful accounting for all of basketball culture. Hoops is a city game, still, and Johnson is a city man--a son of Detroit who had found a metaphysical home in New York. There was something that felt right about Gus calling Knicks games, and it was refreshing. No wonder it was fleeting. His dismissal provokes the regular Knick-fan frustration because it is a sad reminder that somehow, someway, nothing ever turns out well. The Knicks just never do the right thing.

- The Gus Johnson Soundboard

More from the Forward-Glancing Knicks Yearbook

As promised, albeit a day later, you can find the second part of the 2010-2011 New York Knicks Yearbook below. Part One is available here.

The 2010-2011 New York Knicks Yearbook, Pt. 2

Click on images for full-size versions

The Forward-Glancing Knicks 2010/2011 Yearbook

Any old person can create an NBA season preview. All you need is some free time, an abiding interest in Steven Hill, and a working command of key topics across the league. That's no insult, by the way. There are some excellent previews rolling out around the interwebs. In fact, below you will find the latest batch of links to the CelticsBlog project; this installment covers the Southeast.

I thought that I might have some fun as the preseason dwindles, though, and create a forward-looking retrospective for the Knicks. Huh? I have put together a yearbook for these Brickers, imaging what they likely will reflect upon at season's end. The first batch of yearbook pages goes up today, the next set tomorrow. Enjoy.

The 2010-2011 New York Knicks Yearbook, Pt. 1

Click on images for full-size versions

















Southeast Preview Links

Bobcats: Rufus on Fire | Hoops Addict | SBN Recap

Hawks: Peachtree Hoops

Heat: Peninsula Is Mightier | SportsAgentBlog.com

Magic: Orlando Pinstriped Post | Magic Basketball | Orlando Magic Daily | Orlando Sports Central

Wizards: Bullets Forever | Sparty and Friends | Truth About It | SBN Recap

Hide Ya Kids, Hide Ya Wife...

...Hide ya kids, hide ya wife...



...Hide ya kids, hide ya wife...



...And hide ya husband...



...'Cuz Ben's rapin' e'rbody out here.



Welcome back to the best Super Bowl-winning sexual predator in the NFL.

What Color Is Your Enlightenment?

Quietly, I've been getting ready for the NBA season, and for the FreeDarko book launch, both of which are going to be great. On Straight Bangin' and FD, you'll find various basketball writings and projects from me over the next few weeks.

As deliberations have intensified, phone calls with dad have increased in basketball content (though any increases and decreases are always relative), and everything from the serious to the loony has been considered, an outstanding conundrum is Gilbert Arenas. I should probably take a number and get in line behind Flip Saunders.

This past week, Gilbert was fined $50,000 for faking an injury. In the universe of crimes against humanity, it falls far short of the severity one can reasonably attach to, say, mock threatening someone with an unlicensed handgun. I was a strident Arenas critic after that episode, largely because I don't think anyone should have a gun. I also reacted out of misplaced disappointment: I was hugely frustrated that a player with Arenas's different sort of humor and wit would undermine that charm by doing something so obviously foolish. Faking an injury is totally different, of course, and frankly, tethering a serious gun matter to some largely meaningless decision to skip a preseason game as though they are of a common piece is ludicrous. I understand the inclination to cite both incidents as evidence of subversive behavior and disdain for authority, but only one is a question of public safety and good judgment. The other is a question of team power dynamics.

Power has become a leading NBA theoretical these days, though, so it should be no surprise that a cadre of old, white men all but stole megaphones from each other to condemn Arenas most loudly. Dan Steinberg at the D.C. Sports Blog cataloged the screaming. On the radio, John Feinstein decried:

"This is why the Wizards are still dysfunctional, and will be as long as Gilbert Arenas is in the organization," Feinstein said. "And I hear people saying, 'Well, Gilbert's a good guy, there's no malice in Gilbert...' I have no doubt about any of that. [But] Gilbert's an idiot, all right? And by the way, Flip Saunders is no better, because what he should have done, was said...he's suspended the first five games. Forget this fine. It's monopoly money.

The problem with Gilbert and this organization is this organization, has never, ever disciplined the guy. They didn't suspend him; David Stern did. And they just keep acting like he's just sort of this cute, wayward kid, and haha, isn't that funny, Gilbert screwed up again."

Tony Kornheiser was beside himself on Pardon the Interruption:

"Has the guy learned nothing at all?" Kornheiser asked. "He gets a 50-game suspension for bringing guns into the locker room and then repeatedly lying about what he did, so now, in his first game back in Washington D.C., he lies again, thinks it's a big joke, undermines the coach, undermines the team, lies again and laughs about it. Cut him. Get him out of here. Get him gone. Get him out....

"The new owner, Ted Leonsis, embraces him. He makes Leonsis look like a fool. Like a fool. And he's going to completely undermine the career of John Wall, because he's so needy for attention, and he will say anything, and none of it is ever true. This is an indefensible act. If I'm the coach, I go to the GM [Tuesday] night when I find out, and I say don't fine him, get rid of him, get him out of here."

And Skip Bayless was so worked up that he referred to Nick Young as "Chris" Young:

"We're talking about Agent Zero Brains here, that's what he is now," Skipper said. "And I have less than zero sympathy for him. What Gilbert doesn't understand is yes, he was honest, he was self-destructively honest. He outed himself here, he volunteered to reporters after the game that hey guys, guess what, I faked an injury so I could get my little buddy Chris Young some extra minutes in the exhibition game.

"And after Chris Young lit it up...Gilbert's ego was so much larger than his brain that he couldn't help but gloat to reporters, look how noble I was, look what I pulled off tonight, look what I wrought. No Gilbert, you lied to your coach. You're making $80 million guaranteed...and now you're shocked and offended that people are outraged? Just doesn't get it, never has got it."

Given all that hysteria, one would hope that we were at least talking about practice, which can actually mean something to a player like Gilly. But we weren't. We were talking about preseason games, October's nightly charades that mostly just allow for rookie crushes, role-player fetishes, and intriguing moments of acrobatic ephemera. The question of authority is what infused so much urgency, I suppose. Feinstein chastised the Wizards for not being adequately punitive, Kornheiser was rendered incredulous by what he perceived as undermining behavior, and Bayless was upset that Arenas lied to his coach. All three, in effect, were angry that Arenas had challenged the structural hierarchy.

There are worthwhile arguments mixed in among the overreactions, and those should be salvaged from this wreckage of confused anger and paranoia. In general, refusing a coach's wishes and then gloating about the subterfuge can destabilize a team. It turns the coach into Tobias Funke. Arenas wields this power acutely for two reasons: because he is a sublime talent, and because his tendency toward sarcastic, protracted jokes usually leaves the audience unsure about what is real and what isn't. He has been so good that teams must suffer his idiosyncratic rhythm. When Arenas lied to police and to the NBA about the gun incident last year, he only strengthened this unnerving power because it set the unfortunate precedent that even when confronted by a matter of real gravitas, not the self-importance of sports, Gilbert may not immediately be straight with you. This week's l'affair d'injury placed another strain on this tortured relationship, and for that, a player fairly should be held accountable.

The criticism has not been fair, though. Reactions from people like Feinstein, Kornheiser, and Bayless have been emotional, animated, and dramatic, consternation suffused with anxiety. It's inappropriate. We are in the realm of sports self-importance, and no one would be upset if Arenas had opted out but then kept the lie to himself. This time, Arenas didn't really do anything wrong, other than exercise his power and then gloat about it. That appears to be the real problem.

Watch Bayless and Kornheiser:





Both men demonstrate a deep dismay that not even their strong words fully convey. The videos make clear that each is most upset about Arenas's temerity to challenge authority. Even after a caveat that someone like Kornheiser, for all his ribald jokes and political liberalism, remains quite small-c conservative and proper, such a deep injury doesn't compute. These are sports reporters, people who cover outrageous stories of bad behavior all the time. Not just that--they cover high-stakes games all the time. This was not Scottie Pippen refusing to play at the end of a playoff game. This was a star player sitting out a meaningless exhibition. And yet, you would think that Arenas had pulled a gun on a teammate.

Power fills in the comprehension gap. In this instance, a rich, black man--note that Bayless made sure to mention Arenas's contract--told his white boss "no," and then he publicly embarrassed the boss afterward. In a normal employment context, this wouldn't happen. Recalcitrant employees are usually punished for disobedient behavior, and they risk dismissal for refusing to work and then gloating about it. But the NBA isn't a typical workplace. Physical talent is the leading commodity, the resource is scarce, and black Americans enjoy overwhelming control of it. As a result, these young, black men make much more money than their mostly white coaches, much more money than the mostly white men who cover basketball, and much more money than pretty much everyone else in the world. Their value, and their power, is sufficiently high that they don't fear retribution from their bosses. That's different, and for some, scary.

Before the summer, I would have been less inclined to immediately think about the Arenas situation in the contexts of power and race, but as Bethlehem Shoals and Henry Abbott have convincingly argued, the NBA's 2010 free-agency frenzy was a seminal shift in league power. For the first time, players--rich, black players--exercised total control over not just their respective destinies, but the entire course of the league. In an unintentional portend of Arenas's unembarrassed power play, LeBron James, Dwyane Wade, and Chris Bosh, in particular, celebrated that they had purposely manipulated the system. That surely resonated with the largely white oligarchy of owners, executives, and coaches, along with the largely white press corps.

None of this is meant to suggest that people like Feinstein, Kornheiser, and Bayless are active bigots, or that each harbors some unspoken racist agenda. In some way, their angst is born of age as much as it is of race, because players of any color, in any sport, have never been as powerful as today's NBA players appear to be. Like everyone else, these older, white men are products of their culture, though, and theirs is unaccustomed to a black employee, like Arenas, exercising so much control over a white employer, like Saunders. That kind of a culture shock can cause some commotion, as we now have seen.

For the record, I don't think Gilbert was right to do what he did. It was funny, but also it was provocative. He doesn't need that right now...although, he also sort of does. That's the real Gilbert conundrum.

Keep On Keepin' On

As a useful addendum to my post from earlier today, I give you Simon Johnson's stern warning about our outstanding need for true financial reform. Dodd-Frank is a first-aid kit with a lot of band-aids, however it performs no real surgery. Little will be structurally different. Derivatives traded on a transparent exchange is great, but that doesn't fundamentally alter the financial system in a fashion demanded by reckless banking. As Johnson explains, while discussing America's entrenched debt problems:

If you want to fix the United States budget, keeping the deficit under control and reducing government’s debt, you must address the risk-seeking behavior of big banks. No fiscal strategy can be credible without addressing the major problem that brought us to this point.

Of course, you can make proposals that seek to cut spending and raise revenue — see, for example, the recent effort by Bill Galston and Maya MacGuineas from the Committee for a Responsible Federal Budget. Some of their ideas are worth discussing — and they are right to put everything on the table (although, personally, I would err on the side of more comprehensive tax reform).

But the simple fact of the matter is that our fiscal position has been ruined by the behavior of big banks — and these banks are now free to make the same or larger mistakes as we head into the next credit cycle.

The unfortunate fact is that those who style themselves as fiscal conservatives largely stayed on the sidelines during the financial regulation debate. And the problem of too-big-to-fail was absolutely not addressed adequately either by the Dodd-Frank legislation or the subsequent Basel III framework (as The Financial Times reported this week).

There is no way to handle the failure of a global megabank, and the management of such banks know this and so do their creditors (as Gillian Tett noted in a trenchant Financial Times column). This amounts to carte blanche for further uncontrolled expansion of risk-taking.

In some sense, this is all water under the bridge — like it or not, the overhaul process for systemic risk is done, and achieved little. But in that case, any true fiscal conservative should recognize the risks posed by megabanks going forward and adjust their budget targets accordingly.

This is the reason why I was so adamant that Obama and Congress failed the American people when it passed the recent financial-regulation bill. Policymakers continue to set their sights on nearly cosmetic changes that ignore the real problems, however they herald these compromises as true solutions. Cyclical failure to make the right changes begets cyclical recurrence of systemic problems, and the newest iterations always amplify the previous shortfalls. Root causes are never addressed. That's no way to live.

UPDATE: digby agrees, and makes the point even more forcefully and clearly than I could:

So I'm listening to Andrea Mitchell and Jim Cramer explain the Foreclosure Fraud Crisis as they wail and rend their garments about how terrible it will be for just everyone if these poor banks are held responsible for this problem because the whole economy will implode.

That's nonsense. People should go to directly jail at this point, do not pass go. The real estate market is still officially fucked and while everyone wants it to "find its bottom" coddling the big financial institutions and their crooked subsidiaries and contractors has not worked all that well for average Americans at any point in this ongoing crisis (or for Democrats for that matter.) The only people who are benefiting from the capitulation to the Big Money Boyz's threats and hoary predictions on this one are the Big Money Boyz and the GOP. The economy still sucks and will continue to suck until the incentives for this criminal behavior and self-destructive malfeasance are stopped.
...
Even those with good motives among the powers-that-be (and there's reason to be suspicious about many of them) continue to believe they can finesse this problem with band-aids or superficial remedies to keep the rubes quiet until the invisible hand fixes everything. They are petrified in the meantime that unless they give the oligarchs what they want, they will pull the plug and then where will we be?

This is magical thinking. There is not going to be any easy way out of this. The invisible hand may be working but it often works on a very, very long timeline and many bad things can happen to a society while it does its thing. Meanwhile, every incantation and folk medicine they've applied to this problem has resulted in another round of infection. It's time to open up the wound and completely clean it out. The patient will heal much faster and it's far less likely to die in the meantime.

Real talk.

UPDATE II: William Cohan provides another glimpse into the mortgage fuckery:

So, did Wall Street throw all those mortgages back into the pond as being too risky for securities they were going to sell to clients? Of course not — many were packaged right into their product. There were degrees of nefariousness: Some Wall Street firms were better about including higher-quality mortgages in their mortgage-backed securities than others. For instance, at Goldman Sachs, 77 percent of the nearly 112,000 mortgages reviewed met the guidelines, while at Citigroup only 58 percent did. At Lehman Brothers, which later filed for bankruptcy, 74 percent of the mortgages sampled and then packaged up as securities met underwriting guidelines.

In fact, the banks probably weren’t disappointed at all by the shaky status of many of these loans: in part because they could use the information that some of the mortgages were rotten to get a discount from the mortgage originators on the price paid for the entire portfolio. The people who should have been concerned were the investors who bought the securities from the Wall Street firms. But the amazing revelation of the Sacramento hearing was that the investment banks did not pass this very valuable information on to their customers.

“Investors were not given sufficient information to make the decisions that they needed to make to see if they were going to buy these securities,” testified Kurt Eggert, a professor at Chapman University School of Law in Orange, Calif. “They should have been given loan-level detail for every pool for which securities were issued. Current loan-level detail, not what was true weeks ago or a month ago. Instead, they got vague, boilerplate language about ‘underwriting,’ and that there were ‘substantial exceptions,’ whatever that means. They should have gotten the due diligence reports that we just heard described. Those reports existed. The exceptions were described and defined. Why weren’t investors given that information which was in the hands of the people that were selling the securities? Why weren’t they given the underwriting reports by the originators who knew what exceptions were given and why?”

Did you catch that? Investment banks would collect mortgages, and then they would pool them and transform the debt obligations into securities that were sold to large-scale investors. Before creating the securities, banks paid a company to assess the loans, testing them for solvency and for other financial guidelines. Mortgages that failed this scrutiny weren't tossed aside, though. They were pooled all the same, only banks got to pay a discount for the defective merchandise. The banks neglected to adequately explain this to investors. Bank customers weren't told that they were buying securities partially derived from faulty mortgages. Nor did they learn ahead of investing that the banks had knowledge of the defects and paid less as a result.

That is brazen disregard for the public. Banks knowingly leveraged bad products and asymmetries in information to increase their margins at the expense of customers. Customers like pension plans. Think about that, and then remember to consider that taxpayers gave these companies hundreds of billions of dollars when the banks started to fail. What did the banks give to anyone when pensions and fortunes were lost?

It Ain't Cool Bein' No Fool

As perverse as it is to admit this, one of the best summers of my life was spent in a bankruptcy court watching people fight to keep their houses.

Watching people with so little fight off banks and other creditors wasn't the fun part, of course. That was depressing, and even wrenching at times. Bankruptcy is most commonly associated with big companies that need to reorganize their debts, but individual liquidations and restructurings are common and sad. Not so much because people like Teresa Giudice lose their mansions while lying, but rather, because everyday people are left to fight for basics, including personal dignity. Many debtors wind up in bankruptcy because of their own profligacy, but it's not so hard to feel sympathy for someone who is losing almost everything, even if that consequence is "deserved" in the linear terms of person responsibility. And it's even easier to experience a certain kind of pathos when nothing more than systemic circumstances--bad education, bad health, bad parenting, bad economics--conspired to make someone's uphill struggle that much steeper.

Many of these debtors--and there was an endless cavalcade--would come to court and see "their lawyers" for the first time in months. Others wouldn't have lawyers at all. Some had to glance over their shoulders nervously the whole time because the children who accompanied them might misbehave or just do kid things that make a lot of noise. Some more would speak in clipped sentences, would rock back and forth, and would sheepishly look on as time ticked by and being late for work began to threaten sustained employment, or at least getting paid. One debtor had to ask the court for a continuance into the next month because his son, who needed to go to the hospital, was downstairs in the car but there was no other adult who could help, and the debtor had worried that he would have been arrested had he failed to appear at the hearing. (He got his continuance.) Another explained that she had to get home as quickly as possible because her mentally ill mother had been suffering hallucinations all night and was likely a hazard to herself. Moments like those were pretty terrible.

A common problem for the typical debtor was that payments on the mortgage had fallen into arrears, and the company that purported to own the mortgage had come to court seeking relief. When you file for bankruptcy, the court imposes an automatic stay that freezes creditor collection efforts, so "relief" meant lifting the automatic stay and allowing the financial institution to initiate a foreclosure. Banks, mortgage companies, and the middlemen who traffic in mortgages can't take your house without the court's permission.


I searched for "mortgage fuckery"

A mortgage, as we know it colloquially, is a loan for a home, and it consists of a promissory note and a lien. The note lists the standard terms of the loan, the penalty fees that can be charged for various reasons, and the mortgage holder's promise to pay back the loan pursuant to the terms of the note. The lien officially records the lender's right in the property, a right that the mortgage holder exchanged for the money borrowed to buy the house. A valid lien turns the house into the collateral that supports the loan, in effect making the home property of the lender until the terms of the mortgage have been fully satisfied. When a lender comes to a bankruptcy court seeking relief from an automatic stay, it tells the court that with loan payments in arrears, the only way it can receive fair value for the credit it extended is to exercise its property right and resell the collateral.

Debtors object to these motions for relief because no one wants to be homeless. To validate their objections, debtors cite all kinds of reasons why they've fallen behind and why they will fix the problem. Some are legitimate, of course. For instance, one woman hadn't paid down her mortgage in six months because she had lost her job, she had lost her health care, and she had needed an expensive knee surgery. Others don't ring true. I heard a man claim that he had been paying, but the mortgage originator from whom he had received his loan wasn't recording the payments because the originator coveted the loan holder's wife. The reason that is more common that you'd believe--and it is hard to believe, at first--is that the loan holder was sending in his checks, but sending them to the wrong company. Regularly, title to a mortgage would be sold from an originator or a middleman bank to a successor, but notice of the transfer wouldn't reach the customer, and that person would keep sending in checks to the original payment collector.

When you sit in a courtroom and watch the lawyer for a big financial company realize that this error has, in fact, occurred, it is perplexing. How could a company built around selling money to customers fail to take the necessary steps required to recoup that money at a profit? Isn't that the business? Aren't there laws about this kind of thing? The answers are, in order: through laziness, yes, and yes.



These bookkeeping errors arose all the time, and my personal, small-scale exposure to this normal problem has echoed recently as the financial industry is again imperiled by its own recklessness and brazen dishonesty. For failing to follow the law and properly transfer mortgage notes before packaging the mortgages in sometimes fraudulent securities, America's largest financial institutions have projected the bizarre financial brinksmanship of the bankruptcy court onto the economy as a whole. That's the tricky thing--this matters, even if it feels attenuated. Sometimes a debtor would keep her house because it wasn't fair that she should lose it for the clerical errors of a bank. Should more innocent people lose jobs as credit dries up, losses get reported, and government action becomes necessary in response to the same misfeasance? That is what's at stake, again, as banks realize that the right papers weren't filed. Seriously.

The foreclosure crisis might be easily ignored as an esoteric aftershock of 2008's financial earthquake. However, the mechanics of this growing risk are anything but a novelty fascination. (For true mechanics, read this five part explanation.) The wave of foreclosure concerns stems from bad incentives, accepted laziness, and pervasive dishonesty--the culprits of the financial collapse still crippling America. Just as Wall Street managers were rewarded for risky short-term decisions that destabilize long-run economics because the managers risked little, so were mortgage originators and merchants given incentives to cut corners and either ignore or falsify missing documents. Just as the risk-exposure of exotic financial instruments eluded many who nonetheless sold and leveraged them, so were they created by negligent trustees who did not perform the proper due diligence but passed them on all the same. And just as mortgage-backed securities were sold to investors without informing the purchasers that the securities were designed to fail, so were these securities passed on without the warnings and discounts the banks had received as functional underwriters.

All of this because the financial industry can't file paperwork. Because it doesn't care to improve and isn't held accountable. Americans should be furious that banks are paying out record compensation after being propped up by taxpayer money. This is what we paid for? Incompetence and negligence? The financial industry has again been exposed for the general risks it will take in the name of particularized greed, and it gets a bonus? Bankers can make all the money they want if they earn it. I have no problem with that. But when they receive outlandish salaries and bonuses for being lazy, dishonest, and intellectually small while gambling with the entire economy, the system requires many more repairs than Dodd-Frank, or anything else, seems slated to deliver.

I probably wouldn't have taken such an interest in this story had I not enjoyed a personal experience with foreclosure. The salience and resonance of my work are parts of what made that summer so worthwhile. It is otherwise easy to ignore headlines about people losing their homes. Reading that sort of sad news can be tedious, there is no shortage of sad news in circulation, and home foreclosure is intangible for many people. Connecting this problem to the larger ones which destroyed the economy is important work, then, because we are again confronted by outrageous and disgusting behavior. Cue Matt Taibbi...

NBA Preview Links

You might recall that I posted a Knicks preview recently as part of CelticsBlog's season preview. In lieu of a new post from me today, I encourage everyone to check out the other team previews that have been committed to the interwebs thus far.

Atlantic Division Previews

Celtics: CelticsBlog | Celtics 24/7 | Celtics Central | Celtics Hub | CelticsLife | Gino's Jungle | RedsArmy.com | SBNation Boston | SBN Recap

Knicks: Posting and Toasting | Bandwagon Knick | KnickerBlogger.Net | SBN Recap

Nets: NetsDaily | NetsAreScorching | Fanway | SBN Recap

Raptors: Raptors HQ | Hoops Addict | Hip Hoop Junkies | SBN Recap

Sixers: Liberty Ballers

Central Division Previews

Bucks: Brew Hoop | NBAMate | SBNation Recap

Bulls: Blog-A-Bull | SBNation Recap

Cavs: Fear The Sword | WaitingForNextYear

Pacers: Indy Cornrows

Pistons: DetroitBadBoys | Detroit Basketball | Need4Sheed.com | SB Nation Detroit

Northwest Division Previews

Jazz: SLC Dunk | Salt City Hoops | SBN Recap

Nuggets: Denver Stiffs | Roundball Mining Company | The Nugg Doctor | SBN Recap

Thunder: Welcome to Loud City | Planet BBall | SBN Recap

Timberwolves: Canis Hoopus | TwolvesBlog

Blazers: Blazersedge.com | SBN Recap

Pacific Division Previews

Clippers: Clips Nation | SBNation Recap

Kings: Sactown Royalty | Cowbell Kingdom | SBNation Recap

Lakers: Silver Screen and Roll | Forum Blue & Gold | NBAtipoff | SBNation Recap

Suns: Bright Side Of The Sun | SB Nation Arizona | ValleyoftheSuns | SBNation Recap

Warriors: Golden State of Mind | SBNation Recap