you don't just have to say every single thing that comes into your head, you know

Yo, checking in. I can't remember going this long without anything to say in a while. And for perhaps the first time ever, I'm acting on the time-tested principle of not saying anything when there's nothing to say. But that leads to no posts in a month, which I think is too long. We can't let readership dwindle from 7 to 5.

Went to California. Had a very good time, a few semi-blogworthy thoughts and experiences but just can't seem to find the energy to post them. Blahdee blahdee. They say when you're in a shooting slump, you need to get a couple layups to restore your confidence. So let me post some quick free garbage for you.

This is for diehard Knicks fans only. For non-Knicks fans, you might consider it The Day The Basketball Died. Two condensed clips of the 1992 Eastern Semifinals, Game 3. So much to watch for, and, if you're an Iron Maiden fan, so much to hear. Click on "HQ" and the video quality will improve a bit. My quick observations:
a. One of the best opens for a sporting event I've ever seen. Marv rules.
b. This might be the most out of control, violent series in NBA history. The majority of the 'highlights' here are missed shots, fouls, blocks, and concussions. There are so many bodies on the floor it looks like a gangland massacre. It's as if they were playing on ice. Ugly ugly ugly. Yet...somehow the intensity almost makes up for it.
c. Gerald Wilkins, like half of his Knicks teammates still rocking the flat-top at least a year past its cultural expiration date, comes through with 2 huge lefty flushes that I had somehow forgotten about completely.
d. Jordan's greatness shines through. While he looks genuinely uncomfortable and nervous at times, like he can't believe the Bulls' 67 win season could go up in smoke to these punks from NY, his competitive edge is overpowering, resulting in the Gatorade Ad power-layup while being Malachi'd by Ewing and McDaniel at 6:35 of part 2.
e. Read the bit about Pat Riley's pregame speech in the video description. He basically ordered a 12 man assault on Jordan, and it wasn't enough. I miss Riley anyway; I've never been more committed, invested, and alive as a sports fan as I was during his 4 year run in NY.
f. The whole game is available on youtube if you are a masochist.





Part 2:



Those with strong stomachs can add their own observations in the comments.

humping around

I was on the fence tonight whether to blog up some stuff or go to bed, but then I spilled a beer and it got all over my new hoodie and some placemats, so I had to throw in a load of laundry. Now I have like an hour and a half whether I like it or not. Whether you like it or not.

Why don't I tell you about my weekend? It was pretty weekendy.

On Saturday, I went and played me some basketball, poorly. I didn't really fuck up or anything, I just barely registered. There was no point to me. If our game ever got turned into a movie, you would be like, "Why did they introduce that supporting character in that one scene and then never get back to him?" I didn't advance the plot at all. Maybe they're saving me for the sequel.

After one game I was sitting on the sideline, dripping sweat and trying to make small talk with a guy I know. I was like, "Man, I'm a step slow today...maybe two steps." Trying to be modest but also telling it like it is. He said, "Dude, you've been two steps slow for two years now." Ouch. I'll show him! Ah....fuck it, no I won't.

Then I was talking to another guy about the Knicks. Remember them? Tall, incompetent, irrelevant, unpleasant? Office is over on 33rd? Anyway, this guy was genuinely optimistic about the 2008-09 season, with D'antoni stepping in as coach and all.

"But the personnel..." I said. "They have two big fat center types who can barely move, one with a heart problem, and now they're gonna run? Yikes. It's all the same shitty dudes, I don't see them being competitive."

He said, "I think Nate Robinson's gonna play well. And I like David Lee. And the new Italian guy might be good. And Crawford..."

I was all, "OK man, if you think that's gonna be a good team..."

He said, "This is the time of year to have high hopes."

He's right. Of course, once they start playing games those hopes will fade fast. But why not at least be excited for a month? As he pointed out, this will be a good chance to see how much of a difference a coach can make. My guess: 5-6 games over the course of the season.

Thinking about Zach Randolph got me reminiscing about Knicks I've hated through the years. Greg Anthony will always be my least favorite Knick PG, but I think Charlie Ward deserves some special mention in any discussion of History's Most Loathsome Knicks. Not only did his low-bridge boxout on PJ Brown ignite the fight that cost us the '97 season, but then he took over the locker room with his anti-semitic and anti-woman-reporter bullshit. He was a hateful, small-minded little fuck, and...AND... he had virtually no game to speak of. That combination is unforgivable. Plus he had the charisma of a file cabinet. A file cabinet full of papers displaying the box scores of every game Charlie Ward ever played for the Knicks, with his stat line highlighted.

So a belated F you to C Ward.

Then Saturday night I knocked back a few bierce with some college pals at Tom & Jerry's. It was fun, but around 2:30 everybody (except me) started getting tired. I was about to enter the "rah rah let's tear the night open and throw burning garbage into its bleeding torso" section of the evening, but I sensed that there was no more life to be squeezed from this particular crew on this particular night. They had stuff to do on Sunday and frankly I was becoming more aggressively uninteresting every second. So we parted ways, mostly their choice.

I put on my headphones and started to walk home. The bottom may be falling out of the economy but you'd never guess it from walking through NYC at night. Packed bars, people spilling out onto the street smoking. Traffic all jammed up at 3 am. Horns and loudmouths filling in any silent moment that might try to slip in. Packs of douchebags in pressed shirts, looking to pick up girls so they can brag about it to their bros the next day. Arty kids passing judgment on them. And married dudes walking home from the bar bopping their heads to their favorite songs from 1973.

I walked up Bowery and made a right onto maybe 3rd street. Up ahead something caught my eye. It was a young couple, grinding like crazy against a building. What fun! At first I thought they were actually...you know...doing it. They were totally mashing their parts together in a crazy exaggerated thrusty-dance. I think the words "They're fucking!" actually rolled across my mind.

As I got closer I noticed that they were clothed, which both relieved and disappointed me. I would call it a building-aided vertical dry hump al fresco, if I was keeping score. As I got closer still I noticed that the guy was sort of burying his face in the woman's neck/cleavage area, and the woman was leaning back and apparently enjoying whatever he was doing. Then I looked again...the woman was actually talking on her cell phone!

Wow.

I got concerned for a minute. What if she was in trouble? I didn't want to be part of a 2008 Kitty Genovese moment, so I turned off my music to listen for sounds of distress and/or ecstasy. No sounds I could make out at all. Definitely none to get worried about.

But I couldn't help wondering: who was she calling? Was she listening to work voicemails? Calling an ex to taunt him with the live play by play of her latest hookup? Looking to recruit a third? Naively trying to pre-order Mets playoff tickets? Calling Ghostbusters? Making a spa appointment for Sunday?

And did her paramour care that all his best moves were only enough to consume a fraction of her attention? He didn't seem to.

I like to think I would.

recognize

So I don't really feel that thankful this year. I know I should, but I don't.

I'm thankful my pops is still breathing air and telling stories, but I am angry he's had to suffer through such a painful and fucked up year.

I'm thankful my home life is peaceful and satisfying, but I am pissed off that my 65 hour a week job keeps me from getting much of a chance to enjoy it.

I'm thankful I can still play basketball, but I am depressed by how bad I have gotten at it.

I'm thankful that I have a slick lookin' iPhone, but I am irritated by the numerous ways in which it sucks.

I'm thankful that I finally got to grow a moustache, but i am disappointed by the fact that I had to remove it before it became a man.

One thing I am unreservedly thankful for is that I am now the official reigning champ of the punching game we have at work. I hit that thing with an 889 the other night, breaking the year-old record of 888. Then a few minutes later, I socked it with an 890. To get an idea of what an 890 is, it is estimated that Mike Tyson's most devastating knockout punch ever would have registered merely an 862 on our game.

So that feels pretty good.

I think if I ever get stinking rich, like at least 80 million in the bank, I will commission a miniaturized reproduction of the famous Larry Johnson-Alonzo Mourning fistfight from the '98 playoffs. It would have little figurines of all the key participants and a perfect little Madison Square Garden court. Of course, the centerpiece would be the Alonzo Mourning figure, complete with Jeff Van Gundy clinging to his leg:

You could come over and we could look at it whenever we wanted.

I will also give you ten dollars if you can dig up Gus Johnson's call of that fight, in which he described Van Gundy as "a little warrior."

Man, remember when the Knicks were relevant?