First and foremost...Some Hindenburg business to attend to. You might consider this blog "unfocused" or "rambling", but behind the glamour of Liquid Beef Jerky shots, we're working for a cause.
Welcome back to the fold Sergei. I've been lighting candles for Archie every night around nightfall. There is some cause for worry. As one brother descends from the stratosphere of celebrity, another is beginning his parabola's uphill climb... I recently spotted Archie in the background of a paparrazo-shot Kim Kardashian video. I think he supplies the butt pads.
Darthmouth, you minx, you dare to call me out. Forgive me if my peace lies in spouting long-winded self-effacing/exalting diatribes. I dig your sentiments, but think of these as my version of your tactics. You have an upcoming book don't you?
Zen and the Art of Driving Drunk in A Children's Soapbox Derby by Dartmouth Minx. You can't pre-order it on Amazon, but you'll find it in the discount bin of your local anarchist book store in no time.
In the most important news of the day, a certain prominent African-American has moved past the doubters & allegations and into the Pantheon. Obama? Fuck that. I'm talking about our godfather. Mr. Weezy F. Baby, Lil Wayne himself.
The long awaited Carter III has dropped in splendrous fashion. He's recorded the album sixty-five times, releasing sixty-four versions for free. This legit version doesn't disappoint. Father Flow unleashes a furious burst of machismo, genius, and call to arms legitimacy that we should seek out in geniuses of our time.
Fuck lazy geniuses, Indiana Jones, & the fourth effort of most acclaimed authors (though they may know something I don't). I want my art to challenge me and spring forth with something to prove. I guess I'll have to keep rocking Weezy and watching Kobe. Quit resting on your laurels peeps.
It's a beautiful NewHindenburg day, especially when Catch Me If You Can is blasting. Back to business...
*****
I ain't been sleeping much lately. It's cool as hell. I woke up describing Panda Express "that flaccid fake Chinese temptation". Suffice, I dined at Panda and gave half my food away.
This inability to grasp what I like is tough, but sort of fun. This morning I discovered that my beloved Pistons had canned our borderline autistic coach, Flip Saunders. Two days ago I heard he was fired, yesterday I heard his job was safe. Hearing this news, I wondered what day it was.
Everyone knows Deeeeetroit Baaaaaaasketball means entirely too much to me. I try not to let it affect my mood too much, but that doesn't stop the team taking up an inordinate amount of my time, energy, and imagination.
Stemming from a certain place and leaving it back home, they always bring me back. I remember those days at John's house. The lot of us would assemble to eat a home cooked meal, watch the game from our homemade boat, and pretend we were various Pistons at half time on John's hoop. This ain't nostalgia. This is last year.
Friends and family frequently forward Youtube videos of the Pistons. Don't they know I've seen them five times already. My opinions of Jason Maxiell's post up game, Amir Johnson's potential, and Rasheed's transmogrifying bald spot could fill a shelf of dream journals. At a certain point you wouldn't even be able to tell I was writing about a basketball team. My prose would seem to revolve around several street-smart cousins. You'd wonder why I never told you more about my harsh upbringing.
So we fired Flip and hired Michael Curry, a former Small Forward and Current Ambassador for the Nation of Sport. A hiring from within boasts of a quiet confidence, the sort of belief that can be so dangerous it's awesome.
This is big news for us Pistons fan. It changes the landscape, the team, and who we are.
What insight was offered?
"It's cool. I like him because he would only dunk with his left hand."
"Good hire. He signed an autograph for you when you were thirteen."
Is this what's become of us? We used to be such good fans, living and dying with the success and hilarity of the team. We're tired now. The team consists of the same tired old muck up, (save for Rip who came through like gangbusters). We watch them, hoping for them to flip the switch, and hoping we'll do the same. I can't help but see myself as a reflection of the team.
If Chauncey, Rip, Tay, and Sheed have taught me anything it that "if you're good enough. you can dick around and wait until the last minute to succeed." So that's why all those papers got turned in late.
Our favorite player on the team was Walter Herrman, an Argentinean Center known more for his flowing blonde locks and open collars then any on-court ability.
Herrman's great. A joy to watch. A wonder to imagine. But if your team is this good, you shouldn't be playing around with the intangible. If the team is that damn good, they should capture your heart and attention.
They didn't. They spoiled us in the beginning before turning into spoiled, pragmatic brats. As the playoffs played out I found myself paying closer and closer attention to Kobe Bryant and Chris Paul. These two offered so many routes to success, such long and winding narratives, that I feared a Finals Matchup with either. I'm not scared we beat us. I'm scared I wouldn't care when they beat us.
We are taking a step back, but I'm back on board. A wayward team trying to find it's way? Yeah I can relate to that.
Next year could be the Rodney Stuckey show featuring an eighth seed in a weak conference.
I can't wait.
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