Oblivious Express

White folks with dreads should be shot into space. Brah.

Let me own up to something right away: I used to smoke a lot of weed. I’m not bragging. In fact, I often wish I hadn’t smoked so much. Not long ago, a friend reminded me that I once staunchly defended “Half-Baked” as a hilarious “film”. Good lord. I quit chiefing (do people still call it this?) years ago, and maybe this is why I now find the “stoner” character in movies so unbearable. Was I that person? Was I worse? Did I talk about pot incessantly, using it as both noun and verb? Did I pull the tiniest buds from recycled jam jars, hold them intimately close to my face, and speak softly to them as though they were a litter of corgi puppies? I want to say no, but who really remembers, right? Everyone else, probably.

I think about my hatred for the stoner archetype each time the insufferable fuckshit that is James Franco is mentioned in conversation, or appears in a film, or in this case, is invited to write for public consumption. Two things: being irritated by James Franco is not a novel response, nor is it unique for someone to lambaste the HBO show Girls, which I've still never seen. In fact, it seems Gawker has dedicated itself to crucifying the show and the creator, which basically amounts to Brooklyn folks bullying other Brooklyn folks, or put another way, a nauseatingly stylish snuggle fight.  

And I am perfectly content in a world where Franco is terrible and folks complain about television. There's comfort in routine. But I turn really sour when Franco takes a shot at writing programs. For those of you who are unaware, James Franco has 14 MFA’s*.  So of course, he would know something about MFA culture**. Below is the connection he makes between Girls and graduate students. I’ll return after the jump, provide I haven’t found someone to jackhammer my face off by then:

"I worked at McDonalds, and my first suggestion to Hannah would be this: get a fucking job. If you really want to have experiences to write about, go to work; and if you really want to be an artist, take responsibility for yourself and wait some tables. You might mature a little in the process.
That leads me to my other connection with these young women just out of college: I've spent the last five or six years in classes with people like them. I'm not making any judgments about my ex-classmates -- I'm sure many of them have plenty to say about an actor invading their M.F.A. bubbles -- but I will say that many of the movies and stories they produced in those programs featured storylines that would have fit right in on Girls.”

By “people like them”, I am only left to assume that grad students are being compared to those characters on the show (of which, I HAVE DEDUCED, Hannah is the main character), and therefore, grad students need to “get a fucking job”. I have a fucking job, Lames. Lots of grad students have fucking jobs. It’s called teaching. See, that’s how many of us afford grad school. Judd Apatow’s not walking through that door anytime soon to pay your stipend, folks.

People write about tons of experiences, and while waiting tables or working at McDonalds are perfectly fine, neither necessarily makes you a better artist. I know kids who’ve never done a damned productive thing outside of manufacturing a piece of art and they’re fucking fantastic at it. I poured concrete for a summer, managed the lumber department at Lowe’s, and the outside garden center at Home Depot. Now I’m a poet in a PhD program. Know who got into Ploughshares? You, shit biscuit. Was it because your Happy Meals changed the world? Did you discover a new species of potato cake?

NO! You’re James Fucking Franco! 

And don't think you get to just sneak out the side door, academia. You’re culpable in the creation of this monster. You, who were so star struck that an attractive, world famous person was FINALLY interested in you that you jumped like a starved fish. In the process, you sold out other kids who stayed up so many nights, worked so many hours, perfecting their manuscripts—even that mind-numbing Statement of Purpose letter***---so that they could get into YOUR program, work closely with YOU in particular, and immerse themselves in what they truly love. "Dude" used it as a sideshow, a research project so that he could “tap into being a writer”****, and put that knowledge toward terrible film roles.

I call it: "Sad Stare Thoughts"

John Hamm is awesome

Quick thought: if I had been a school administrator looking over terrible applications submitted by a young Sophia Loren or Paul Newman I’d have caved, too. I’d have let them spray paint liquid gelatin on a Triscuit if it made them happy. Nevermind that.

“But I will say that many of the movies and stories they produced in those programs featured storylines that would have fit right in on Girls.” Perhaps. But I bet they also produced movies or stories better than—General Hospital, Tristan and Isolde, Flyboys, Knocked Up, Nights in Rodanthe, Howl, Date Night, Eat-Pray-Love, Your Highness, Rise of the Planet of the Apes, and OH HOLY SHITPICKLES—Pineapple Express*****. Which brings me back to the stoner archetype. It was done right once. ONCE. 

"Are you cool, man?" No, Slater, they're not

Stop doing it. Please stop doing it. True Romance is my favorite movie of all time. Know what character has nothing to do with anything? Floyd. Floyd could simply not be, and the movie is still magnificent. I get it, Apatow crew. Weed is funny and you like to smoke weed. Dick jokes are funny and that's kind of your jam. While this all seems to make logical sense, you just come off as a dickweed. 

Mostly though, I just require that you keep my "bubble's" name outcha mouth. You were privileged to work with the people you worked with. You took spots that others could’ve filled based on their work, not their names. Acknowledge your place, and stay in it. 

* I think it’s more like 4. I don’t know. I’m not Sportscenter.  

** He knows these cultures exist, yes.

***Here’s an excerpt from mine—“Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please. Like me, like me, like me, like me, like me, like me, like me, like me.”

**** Not his words, but that’s what I glean from his attitude on the whole thing. What? Shit ain’t called “Rational Mink”.

***** Alright, alright, you were phenomenal in Milk. 

Le-Boohoo

Wade-ing into foul waters

Every summer of high school, me and a group of 5-7 friends (depending on who’d finished their chores) would spend Saturday and Sunday on neighborhood basketball courts around town running games with other locals.

Anyone who’s every played pick-up ball knows that it’s up to the victim (primarily) to cry foul, and they do so at the risk of ridicule from not only their opponents, but their very own teammates. Each person trusts everyone else to adhere to this tradition, to hold themselves accountable for their actions, and to respect the game enough not to punk out by way of a weak call. It’s an unspoken agreement born of time (there are always 5 kids on the sidelines ready to call “next”), money (no one’s paying a ref to attend, nor is anyone volunteering to ref, and there’s only so much Gatorade and Snickers that grass cuttin’ income can afford), and light (yes, the sun even sets in the summer). Finally, it’s born of will, endurance, and toughness.

Now wait: before you get twisted and spew accusations of machismo and misdirected masculine archetypes and tread too deeply into theoretical waters (where I am Poseidon, and as such, will end you), two of the best players on the court were women—Red was a beast in the post and Jody was Jesus Shuttlesworth years before He Got Game. They were two of the best smack talkers ever to wear knee wraps and would verbally dismantle anyone who broke the foul code. If either of you wonderful ladies ever happens across this blog, I love you both.

Whenever someone drove the lane they expected to draw contact. It’s just part of the game. You’re tired. It’s hot. The shots aren’t falling and the game is running long. Whatever the reason, odds were that in all the congestion of people who were good enough to achieve weekend baller status, but never sniff an organized court past high school, someone was getting hacked. You just knew. The key was to try and predict where it was coming from, absorb it, and hit the shot. If it was egregious, then the violators would often out themselves, give you the ball out front. But you always, ALWAYS, tried to make the shot.

This part wasn't born so much of toughness as it was of our idols, of the style of hoops we watched every Sunday to the soundtrack of Bill Walton on NBC and the world’s largest half-digested gobstopper that had been lodged in his throat and left there to rot by John Wooden (the Wizhard of Westshwood! gargle, gargle, gargle, gargle). Jordan, Magic, Bird, Nique, Barkley, Reggie. Shit, hoss, John Starks was as tall as Prince and he yoked on a guy. 

"They were whining and crying in transition."

I bring all of this up after watching the Celtics-Heat Eastern Conference Finals Game 4 postgame report on ESPN* while IM-ing with my Celtics buddy who’s in China right now searching for Yao Ming (surely he’ll find him, the Rockets never could). If you watched it you know D-Wade missed a 3-pointer that could’ve won the game. The first comments by five, FIVE, different commentators were a variation on the same theme—“Wade should’ve driven to the basket and put it in the ref’s hands to call the foul, and get to the free throw line.”

Are they serious? Put a playoff game in the hands of an official? That’s the plan? Win it on the free throw line? Is this a play call? Can you imagine Tom Brady leading a last-minute drive, crowd’s going wild, he’s on his opponent’s 15-yard line, there’s time for one play, Pats down 5, a touchdown wins it, and Joe Buck says, “Best thing for Brady to do is try to draw the defense offsides. Do THAT over and over until you get to the half yard line, then sneak it.”

NO!

That’s because it’s not a legit ideology. It wasn’t always something the NBA talked about with regularity. And this is the problem I’ve had with the league for a few years, but especially with this Heat team, and more particularly, with Wade and LeBron James. It’s the Heat’s style of play I take issue with. And maybe it’s the word “absorb” that so many current players don’t understand.

Here’s a typical Heat possession—LeBron or Wade dribble around. I walk to the kitchen to stir my dinner, check the bread in the oven, eat a couple Cheez-its. When I return Lebron or Wade dribble around some more. LeBron or Wade pass to LeBron or Wade, who will then pump fake on the perimeter (good move, btw. Wade’s shot fakes are legendary, one of the best of all time), and get their defender airborne.

First ever sighting of Ebolawolf

The moment of truth—the first defender is out of the play (again, a great move), but beneath the basket there are 2 seven-footers, a werewolf with a baseball bat covered in used syringes, and the Ebola virus. I'm saying a cloud of Ebola has filled the restricted zone and covered the werewolf. In keeping with the fluidity of the game, a phenomenon that separates basketball from so many other sports (I’m looking at you, Peter Gammons), and in taking the highest percentage shot, a player should (ideally) take two dribbles, elevate in the space between the discarded defender and Ebolawolf, and get wet.** OR, one might take one more dribble, two more steps, leap well before seven-footers and syringes and hit a runner.***

THERE ARE 15 FUCKING FEET BETWEEN WHERE YOU LEFT YOUR DEFENDER AND CERTAIN DEATH!

And inevitably, without fail, without any desire to actually MAKE THE SHOT, these two will barrel in to teeth and disease, completely out of control, blindly hurling the ball toward a space we can only assume they believe to be the current location of the constellation Draco. 35 out of 36 times the officials will bail them out with a call (they shoot more free throws than Jimmy Chitwood). The one time they don’t do this (thankfully), the talking heads complain that they should have.

This begs the question—what kind of product does the NBA desire? The Heat offense is a bad product. Have you watched the OKC—San Antonio series? (Lil’ Wayne didn’t.) Have you seen the rhythm of athleticism, the speed, the passing, the yams, the obnoxiously beautiful rafter rain that is Kevin Durant’s jumper? That’s hoops. That’s an attractive product.

I believe this is a pivotal time for the NBA. I’ll always watch. I love the game. But you’re losing viewers by the season, Sterny. Conspiracy theories abound (See: Lakers/Kings Western Conference Finals 2002 or the Heat/Mavericks championship series of 2006) and for good reason. Something has to be done about flopping to change the style of play. A collected effort must be made to stop the bail- out calls. Quit rewarding world-class players for half-wit decisions. Otherwise, you’re looking at a potential for the largest Ebolawolf breakout in modern history.

* Has there ever been a larger collection of mindless chode-nozzles ever assembled than the ones this network pays to cover professional basketball? The level of blind allegiance to certain “it” players and their teams is staggering. The cliché’s are endless. “Like my status if you like this sweet jumper!” Like my bumper while I run you over. Like my license plate when I hit reverse. Lie still. Shhhh….

** Jordan understood this—a habit forced upon him after multiple trips to the lane that resulted in Charles Oakley taking years off his life, and apparently making him colorblind? Kobe understood this as well. That guy will forever be one of my favorites. I hate the Lakers. I don’t even think I’d enjoy having a beer with Kobe, but he’s an ice-cold assassin and I love his game. There, I said it.

***See: Allen Iverson, Hollywood Robinson (RTR), Rajon Rondo, me in 10^th grade, the WNBA.

  

Lil' Beef

Observe:

I bomb atomically

Socrates’ philosophies and hypotheses

Can’t define how I be droppin’ these mockeries

Lyrically perform armed robbery

Flee with the lottery

Possibly they spotted me

Battle-scarred shogun, explosion when my pen hits

Tremendous, ultra-violet shine blind forensics

I inspect you, through the future see millennium

Killer Bees sold fifty gold sixty platinum

Shaklin’ the masses with drastic rap tactics

Graphic displays melt the steel like blacksmiths

Black Wu jackets queen B’s ease the guns in

Rumble with patrolmen, tear gas laced the function

Heads by the score take flight incite a war

Chicks hit the floor, die hard fans demand more

Behold the bold soldier, control the globe slowly

Proceeds to blow swingin’ swords like Shinobi

Stomp grounds and pound footprints in solid rock

Wu got it locked, performing live on your hottest block

Obviously, this is lyrical annihilation, one of the greatest rhymes ever put to music, and its presence here eliminates the potential for a reader to consider whether or not he who copied and pasted this gem appreciates the garbled goat mouth stylings of Drake or Lil’ Wayne or Kanye West.

Fuck. And. No.

Today I read a story about Lil’ Wayne trying to get courtside seats to an OKC home playoff game. He was denied. The Lil’ one claims it was a result of racism, says that he’s in Forbes (however that’s relevant to NBA tickets). The OKC front office claims there were no seats available. OKC players offered him tickets after the “incident”, but he says those tickets were offered by black players and that the tickets are not the point, and I’m confused about the point, so I’m going to make my own point:

See the above verse? That’s Inspectah Deck, member (not even the best, mind you) of the Wu-Tang Clan, the central heating to Lil’ Wayne’s tiny fireplace, the racing engine to Lil’ Wayne’s pinewood paddle, the complete sentence to Lil’ Wayne’s apostrophe. The article I read makes the point that fame brings expectation, and that the famous are flabbergasted when not bent over backwards for. Valid.

But I’m neither famous nor financially capable of purchasing a courtside ticket to anything, much less permitting or denying someone else’s presence courtside. I’m also not claiming that Inspectah Deck would’ve received tickets. I’m simply claiming that poetic justice exists, and I’m thankful for it.

See, if I ran into Lil’ Wayne at Monk’s and the ketchup on my table was the last ketchup and his fries were bone dry I wouldn’t give it to him. If he were in the ocean I’d chum the water. If someone gifted me backstage passes to Lil’ Wayne I wouldn’t even sell them because I’d immediately forget I had them. Given the option of meeting Lil’ Wayne or taking a nap I’d…

Sorry. Passed out for a second. Where was I?

Oh yes, irrelevance. Here’s the point: people don’t give a shit or don’t do your bidding for a number of reasons. No tickets are available, or you’re a terrible emcee, or they genuinely don’t know who you are, or they don’t read Forbes. It’s not because you’re black. It’s because when you rap it sounds like a dwarf is strangling Chris Broussard. It’s because when you released The Block Is Hot that phrase was 20 years old, and you weren’t referencing it as an homage. It’s because A Milli and Got Money MEAN THE SAME THING! It’s because you were in the gifted program and the drama club growing up, not in the streets, not in a gang, and not “bangin on the corner” unless you accidently “banged” your knee on a neighborhood watch sign hustling to the ice cream truck. It’s also Oklahoma City. You didn’t get the tickets. Charlie Pride wants those tickets, he gets them. Darius Rucker wants them, done and done.

"Lil' Wayne, we love you
cuz our daddies hate you!"

Some things are because you’re black, though. The fact that 70% of your fan base consists of white sorority girls at southern universities? That might be because you’re black, and because some people think neck tattoos are tough, even on a grown man who weighs 87 lbs.

And please believe, I don’t even begin to claim to somehow understand the black experience, or in your case the black male experience. I acknowledge my privilege everyday and admit it was granted without merit. But make no bones about it, I dislike your music, and the empty rhetoric of “that’s RAYCESS” without proper cause regardless of who leans on the crutch. Racism exists. This ain’t it. When I read that article I immediately became a fan of the OKC front office. Good for you, you hicks. Fuck you for stealing the Sonics from Seattle.

 

Update: Just saw highlights from said playoff game, and Kevin Durant’s mom was courtside. I beg  you, Lil’ Wayne, let someone else write a song about it.

Opening Crawl

I can’t find my jelly!

This is what my girlfriend woke to the other morning: me sitting cross-legged on the floor and screaming into an open refrigerator, clad in houndstooth-print jammies, tossing the contents of the fridge onto the kitchen floor behind me, taking fat free milk hits to the dome, straight from the jug, then cursing cows. Cursing farmers. Both of my hands were shaking; I was holding back tears. It was 8 a.m. I will be 35 years old in July.

where my preserves at?

It’s right here, she said.

And it was. A full jar of strawberry preserves right there on the counter behind me. At some point, between 7 and 8, during my morning walk-about through the apartment, I’d pulled the jar from the fridge, sat it on the counter, and immediately returned to the fridge to search for it.

My meltdown wasn’t just a result of the potentially catastrophic scenario whereby I would have to eat something other than a pb&j (a morning craving that never happened before and hasn’t happened since), but over my instinct’s insistence that I open my laptop first thing every morning and look at the Internet.

Facebook self-portraits: here’s me being sexy, here’s me vulnerable, here’s how Instagram says I would have been depressed in 1972, look at the puppy, look at the kitty, here’s a sad video, here’s something incredibly personal that the world ABSOLUTELY MUST KNOW! ESPN tries to convince me, again, that golf is a sport, that when LeBron James smiles he breathes oxygen, as Jordan did, and so he must be the greatest. Here’s an obnoxiously self-righteous article in stock liberal rhetoric, and here’s the tunnel vision anti-freedom of a stock conservative. Did I read the link to a poorly written essay on poorly written poetry? Sure did. Did I click the link to the poem written about, well, nothing in particular? Of course. Who doesn’t need a little word vomit with coffee?

And this all boils over in my kitchen, over jelly. And two hours later I’m fine. I love sad videos, pictures of photoshopped flowers, personal anecdotes. Hell, I’m so happy I could shit koalas. I love essays and poetry and all the words and all the things and, yes, even the NBA.

This is a common morning scenario. Awake, stumble, computer, rage. I usually complain, at length, to the girlfriend, email or text complaints to friends and family. They’ve done their best to play along, have shaken their heads at the irrational Mink. But I really should leave them be. Someone suggested a blog. We’ll see what happens.