Awaiting November

After a 14 month tour of duty, we’ve returned to bring you the latest in intelligence, the NBA, and culture (redundant, I know). We’re grateful for all the emails and cards you sent us while we were away. You can’t imagine how much they helped.

We’re anxious to get back in the saddle again. The blogosphere has missed our handsome mugs. And, I should add, so have your sisters.

Stay tuned – Gumbel Bros has figured out a way basketball can help end global warming, and I, well, I just have so much to say.

Enjoy!

My Casque and Sword

Let me be the first to congratulate Chuck Klosterman on writing a wonderfully forgettable bit of sports journalism about Gilbert Arenas, published today in the New York Times Play Magazine. He invests 1500 glossy words recapitulating what 1500 bloggers have written 1500 times: Arenas is an eccentric dude. No kidding? I had no idea.

There were moments in Klosterman’s article when I found myself talking to it. “Chuck, wait, you forgot about online poker at halftime…And tickling Antawn’s armpit before games…What about the practical jokes, Chuck, the jokes?” You see, it’s no longer that interesting to read about Gilbert’s goof-offs. We know about them already. We know he puts baby-powder on sugar-dusted donuts to fool teammates; he wears a smaller shoe to make sure his feet don’t look too big. He holds midnight workout sessions and spends too much time playing video games. During games, he picks his nose and deposits the tacky treasures behind each earlobe.

Klosterman is convinced Arenas’s antics mean nothing beyond their doing. He thinks, in other words, the odd habits are meaningful only insofar as they seem wholly unmotivated. “People are not fascinated by Arenas because his behavior is outrageous,” Klosterman writes, “they’re bewitched because they have no idea what his behavior is supposed to signify.” Klosterman throws up his hands in awed frustration like a first-time reader of Joyce. Maybe the point of all this nonsense is that it has no point, no significance, no underlying intended meaning or purpose?

Needless to say, I find that explanation deeply unsatisfying.

Here we have a guy passionately committed to cultivating his own character—a charade of the ego—a man who, as Klosterman claims, appears always and eminently “knowable” (emphasis original). We have a guy who relishes the cult of personality, perhaps even, on occasion, at the expense of performance. We have a guy determined to avenge failures of the past with 84, 85 high-arcing bombs on those he perceives as enemies. We have a D.C. guy who stuffs the (All-Star) ballot box, who steals the vote and appoints himself (Black) President.

But enough with Dubya; let’s talk about Arenas.

Gilbert embodies the anaesthetized rhetorical (rather than philosophical) verve of postmodern aesthetics.* Even if his antics feel without meaning—are, in fact, unmotivated—their form still generates significance. Asking “why” is the wrong question for Gilbert Arenas. He fascinates, like the highlight reel itself, only as a function of “how”—how he celebrated his 25th birthday; how he won a shooting contest one-handed; how he dropped 60 on the Lakers. These are questions of form, not intention, and they have a meaning even if Arenas refuses to offer it.

Gilbert’s form is lovably spectacular but little else. We see that even in his clutch game-winners. Those last-second shots, which seem so focused on intention, on the question of “why” (i.e., to win the game, silly), have a way of highlighting “how” when Gilbert’s involved. “My swag was phenomenal,” Arenas quipped after downing the Bucks with a 40-footer last January. His game-winners matter, but his swag is what counts.

There is a certain depthlessness in Gilbert Arenas despite his lively character. Klosterman suggests Gilbert’s appeal derives from his honesty: “He has created a persona, but it never serves as a shield.” I might say there’s nothing actually there to shield. Arenas possesses a strange, decorative exhilaration, like Warhol’s Mao, Lichtenstein’s paintings of household goods, or those fabulous displays of Christmas lights in suburbia. We might ask if Gilbert, with his oddball antics, rejects clichéd constructions of celebrity or has come to embody nothing more than celebrity itself? Does he stand apart from the deadening effects of media saturation? Or has he incarnated the image exquisitely?

Gilbert Arenas is a grand idea. He delights in the theater of high-ticket narcissism and brands himself with individuality. “The things I do, the things I say,” remarks Agent Zero, “these are things I sit in my house and think about.” For Klosterman, Gilbert’s self-consciousness reads as an expression of sincerity. Gilbert reflects on what to do next and Klosterman calls his selfhood spontaneous and pure.

I call it an act. Gilbert, you see, cultivates a stylized form of self-expression. He pins green carnations to his lapel, ties a yellow robe ‘round his waist, and consecrates the chalice of his shaving bowl. He wins and strokes his strut. He's an aesthete and a jewel in a league of rough-hewn minerals. If all the world's a stage, Gilbert wants to be best player.

*About the distinction between rhetorical and philosophical postmodernism, let me say this. The philosophy of postmodernism emphasizes indeterminacy, fragmented subjectivities, and contingency. Postmodern philosophers stress the construction of everyday life. We think in language and therefore have no unmediated access to the world; we have stories, which help to order and make sense of an otherwise chaotic universe but do not get us any closer to the truth of a reality beyond language.

Rhetorical postmodernism may emphasize these epistemological principles, but it doesn’t have to. It may consist of a purely aesthetic enterprise, a project of technique. Rhetorical postmodernism makes use of collage, pastiche, shifting points of view, genre confusion, lists, disrupted chronologies, and the intermingling of media. Think literary fiction with pictures between the covers (e.g., Ondaatje’s Coming Through Slaughter, Safran Foer’s oeuvre, Sebald’s The Emigrants—though I’d hear arguments for the postmodern philosophy of these novels as well). There’s little gravity in the world of rhetorical postmodernism—everything floats to the surface. In other words, rhetorical postmodernism is paper-thin; you usually know it when you see it.

Funny Cartoon

Juan on Juan

Strange day when the three-point shootout becomes more enthralling than the dunk contest.

Makes me wonder about the mystique of slam-dunking in this age of Internet highlights and stolen sex tapes. The Tomahawk, the 360, the Windmill—they come in spades now. All of us are a wifi away from every dunk contest since Naismith started slamming peaches. Shit, two clicks and I can watch Adam dunk on Eve with God calling the play-by-play.

To rescue All-Star Saturday night, we needn’t add Kobe, Vince, and LeBron to the dunk menu. If we did, we’d only see Kobe, Vince, and LeBron do the same dunks we’ve watched before—the same dunks we store on laptops and send to friends. The shootout enthralled, I think, because it's not the stuff of youtube and Internet video. Nobody hits jump shots in cyberspace.

“But what about Dwight’s sticker, Tragic, wasn’t that sick”? For half a second, maybe, but then just juvenile. He decaled the glass, so what? I guess that’s what happens when jocks jump from junior-high to the NBA. They still expect star charts and scratch-‘n-sniff to matter.



Then, there was the scoring. TNT tried to arrange an Academy of dunk judges: Dr. J, Jordan, Dominique, Vince, and Kobe—a group of guys with doctorates in dunking. But, a funny thing happened on the way to the Thomas & Mack Center. The rim-rocking collective morphed into Paul Abdul, Simon Cowell, and the other guy. Everyone remembered that the science of dunk-judging is fallible and supremely stupid. It’s no different from fans voting in the starters or picking out the next American idol.

I hated all of the props. Dwight’s decal, the cardboard cutout of Nate Robinson, Gerald Green’s table—this wasn’t a dunk contest but a high-school talent show. I expected Tyrus Thomas to juggle chainsaws, swallow fire, or do card tricks. Someone teach these guys the difference between gimmicks and creativity.

Maybe if Green ditched the Dee Brown jersey and dunked in Jordan’s coat, I’d be moved. Seriously, has any article of clothing so evoked cash like Jordan’s jacket? The leather looked dyed in Saudi oil and sprinkled with Angolan diamonds. I swear there were poker chips and stock options spilling from his sleeves.

The most exciting thing about Saturday night was the Bavetta-Barkley race. So, make that the model for All Star Saturday competitions: a tournament of one-on-one games between the game’s best. Match Kobe and Wade, LeBron and ‘Melo, Marion and Dirk. Let Brand bang with Boozer and Paul guard Parker. You could break it down into positions or just let the wheat rise to the top. No judges or referees need apply.

Game to eleven, ones and twos.

Oops of the Day

Today's oops comes from sideline reporter Sandy Williams in Atlanta.

Reminds me of the time I was asked about working with JLo in Out of Sight.

Daredevil Like Kenivel

Full disclosure: I'm a Lakers fan. I have been and will be and if that's not appealing to you...well, that actually must be appealing. My team: galvanizing, entertaining, Showtime - much like Britney Spears at a date auction, you can't help but watch.

I have a lot of Lakers memories, but my favorite came in the summer of '00. It's the end of my freshman year of college. I'm out in time for the completion of the playoffs. I'm in LA. The Lakers, well, they're coming together: Phil's working his magic; Kobe and Shaq are gelling; we've beaten the Kings, the Suns, and have only to get past the Blazers to reach the NBA finals.

But the Blazers, they don't go gently - after winning games five and six of the WCF they're suddenly up big going into the fourth quarter of game seven. Scottie's pounding his chest. Rasheed's bouncing around. Paul Allen's watching anime. And then this happens:



Brian Shaw hits a three. Kobe throws a lob to Shaq. The Lakers win the series, go on to win the championship - the first of three - and the Blazers settle for another half-century of mediocrity.

I remember watching this game with (what I thought was) a good friend from high school. That friend, as revealed via a bit of online snooping, was recently married (that's distinctly not him above). I did not receive a wedding invitation. Nor, I'll add, did my co-author here at MRYBA, also an old friend of the character in question. Several less colorful characters from those days were invited.

How do I feel about this obvious oversight? I'm bitter. I hope the bridegroom runs into Ron Artest's great dane with a bag of cheeseburgers in his hand, has his car and extensive blue film collection "borrowed" by Eddie Griffin, and mentions that he was moved by Brokeback Mountain in front of that loser Tim Hardaway. Karmic bungee-jumping, that.

Some Valentine Viewing

The embedded NBA correspondent, Elie Seckbach, has Valentine's Day gift ideas from the Association's own. See the video here.

Recently traded swingman Eric Williams offers my favorite words of the reel: "If your wife is so busy waiting for gifts on Valentine's Day, what about the other twelve months of the year?" What about those other months, Eric? May Charlotte bless you with calendars and playing time, friend.

Speaking of correspondents, I bring advanced notice of our own embedded reporter, Mark Alarie Tower, who will be covering the chaos in Las Vegas this weekend. Mark was better known as the "Tower of Power," a feared and ferocious dunker in the early '90s. Expect more Tomahawks and Windmills from him this weekend.

A Cry for Help

Like many, I travel, on occasion, by plane, and I think we can all agree that if there’s a single unbearable aspect of air travel these days – among the food, lack of legroom, and general indulgence in tacky upholstery – it’s the new DHS mandate that toiletries (or at least some subset of them too diverse to ever possibly remember) be stored in a clear quart-sized Ziploc bag. Several months ago, having concluded a flight, I reached my destination only to discover that in the process of trying to minimize my toiletry load I’d left my razor at home. A bummer, that, to be sure. For years now I’ve been on the Mach 3 plan, tantamount to the sacrifice of my 401K for a clean shave. How disheartened I was, then, to realize that, due to my oversight, not only would I be continuing to buy five dollar razor blades, but that I would also now be re-investing in the “technology” that makes them go.

All of which is to set the stage for the extreme pleasure I experienced the following morning when, after waking, I discovered lying unopened on my host’s kitchen counter a Gilette Fusion razor he’d recently received in the mail. (What it is that’s been fused I have no idea.) Can I have this? It’s yours. Done. Problem solved. No reinvestment, and, better still, an even closer shave (five blades, not three).

Why tell this story? To call attention to the plight of one Vladimir Radmanovic. NBA players, so far as I know, travel frequently by plane. I can only assume that the DHS regulations, being as esoteric as they are, are the reason Radmanovic has been unable to shave since he signed a free-agent contract with the Lakers last summer. What else could possibly explain why this poor-man’s Tim Thomas, who once looked like Darko’s big brother, now looks like he just finished shooting a Mel Gibson movie. Can someone get this man a free sample?

Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

I’ve been working the comments section over at Free Darko recently. The ninth comment on today’s post from Bethlehem Shoals resonated for me, and I wanted to quote it here. It’s from someone named “Anonymous” in “Ciudad, USA.” Seems to me fruit for a larger discussion, so I’m quoting Anonymous at length:

The only empirically provable contribution to race and class that sports viewing has ever given me is the ability to talk with a complete stranger about how Player X is doing. I read this website because I like to read literate people talking about how the game can be improved. I find that the forays into divining the social implications of basketball are usually failures, but noble failures. The discussion, however, is a huge positive that should not be underestimated. Discussing the sport has tremendous social implications when someone on "your" team is from another race or class, thus contributing to a shared identity which transcends race or class.

It can transcend sport when someone like Magic Johnson contracts AIDS, and then people start having debates about this problem in a public way, adding to public knowledge, and improving the perceived status of an individual AIDS patient, who is now no longer considered Satan's spawn.

Anonymous articulates what we might call the politics of the bartender (or the father-in-law, as I’m told). Basketball allows us to converse with folks of diverse races and different economic brackets; it provides a shared topic of conversation when all other areas of social life fail. Bartenders and their patrons may live in different sections of town, sleep in varying degrees of thread count, and disagree about the merits of organic produce. Yet, assuming they both like hoops, there’s still enough gasoline to get through the first beer without stalling. Basketball, like pick-up lines and the weather, begets conversation and, when we’re lucky, community.

In the second paragraph, Anonymous points out something else. Basketball is not only the subject of and fuel for conversation but sometimes the vehicle as well. On occasion, the game drives us into unexplored territories of chatter and, at its best, forces us to (re)consider what was previously unknown. The example of Magic and HIV is perfect. Try to recall how the view of AIDS looked as we sped toward disaster in the 80s; now, with Magic in our collective rearview mirror, the orientation of the discussion includes less—for Americans at least—daunting hazards.

From where I sit, bloggers must take on some responsibility for towing the league into new arenas of conversation. By towing the league, however, I don’t mean towing for the league; enough gap-toothed bassists do that already. With corporate gloss and sponsorship footing the bill, the league wouldn’t dare follow the direction of free-thinking bloggers and critics anyway. But so what? Players don’t have to talk politics to get political, and we don’t have to serve as chauffeurs to drive discussion. There is a community of bloggers, readers, and fans who welcomes the stimulating juxtaposition of hoops and hopes, nylon and news, pump-fakes and pop-culture. We don’t need to wait on the Magics and the Mutombos to lead us through the jungle of ideas, current events, and issues of social importance. Nor do we need the Gilberts and Lebrons to discover silliness and whimsy.

The game might be our Bible, yes, but does it need dogma and reverence too?

Right now, there are a lot of blogs desperate to initiate (maintain?) a conversation about the NBA and race. The problem is, I think, the conversation died in 1992, when Billy Hoyle finally caught Sidney Deane’s oop-pass and Gloria found a new boyfriend. We learned that white dudes can’t hear Jimmie, black guys prefer African flags tattooed on the backboard, and “quince” is a food that begins with the letter “Q.”

Now, I don’t mean there’s nothing left to say about race and basketball; I’ll continue to listen every time a member of our community writes something in that vein. And, as long as race remains a category of discrimination and oppression, there’s plenty more to write.

That said, the conversation is starting to sound a lot like echoed variations on the same theme: black bodies + white ownership + corporate media = racism in the NBA. How many ways can we talk of irony in Austen? After awhile, critics lose the nuance. Admittedly, the community of socially-responsible, literate NBA bloggers (it only takes a few to make a community) might be too small to think we’re loud enough to quit talking race. But, then again, maybe it’s not a question of volume.

The conversation about race in the NBA chokes, I believe, because we’ve refused to recognize the international reach and global identity of today’s Association. We aren’t split into Billys and Sidneys anymore; we have Bostjans and Slavas now. White guys might not jump, but Chinese players swat shots, Croatians hit the long ball, and Brazilians beat us all down the court. To continue discussing the league in the same black-and-white terms smacks of American provincialism and city-on-the-hill specialness.

Frankly, it also doesn’t make a lick of sense. Is Boris Diaw black? What about Barbosa? Can we fairly call Gordan Giricek white? If race is given meaning by shared history, tradition, and cultural practice, then I’m not sure Diaw and Deane belong in the same racial category. I’d love it for someone to drop dimes and Diaspora together in an article, but until then, I’m not hearing it.

I’m also not hearing arguments from effete intellectuals about the diminishment of player autonomy in the NBA. Eight figure salaries stuffed in a three-piece suit do not compel me when framed as an issue of violated workers’ rights. Likewise, botched nose jobs in Orange County don’t compel me as illustrations of poor health-care.

We’d do better by focusing the international scope of the NBA into a conversation about ethnicity, geopolitics, and the global economy. Ask Barbosa if kids in his old neighborhood now make sneakers for Steve Nash and how much they earn in doing so. Bother Yao about why government censorship won’t allow Chinese browsers to read this post. Use Giricek and Bostjan to dialogue about the Balkans and what the hell happened there. Tap Caron for a perspective on white privilege in U.S. criminal justice. Question Okur on Turkishness and why his country has a penal code protecting its denigration.

In other words, start a conversation about something we haven’t heard before.

If we can drink in a Beijing bar and discuss hoops like next-door neighbors with the locals, it might help to know a little something about their lives as well. If nothing else, know how to say “make it a double” in Chinese.

Bienvenidos a Another Boring Contest

Apparently there's another big game Sunday in addition to the Hawks-Nets. Who am I rooting for? The commercials. Who am I rooting against? Peyton Manning.

If you suspected that Manning has always been a huge whiner, well, you're right:



And it's not the whining that's surprising, it's that he was combing-over so young! Plus I can't stand Marvin Harrison's moustache and generally frown on football teams that play indoors. So, the pick: Bears, 118-109. You say that looks like a basketball score? I say football would be a lot better if it was basketball.

(Video thanks: themightymjd.)

Spinning Balls

The Knickerbockers of New York and the Bobcats of Charlotte played a game of basketball on Wednesday night. Bobcat forward Gerald Wallace made the headlines for scoring 42 points in what was a thoroughly average athletic contest. Average, I should say, except for one magical moment.

In my years on this planet, I've logged a lot of hours watching the game of basketball. My first words weren't "momma" or "dadda" or "milk"; they were "sky-hook." Which is all to say, I have never seen this happen before. The ball spins like a flicked quarter on the flat part of the rim and then stops.

Harp Playing

Sometimes it's worth remembering just how smooth Harp was.

More Bynum

Following in the great tradition of our favorite comedic actor, Phil Jackson displays some of his own method skills.

Kobe Suspended?

Latest news from the Association finds Kobe Bryant suspended for one game, the result of an elbow to Manu Ginobili’s face at the end of Sunday’s contest. You can watch the play here. (Isn’t youtube God’s greatest gift to sports fans with office jobs?) Bryant believes the elbow was unintentional and expressed disbelief about the league’s decision to suspend him. “I'm blown away by it,” rapped number 24, “it makes no sense.”

From my impartial corner of Lakerdom, I’d have to rule in favor of Mr. Bryant. If anything, Kobe barely grazed Ginobili’s face on the play; more than likely, we witnessed yet another instance of the Manu flop, a blatant charade by one of the league’s wimpiest performance artists. As diehard Lakers fan Jack Nicholson told me over cocktails last night, “Somebody needs to teach that rat-face South American how to take a punch. I’d like to rip his balls off and feed them to the poor. I’d say the same thing about Tony Parker and that squirrel he calls his girlfriend too.”

When asked about the suspension, former coach and current announcer Hubie Brown said, “What you have in a Manu Ginobili is an actor best known for his role as Balki Bartokomous on Perfect Strangers. He’s managed to integrate the acting in his role as a Spur, but he struggles to define himself as anything other than a dork. In a word, he sucks.”

Doing my best to bring you the news. More to follow as it comes in—stay tuned.

Your Antonia

So, we lost—beaten and blocked by an Argentine nose. A serious punch for a serious nose. Whatever, with Lamar coming back, I expected a few bumps before the triangle goes nuts in March. Plan on a seven game series in June.

In case you needed another reason to hate Antonia Parker, here’s something I scooped off the AP wire, which, I should add, is always left on in my house:

“As Eva Longoria makes her way down the red carpet, people keep stepping on the long train of her dress, prompting a chorus of "Sorry!". Later, she's joined by fiancé Tony Parker, who raced across town to join her after his Spurs beat the Lakers in overtime.”

I guess that means TP wasn’t upset because his team didn’t win in regulation but because the game kept his lady-friend (does plastic have a gender?) waiting. Assume he’s grounded until the wrinkles are ironed out of her dress. Assume he’s struggling to explain “overtime” in English. Assuming he's drinking a Shirley Temple, with two cherries, at the SAG Awards.

Assume he’s not playing in June…at least not playing basketball. Footsie, maybe, but definitely not basketball.

Andrew Bynum: Sunday Delight

With the Lakers set to square off against the Spurs this afternoon, we're sure to hear a lot of talk from ABC's - excuse me, ESPN on ABC's - crew about Kobe's awesome year, Lamar's return, Tim Duncan's pout, er, fundamentals, Tony Parker's twerpy girlfriend, and Manu Ginobili's MPB.

But we here at MRYBA, well, we don't mind casting the spotlight on the little guys - or, when it comes to Andrew Bynum, the big ass dudes who don't get a whole lot of attention.

Bynum: You may remember him from last season when he showed down with Shaq on MLK day and the aged Diesel flipped out. Well this year, Bynum's been great - when he hasn't been terrorizing Sasha Vujacic, getting crushed on by Jordan Farmar, or mocking referees, he's put up solid numbers replacing injured Lakers Chris Mihm, Kwame Brown, and Odom (including an 11 point, 16 board, 7 block outing in Friday's loss to the Bobcats). Much has been made of Bynum's apprenticeship with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and the old stoner's influence certainly seems to be paying dividends.

The Art of the Jam

I've always taken dunking for granted - something to do when my jumper, which is like a lay-up, isn't working. But hearing Vince Carter talk about it in this clip made me appreciate it (and him) a bit more.