Protected: Oh, Here Go Hell Come

“I Gotta Say, It Was A Good Day”

my soul brother

As you probably know, I’ve long aspired to be a young black rapper from the wrong side of the tracks. Naturally, then, I gravitate to the lyrics of once-hardcore West Coast lyricist Ice Cube and his famous couplet:

Today I didn’t even have to use my AK

I gotta say it was a good day

I relate said life mantra to you because A) today has, in the words of my favorite Jersey guidos, “sucked dick for Skittles” and B) because I feel like me and Cube hold, as of May 6, a comparable standard of what constitutes a “good day”.

Let me paint this picture for you. I’m here. In my parents’ ghetto-fab home in the Gables kickin it with my father, who’s cool enough to be blasting my favorite Pavement record on his newly renovated turntable (TAKE THAT, CLEANING WOMAN!). He’s looking at apartments in Brickell for me – making up for talking my f*cking ear off – as I sit here absorbing La Jefa’s chicken and potatoes by pecking away at the only piece of electronic equipment that hasn’t totally failed me this weekend (my SIM card is rotting in hell. I don’t have your number. Text me with your name).

Sounds great. And it would be if the house feigned even the tiniest semblance of civilized living condition. This little piece of information – that our lil fortress apparently got hit by an aimless bomb –  had escaped me in the last three or so weeks of attritional partying, but it became blindingly obvious as soon as I rolled up to Alegriano Ave., like a Beverly Hillbilly, in a cardboard box-crammed Land Cruiser.

Seriously, the house is a disaster – half ripped up floors, backyard gravel, no-Ingles speaking construction workers and small mountains of miscellaneous furniture-stuffs. Renovation is a bitch. As is limbo.

Whatevs. Love the fam, but I’m currently feeling not unlike the guy who decides to hit the airline bathroom right before the captain turns on the fastened seatbelt sign for Almost Famous-style turbulence. Which is to say: claustrophobic, anxious, wondering why I ever moved from my [metaphoric] seat in the first place.

I want to be in Gainesville right now. Badly. On the bright side, today I didn’t have to use my AK…

Deep breath. Brooks Brothers sale tomorrow (I’ll send pics of me “Drapering that shit” if you’re lucky), new SIM card, new apartment. Same faintly heartsick longing. I feel you, Cube.

Boxes: Red and Cardboard

Home, suckers

So it’s Transition Week here in the 352. I’m moving to Miami on Thursday, packing, procrastinating, gearing up for an epic game of HORSE, trying to find an apartment – a swank-ass bachelor pad in the Bay – and attempting (in vain, I think) to forge last-second friendships with people I’ll probably end up talking to a grand total of 5 times combined the rest of my life.

This is why my last post was literally 5 words. This is also why my first paragraph was a giant run-on sentence. Block paragraphs make it look like I’m neglecting you less. Smoke and mirrors, people.

But since we’re here –  I may or may not have just woken up/I may or may not be half asleep/I may or may not be sitting on the floor caved-in by cardboard boxes – I thought I’d knock out a few tids and bits that’d been on my mind recently. Needless to say, this will be half of the halfest-ass post you’ve ever read. But then again, we’re doing things differently here at SC. I’m a real human being now. I have a real job. And I’ll have to tan twice as hard to impress the heightened crop of talent waiting for me on South Beach.

If somebody wants to buy me a smart phone, I can blog while I’m crushing it seaside with some faintly Eastern European smokeshow trying to land a modeling contract. Otherwise, I’m ramping down SC. Just for the time being. Thought I should tell you now. So you can start coping with that massive hole in your heart.

This paragraph I’ll dedicate to Miami resident/All-Around Hotdog (seriously, he’s like the white Ochocinco, but with smaller hands) Phil Kates and his all-of-a-sudden-title-favorite Miami Heat… Damn. I mean, did you ever see the first battle sequence in Gladiator? The one where the overpowering Roman army manhandles a scrappy bunch of Germanic misfits with a hailstorm of huge fireballs and asskickery? I did, too, and didn’t look noticeably different from what Dwyane Wade did to the Celtics backcourt on Saturday.

ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!

With respect to Ray “Watch THIS” Allen and his old-is-just-a-concept barrage of everywhere three-pointers, Wade – 14 for 21, 38 effortless points, a dazzling, under-duress bank shot at the 2nd quarter buzzer – was by far the best, most aggressive player on a court graced by four other shoe-in Hall of Famers.

PK bitched afterward about LeBron’s hesitancy taking the ball to the hoop. We both agree if this were high school ball and we were coaches, we’d sit LJ’s ass every time he shot from beyond 22-feet… We’d then be forced to burn a timeout to put him in on the very next possession because A) he’s LeBron Effing James and B) he’s a gamechanger on the defensive end even when he’s jacking one-handed threes from half-court. D wins rings. LeBron doesn’t. SOMETHING’S GOT TO GIVE!

About 14 months ago, I wrote a long spiel about how Oklahoma City and Memphis would be the dual centers of the NBA universe come 2015. Seriously. Read this:

(By the way, what were the odds in 1986 that two of the three best NBA teams in 2015 would be playing in Oklahoma City and Memphis? A million to one? A billion to one? What, you’re not ready to go there…?)

January 22, 2010

Now the basis for my enthusiasm over the Grizz basically boiled down to the then-enticing combo of Rudy Gay/OJ Mayo (FAIL), but I was also ahead of the curb on the Randolph/Gasol tandem which, if you haven’t noticed, comprises the best and biggest front court in the league. Would you trade that pair straight up for the higher-profile, more expensive Boozer/Noah? I wouldn’t. What about Anthony/Ilgauskas?

Just kidding.

On a separate note, JOE JOHNSON IS ALIVE! And earning his max contract. I don’t know how this happened. I mean, usually when the Hawks make the first 10 minutes of SportsCenter, it’s because they fell asleep in the first half, lost by 40 in the “biggest home defeat since ____”, and threatened the 8,000 in attendance with Josh Smith’s soul-piercing stink eye. Now they’re a legitimate Finals team. Don’t look at me. Seriously, Josh… don’t look at me.

I got a text from Bryan Holt last night. “The Rock is back.” The bigger news: Bryan Holt escaped his captors.

And finally, I was forced against my will to watch the RedBox selection Splice, a gruesome little sci-fi horror starring Adrien Brody’s nose and a girl that looks like Julianne Moore… And an alien… a horny, oft-nude, bi-sexual, eff-anything-that-moves, kinda-looks-like a cancerous Cameron Diaz, cloned, terrestrial alien.

Brody had lots of graphic sex with it, which is notable because I think he once won an Oscar for starring in a Holocaust movie. Actually I’m sure of it… Hey, here’s an idea: why doesn’t Brody team up with Halle Berry, Nic Cage, and Roberto Benigni in a low-budget flick about destroying promising careers. The whole movie could just be the four taking turns shooting each other in the foot.

Now, a photo essay:

The clone.

The clone of the clone.

The original.

Last night I coined the term “lil frumpster mcgee”. Use it as you see fit.

Prez wants to know…

… what YOU did this weekend.

This is a runner’s world (we’re all just living in it)

Hero to many in Gainesville

The hair curling heat strikes Gainesville every year come approximately mid-April, which is good (because I’m getting the eff out of Dodge) and bad (because this summer I’ll miss the no. 1 reason to be in Gainesville in the first place – the education hot girls in short shorts).

These are the types of exercisers I can live with: the pretty girls who “run” like crippled ducklings, but look so attractive in their pile-up-on-75 failings you can’t help but admire this thing of pyrrhic beauty. This, of course, does not mean Sorority Girl X fully escapes my how-to ire, but we’ll get to her in a second so as not to jump the [starting] gun.

I think most “runners” are ridiculous – in their too-tight Dri-Fit Nike gear, in their Richard Simmonsian stretching routines, in the way they describe themselves as runners when really they’re just lazy-asses who sprint to catch the bus three times a week.

But I guess it’s the routine and show of bullshittery that accompanies the actual physical dredge that deserves the most ribbing. Just three weeks ago, I found myself in a non-ironic discussion of runner’s high with a homely, middle-aged scholar type who best resembles an early ’90s Jaromir Jagr in terms of transcendent mullet performance. It’s clear to me, as it would be clear to you, that if this person ever experienced a serious runner’s phase, it probably lasted between two and three months in a pre-Cyndi Lauper civilization.

So the matter-of-fact assertion that “runner’s high doesn’t kick in till the fourth mile” struck me as a somewhat precarious given A) its dependence on memory and B) it’s portly source. I’ve long assumed this euphoric daze of endorphin-induced exhilaration saved itself for Kenyans crushing it in the second hour of the Boston Marathon… not minute 40 of a doc candidates’ leisurely post-study jog-walk.

But what do I know? Everybody’s different. Maybe said rush of blood to the head is in fact product of your time-honored show of masterbatorial flaunting otherwise known as the “pre-run stretch.” Seriously, I’ve seen bikram yoga routines with less extremity finagling. There’s the calf stretching and the ankle caressing and the achilles maneuvers and the shoulder clasping (even though facial hair seemingly plays as big a role as the latter).

It’s 93 degrees. It feels like a Vietnamese sweat shop outside. Your rocking black leggings and multiple headbands. Want to warm up? Here’s an idea: START RUNNING.

These weirdos salute you

Then again, the long-stretchers are usually the one’s facing the shortest haul. I see this up close all the time at the park across the street – amateur pavement pushers performing, in pairs (usually two sorority girls), a long series of synchronized acrobatics to prep for the four 1/8 mile laps around the trust-me-it’s-exactly-as-long-as-you-think short-track pond loop.

That’s another running peeve of mine – runners consistently fudging distances based on some vague mental conception of a football field they once jogged or that “3-mile neighborhood loop I used to skate when I was 7″.

You did 6 miles today? Really? On your first day? Who are you, Roger F*cking Bannister?

And have you seen these new toe shoes? I did once. In a vision of hell. They are to the amateur runner what the nut-hugging Lance-inspired Postal Service © gear is to the weekend joy rider: namely, a consumerist sham designed to separate you from the tiny speck of dignity you possessed before picking up casual athletics. You want to be more “aerodynamic”? Hell, shave off all your body hair and start riding naked. You’ll save money and look equally respectable.

I seriously hope a rogue piece of glass doesn’t slice off  the tip of your left toe, temporarily shelving your career as the next Carl Lewis as you show off your way-too-big for the injury boot while insisting “it’s a lot worse than it looks. could be nerve damage.”

The runner’s facade wearies me in the same way the 1/2-mile stroll wearies the fraudulent runner. He or she should feel free to pursue this farcical hobby in the confines of a dark space. But please, my incompetent brethren, lower the preening peacock feathers. You look borderline retarded.