Thursday, January 11, 2007
Friday, December 08, 2006
All Hibachi
Friday, November 03, 2006
GAME 1
I haven't posted anything here in a minute. Some may say that's because I'm lazy, and they may be correct, but in reality, I am trying my best to fully ingest the Gilbert coverage that was so unbelivably fucking awesome that I cannot function properly. Rather than post on each of these brilliant stories, I will simply give them new names and from now on, refer to them in that manner.
1. Gospel: This is the Esquire article where Gilbert is famously profiled doing incredibly Gilbertian things. It has been almost over-blogged about, but simply cannot be overstated, no matter how much its been stated.
2. Job: Mike Wise's jaw-dropping personal profile of the gawd, front page of the post and two full spreads in the middle. Complete redemption for Wise, who has written countless lame wiz related columns including the "comedy" from the 2005 playoffs, and last year's infamous suggestion to trade Major Daniels and More than an Athlete for "a 20 and 10 power forward." That power forward? The world may never know...
3. Job 2: Mise Wise's part II follows Gilbert into Barry Farms where he parks his Lamborghini and balls. Gush away.
4. The Bible: Who better to detail Gilbert than Gilbert himself. Basically better than any blog evar.
So after these three, the ESPN the Magazine jawn, the Slam cover, etc., it's enough Gilbert to make you sick. So right on cue, the gawd stinks up the Q in the season debut. Called for a few suspect charges in the beginning, Gil was tentative about taking it to the hole and his shot was ice-cold all night. But he did contribute 11 assists, showing his gangsta in was that Lebron's wimpy ass (5 turnovers) doesn't. Interesting how the game was broadcast on ESPN, which was sponsored by the Nike "Lebrons" ad campaign. Could it be the referees fixing the outcome to benefit the sponsors? hmmm, maybe I am just too salty at Anderson Varejao, the 2007 Andres Nocioni-award winner for least effective flopping tool (who happens to be from a country other than the United States). Somebody needs to simultaneously dunk on him, clasp their legs over that stupid-ass fro and backflip, ripping each gay curl from its origin. Of course then he might draw an offensive foul.
Things I liked:
1. Jarvis was gunning--missing--but gunning.
2. Etan Thomas. A statement game. Dredd was prominent in the paint and owned Drew Gooden on two blocks. Of course he sat the entire fourth quarter meltdown, but still...
3. Steals, fast breaks, layups.
Things I didn't like:
1. Larry Hughes
2. Uncontested drives through the lane in the fourth quarter
3. The final result.
Oh well. there is always Saturday Night, where I will be representing, close to the action in the baller section. You will recognize me.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Where to place the blame.
While the rest of the country mourns the ultimately unsuccessful run of Team USA, many have failed to place blame where it belongs. The fact is that this squad of mostly nascient "Dream Team two-ers" and their failed attempt to assert themselves as the pre-eminence of basketball remains a failure for its highly-regarded coach Mike Krzyzewski. Many a ESPN soft-focus piece has been directed towards this tacit jack-ass of a coach and his "direction" of this team of vagabonds, eschewing such thug-types as Iverson and pushing for a supposed return to old-school ideals and heartened patriotism. With a result similar to their last international competition, the supposed ideals that he was supposed to instill were lost when a hot-shooting Greek squad began sinking threes at an alarming rate. It was back to the third spot on the podium for the Americans and suddenly the questions evaporated. Can't blame Kobe, who watched from his Sprite commercial couch, or Gilbert, who the genius coach ousted.
Friday, August 25, 2006
AMMUNITION
Friday, August 18, 2006
New Zealand point guard aims to take down Americans
[Japan] Much of the news surrounding the FIBA World cup has been about the United States team and their return to form after several dissapointments at the hand of international competition. However, the FIBA stage is also a place where smaller, less prominent countries look to establish themselves as legitimate homes of roundball. Hoping to emerge from this pool of smaller countries is New Zealand, and happy to lead them there is their floor general and self-proclaimed "President," Treblig Sanera. The Auckland native, who made the team after a surprise tryout, has been raising eyebrows with both his play and his undying desire to exact what he deems as revenge against that pre-eminent foe in the United States.
"Fuck those clowns," said the very vocal Sanera, "they may lead the league in TV appearances, but we'll see what happens when you snub agent-uh-four." Sanera was likely referring to the method in which New Zealand was completely ignored by American players like Dwyane Wade, who when asked to point out New Zealand on a map, had to stop saluting and to point to the map's compass. "Those dudes never gave me a chance and now I will show them," added the 6'3" combo point who posesses a lethal three pointer and fearless basket-driving abilities.
Many are not projecting the Kiwis to emerge out of their competition group, but they know that with Sanera in tow, anything is possible. Sanera for one is ready for the challenge. "I went to the playoffs with Brendan Haywood playing major minutes, you think I can't roll with these boomerang-throwin dudes?" said Sanera, whose game he says, resembles no ones. "I haven't slept a wink since this tournament started, when I think about the Americans, its all "head shots" when I play Halo."
With a matchup with the US looming later in the competition, the competitive fire burns bright in the young New Zealand point guard, who reserves a special amount of hatred for the American coach, Mike Kryzecxiytyeri. "Coach K? Flag-waving bitch. I roll with Etan Thomas and Dave Zirin, I know that parading a group of wounded muhfuckas in front of me is no inspiration, its propagation."
After the tournament, Sanera plans on finally completing a film project he has been working on, involving parapelegics and basketball. "It's a Felini-esque commentary on the state of youth in this advertising age," said Sanera.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The moviehouses across America have been recently showing the provacative new dance movie entitled "Step Up." I had the pleasure of viewing this film last night and I found the results were quite prototypical of the recent new wave of "Dance Flicks Staring White People" or DFSW. Other movies in the esteemed DFSW cannon include "Honey," "Save the Last Dance," et. al. These flicks are basically paint-by-numbers: guy from the wrong side of the tracks is actually a dancer (homo?), girl with the upright upbringing needs a dance partner, they butt heads, eventually fall in love and bust-dat-ass on the dance floor! Insert a montage here, a sidekick there, a disproving parent here, a sprinkle of racial tension, urban blight thrown in and voila--box office gold. Step Up holds down all of these aspects quite well--in an MD (OLD LINE STATE WHAT!) setting no less--ending predictably and crowd-pleasing-ly. The film stars the white dude from Coach Carter, ne Channing Tatum, a dude with two preppy white first names and one mean WWA (Wigger With an Attitude) disposition. The former model (aren't they all) ice grills throughout, and slinks his rather large frame into pop-lock routines with male-stripper like dexterity (this is getting gayer by the word). Anyways, WWA gets busted for being a badass and is relegated to working community service at the prestigious Maryland Art School in the Ghetto, where dudes in corn-rows play the violin and other youth stereotypes paint and otherwise express their inner specialness. Aww, sounds like the perfect place for WWA to express his lock-pops, slide in between the girls legs moves and bad dialouge reading, right!? You guessed it. He eventually hooks up with butta-faced dance major (aren't they all?) and they end up meshing his too-hood dances with her bare-foot-gay stylings to create THE PERFECT DANCE ROUTINE.
So blah blah blah about the plot, lets get to the analysis. WWA stumbles upon pretty much all of his lines (upon hearing about the butta-faced chick's dad he succinctly adds, "Sounds like a cool dude." HOOD!), and forces out a few hilarious tears during an unnecessary and predictable death scene. Mario brings his enormous nostrils to the set to play the talented producer-songwriter-Diddy whose secret genius comes to the forefront with impromptu hot beat sessions. (WTF @ these jams, dude just carries his G4 all over hood-ass bmore so he can plug up and hold down a concert!?! With choreographed dance routines no less!?!? I think Hollywood is convinced we are retarded.) Mario's performance is predictably laughable, as his pointy-ass dome barely registers any of the emotion he put forth in the "Let me Love you" video. He fails to fill Tyrese's wife beater here. Special props go to Ms. Drew Sidora, the lovely side-chick who looks simply delectible, completely out-shining her butta-faced compadre, who really didn't impress me (where's Allison from So You Think You Can Dance when you need her? BTW: Ryan (the gay black balet dude) from SYTYCD appears in the intro. And BBTW--speaking of reality television, Ashlee Simpson's dickhead boyfriend from the first season is also in this, as a dickhead boyfriend no less.
Now that i have written close to 500 of the gayest words to ever be placed in a blog, I wanted to relay that the reason this movie didn't put me to sleep was the inauspicious cameo of Frank-"TOUCHDOWN WASHINGTON REDSKINS"-Herzog as a judge. The man's voice triggers tear-ducts in me (watching the '87 Doug Williams Super Bowl highlight makes me cry EVERY DAMN TIME), and seeing him get his due on the big screen ruled, especially after he was rather unceremoniously dumped in favor of Larry Michael (granted, Frank was botching a lot of names and the booth really only had room for two geriatrics).
Step Up: ** (an extra star for including Frank)