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November 30, 2005
It’s a movie poster for “The Iraq War.” We see soldiers in the background. In front of them we see coffins draped with the American flag. In the foreground, we see heroic headshots of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice etc.
Beneath, we see the credits: “Iraq War” Starring: George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Condaleeza Rice, Karl Rove, 100,000 troops. A Cheney-Wolfowitz Production. Directed by: No One.
BASED ON AN UNTRUE STORY.
I’m trying to work it up with an art director friend. When we have a reasonable prototype, I’ll post it here.
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Posted on 11/30/2005
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November 28, 2005
Saw Antonioni’s “The Passenger”, starring the young Jack Nicholson. I was transfixed by by the long silent stunning shots of the North African Desert and 1970s Barcelona and by the evocation of an era in which serious themes (identity, political revolution, love) could be addressed in an unhurried, open-ended, cumulatively powerful manner by filmmakers who didn’t feel the need to perpetually entertain us or tell us what to feel. I was acutely aware, in watching it, how much the world had changed since it came out. There was, for example, an extended shot of the existentially dislocated Jack Nicholson and the lovely Maria Schneider together in a hotel room and, as I watched it, I couldn’t help thinking that, viewed through the prism of modern consciousness, the film’s deep existential spell would be broken by the outline of Maria Schneider’s inexcusably visible panty line. Call me old fashioned, but I was moved by this memory of a time in the world when there were things that seemed more important than the proper concealment of an undergarment.
As I mentioned, I was deeply moved by the film. But, in truth, I’m not sure how much of it was for reasons intrinsic to the film (although I do think it was quite good, particularly the extraordinary final tracking shot) and how much of it was due to fact that I was watching the film after a thirty year interval—an extra-filmic condition that triggered all kinds of early adolescent memories and made me acutely aware of the passage of my own life.
This reminds me of my feelings about the Richard Linklater sequel, “Before Sunset.” So much of the power of that film derived from the irreduceable, extra-filmic fact that not only had the actors actually aged 10 years since the antecedent film, but the audience had as well.. Hence the actual passage of that 10 years of lived life was inscribed in the viewing experience, giving it a uniquely real power and gravitas--sort of like the 28/7-Up films by Michael Apted. I think this extrinsic reality (and the associated specular narcissism of the viewer), helped account for the huge critical response to the film. Time itself was the co-star along with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delphy.
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Posted on 11/28/2005
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November 25, 2005
For Thanksgiving, I went up with some friends to my mother’s place in rural Connecticut, She lives in a modest, artfully appointed house in a charmed, "pinch-me-I’m dreaming" setting. Not only is it a lakefront home on a secluded backwoods country road, but it abuts a 2000 acre property, owned and vigilantly protected by a wealthy conservationist neighbor. (They are like the luckiest serfs on the lord’s manner.) A morning snow had covered the ground, outlined the trees and lent the already breathtaking vista a hushed magnificence. Before the other guests arrived for the feast, my friends and I took a long walk along the unpeopled road, As we got to the top of a gently ascending bend, we stopped and looked back at what appeared to be a dreamscape. In front of us: A huge field of white, peppered with patches of spring green grass. To our left, a tree-lined lake, smooth as glass. And beyond it, snow-covered hills as far as the eye could see. As we turned, in the complete absence of human sound, to contemplated the wonder of the mute world and the evidence of our smallness in the order of things, our minds were attuned to a single shared thought, ultimately given voice by my friend Loren: “I wonder who’s winning the Detroit-Atlanta game.”
Actually, (half-truths exploited for comedic effect notwithstanding), the scene also brought to mind (despite the absence of wind) the early Wallace Stevens poem "The Snow Man", which I will quote here in its brief entirety, as an attempt to balance the forces of the ridiculous with those of the sublime:
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine trees crusted with snow
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listner, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
---
And to complete our round trip to Sublime City:
I just read that Michael Brown, ex FEMA head, is starting a disaster planning consulting firm. Proof that there is no shame. And proof that it is impossible to fail in the Bush Administration. Egregiously flawed performance gets you promoted and decorated. Or, in this instance, allows you to move on to greater gain and glory in the private sector. The asleep at the wheel guy is reinvented as the foresight guy; the napping captain as the visionary at the helm. As with most things in this administration, it contains (and hence defies) its own parody.
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Posted on 11/25/2005
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November 25, 2005
After our basketball game on Wednesday nights, we all feel so good, so adrenalized, so alive that we just HAVE to smoke a cigarette. And the funny thing is: Most of us don't ever smoke the rest of the week. This prompts the funny but arguably profound question, why do we celebrate feeling alive by trying to kill ourselves? Why, when we feel most appreciative of the miraculous experience of life do we do everything in our power to hasten its ending? I suspect this takes us back to the Freudian notion of the inextricability of Eros (life force) and Thanatos (the drive to return to the inanimate). But what place does Freud have in a blog? Well, shit. This isn't just any blog. This is Teddy Vegas's blog. So, Sigmund, even if you were the kid perpetually picked last for kickball (possibly because you were the only kid smoking a cigar and talking about your mother), you're welcome here any time.
Shit. Trying to freeze out my boy Siggy???
Also, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I offer gratitude as a Mets fan for the apparently imminent acquisition of Carlos Delgado--the only true lefty (and I'm not talking about hand preference) in baseball. It'll be great to see him sit out "God Bless America" while playing alongside Castro at Che Stadium.
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Posted on 11/25/2005
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November 22, 2005
Bittersweet to read about the passing of Sam, The World's Ugliest Dog. Sad, because one always laments the passing of a legend and in the area of canine uncomeliness this three-time champion certainly qualified as that. But happy because it gives some guys I know a well deserved shot at the crown. Actually, I think a leading candidate for status as Sam's heir is a high ranking attack dog with a hideous asymmetrical sneer named Cheney.
Article on Sam I Am (no more):
http://aolsvc.news.aol.com/news/article.adp?id=20051122121809990005&ncid=
NWS00010000000001
From ugly dogs to cute sex kittens: Just saw a picture of that hot little Florida teacher who plead guilty to having sex with her 14 year old student. She plead guilty to two counts of lewd and lascivious battery. Well, I sure wouldn't mind getting battered like that. I know, I know. She was taking advantage of her position as an authority figure. She was guilty of extraordinarily bad judgement etc. But don't try to tell me that kid complained about the extracurricular attentions he was receiving. I'll bet all his jealous male classmates were the ones complaining about it. Damn: Where the hell were the teacher's like her when I was a kid? That lucky little dog has a lot to be grateful for this Thanksgiving.
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Posted on 11/22/2005
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November 21, 2005
Furry Brando
Mount Olympuss
Mama Cats Elliot
Pussy Galore
Buddhapurr
Mop
Santa Claws
Finick E. Myass
The Cat that Swallowed the Canary...Islands
George Plumpton
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Posted on 11/21/2005
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November 17, 2005
Just read in the paper that Michael Jackson created a little scandal somewhere in the Arab world by entering a public women’s bathroom. The assumption was that it was due to his inability to interpret the signs on the doors. But, I'm not so sure it was a mistake. Actually, not sure there is an appropriate gender classification for him anymore. Not to mention an appropriate racial one.
Also saw an ad promoting the most shamelessly gratuitous addition to the iPod economy: iBoxer. Its a pair of boxer briefs with a Nano-sized pocket in the front, just to the left of Mr Happy. Now, why in the world would you need to have both hands free while you listen to your iPod in your underwear?? The ad shows us: So you can shamelessly imitate the pre-scientological Tom Cruise air guitaring in Risky Business. I honestly thought it was a joke. iBoxer? More like iWank.
Speaking of which: The only real use I can imagine for the product is that it gives compulsive masturbators an excuse for putting their hand down their pants in public. Oh, sorry. Not jerking off. Just turning the old click wheel. Yup, turning the click wheel. Soon to be added to the auto-erotic lexicon, right beside "Roughing Up the Suspect", "Playing 5-on-1" and "Punching the Clown."
And speaking of the onanism and the iPod economy, what, really, are the implications of iPorn becoming available for viewing on the new video iPod? Obviously, a huge increase in the consumption of porn in public places. Wouldn't it be sad if the enduring legacy of Steve Jobs' visionary, creativity-enabling, life-enhancing company was an exponential rise in the incidence of people masturbating in public urinals?
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Posted on 11/17/2005
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November 16, 2005
On Monday night, I attended a fundraising benefit auction, organized by the girlfriend of a very close friend. Things I noticed: That Matthew Modine—one of the honorary co-hosts-- is very tall. That his neck looks older than the rest of him. That Andy Summers of the Police—another honorary co-host-- is very short. That Andy Summers’ neck looks about the same age as the rest of him. That both Matthew Modine and Andy Summers have donated nice photographs to the silent auction.
Afterward, at the post-auction dinner, I sat at a table with some women in the art world. They were quite nice, but inclined towards talking shop. One said, "I am NOT a gossip, but I'll share some dirt if you all beg me to." The others created a quorum of begging. “Well, the Modines are friends of some gallery owner I know and they have season seats for the Knicks. And the Modines attend the games. And, they are loud and wild and out of control during the games. Now, I'm not saying they do drugs. But I'm not saying they don't." I told them that I hate to be a contrarian (because loving being a contrarian wouldn't be contrary enough), but might I suggest that they, like myself, are just passionate basketball fans? I was stared at like a rain cloud above a parade. Then they started talking about an upcoming benefit in Miami. They all agreed that the humidity in Miami can really frizz your hair. I never missed Monday Night Football quite so much.
Then, finally a Seinfeldian moment: Just after my long-awaited salmon entrée was put down in front of me, my neighbor (one of the aforementioned lovely women from the art world) summoned someone over to the table to complain that he had outbid her on a few items she really wanted. It was an act of playful and unobjectionable networking, except for the fact that the woman was sitting to my left, inside the horse-shoe shaped banquette, and the man was standing right over my meal speaking across to her. There was such a din in the room, that he had to really project like a stage actor in order to be heard which meant, unfortunately, that he was spewing saliva all over my meal. I tried to discreetly fend off the wayward droplets as best I could with my hand and napkin. But damage was certainly done. After he left, I could not regard my meal with quite the same relish as I had just moments earlier… when it was truly saliva inducing, rather than merely saliva covered.
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Posted on 11/16/2005
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November 15, 2005
Almost everything that's wrong with America is implict in the following sentence, spoken (indeed, almost exclaimed) by an unsvelte individual to his equally ample companion at an Emack and Bolios: "Hey, the fourth scoop is only 75 cents more."
Somehow, this reminds me of some guys I know who, as a critique the vacuous rhetoric of sacrifice-free patriotism, propose making bumper stickers that say “Support Our Troops. Buy stuff.” Or “Support our Troops. Watch a big screen TV.” Or “Support our Troops. Eat Ice Cream.” Indeed, I once heard one of them suggest: “Hey let’s get a hot fudge Sundae. You know, for our boys overseas.”
---
Note: If the good folks from the Department of Homeland Security or the F.B.I. should be visiting this blog (and you are most surely welcome), please rest assured that the opinions expressed by the people refered to above in no way reflect my own. I love big cars and empty symbolic acts and guns (mostly, of the staple variety) and I have ceased to consort with the aforementioned individuals since becoming aware of their ironic relationship towards ice cream.
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Posted on 11/15/2005
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November 14, 2005
Movie summaries:
8 Mile: "Rocky" for rappers.
Crash. " Magnolia" about race. Or, otherwise put, "Grand Canyon."
Rabbit Proof Fence: "Winged Migration" for Aborigines.
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Posted on 11/14/2005
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November 12, 2005
I am on a downtown bus. A large man is speaking at an absurdly inappropriate volume on his cell phone (no, it is not Alec Baldwin.) From the sound of things, he seems to be talking to his girlfriend or wife. People are glaring at him and muttering to one another in a passive-aggressive (or reasonably self-protective) attempt to register their displeasure. For whatever reason, I happen to have, at this moment, the combination of annoyance and recklessness necessary to voice the collective grievance. “Excuse me, could you stop talking so loud?” He gives me a sort of blank look and then goes back to the phone. “Honey…Honey…No honey…listen I'm on the bus…so it's really rude of me to be talking like this on the phone…ok?” But no, he doesn't hang up. “Yeah, yeah, but, honey..no listen…we'll deal with that when I get back…but listen…no.. .LISTEN!...it's rude to everyone around me…no, LISTEN TO ME!!...I DON'T CARE…you're making me talk…no, no… you're making me talk loud on the bus and that is not nice…” And then after a brief pause of theatrically exasperated listening, he resumes. “That's NOT what I said…why do you always do this?? That's NOT WHAT I SAID!!…Listen I have to get off...Honey..HONEY!…NOW LISTEN!…I have to get off because all these people on the bus can hear me..” He looks over at me in some bizarre search for approval. As if far from being a perpetrator of this crime against civility, he was a victim too. Or as if voicing--in ever louder and more irritated tones--his recognition of his wrongdoing somehow absolved him of responsibility for it. “NO..NO! …Honey…HONEY…That is NOT NOT what I said. We'll talk about it when I get home…You are making me be very rude to all these people on the bus…No…NO!!...Honey …HONEY!!.. YOU ARE MAKING ME BE VERY VERY RUDE TO THESE PEOPLE…” I'm not sure what the other passengers were experiencing, but this piece of public theater elicited in me the rare combination of outrage and delight. Needless to say, I have no idea how that phone call ended.
--
Note: The Alec Baldwin encounter and the cell phone guy encounter did not happen in such close temporal proximity as the order of these postings would suggest. In fact, the cell phone episode happened a while ago and the Alec Baldwin encounter just made me think of it, so I decided to write it up. I just wanted to reassure everyone that-- rumours to the contrary notwithstanding-- I am not some kind of magnet for public transporation weirdness.
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Posted on 11/12/2005
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November 12, 2005
"I’m working on my material."
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Posted on 11/12/2005
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November 11, 2005
Observation. The male is only capable of so much empathy. If you want to know precisely how much, watch guys in their weekly basketball game and see how quickly the attention accorded an injured teammate gives way to a palpably impatient desire to drag the guy off the court so the game can resume. Unless the injury is life-threatening, the grace period of concern seldom extends beyond 60 seconds --with audible expressions of put-upon displeasure beginning at the 30 second mark. There might be a Walt Whitman or two in the group who are willing to tend to the wounded a little bit longer, but those 90 seconds guys are rare as springtime snow. I have learned this in my Wednesday night game from both the injured and the inconvenienced perspectives. But, truth be told, more from the former than the latter. (In fact: A number of guys from our weekly Wednesday night game have been going to Vegas every year during the NCAA tournament to play ball, bet on ball and do some other stuff. This year, for the 5th anniversary of our March Madness outing, all the guys were given jerseys. Mine was number 206—for the number of bones in the human body, a ridiculous percentage of which I have broken in the course of our years playing together. Other noteworthy jersey numbers included 401K for our representative suburban pater familias, 1.5 for our friend who was born with one arm that extends only to the elbow (but who is a remarkably good player nonetheless) and 10 to the 6th power (I don’t know how to type exponents on this keypad) for our internet millionaire friend who retired sickeningly early to pursue life as a “leisurist.”)
Anyhow, the point is that it’s a good thing women are around to introduce a little bit of nurturance and compassion into the world. Imagine if kids only got 30 to 60 seconds of attention whenever they were sick or hungry before their mothers felt the need to get back to their jazz-ercising. Okay, okay. I know some mothers are like that. But still, on balance, they’re much better than men in this department. And without them, precious few boys would survive past the age of 6 to grow into the gloriously self-involved, brutish, insensate piggish creatures they’re meant to be.
--
I should note the strange exception of my friend Loren; A man so empathic (or perhaps simply confused) that he has been known to refer to thrilling victories by his beloved Detroit sports teams as "heartbreaking."
"Why heartbreaking?" I ask. "They won!"
"Well, you know, for the other team."
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Posted on 11/11/2005
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November 08, 2005
I am taking the C train on Central Park West. It is around 11 a.m. The seats are roughly half-filled. I look across the way and see a man notable both for his substantial size and his very dark sunglasses. I immediately recognize him to be Alec Baldwin. I watch with fascination as, from behind the cover of his conspicuously unnecessary eyewear (attention-seeking accessory masquerading as attention-deflecting accessory) he surveys the car and notices--to what I surmise is his deep horror-- that no one is noticing him. Needless to say, he looks in the direction of the most attractive female passengers first. Then the less attractive female passengers. When he finally gets around to looking at me, I withhold any indication that I know who he is. Confounded by his failure to receive even minimal celebrity recognition in this most public of venues, the thwarted attention-seeker does something fascinating: He calmly and calculatedly removes his sunglasses. Clearly, he is wrestling with the deep philosophical question "If a celebrity falls in the subway and no one recognizes him, has he really fallen?" With feigned casualness, he looks around again, his ego trolling the bait of his famous and now fully revealed face in front of his fellow passengers. Nothing there. Nothing there. Nothing.. Aha! He finally feels a nibble on the line. A couple of people are whispering to each other and glancing repeatedly (and, they must think, discreetly) in his direction. Trying to build on this minor triumph and gain recognition by a wider audience, he looks back in the other direction. While he fails to garner any interest from the most attractive of the females (recognition perhaps, but not interest), he does end up getting recognized by a few more of the passengers. Finally, re-assured of his continued status as a publicly recognized figure, he smiles with false modesty at the most recent onlooker and puts his shades back on--as if public recognition were the last thing in the world he was seeking! I am fascinated by this duplicitous little game of hide and seek attention. This narcissistic pantomime. This exquisite micromanagement of the dialectic between recognition and anonymity. It is funny. And it is sad. And it is Alec Baldwin.
Of course, it’s possible that he was wearing the sunglasses merely to observe his fellow passengers for purposes of character study. And that, realizing no one had recognized him, he figured maybe it was safe to take them off and have better visibility. Then, discovering that he had in fact been recognized, he decided to retreat to his original disguise in order to continue his undercover thespian research without the distractions associated with fame. And that I’m merely a dark-hearted, celebrity-hating, thwarted megalomaniac projecting my own twisted narcissism onto a well-adjusted, emotionally balanced, deeply fulfilled professional who just happens to be in the public eye.
Nah. C’mon. It’s Alec Baldwin.
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Posted on 11/8/2005
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November 05, 2005
Starbucks assaults me with the faux authenticity of its ethos and the aggressive chipperness of its wait staff. And yet given the ubiquitousness of the alterno-imperialistic franchise, we coffee-holics have increasingly little choice. It is a sad state of affairs when our only remaining gesture of cultural protest is to defiantly order a "small" instead of a "tall" and to insist that the vendor refer to it by that name as well.
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Posted on 11/5/2005
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November 04, 2005
Reading today how Penthouse, Playboy and others are racing to make adult content available to be run on the new video iPods. It’s the classic conflation of the best and the worst of the digital era. On the one hand, there’s this insidious, soulless product that cynically exploits man's powerlessness to resist perfectly shaped objects of desire and on the other hand there’s this wonderful thing called porn. Just kidding. Huge fan of the iPod—even if Apple is threatening to become a cult. (Full disclosure: Apple stock shareholder. No holdings in the porn industry.)
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Posted on 11/4/2005
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November 02, 2005
Nice night in Vegas-ville. Night started with a Rufus Wainwright concert at the Beacon. I will write my brief review here as I can't figure out how to write a review under the "Review" tab on this otherwise glorious site. (Note: Mr. Miller: A $5 payment is due for that shameless piece of nyc.com shillery/pluggery.) Anyhow, Rufus was in fine form, although his voice was a bit less rich and full than usual (a fact upon which he commented a few times saying “I hope it’s ok that my voice is a little imperfect tonight. I sort of like it. I’m so unused to being imperfect.”) He seemed to attribute his descent into vocal mortality to a month spent lounging on the beach. Maybe he stripped his throat shouting "ooo-la-la!!" at all those hot young cabana boys. Highlights included two Leonard Cohen covers (“Chelsea Hotel” and the gorgeous “Hallelujah”) and some strange cross-dressing Jesus on the Cross theatrical number whose name I did not know and whose lyrics I couldn’t understand. One noteworthy item: In a savvy act of performative narcissism, the sensitive thinking man’s diva (and fag hag heartthrob) surrounded himself with 2 female back up singers whose voices and looks compared unfavorably with his own.
As for the rendition of "Hallelujah" that he performed with his female lessers: Quite beautiful but, for my money, not quite as transcendent as the John Cale or Jeff Buckley
versions.
I returned from the Rufus show to the equally glorious if somewhat more masculine spectacle of NBA hoops on TNT. Like the sparrows to Capistrano, comes the Vegas annually and faithfully to the inaugural broadcast of the new NBA season. And, of course to pretty much every NBA broadcast to follow. A rite, a ritual, a cursed addiction. (Granted: I don't think there were any binocular-sporting Vegas watchers camped out on my window sill for the annual sighting but, truth be told, I forgot to look). In any event, the beautiful melodic offerings of Mr, Wainwright' were quickly upstaged in the theater of my consciousness by the beautiful hoopic offerings of Mr, Stevie Nash, as the diminuitive Canadian playmaker and reigning MVP carved up the Dallas (so-called) Defense for 16 first half points and a half dozen -often spectacular-assists. (For the hoop challenged: Mr. Nash is also the only member of the NBA to be either romantically linked to Elizabeth Hurley or spotted reading a book by Che Guevara.) And then little Stevie's sublime hoopic offerings gave way to Kenny Smith and Charles's Barkely's glorious analytic offerings..as the former observed that the injury to Amare Stoudamire puts the pressure on Nash to justify his status as an MVP and Barkely ragged repeatedly (and with obvious relish) on the Dallas Defense. Oh, Stevie, Shawn, Dirk, Kenny, Charles...What a rich and abundant universe!!!! Strange to see Reggie Miller out there with Ernie and Kenny and Charles. Based on last night's broadcast, he appears to have no more clear or major a role on that team than he did with the Pacers last year. But I'm sure his famous jaw will soon loosen up and he'll start flapping his gums with the rest of them. Or he'll do something else he's famous for: Flop.
As for the game. Dallas actually ends up defying Barkely's dismissive prognostications of perpetual porousness and playing exceptional D in the fourth quarter--sparked by a hyped-up Daryl Armstrong hounding Nash and refusing to let him run people off on his beloved high screen and rolls. Behind the unconscious 3 point shooting of Nowitzky, they send the game into one OT, then another. For once, Nash's late game magic fails him (as he uncharacteristically misses his last 5 shots) and Dirk and Co. exorcise the demon's of last year's playoff humiliation at the hands of Phoenix with a thrilling double OT victory. The game ends at 2:10 a.m. eastern time. I try desperately to stay awake to hear the blessed post game commentary -- But I awaken in the morning, realizing I have failed.
NET NET: I am reminded that the TNT guys are just about the only professional sports commentators worth watching. Informed, smart controversial. Never the dumb jock corporate yes men vapidities of a Fran Healy. Never the pompous thick tongued inanities of a Bill Walton. Just good, smart exchanges beween guys who know what they're talking about. You'd think that wouldn't be such a rarity.
Also realize that Dallas could be tough if they continue to buy into Avery Johnson's Defense first team philosophy.
Also realize that if I expect to be taken seriously as a basketbal pundit, I should probably wash this glitter and mascara off from the Rufus concert.
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Posted on 11/2/2005
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November 01, 2005
OBSERVATION: I really can’t imagine my life without televised sports. Oh, wait, yes I can. That’s the life in which I’m incredibly productive and accomplished and fulfilled and rich. Sorry, I just forgot.
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Posted on 11/1/2005
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