not a dream, just losing sleep

I was younger and probably slightly more impressionable back in 1992 when the Dream Team ran rampant at the Barcelona games. We are happening upon this entry because through my Spurs enjoyment I’m also subjected to commercials touting a lame, 20-year anniversary/celebration documentary of the Dream Team. I need to get a few things out the way before I rant: the serendipity of having Jordan, Bird, and Magic playing in the same NBA era was fortuitous. Without those three, who are undoubtedly three of the most strong willed and talent players ever to grace the NBA, the whole experiment wouldn’t have been quite so ‘amazing’. Since 1992, we’ve seen U.S. team after U.S team struggle as the world has gotten better and the vast NBA talent pool of the mid-1980s to mid-1990s has disappeared. There certainly were some greats around those three, but honestly, we could have thrown in Shaq (a rookie), Larry Johnson, Dennis Rodman, and/or Reggie Miller and been just fine. Aside from the big three the only NBA title(s) on the roster came from Pippen (playing with Jordon, whether you like it or not); one from Drexler later in his career, post Olympics – courtesy of Hakeem; and David Robinson with two, also post-Olympics. I count that as three: MJ, Magic, and Bird finished with 14. That’s my introduction.

Here’s the hammer : the Dream Team wasn’t that impressive. If we took the best NFL players right now, a 2012 all-pro team, and trotted them out there for a new Olympic football competition they’d destroy everyone else. We could throw the Lions out there and destroy anyone else. In fact, in 1992 the Chicago Bulls would have annihilated the Olympic field. When the most dominant professional league is hosted in the U.S. – and in 1992 it was a hundred times more talented than the next – putting an all-star team on the court vs. Venezuela isn’t really impressive. Wow! They won by 47! None of it was really impressive back then, and it’s less impressive now. We used to hate the Soviet team that won the hockey gold every Olympics because they were simply a professional team rolled out every four years to destroy everyone else. What happened in the 1980 Olympics, within an athletic competition framework, was far, far more impressive than the Dream Team. If you aren’t old enough to remember the entirety of the situation, bear in the mind the gnashing of teeth between those players, their “professional” sponsors, and the uniform. All of the Nike-owned players covered the Reebok logo on their uniforms during the medal presentation ceremony – left shoulder with a flag. They couldn’t even be bothered to simply let that go. Maybe it’s an unfair critique, but it simply added fuel to my fire because the 60- and 79-point wins over Panama and Cuba weren’t distasteful enough. I certainly don’t need to sit around and watch a documentary full of these players talking about how “there’ll never be anything like this again.” Yes, Larry there will be – when the US fields a rugby team against the All Blacks Dream Team in some Olympic games.  Also remember that all of this came about after the U.S. only won the bronze medal in 1988 – a team that was 5-0 in pool play (with a winning margin that averaged  35 per game) but lost by six point in the semi-finals. We might call this dream thing a bit of an overreaction.

The last thing I want to sit through are a bunch of Dream Teamers and journalists harkening back to the day when the USA was number 1 – in a field of amateurs.

That’s all. At least I can watch the Spurs again tonight.

history is unwritten

I was watching an NBA playoff game last night – sort of a Holiday wind down (although I’m far more interested in the San Antonio v. OKC series) – and this trailer came on the tube. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry; I have only once seen the combination of two stranger ideas. If you dare, watch the second trailer.

tramps and stamps

This falls right into the Oxford comma and Billy Joel sucks department of “I didn’t see that diatribe coming.” Someone suddenly opens up on what might have been an innocent topic and before you know it the wraths of hell are upon them. I wonder if anyone has established an on opinion parking lots? I have! I have!

I’ll be succinct since I have something else to rail on about. If I’m driving through a lot looking for resting place for Galactica I don’t stop unless I see reverse lights on. Period. There are two sets of folks (see how I didn’t yet call them names?) in the lot scenario*: the vultures and the slow motherfuckers. The only one of the two who affect others is the vulture. If 'Bobby Sue" (nom de guerre: fukeris slowis) wants to take three days to load up her groceries, her baby, her other baby, and then spend an hour figuring out how to work her seatbelt and key, so be it. For all I care, she can sit in her car and listen to Lady Antebellum sing her favorite song.  If you decide to sit and wait for her to get settled in, figure out the equipment in her rig, and belt the last chorus (“But it was perfect; I never will forget; When we owned the night; Yeah, we owned the night !”) of the Lady then you are on my list. What you’ve decided to do is block traffic in that row (some of us are actually trying to depart the Circle of Parking), and will more than likely further exacerbate the problem by debating with the wedge you’re intercepting from the other direction, who also thinks he has the right to that spot, exactly what is going on in this now completely fucked up situation. Mix in a bit of bad space extraction ability from Bobby Sue and we’ve got a serious jam up. Keep moving, you won’t drive off the end of the earth. It’s like the internet, the lot goes on for a very long time. By no means am I condoning Bobby Sue, but in the grand scheme of life - my life - what you are doing as a vulture is actually expanding a bad situation (Bobby Sue) into a disaster – you are willfully taking everything a second step beyond the problem. Bobby Sue is simply one of the 325 million Americans who have no awareness of what is going on around them.

I promised another one: the Post Office. The endless chants of how the USPS is horrible and loses money all the time is complete bullshit. I don’t have the patience to link to all the studies and reports, but I’ll tell you that the USPS in the first quarter of 2012 (Oct-Dec) had revenues of $1.7B and operating expenses of $1.5B. Up through about 2007 the USPS did not operate at a loss. The USPS does not receive taxpayer money. The USPS does a pretty good job of getting my stuff from A to B. They also can be a bit of a pain in the ass if you have to go inside an actual USPS building. Around 2007 Congress passed some crappily named bill that requires the USPS to fund pensions forty years in the future. In order to meet this requirement the USPS has to pay about $5.5B per year in advance payments in one lump sum; the kicker is that the money is then used elsewhere to help alleviate the annual government deficit. When you read the “USPS loses $5B last year” headlines you have to understand that the $5B shortfall is the advance payment. No other government agency is required to pay 40 years in advance; they aren’t required to pay at all. If the DoD were required by law to pay, in a lump sum every year, pension and retirement benefits (including VA) for all the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines, they'd have to cough up some unbelievable amount of money that would indicate that the DoD was operating at a $65B loss per year.  It’s easy to hit the low fruit when complaining about government, but the USPS thing (no doubt taken from the ‘going postal’ thing about 30 years ago) is such a hackneyed diatribe that it’s embarrassing. Don’t embarrass yourself.

Peace.

 * handicapped, ladies with kids (questionably), and old people are generally excluded from my ire.

let it live

I’ll be short and sweet.

I was at the Birchmere on Friday for Justin Townes Earle and Tristen – after walking the Delray neighborhood for dinner and wine. It was solo date; it happens. Yes, I said wine. I did manage a pitcher of Shiner for the show.

My view on opening acts is well known, perhaps unfair, perhaps not. I have discovered two of my favorite bands via the opening act protocol: The Tarbox Ramblers (opening for Dave Alvin and the Guilty Men), and Erin McKeown (opening for the Be Good Tanyas).  In the grand scheme it’s a small percentage of success, but credit where credit is due.

Tristen ranks right up there on my list. I was a bit tentative at first, like some of her songs, but she brought me around quickly. Apropos of the last paragraph, she reminds me of a combination of Erin McKeown and Martha Berner. It’s not a perfect analogy, but close. The thing about her live songs is that she never leaves you hanging when you don’t want to be hanging. I’m a well-documented pop whore, and there are endless performances and songs that never get to the top of the hill; they sort of dick around the plateau and get stuck at altitude. Tristen can start out a slow motor, like my favorite song, Inaction, and suddenly deliver the goods while she ramps up to the peak in a very cool combination of orchestra, pop, and (sometime) growling.  That song process and performance style is a recurring theme for her and the band and it was enticing. I grabbed her CD, Charlatans at the Garden Gate, between sets and it’s been well worth the price through a weekend of cooking and music.

Justin Townes Earle more than met my expectations. I first saw him with his dad and aunt in London in 2001 at the Beyond Nashville Festival. I’m pretty sure that when he came out at 19 he did about four songs before surrendering the stage to Stacey, and eventually, Steve. They all came back and did a few songs together at the end – and I’m almost sure he did this song which is still one of my all-time favorites, and ended up on the Just An American Boy CD a few years later. I know, a long story. Eleven years, an EP, and four full-length CDs have passed and his talent is in full bloom. His newest CD, Nothing's Gonna Change the Way You Feel About Me Now, is as good as it gets. At 10 songs and just over 30 minutes it’s short, tight, and sweet; his roll through almost every song from it, combined with the rest of his catalog, during his 100 minute set was a thing of beauty. The highlight? His acoustic blast through Lightin’ Hopkins’ I Been Burning Bad Gasoline.  I won’t ever claim to know what from what, but I’ve seen hundreds of shows in my life and I have little doubt the JTE is one of the best guitar players ever. Jesus.  His four-piece band was perfect, his storytelling was engaging, his singing is solid gold, and he had the crowd full of musical joy. Hearing him roll through all the songs I love so much was a treat. If you ain’t on the JTE bandwagon, you're missing one of the great artists rolling around America. Get to it.

Here’s a great recording from a live show in 2010:

And because I can; unless I’m mistaken that’s Bryn Davies playing bass. Man, I love her – saw her playing with Patty Griffin a few years ago:

george bush

On Saturday night two of the kids were downstairs at the table playing cards. I imagine that most of us have watched the professional poker tour on TV. Most of us have played Spades or Hearts (or Heartless), possibly there are some who love Cribbage (or CribGolf); each one of those games can drive someone to talk a little bit of smack. It's probably not beyond the pale that when bridge players get together you might hear:

Warren Buffett: "Gates, what the heck was that bid?"
Bill Gates: "Back off man, I was bidding !"
Omar Sharif: "Are you ladies about done bickering? Do your husbands also play?"

I used to play Pinochle when we were deployed. We'd bust out cards after Buzz had cut everyone's hair and then played the saw; Blade had stopped telling us stories, and the handheld Yahtzee game was in use somewhere else (trust me, the first months at Al Udeid were rough). I couldn't quite come up with any Pinochle table talk aside from, "There's an easy way to remember the Jack of diamonds, Queen of spades marriage." How? (Speaking slowly) "Just remember Jack of diamonds, Queen of Spades."

Where was I going? Right, kids and cards. There is one game that simply has no belittling commentary available: War. You might not know that based on the table banging and verbal jousting that continued for any number of hours during the battle.

"Watch this, baby! Boo-yah, Jack!"

"This one is for real . Bang!"

"Did you cut the little balls off the back of your socks before coming here?"

"You call that game?"

"See that? Right there! Ace, baby!"

I'm not sure that trash talking through a game of chance is legal. I guess dudes rolling bones in Vegas at the Craps table do it, right? As if someone can get 'hot'...

Bang! War! Five of clubs beatdown!

refined

Over the weekend H. drew up a list of items he’d like to have in the house for his weekday breakfasts and lunches. Most everything on the list was a normal purchase, but having items listed and count required is certainly helpful for me when shopping; a mature idea on his part. What struck me most though, was the quality of penmanship. Judge for yourself:

I pointed out to him how much I admired the readability, to which he replied, “Well, this is very important and I want to make sure everything is understood.” Here is an example of his homework:

Make what you will of these events. I think I'm onboard with importance. We were a little behind on shopping at the end of the week and L. pointed out that all we had to eat was “condiments”; tough crowd.

About a month ago we bought an electric mower at Sears. "Big Jake", who'd survived three summers for a total cost of $15, was put out to pasture. Well, sort of. I'm thinking of pulling off the engine and making a go-kart. Seriously. Maybe I can go online and do some research and figure out a way to make some screaming rig that the boys can ride up and down Arthur Dr. Or, better yet, I can get Buzz to bring his lazy butt up to D.C. and build it for me. I think he understands two-stroke motors.

The electric mower is awesome. I know that the drawback in your mind is the cord situation, but rest easy, gentle reader. Once you have a pattern it's a piece of cake. That thing weighs about 10 lbs. and rolls over everything just fine. If your looking, and your yard doesn't need more than 75ft. of cord required, I highly recommend an electric.

I want to take a minute to throw out a call to my old pal, Bryce. He's in Omaha working as a chef, or charcuterist or sausage boy, and is up and (almost) running in Dundee with The French Bulldog. The man is living the dream - here's a quick Omaha pub with a little Q&A. I'm ecstatic to see him working in the industry and busting (bustin'?) heads. Doesn't seem a nearly a decade ago that we wandered off into our own worlds. The best to Bryce.

We did L's. 16th about a week ago: dinner cooked at home and an orange chocolate cake. I'm taking her to see Brian Regan on Saturday night in D.C. I've also got Justin Earle coming up on Friday night down in Alexandria. I know, I know....but seriously. Check out his solo live performance from his new album. See what I mean?



And, as a final musical prop, RIP to Donald "Duck" Dunn. The driving thump of Stax Records. Get that bass up!

greatest ever

A bit of snooker talk that devolves into overall sport. Stephen Hendry retired yesterday after his loss at the World Championships. He’s won more of everything (7 World titles, ranking tournaments, etc.) than any in history – most of them coming in the 1990s when he dominated the sport. This has led to the discussion of whether he was the best ever, and it’s opened the floodgates of opinion comparing him not only to his ‘contemporaries’ (O’Sullivan, Higgins, Williams, etc.), but to the greats of the past (primarily a trio of Davises). Only one commentary clarified the debate, particularly among his peers, and it was a declaration that there wasn’t a ‘fag paper’ (British commentary) between all of them in terms of talent. I couldn’t agree more. What that tells me, or anyone, is that with equal talent to the rest he won more often than any of them. Higgins has four titles, O’Sullivan three, Hendry – seven. Greatness comes from the ability to separate yourself from the amazing talent around you and excel more often. It’s the same with all individual sports and to some extent with leaders in team sports. We often debate the era in which players compete, the talent around them (team sports), but the fact is that when you are at the pinnacle of your sport, every single person in that league or association is separated from each other, talent wise, by microns.  The great separate and win. It’s pretty simple.

do you have a flag?

An excerpt from Into the Silence (Wade Davis), about Mallory and the post-war attempts to climb Everest:

"...they climbed 1,000 feet up a steep rise that led across the moraine and down to the banks of a narrow stream, where, in sight of wild gazelles, they camped in a meadow behind a stone shelter, a mile below a bridge that crossed the river Nazurga. Bullock, cursed all day by a "rotten pony", took solace in the mail, which had arrived that morning: letters from his wife, along with a box of fudge. Mallory found comfort in the fact that he "had foiled the natives, whose aim was to retard our progress."

This is, of course, a prime example of those out on the tip of the spear in expeditions. The brave British Empire heaving loads of baggage by hand across vast unexplored lands. With little hope of survival being they are so very, very far from the safety of...what? Bullock managed to return to camp from a days danger and finds that, thank the Lord, the fudge has arrived? I wouldn't send fudge in this day-and-age, but he's off in throes of Everest and fudge arrives? I hope he sent word back...

The book is what I called slow entertainment: I love exploration and history but I'd like it at a bit quicker pace. Or, failing that, a more interesting writing style - this feels of a slog. I understand we aren't talking wartime here, at least not in the post-WWI portion which took up about the first 150 pages, but someone like Anthony Beevor is a much better writer for my taste. I'll manage, but it may take me as long to get through as it takes them to scale Everest someday, in actual time.

When we were on vacation down yonder we stumbled upon a show called Holmes on Homes which is about some crazy Canuck who goes into homes gone wrong and starts immediately ripping things apart and then fixing them with his crack crew (and peers) of A++++ contractors. His most basic sayings are along the lines of "you can't do it like that", and "don't worry, I'll fix it." We watch an episode on Sundays during pizza night. As new owners - and somewhat renovators - having Holmes get hold of our shitty contractor would be pure gold.

Kids appear alive. Cats appear alive. We work.