Please, God, Book II

Now that two of my esteemed colleagues have broken the world wide ice on this e-shrine to all things whatever the hell we feel like, I feel compelled to add my own two cents. And being that it's April and I'm in Phoenix, my inaugural Basketblog shall belong to none other than my beloved/endlessly frustrating Phoenix Suns.

Let me preface this rant by saying that, much like my good friend and fellow Cubs fan Senator Bandercrombie, I too remain hopeful in the face of adversity. As it stands right now, the Suns are down 2-0 to the Godless cowfuckers known as the San Antonio Spurs, a position that is neither enviable nor encouraging. Lesser fans may fold under this kind of intense pressure-by-association, but I remain confident that my team's first NBA championship in their storied 40-year history is not lost. At least not yet.

Okay, let's start with the bad news. That Game 1 was a heartbreaker. We had a slew of opportunities to put the defending champs on their asses right out of the gate, but thanks to some critical mistakes down the stretch and more than a few Texas-sized miracles (Timmy D for 3? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!), we blew it. My newfound optimism kept my head held high, though; it took 40 points from Duncan and 2 overtimes just to edge us out by two. As my viewing partner said after apologizing to the family I'd been offending for the last 3+ hours, nobody won that game. The Spurs just happened to be ahead when time ran out. That's bullshit, of course, because somebody did win that game, and it wasn't Phoenix. But the sentiment was nice.

Game 2 was a much different, much more infuriating story. I'll start with Boris Diaw. On any other team (like, say, a hockey one) Boris would be a great first option in critical late-game situations. But the last time I checked, Steve Nash, Amare Stoudemire and Shaquille O'Neal are all still members of the Phoenix Suns. Eligible members no less; Stat & Shaq combined for a scant 7 fouls, a virtual cause for celebration unto itself. So why the hell did we run four consecutive plays late in the fourth quarter for 3-D? To piss me off, that's why. Memo to the Suns' coaching staff: height is only an advantage if the player in question isn't a pussy. Write that down.

I'll give B-Diddy a pass on this one, though, as he was somehow out-mediocred by two--TWO!--much more integral puzzle pieces: Grant Hill and Leandro Barbosa. Going a combined 0 for 8 in 44 minutes, Mr. Glass and the Brazilian BitchTit managed to make Boris Diaw look like Wilt Chamberlain. If they continue to pull no-shows the rest of this series, we're effed. The Grant Hill injury was inevitable; the guy hasn't played a full season since he left Duke, where I'm pretty sure he pulled a calf muscle during his Psych final. But LB putting up a goose egg? Totally unexpected. And completely unacceptable.

But that's all overwith now. Tonight's a new night. And in 72 hours, this series will be all tied up, and I'll be chomping at the bit for Game 5's tip-off in San Antone. Or I'll be sobbing uncontrollably. One of the two.

Please, God

My esteemed colleagues and I (originally there were four of us, but now it appears as if posting duties will be done by two) created this site to talk about L.A. life, the entertainment industry, movies, and last but certainly not least - sports. That last consisting mainly of Phoenix and Chicago sports. I will probably never post about Phoenix sports because although my friends have made me a Suns fan, my fellow contributors, er...contributor is much more highly qualified to do so. I'll stick to Chicago sports. And between February and September that means one thing: Cubs baseball. Which brings me to something divine. Something that thrills my soul. While I'm guessing most sports posts (and many other kinds as well) on this site will be for kvetching, bemoaning, ranting, and generally spouting vitriol, this one is for something else - praise.

The Cubs are rolling. If you're a Cubs fan, please don't shoot me. You must understand the trepidation with which I wrote that last sentence. My hand is shaking. I'm a Cubs fan, after all. We've spent the last 100 seasons waiting for the other shoe to drop. And why? Because for the last 100 seasons it has, that's why. You know the drill. The goat, the black cat, the...shitty playing. Something will inevitably happen to ruin it. We take this on ourselves, that's how pathetically superstitious we are. God! If I just hadn't gotten those vanity plates a couple years ago, their season wouldn't have tanked! If only I'd watched/not watched/gone to/not gone to that game! Damnit, why did I have to leave the room/continuing watching that play/wear socks today! I jinxed it! (I seriously did get some Cubs vanity plates a couple years ago about midseason and they went into a tailspin. The next year I got Dodgers plates instead and the same thing happened to them - I'm from Chicagoland but I now live across the street from Dodger stadium - it's a long story; we have all summer).

I'm just as guilty of this as anybody else. Why else would I actually change my license plates? But this year is different. No, no, not in the way we've been saying "this year is different" for the last 100 years. I mean in my attitude. I've decided to let go of my superstitious ways. I've realized the Cubs are gonna have to do it no matter what license plates I have on my car, dammit. That's just how it's got to be. Admittedly, this thinking falls short of completely letting go of superstition - I'm saying they'll have to do it in spite of my plates, not that my plates have nothing to do with it. Baby steps, ok? I'll get there.

I have reached a certain zen-like state about it this year. I don't know what it is. Maybe I got tired of stressing. Maybe it's just time. Maybe it's because 100 is a good, round number. But so far so good. The Cubs are causing people to say their team name and utter the phrase "high powered offense" in the same sentence! They're 7-1 at home, and have won 5 in a row. In that last home stand they've averaged over 8 runs per game. I don't want to get ahead of myself, but this feels really, really good. I've asked a beautiful girl to go to the prom with me, and she said yes! Normally the Cubs fan in me would start thinking about when she's gonna dump me. I'm not doing that this year. I deserve to go to the prom. She likes me....she likes me....she likes me....

Of course, if I post this and they get their asses handed to them in Colorado tonight, it may be a minor setback to my optimism. I may have to rethink starting a frequent blog this particular year. NO! That's the old way. We're not doing that anymore. Like Beck says in Loser, "Things are gonna change, I can feel it."

So thank you, Cubs. Thank you for playing well thus far.

Thank you Ronny Cedeno, who I badmouthed all last year and all of 2008 spring training, and asked my television screen repeatedly why in God's name you were on this team. Thank you for your RBI double yesterday and your first (of many) grand slams. And please accept my most humble apologies.

Thank you Ted Lilly who I called a choke artist up until yesterday. You're 1-3 so I'm not going to apologize yet. But you've taken a step in the right direction.

Thank you Big Z for not going 0-4 this April.

And most of all, thank you all for giving me

Wildly Popular "Iron Man" Trailer To Be Adapted

I work in the film industry. I grew up watching movies and tv, and as such I've never had an original thought in my life. In celebration of that, I thought I'd make my first contribution to PB something directly ripped off from the Onion. I didn't say I didn't have good taste.


Wildly Popular 'Iron Man' Trailer To Be Adapted Into Full-Length Film

An Unlikely Scenario - Rio Bravo: My Rifle, My Pony, and Me

I was never a big fan of the singing cowboy. I've always liked my Westerns lean and relatively mean a la Clint Eastwood, Sergio Leone, or The Gunfighter. But when that singing cowboy is Dean Martin? In a Howard Hawks film? Well, that's downright sublime.

Unemployment Benefits: The AM BM

I work freelance in film and television as a production assistant. As such, I tend to spend vast swaths of the year (8 weeks or so) gainfully unemployed. Since I’m not drawing a paycheck during these times, it’s best to take what solace I can from the free time it affords me.

I am a morning shitter. My best dumps are routinely taken about an hour after I get out of bed, after my first cigarette and between my first and second cups of coffee. They are generally large deposits, made quickly and healthily.

Unemployment grants me the freedom to take my morning constitutional in the privacy and comfort of my own home. The importance and joy of this occasion cannot be spoken of highly enough. While on a set, such business is relegated to confines of porta-Johns, cramped stalls at the back of a trailer, or in the hustle and bustle of studio restrooms that see more traffic than the 101 at rush hour. Out of necessity I have overcome any public shit shame I may have had, but I believe that defecating, particularly at the start of one’s day, is akin to meditation or a morning prayer, and best done in solitude.

At home, in the quiet, friendly confines of our cozy lavatory, I can relax. The deuces dropped in public restrooms tend to be hurried affairs, messy and unkempt, unlike their much more solid and comely home-brewed brethren. They are hopelessly interrupted by squawks on the radio, noises from the next stall, or the knowledge that that one annoying grip saw me enter the stall, and if I don’t hold it in until he leaves, he will share with the crew that, yes as a matter of fact, something did crawl up my ass and die. There is no judgment in the privacy of one’s own water closet.

And what of reading material? At home, novels and subscriptions abound to pass the time till my legs go tingly. Out there, I have only my mobile phone’s occasionally tenuous connection to the internet to keep me entertained, and the erratic load times and data network availability do not jibe with the metronomic rhythms of my sphincter.

Ah, yes, the sphincter. During a good AM BM, the colon’s governor should be as lithe and powerful as a well-yogaed abdomen: firmly holding everything in place, yet flexible enough to allow one’s waste to pass unobstructed. When deprived of the tranquility required for a diurnal defecation, it is common to experience fits and starts in the anal region, as if somehow one’s ass has contracted anal-expressive Tourette syndrome.

Finally, at shit’s end, one is sadly forced to take potluck with the elements of post-excretal rites. I myself am a 2-ply man. I appreciate the dry familiar abrasion of well-constructed bathroom tissue against my soiled derriere (You can keep your moist wipes, thank you very much!). I simply cannot abide the shoddily crafted roughness or fragility of the single ply garbage so often found on the rolls of the public restroom. And, for the love of God, is warm water and a freshly stocked paper towel roll too much to ask for? The only thing worse than an unsatisfying crap is capping the trip to the crapper with cold hands that must be forced to drip-dry afterwards due to a lack of aforementioned drying material.

So it is with bated breath that I await these stretches of fiscal drought. For though I know my coffers may soon be empty, so will my bowels, and I will start my days feeling as clean and vacuous as the bowl I have just defiled.