And I can’t lie; we actually flipped some nice pieces. After jumping ship on the expired Clippers, we signed our first kinda high profile free agent in Vladimir Radmanovic. The last couple of seasons he’d been lighting it up, albeit purposelessly, in Seattle before being traded as an expiring contract. But we booked him on a full midlevel exception contract (over $5 million a season), even though we had an all-too-similar player at the same position in Brian Cook. Oh well. Then we got the uber-athletic wingman Maurice Evans for a second round pick which was used on one of those 7-foot, 180 pound prospects from like Malaysia or Zimbabwe who is never heard from or mispronounced ever again. While those were at least psyche updates for the fans as we were desperate for any kind of visible on-court difference makers, the city of Los Angeles got a hometown boost in the form of drafting the diminutive and ethnically confusing (plus super-eared) UCLA legend Jordan Farmar. While tons of teams passed him off with little regard, the Lakers saw in him an underrated athlete who could play at the right pace for a triangle offense team with an improving jump shot. Moreover, he was a born winner who nearly led the Bruins back to another championship even though the shadow of John Wooden has left them irrelevant to the rest of the basketball world since the ‘70s. Sorry L.A., I’m a diehard Laker fan but the lures of the city aren’t even a fraction of what it would it would take for me to avert my gaze away from the innately better Kentucky Wildcats. That’s just not happening. No dice.
A sucky, yet somewhat convincing, plea had erupted out of the Laker faithful after the unfortunate loss to the Suns this past offseason. People retroactively were disgruntled that Caron Butler was well on his way to becoming a perennial All-Star contender while we were stuck with “Butterfingers” Brown (the least profane nickname I could think of) and the seemingly inconsistent and underachieving Lamar Odom. Everyone appreciated LO’s insane skill set, but it was almost unbelievable that he’d never accomplished a single All-Star bid. It downright pissed some people off. Lamar could literally do anything on the basketball court (besides hit his free throws). His handles were something of legend, probably better than any player ever given a 6’ 10” body frame to work with. He was the most willing and deftest passer of any forward the league had seen since Chris Webber in his prime. His three-pointing shooting (even if only to me) had become a statistical victory cigar as a hit from long range was darn near a guarantee on a “W”. He had even become the most underrated dominant rebounder in the game. Even if it were simply out of necessity because of the lack of any other frontcourt presence, Lamar would regularly record rebounding stretches of 16 to 19 boards a game. He could lead a fast break, he could take nearly any defender off the dribble, he was deceptively strong, he was beyond agile, he was no longer a troublesome locker room presence, and people genuinely liked him. Yet somehow he managed to attain such a level of inconsistency and passiveness that he had no individual accolades to show for it and people were willing to trade him.
The common names that came up in trade discussions were the then hot-commodities Peja Stojakovic and Ron Artest. Dreams of Kobe drawing countless defenders and kicking it out to Peja every other possession for an always-swishing three ball ruled fan’s fantasies. Just as soon as the doomed 2004 season, Peja was in the MVP discussion due to his visually dominating floor game, something Lamar was never envisioned to fill out and attain. And then there was the case of Ron Ron. The regularly crowned Defensive Player of the year was cementing his reputation as an uncontrollable head case just coming off of his season-long suspension for inciting and street fighting in the brawl at the Palace. But basketball fans have short memories and are very forgiving when it comes to adding potential assets to their team. Dreams were equally filled with visions of Kobe & Ron creating the strongest defensive presence on the wing since Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen or even the tandem of Dennis Rodman and Joe Dumars when they were called on to frustrate the opposition beyond recognition. Even an alternate trading candidate was mentioned in Andrei Kirilenko, but the equally versatile Utah swingman was held in such high regard at the time that it was seen as impossible to ever pry him from the Jazz’s fingers. In the end, even though rumors were never quelled and new scenarios were concocted on the regular, the Lakers wound up sticking with Kobe’s current sidekick. No one knows if it was because of the front office’s never-ending faith in the curious forward or if trade partners never accepted a deal or even if there was a super secret snag in ongoing negotiations, but regardless, Lamar was retained. Stojakovich and Artest were indeed later traded (for each other, in fact) and subsequently left both of their respective new teams after free agency once dealt anyways, so the respective pairings are forever to be relegated to “what ifs” and dream scenarios. [Insert from the future: *wink wink*]
[to be continued]
... but do take my word for it.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Part Eight: Stagnant Additions
Thursday, July 30, 2009
We Run This
I know I'm like a week late on this joint, but I just gotta say that if I'm ever stranded on a desert island without my iPod, this is the type of song that I wanna hear on the sandy radio provided to me.
Obviously, this song was intended to be single material. But it's respectable, though. And that's rare. While Jay almost comes off sounding a lil' uninspired, he still kills it with that trademark Hova presence that has built his legendary persona over the years. Rihanna's voice is perpetually boring, but I've gotten used to it. If you've put up with "S.O.S." or "Shut Up and Drive" or "Don't Stop the Music" over all these years, then you can definitely manage this one. It's very anthemic. And then there's the Kanye factor. Production-wise, he pulls the same trick that he did for the Twista track "Alright" and throws down a choppy super-repetitive and dull vocal loop. Yet, somehow, it comes off catchy and not the least bit as annoying as it should be given the adjectives I just used to describe it. The icing on the cake is how hard Kanye lays down his verse. The man has straight been on a hip hop mission since 808s dropped. I keep saying it over and over again. He musta got pissed that someone called him soft for singing a bunch of autotuned R&B joints, so then he came back with like 25 of his old school (un)writtens to kick those accusing hip hop heads down a notch. I just really like this song. And I hope it runs as a radio staple til the rest of Blueprint 3 drops. But only if I can't have my iPod plugged up, of course.
Bonuses -
Where He Belongs
Thank God the Lamar Odom situation got resolved. Both parties legitimately needed each other to keep the NBA world balanced. While the Lake Show could have made a minor tweak trade to try and replace LO if he decided to go elsewhere, there's pretty much no one who would have had a similar impact simply do to Odom being a four-year vet of the triangle offense and five-year vet of playing off of Kobe Bryant. That can't be highlighted enough. Playing with certain players is an art, and choosing to stay with the champs is a very enlightening move in showing that Lamar is one of those malleable players who can willingly fit with Kobe.
Artest, in my mind, is a beautiful addition to this roster and will pick up right where Ariza left off. While I loved the role our former wing played with his hustle, hard cuts, opportune 3 balls, and team orientation, I sincerely believe that Ron Ron can provide all of that along with a better jumper, a throw-in post game, and more intimidating all-around defensive presence. The only thing I think we lose is some speed on the wing and a defender who can stick to those pesky super-quick guards. But Ron is much better suited to clamp down on those equally troublesome and usually dominant small forwards with the all-around floor game like Carmelo Anthony, LeBron, Paul Pierce, and Tracy McGrady (if he's still alive). This naturally relegates Kobe to preferably defending the second offensive option, an assignment which promotes an even stronger presence on both ends of the floor by him. So it's win-win.
Strictly on Lamar's side of negotiations, though, I actually do think he could have outrageously thrived somewhere else. Unless there was another trade to compliment LO's signing (like the Boozer rumors), then I didn't really see Miami going anywhere to far. They would have been crazy fun to watch because Wade & him had a naturally chemistry in Wade's rookie season and they would have easily picked right back up five seasons later. But that team has so many holes in it at up to 3 different positions, so forget about them in the now nonexistent theoretical big picture. But who I really would have (begrudgingly) enjoyed watching him play for was the Trailblazers. Can you imagine a lineup of Andre Miller/Brandon Roy/Lamar Odom/Lamarcus Aldridge/Greg Oden? That's beastly. Then in turn they would have one of the upper tier benches in the entire league. That would have instantly propelled them up to the top of the Western Conference in a dead heat with the Lakers and newly molded Spurs & Mavericks.
But, again, it's not happening. So while I'll detail some other teams in later posts, the Lakers are where it's at this season. Lamar Odom decided to stay put and the championship trophy will decide the same next June. Our single casualty this offseason (unless and unexpected trade comes along) is Ariza. But with management re-upping every other player on the entire championship roster and adding the one character who will force the team from ever becoming complacent ... we have a dynasty on our hands. Thanks, Lamar. And I made this entire post without a retarded candy reference. I swear, I will strangle the next ESPN reporter or random person who thinks they're informed and tells a Skittles joke while talking about dude and giggles to themselves at their attempted hilarity. You're not clever and it wasn't a good joke anyway.
Great quote by Odom: "Riding off Kobe’s coattail ain’t bad. He’s got something special going around. I’ve got to be around. I’ve got to be one of the apostles. There was no way I was going to pass up playing with Kobe, Pau, Andrew and Ron-Ron."
... but do take my word for it.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
One Month Ago ...
While I was on my temporarily blogging hiatus last month, I completely whiffed on ever posting the insane promo mixtape leading up to the Broken Headphones album that I just posted milliseconds ago.
QuESt -
Like I've mentioned before, I warmed up to QuESt's crazy unique style initially through his features on two Charlie Hilton tracks off of Good Food. And they were definably two standout tracks. He's got that crossed inflection and flow between a Jay-Z circa '96 and a Fahrenheit-era Lupe. But he's one hundred percent wholly his own rapper, so don't get me wrong when I mention the comparisons. What's equally as impressive as the product he's pushing is how easily he's gotten the word out to the blogosphere. Dude legitimately had people anticipating and emotionally investing in the date of July 28th, whether through the mixtape that I'm retroactively linking up in this post, or scattered hype videos across the internet, or the strategically leaked singles that happen to be floating around. With his team, he efficiently got himself an indie following straight out the box. And once you get onto his music, his concepts and lyrics speak for themselves. So there ya go. Cop both freebies and get to know the man who has the potential to be a staying figure in hip hop if he can keep up the atmosphere he's built around himself on the internet in 2009.
Broken Headphones
The new it artist for me right now just dropped his first proper free album last night. Definitely gonna be on constant roll once I get up out of this hospital. Thought I was about to die last night, but maybe God kept me so I could get this Broken Headphones joint in my system. Who knows?
QuESt -
Support dope artists who do music for the love of doing music. Whether he's gracing my dude Charlie Hilton's instrumentals or lending Donny Goines some lyrical support or simply shutting down all "Death of Autotune" freestyles, dude is doing his thing. Download it and spread it like a plague. You will not be disappointed.
Classic: Jolene
Screw hip hop for a minute.
For the most part, I couldn't care any less for any form of country music. I try to be open minded, but too much twang can seriously be detrimental to my mental health most of the time. Well ... here's the exception. Dolly Parton is one of my favorite artists in all of civilized history. Her prolific songwriting is something I admire and am in complete reverence of. She has more classically written hit records than most singers have songs in their entire catalogues. And to me, the peak of the peak on the peak of musical Mount Everest is her song "Jolene". Simply cannot beat it. Beautifully and succinctly perfect.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Part Seven: Another Series of Unfortunate Events
All we had left to do was either win a game on their court or win a game on our court or win a Game 7 on their court. We simply had to avoid a three game losing streak and we would join in one of the most highly anticipated second round series of all time: the Across-the-Hall matchup with the already advanced Clippers! It would be absolutely insane. Quite literally, there never had been a Clip Show team that had shown fight like this one-time assembly of a collectively healthy and randomly thrown together group of Brand-Maggette-Cassell-Kaman-Mobley. We just needed one game!
But we didn’t get it. We got brushed aside pretty nonchalantly that first closeout attempt in the infamous game where Raja Bell eluded an attempted manslaughter conviction on national television when he intentionally clotheslined and forcibly threw down Kobe during a drive to the paint. Even though we lost that one, hope was high due to Bell’s obviously implemented suspension for the next game at Staples. But we decided that a golden opportunity like that should instead lead to blowing the simplest opportunity you’re ever going to get in the playoffs at home to advance to the next round. A desperation three-pointer was chucked with the Suns down three in the closing seconds of the game. If every Laker on the court had simply implemented the loudest cry of any amateur basketball coach in America, it would have been over. As the ball clanged off the rim and backboard, hovering in the air just waiting to be defensively gobbled up by someone in yellow, someone didn’t put their butt on a body. Shawn Marion weaseled his way into the lane to snatch the ball and kick it out to the perennially unreliable Tim Thomas for a retry three which, as they usually do in unfortunate situations, singed the net. Overtime occurred. And with it, a butt whooping. All of this achieved by the Suns in direct retaliation to Kobe’s 50 points he would score on the night as he so badly tried to will the Lake Show to a closeout victory. Fatefully, it was a butt whooping that lasted for all of the five minutes of overtime as well as the next four quarters of Game 7. That was it. The countless T-shirts and memorabilia for the all-L.A. matchup had to be scrapped. We somehow manage the near impossible, becoming one of those teams that’s listed on the wrong side of the record book. Darn near every team closes out the series when up 3-1 … except us. That sucks.
But it seemed like a good foundation, right? I know we historically blew an opportunity to get to the Western Conference Finals against all odds, but this team seemed like it had a core under the tutelage of Phil Jackson that could put up a serious fight in the coming years with just a few tweaks. So what did we do? We started tweaking.
[to be continued]
... but do take my word for it.
... but do take my word for it.
I Wasn't Really Spittin' Game, I Was Scrimmagin'
So while I'm cooped up in this hospital bed with my nose looking like the after-product of a Freddy vs. Jason victim, I been trying to keep sane in-between morphine refills by thinking about my University of Kentucky Wildcats basketball team.
I try so hard to be a reasonable fan, but I can't help but be caught up in the hype right now. The fall semester hasn't even started yet and I'm getting antsy about our 2010 recruits! Nothing like this has ever happened for me with a sports team before. I guess it's kinda like how Knicks fans are mercilessly waiting for the free agent signing period of 2010 as well, but the difference here is that UK is gonna be bomb this season, too.
These videos my first evidence of post-high school John Wall, Eric Bledsoe, and DeMarcus Cousins. Now while I'm not gonna pretend the defense in these scrimmage games is even a fraction of NCAA intensity, I will say the skill sets shown are something that will allow this uber-inexperienced team to shoot out the gate for a special season. Wall is simply the real deal. He can do everything on the basketball court completely by himself if he wanted to, yet will play in a system that allows his teammates to capitalize off his individual exploits. He will rule against opposing backcourts day-in and day-out. That's a mere formality to me, now. And both in a dual guard with Wall or as his PG replacement, Eric Bledsoe gives an entire game-changing dynamic. As one of those rare pure point types, Bledsoe can bully his way through any defense with his head up and a knack for distributing the ball at just the right time. So we have a legitimate scoring point and a legitimate passing point as opposed to last year's roster which consisted of no real point guard.
Cousins, to me, is the wild card that could push the team over the edge. How he works off Patterson is pivotal to this team's success. While the Dribble Drive offense wouldn't normally feature two bigs, the talent between these two monsters will convert any offensive scheme into prominently featuring them. As seen specifically in these videos, DeMarcus gobbles up rebounds. He's an enormous presence in the post at 6' 11" and can't be physically pushed around. Yet there was a possession where he took the ball cross court on his own and pulled up for a three, which he drained with confidence. While I don't at all expect him to be our Jodie Meeks replacement from the 3-point line, that's quite a convenience to have a center with an entire floor game to compliment our guard duo and returning low post beast in P-Pat.
I'll get into the rest of our team and their dynamics towards making us a contender, too, but as of right now in this hospital bed, I'm a very hopeful UK student. All because of one John Calipari. I simply cannot wait.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
True Story, My Closet is Like Two Stories
Now for the official record, Rick Ross bores me to tears. I don't care that he's the most ridiculously stagnant coke rapper in the industry or that he's 500 pounds and dirty while trying to pass himself off as a desirable dude. I don't even care that his punchlines are more stale than Monica Lewinsky joke two presidents later. And even after that I don't care that he was a correctional officer before he was a fake drug pin. I don't like him simply because of that fugly chain he wears of himself. I mean, majority of his music does suck pretty bad since he frickin' has only one emotion as the pseudo-suave cocaine-selling lady-wrangler. That's true, too. Whichever aspect of his fake life it is that you dislike him for is irrelevant however when listening to one of the incarnations of "Maybach Music".
You know what? I think I'd want Ross to executive produce my album. He picks exactly half the production & exactly half the guest features. Then he gets kicked out the studio. I can't let him mess anything up after that.
Rick Ross -
Don't You Judge of My Composure
Just got back from a week of volunteer roofing in South Carolina. Dead tired. Got nose surgery at 6:00 in the morning tomorrow. Yeah. And in honor of that ... I'm posting some Michael Jackson ...
So I got put on a version of this song way before I heard the original because of Fest's Man in the Mirror mixtape. It took me forever to actually look up where that original a cappella sample came from for dude's tribute, even though it had been one of my most played songs on my iTunes. I was even more crazy impressed once I saw it performed on this Oprah interview back in the day, prompting a quick change-up of making this the next big single.
MJ had more talent than could possibly be fathomed. It's absolutely insane. Edit: I had to change the clip of him beat boxing and singing a cappella on Oprah to the bootleg music video because that whale takes down everything off YouTube. The music video is still sweet though.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Friends in Low Places
Well ... not too low, but I'm still ashamed that my beloved coach couldn't buddy up with a real pro that he never had a chance to recruit. Cough. Kobe Bryant. Cough. That was not meant to be acted out, just read as is.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Part Six: Move That Bus
We parted with one of our rising studs in Caron Butler to get … wait for it … wait for it … … … Kwame Brown. Laker supporters now had to defend the likes of Kuh-wah-me Brown. Maybe the most legitimate bust of a #1 pick in National Basketball Association history. And yet while he was a beloved Laker, I took the intiative to twist his inadequacies a lil’ bit. Yes, I’m guilty of it. His lack of mobility became his superb defensive fortitude and immovability! His refusal to offensively assert himself became his team-oriented selflessness! His ineptitude to develop any sense of purpose on the basketball court became his still untapped potential! His cement bricks for hands became his … no, those were the exact same. Those (purple & gold) rose-colored glasses that I refused to replace with normal contacts led me to root for, again, Kuh-wah-me Brown. I still can’t believe it myself.
But you know why I thought the team could work? The Lakers restarted their seemingly impossible re-rebuilding phase by bringing back the igniter that had never failed over an extended period of time. Ever. Phil Jackson. Freshly rested from his Kobe-snitching “The Last Season” book tour, our resident Zen Master decided that the bad blood really wasn’t that bad. If he brought this team of Chex Mix-like pieces together, then that would really be something. Could title aspirations come out of an utter failure of a season just because P-Jax was back at the helm? We would see.
The very first game of that season was so exciting that no one could be blamed for having hope. Future aspirations were heaped on rookie center Andrew Bynum, though everyone new Phil disregarded most rookies. Our newly signed (strictly because no one else wanted him) point guard Smush Parker would start his season-opening string of 20-point games that had everyone tagging him as an epic find and out-of-nowhere potential playmaking star. It seemed that way at first. Shut up. The specific excitement came in the form of an overtime game-winning possession against the Denver Nuggets. I guess Phil thought he would make an immediate legend of Kwame, because he designed the play for him. And it looked pretty good actually. The guy made a strong (albeit terrified) move to the basket for a lay-up. Which he botched, of course. But the ball got immediately tapped out and found its way into Kobe’s hands, and he in turn mopped up the mess by hitting a highly contested straight on go-ahead jumper from 22 feet. Let the ascension begin.
But it didn’t quite begin. Yes, this was a season of legend by the (soon to be former) #8 that will probably never be individually replicated, but the team didn’t live up to lofty bounce-back expectations. This was the stretch of Bryant’s career where he created a whole other standard of scoring expertise. Comparisons were blown out the window. The once-arguable matchup of offensive savvy between Tracy McGrady and Kobe Bryant was no longer relevant. In a near unbelievable first three quarters of a game against the Dallas Mavericks, Kobe outscored the entire opposing squad at a clip of KB: 62, Mavs: 61. He then proceeded to kick back the entire fourth quarter and never reenter the game, which led to harsh criticism of him depraving the public of an all-time historical performance. Just weeks later, as if a direct answer to the critics, Kobe came out firing again against the Toronto Raptors. When it was all said and done, every defender in the arena that night had Kobe imprinted on their foreheads to the tune of 81 points. Like … that’s … e-i-g-h-t-y o-n-e. Even further disregarding all semblance of logic, he went on a tear of four consecutive games with over 45 points scored. It became a day-to-day display of excellence for Kobe, finishing the season, unbelievably, with a scoring clip of 35.4 points per game. But somehow … somehow … we weren’t able to distinguish ourselves from the rest of the pack in the Western Conference. It seemed that the rest of the team sometimes sat almost in reverence to Bryant’s individual accolades, never quite coming together cohesively in any way, shape, or form. Only on the strength of Jackson’s pedigree and Kobe’s single-handed brilliance, we reached the playoffs as the 7th seed.
Which meant we met up with the MVP-having Phoenix Suns in the first round. That was during Steve Nash’s two-year reign of making a mockery out of the award-selecting panel. I still have a disgusting taste in my mouth from it. But you know what happened? Game 4 happened. The Lakers made all the adjustments to expose the Suns as fastbreaking phonies. We force fed Kwame and Lamar the ball down low to punish the undersized punks and overachieved our way towards perfectly setting up the commercial-ready moment where in overtime, a jump ball with 6 seconds left on the clock was recovered by Kobe at half court. He took the scene in slowly off the dribble at a diagonal, reaching the opposite wing in an exact amount of calculated steps. Everyone knew the ball would be his and his only. Every opposing player in the vicinity fell upon his shooting elbow. But Kobe, encompassing every facet of perfectionist determination, lifted into the air and gently released the orange roundie to meet its due company in the form of flipping nylon. With that buzzer-beater, the Lakers took a 3-1 series lead. We were on the verge of overthrowing the (*airquotes*) MVP and every playoff choker he called a teammate.
[to be continued]
... but do take my word for it.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
DEAD
New Rakim? Did you say "new Rakim"??? New Rakim????? Just days after 3000 blessed us, too. Is hip hop the only thing on the come up in this bull recession? Might be. Dang. This is all-time stuff right hear. I'd pay for a single bar from dude, but after waaay too many years he actually gave us that single. Man. The Seventh Seal. It can't be anything but classic. I refuse.
Every emcee in the game wishes they could drop a joint like this.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Jealousy #2: The Use of Language
Number two of my jealously list came to my realization in the form of the straight linguistic masterings of Pharoahe Monch. It's something beyond metaphors, rhyme scheme, articulation, or anything else that can be amply described. The only thing I could compare it to to try and get my point across is any given basketball player's floor game. You know, everything involving court vision, dribbling, understanding of offensive sets, decision making, shooting ability, timing, and whatever else. Pharoahe Monch has one of the best floor games in the hip hop world when it comes to his overall use of the language that makes rap so beloved by its fans.
"The master who speaks masterfully what he has mastered. For flaws to change, new laws are forecasted. This is bigger than the Dirty South or bi-coastal. It's global war, and the weapon we choose are Pro Tools. Rap moguls get slapped with vocals until they learn its colloquial, as though we're going postal. It's what I am supposed to do. I suppose you revolutionists stop to thinking that's old school. Let me assist you like Malone from Stockton; I'm in the cock pit, cocked back and locked it, indoctrinated with these hot toxins, refuse to be labeled, degraded, and boxed in. Let's go."
To me, this should be read as something from the letter of a great American mind's journal entry in the diary of livelihood. It's poetic, yet darn near an address to the nation. I left it in paragraph form because I almost feel it's a disservice to the verse's overall cohesive message to break it up bar by bar. Monch is an orator. Forget the forum. We just normally hear him in rhythmic form. I'm jealous.
Re-Link:
Part Five: Destructive Tendencies
We lost. Our beautiful orchestra of motivated last-chancers dissipated. The Laker Empire would slowly and destructively crumble over the coming months. Kobe was an unrestricted free agent that summer and wouldn’t even publicly acknowledge whether he would recommit with the organization who had housed him since his days at Lower Marion High School. Shaq demanded a trade (to a team in warm climate city, no less) away from the Bryant, whom he claimed was a terrible teammate, and even sold his L.A. home weeks before an accommodation with the Miami Heat was even made. Our supposed-to-be savior Derek Fisher signed away with the lowly Golden State Warriors for more money than the Lakers’ front office was willing to commit to the role-playing point guard. Gary Payton was shipped for spare parts to the gutter-dwelling Beantown Celtics. Phil Jackson was at an odds with management and just kind of went away to zen however much he wanted to away from professional basketball, with an all-revealing book rumored to be coming soon after. Malone’s knee required extensive offseason work and while he entertained the possibility of coming back with the Spurs, Wolves, or Lake Show, he wound up riding off into the Louisiana sunset of post-basketball life. And while Kobe did wind up re-upping after a flirting period with the Bulls and (*deep breath*) Clippers, darn near no one was recognizably left. The team was in tatters.
The inaugural season of my fandom was supposed to be perfect. The Lakers were supposed to ride the coattails of my support to a championship, cementing my personal revenge of 53-foot tall Michael Jordan for attaining so many while I was too young to object to it. But the season wasn’t perfect. Karl didn’t get the championship to cap off his beyond-extraordinary career. The Mailman moved on and I had to stick with the Lakers to start this climb back up from the gutter. Now while I had my hopes for a roster now consisting of the likes of the lanky (and interestingly enough, my second favorite player from the previous season) Lamar Odom, the Swiss army knife Caron Butler, the aged and dreadlocked rebounder Brian Grant, jellybean-sized shooter Chucky Atkins, and the nearly dead chain-smoking Vlade Divac, the ’05 season was something that had me wishing for a temporary case of Alzheimer’s.
We started it all right enough, simply living up to extensively lowered expectations. We had replaced Phil with a similarly larger-than-life coach in Rudy Tomjanovich, but because of health issues and the pressures that are a package deal with being the Lakers coach, he barely lasted past the Christmas meeting with the now rivaling Heat, and the indignantly bitter Shaq, before re-retiring. All in all, we fell apart midseason due to a never-ending string of injuries and overall lack of talent, missing the playoffs altogether. That was a first (and odds-on, only) for Kobe in his career. Drastic measures needed to be implemented. And then a trade went down that would change all of our lives drastically.
[to be continued]
... but do take my word for it.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Just What I Needed
NEW ANDRE 3000. I REPEAT ... NEW ANDRE 3000. (snippet from 2dopeboyz)
Well here's a revolutionary idea,
Why don't we both stay home and if the doorbell goes ding dong, we can act like we're not here.
Put them [?] on and take em right back off,
As a result. Like we work at IKEA,
Test every piece of furniture to see if it is stable.
You wanna take it out on me? Then do it on the table.
Mmm. Blow to the head, it's fatal.
Wait'll you get low to me. I ain't jokin, Dark Knight, Batman,
And I'm pokin that PussyCatwoman.
Pokieman (Pokemon) baby, go and push it back on me.
Hopin that maybe you'll wake up in the mornin and forget about it all.
I hate to see ya sad so if anybody call,
Tell em you'll let em know when we fall back to Earth.
Go berserk, bay-bay.
... but do take my word for it.
Part Four: The Defining Tease
But nothing solved my lack of cable that first season. It kinda sucked a lot as NBC's jingle-worthy NBA contract was long-gone from the masterful Bob Costas days of league action. All I got was the occasional ABC Sunday double-header. Stupid near monopoly by ESPN and TNT stealing my thunder. So the sneaking around ensued. I had to make up as many excuses as possible to go to Garrett's house and catch a game. If we were camping, why don't we drive out to a restaurant that, I don't know, has a TV? I had to beeeeg to stay up and bum on the couch for a super late night game when we stayed the weekend with my aunt in Frankfort. I know it's a school night, but how does B-Dub's sound at 10 pm? I had to make visits to see Caroline more than just a weekend thing to bum her TV, too. Every week it was a mission to get to view this immaculate game I was so terribly elated with.
The regular season was tough. With our quad HoFers (Hall of Famers), we were immediately tagged to possibly be the successors of those '96 Payton-beating Bulls in all-time wins. It started beautifully ... until Karl Malone got hurt for the very first time in his entire fricking life. Scott Williams, the most irrelevant player to ever get in the league, decided he overzealously just had to compensate for his lack of significance by jumping for the only time in his career to defend a jump shot and just had land on top of The Mailman's knee. Jerk. No one knew then, but it would cost him much of the season and get reaggravated literally a game before the NBA Finals. That left us ... *sigh* ... Slava Medvedenko (intended to be read irritatingly slow, syllable-by-syllable) as our next power forward option. Doomed.
Here's the 2004 season fast-forwarded, which toyed with every emotion I didn't know I had. Kobe had one of most classic endings ever to the regular season, with playoff seeding on the line. In regulation, Kobe flung off Ruben Patterson for an absolutely disgusting way-too-far-away off-balance three pointer to send the game into overtime. And if only to outdo himself, Kobe came off a screen at the buzzer of the second overtime to hit another fade-away three over the switching shot blocker Theo Ratliff which gave them the improbable season-ending win. This leap-frogged them from the 4th seed to 2nd seed as the Pacific Division champs, only behind the (soon to expire) T-Wolves and a much more favorable schedule. This somehow positively capped a regular season of Bryant stupidity involving (... of course ...) the rape trial and shot selection questioning which all came boiling over during a game against Sacramento where Kobe seemingly refused to shoot the ball under any circumstances in the first half. Just to prove a point. Ugggh. But I knew we'd get it straight in the playoffs. We had to. This was my adopted franchise!
We made short work of the then-rising Houston Rockets with the human log Yao Ming and soon-to-be-nonexistant Steve Francis. I specifically remember a nail-biting where the Lake Show played entirely perfect defense on a crazy long 24 second sequence where Houston had one last shot for the game, ending on a back-up option kick-out to Jim Jackson which was heavily contested (and thankfully missed) by our rotating defender. Those are the kinds of missed opportunities by underdog teams that legitimately kick them in the butt and they rarely recover from. But who cares about H-Town? We had to take a cab up I-(something or another) to San Antonio for the defending champs.
And the rusty boot-pokies (or Spurs, if you wanna be all proper) blitzed us. I mean, I hate football as well as unnecessary inter-sport references, but they absolutely knocked the wind out of us with Tony Parker getting any and every uncontested lay-up he cared for along with Tim Duncan being all boring and efficient like usual. Most people called for Shaq or Karl to simply club the Frenchman in the face for the rest of the series to deter his lay-upnicity. While they did adjust to body him up better from that point on, it just turned out that all the Lakers needed was a classic miracle for the ages by the player everyone least expected. You know, one of those.
So we’d somehow tied the series up 2-2. Who knew? It was Game 5 back on their turf. Pivotal, ya know? Crazy great contested game leading all the way to an exhausted Kobe go-ahead jumper off a classic Karl Malone screen with under a minute to go. Then the Spurs come down and we play crazy defense on them and force an inbounds with only a few second on the shot clock. Great position, right? And all Tim Duncan does is catch the ball out of his range, taking a bobbling couple of dribbles leading into a falling one-handed jumper/floater/turd of a shot that just so happens to fall through the net to give them the lead with nothing but 0.4 seconds left on the game clock. Zero-point-four seconds. Four-tenths-of-a-second. Fantastic.
So I guess Phil drew up a play or whatnot. I assume coaches do or say something inspirational to rally the troops in impossible situations. Anyways, masterful inbounder Gary Payton claps the ball on the wing, everyone starts in motion, and Gregg Pop-a-zit queues a quick timeout. Ugh. Re-do. Masterful inbounder Gary Payton claps the ball on the wing, everyone starts in motion, and Phil Jax queues a quick timeout. Ugh. Re-do. Masterful inbounder Gary Payton claps the ball on the wing, everyone starts in motion, and no one calls a timeout this time. Shaq and Karl run this double screen set in the paint to free up Kobe for a flash out at the three point line. But he’s covered. Dually, Shaq tries to rub off into an attempt for an alley-oop, but it’s covered. Karl falls back to towards a possible hole around the free throw, but … yep … it’s covered. Hmmm … has it been five seconds yet? Apparently not. There’s seemingly no one to go to, but out of nowhere … nowhere … Derek Fisher (who knew he was even in the game?) flares out directly towards GP who by now has to let go off the ball. In one motion, after seemingly hours of suspense, Fisher catches it mid-turn and lefty flings it a mile up in the air. To make a .4 second story even shorter … it swished. Pandemonium 2004! I think I screamed at that moment for (I hope) the only time in my life. Without even meaning to I launched out of my bed and found myself running up and down the hall at like midnight or whatever. One of the single greatest moments I can ever remember.
The Spurs were dead after that one. Of course they lost in L.A. on the Game 6 closeout. We were on a juggernaut rampage now and no one would get in our way. Not even the league-leading Timberwolves. In a series where Kevin Garnett cussed a lot, Latrell Sprewell had cornrows a lot, Sam Cassell looked like Gollum a lot, Michael Olowakandi lacked basketball skills a lot, and Oliver Miller prolly ate doughnuts a lot, the Lakers prevailed in six. That’s all you really need to know. It went a game longer than it should have, but even after Karl Malone left the series a little gimpy, everyone knew the inexperienced Eastern champ (by default of conference suckiness) Pistons would be no match for us. We had four HoFers (if you needed reminding)! They had a ragamuffin band of unwanted parts that couldn’t put points on the board and barely had an all-star résumé between them. Case closed. Cancel the Finals and hand out the rings.
Now this minor little part of the story is so painful that I refuse to relive it piece by piece. It was now into June of the summer after my 8th grade year and I had my one church camp of the year leaving a day after Game 3 where the Lakers were down 1-2 in the series. I was devastated to have to leave after the previous night’s game where I literally turned the TV off and tried to go to sleep after the third quarter of a pathetically mediocre Laker showing (but I couldn’t handle it a half hour later and turned it back on, just to see them in the same exact hole with seconds left). But so be it. With all my instantaneous obsession with the NBA, I somehow had just enough sense left to know God could take precedence over what was going on in the basketball world. Begrudgingly so. But I swore I was going to camp without the burden of the Finals outcome and wouldn’t be sneaking around to find out the scores over the week. But the jerk camp leaders who had TVs and cell phones for nighttime use just haaad to talk about the games the mornings after anyway. Ugh. The website prolly didn’t exist back then, but FML.
[to be continued]
... but do take my word for it.
Classic: Give In to Me
So, understandably, I've been listening to a lot of Michael Jackson lately. I don't care if you're tired of the coverage or whatever, that's definitely a deserved opinion by now, but for the rest of my life I will never be tired of putting his albums back on repeat.
While I was expanding my MJ library past all the common singles that get regular play, I found a crazy pattern going on. For every song I added, I gave it a full and honest listen and what killed me was that darn near every new tune became one of my favorite Jackson songs. It happened over and over and over again. Mike killed his competitors and pushed his relevancy because he was literally able to take any and every form of song possible and mold it into his distinctive signature style. Dance, ballad, funk, radio pop, hard rock, old school R&B, edgy soul ... it didn't matter. But what ultimately became my favoritest favorite MJ joint (for now) was the Slash-assisted "Give In to Me" off his Dangerous album. To me, it's song writing at its finest. The dude could even ride any guitar riff he wanted to a perfectly constructed chorus that absolutely engraves in your brain. I love it. No one messes with Mike's pen skills.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Part Three: An Interest Fulfilled
But as anyone who's ever known me knows, I can't just kinda do anything. Right then and there in that comfy condo's SportsCenter-viewing chair, the spark was ignited. I immediately copped my copies of (the temporarily titled) ESPN NBA Basketball with Allen Iverson for the PS2 as well as NBA Live 2004 with Vince Carter for the GameCube. And of course I couldn't rest with the previous generation of video game systems' lack of updating capability. Once I noticed Dikembe Mutombo wasn't supposed to be on the Nets anymore, I immediately had to create a system to keep track of these dang rosters that changed every single day. So I used my spreadsheet savvy to organize rosters with every single player's information, as well as free agents, that also integrated depth charts based on starting percentage and minutes played. Without even meaning to, I knew where every guy in the association was, where they had been, what their role was on the team, a scouting report on them, their physical spec's, and all the important garbage. I got the Harvey Pollack Statistical Yearbook full of every obscure stat and non-stat and amusing anecdote you never wanted to know, yet for some reason I needed to know. I got the straight stat book collections later. The exact numbers of points per game and turnovers were an afterthought to the collection of distances of every individual player's shots and who got blocked the most.
But that was all just for my newfound love of the game in general. The important premise behind the whole thing was my inabsolvable commitment to the Los Angeles Lakers. Yes, I knew they were the most hated team in America, yet still sold the most merchandise year in and year out. Yes, I knew that most people considered them a cop-out favorite team for any given sports fan and consensus was that the refs cheated for them. Yes, I knew Shaq sometimes came in overweight and lazy because of a minor toe injury and that Kobe was supposedly a ball-hogging adulterer. But who cares? They felt right to me. I would soon understand enough about them to pimp slap any approaching hater with a stat sheet-clad fist. As I have/do regularly.
[to be continued]
... but do take my word for it.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Part Two: The Suppressed Traumatization
The way these reporters talked about Malone and Payton blew me away. The fact that the surly 40ish power forward whose previous championship aspirations were twice trashed by the infallible Michael Jordan, as once was the pesky rail-thin point guard's, tugged at my epic tale-seeking heart's strings. I had to see how this would work. Evil dream-crushing Michael Jordan had of course been presented to me through the movie Space Jam, but more intensively (if you can imagine it so) by a long-forgotten field trip to the IMAX that detailed in all its 72-by-53 foot capacity how "Air Jordan" had greedily stolen away the ball from the hulking Karl Malone to hit a championship-winning (though, later understood, illegal) jump shot in his (supposed-to-be) final act of basketball ring-hogging.
All the emotions of the forgotten epic IMAX rushed back to me. Karl Malone was the real life human hero that I'd been searching for away from my world of sequestered intrigues. Everything about him was interesting to me, even down to what the heck he was talking to himself about for every single one of his 13,000-plus free throws he attempted. As another selling point, other people in the universe actually had a reference point to him as opposed to anyone else I would care to talk about. At the age of 13, there's only so much someone will listen to you about "Weird Al" or the dreaded card games I was finally pushing past and leaving on the back burner. I had to follow this Karl Malone character and his newfound team that gave him another chance to reach the pinnacle of the basketball universe after 5 years of failed attempts since his trip to the Finals via that huge screen I watched it on.
[to be continued]
... but do take my word for it.
... but do take my word for it.
Jealousy #1: The Voice
Sometime last year I put together a list on a whim. It was during a heavy hip hop listening binge where I was going through entire discographies of different artists on the daily. I was taking in every aspect of all of my favorite emcees and trying to understand what specifically stood out to make them as unbelievably dope as I thought they were.
The first and easiest distinction I made was that Black Thought's voice was made by God for him to rap. Point blank. As I've come to find out because of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, dude can also carry a tune if he needs to for a hilariously placed cover song to intro some actor/athlete/musician/douche bag. But the slightly gruff, calculatedly lazy, and powerfully stern inflection that he uses to drop knowledge any given day of the week is where it's really at. He could have jumped out solo from The Roots anytime he'd wanted, but he knew his voice was gonna be heard and respected regardless. That's what makes it even more special when he hops on an independent feature. And kills every other rapper's bars in the vicinity. Sure, dude's got wordplay and concepts and smarts and awareness, but it's his voice that throws him in the forefront to me. I'm jealous.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Classic: Aquemini
The world has gone far too long without some OutKast pumping up and down its collective block. Between that lil' fact and Charles Hamilton's crazy disappearance recently, I don't know how I've made it. Now while Big Boi's album has seemingly been complete for like two years and still isn't out, there aren't even any rumors floating around about Dre's anymore. Man. Y'all can say whatever, but I prefer over-saturation from my favorite artists, my darn self.
This song features my favorite Andre 3000 verse of any and all time. Just surpassing the 5-minute epic of "A Life in the Day of Benjamin Andre" and the dissertation on existence that is "Mighty 'O'". But as I sometimes gotta remind myself, Big kills it, too. I could write a whole other million words about it, but nothing is better to me in music than those two juxtaposing each other so perfectly in sync yet distinctively different. It's a beautiful thing. Anyways ... here's the most ridiculously densely packed 10 bars you've ever been exposed to:
My mind warps and bends, floats the wind, count to ten.
Meet the twin, Andre Ben. Welcome to the lion's den.
Original skin many men comprehend.
I extend myself, so you go out & tell a friend.
Sin all depends on what you believin in,
Faith is what you make it. That's the hardest ish since MC Ren.
Alien can blend right on in wit yo kin,
Look again, cuz I swear I spot one every now & then.
It's happenin again, wish I could tell you when.
Andre, this is Andre, y'all just gon' have to make amends.
Meet the twin, Andre Ben. Welcome to the lion's den.
Original skin many men comprehend.
I extend myself, so you go out & tell a friend.
Sin all depends on what you believin in,
Faith is what you make it. That's the hardest ish since MC Ren.
Alien can blend right on in wit yo kin,
Look again, cuz I swear I spot one every now & then.
It's happenin again, wish I could tell you when.
Andre, this is Andre, y'all just gon' have to make amends.
... but do take my word for it.
Part One: Intro to a New World
So it's been weeks now. I've been trying to get all my senses straight about the whole thing. For the first time since I've committed my unadulterated fandom (est'd 2003) to the troops in purple and gold, we have won the whole thing. Part-by-part I will be releasing my epic essay (or novel as it seems to be turning into now) on my reasons as to why this team is so integral to my life. Essential even. I’ll start slow on the intro so you can get your reading chops ready, but trust me, there’s much to be posted. Enjoy, comment, harass, whatever. I’ll prolly update this here and on Facebook each day with each new part.
It all started in Pigeon Forge while I was immersed in all the channels of our family's condo's television set. We didn't have cable back home, so that was half the lure of any given vacation. Previous to that day, I couldn't have cared any less about any given sport. But through the miracle of the immaculate presentation of ESPN's coverage of the opening week of NBA free agency, I was exposed to the initial story-line that would dictate my future in-depth interests and attachments to the game and organization I am immersed with today. Rumors were swirling that it was possible that one Karl Malone and one Gary Payton could sacrifice the extensive riches entitled to two close-to-retirement future Hall-of-Famers and join one Shaquille O'Neal and one Kobe Bryant to vie for an NBA championship.
[to be continued]
... but do take my word for it.
... but do take my word for it.
Anyone Else. Anyone
Just to keep up with the undeniable rapping force as of late (one Kanye West), here's my Nah Right impression of linking up a song the millisecond it leaks. And you know I usually don't like to post the big records that you could find on any random blog tonight, but I'm on vacation about to hang out with my best friend ever that I rarely get to see. So let's just break the mold a little. Cool?
Did autotune just un-die? It's a possibility. Has Kan reached the pinnacle of music where he gets veto power over what Jay-Z says, yet? It's a possibility. Dude already laces all of Hova's beats, so he very well may have finally caught onto that same rung of public declaration. It's a possibility. Regardless, I really feel the concept and execution of this record. I relate too well almost. And I get that reaction off an immediate listen, too. I mean, I ain't on to much British-tinged pop music right now, but the three joints I've heard from Mr. Hudson sound really defined and distinctive in the direction he's going. I mess with it. "G.O.O.D. Music is definitely in tha beeldin." It's a possibility.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
iNeedaGirl
So in most cases I'm a pretty big Trey Songz fan. He puts in work prolly better than anyone in R&B right now behind Ne-Yo. Now while on first listen I think his new mixtape (Anticipation: download link) is a snoozer and that "LOL" joint with Gucci & Soulja is a radiating turd, I dig pretty much all of his freestyles as of late. As well as this song.
Stargate handles production on this track. Talking about rhythm & blues lately ... what good song hasn't Stargate handled in recent years? But anyways, due to Ma$e's latest attempt at a comeback, this track caught my attention again. While I'm doing my internal investigation into my iTunes of songs I didn't remember I had, I found the demo over the same gorgeous acoustic instrumental. Now, dead serious, I don't know which version I like better. Trey Songz does some really great things with his voice on this one, like he does on darn near every track, but Johnta has those pure vocals that come from a dude who's been in the background of the industry and hasn't been forced to change the way he naturally sounds even one iota. But here's still hoping for a day when Austin'll keep a single for himself that'll stick on the radio. But so is the strife of a professional ghostwriter. Oh well.
Too Late
This one makes me sad. The full story hasn't been uncovered yet, but most likely what happened was this song was slated to have Michael Jackson either replace the demo's reference track or lay an entirely new verse altogether. But, at least with the latest version, that never came to be. I hope more information comes out about it specifically, but until then, here's the original leak and the one that just came about. MJ would have out-shined them all. Easily. No one could have touched dude's proper presence on this track.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Gregg Pockovich
Just cuz I had a little DMX binge this morning and was inspired by the following lyrics:
"I wish Adam wouldn't have listened to Eve when he bit the apple,
I wish the Ku Klux Klan didn't own Snapple."
Ahhhhh, man. I needed a laugh from Mr. Simmons. The KKK doesn't own Snapple, in case you were wondering. But dead serious, I sweat X's music. That's no joke. Before his latest jail stint he was set to release a double album consisting of a hardcore CD juxtaposed with a ... gospel album. I was really looking forward to it, but who knows what the plans are now. As far as my collection goes, I got three cuts supposedly slated for that album. One of them, "I Wish", featured the (... um ...) thought-provoking lyrics above. And it also features Seal. When's the last time you thought about that guy? Prolly when you were flipping through random radio stations and stumbled across "Kiss from a Rose" and sang it at the top of your lungs. I put five bucks on it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
