Lately, I’ve been obsessed with the concept of personal craftsmanship. You know, taking whatever it is that you do because you like it and really turning it into art. And then letting that art allow you the headspace to find some measure of personal freedom from the world around you. In a perfect scenario, there is a sort of merger between artist, subject, and output.
This is a perfect example. The next time I am invited to give any type of talk about what it means to be a creative person, I might just shut up for the first five minutes and show this video. Shinya Kimura becomes his motorcycles. No formal training. No fancy-pants engineering degree. Just a purity of purpose and a dedication to craftsmanship that is so personal it is difficult to distinguish man from bike.
ありがとうございます。
Turman
PS. Hat tip to Jen Spectacular for today’s inspiration.
PPS. Make sure to go wide screen for this high-def goodness. And crank up the sound while you’re at it.
I once heard an interview with Nile Rogers from Chic about how they came to write the disco classic “Le Freak.” When the band was first starting out in NY, one night they tried to go to Studio 54 and the doorman wouldn’t let them in. So, they went back to their practice space and wrote this song that went, “Aaaaaah F**k You.” Of course, their label wouldn’t let them release a jam with the F-Bomb in it no matter how funky it was, so they changed it to “Freak out.”
This is one of those TGFI moments, “Thank God for the Internet.” I’m sure 74% of all musicians have written at least one “F-You” song in their lifetimes. Now, with the Internet as the primary channel to distribute and promote music, musicians can finally give commercial radio, the major labels and the FCC, the “Big F-You.”
A few years back my dad said that Adonol Foyle had sent him some poems to read. I never asked my dad what came of it, but I imagine he could have given Foyle some pointers from one former NBA Player turned poet to another. Now, the poem that Foyle released following his recent retirement announcement was not really… well, let’s just say that in terms of poems written about sports, it was no “To An Athlete Dying Young” by Auden. It’s not even as good as Common’s “I Used to Love H.E.R.” in the lover-as-metaphor genre. But, nonetheless, I got to give the man some props for trying. When was the last time I tried to write a poem? Or any of us? Poetry is not for the faint of heart, or for any dude who’s uncomfortable with his masculinity. Foyle was one of those players with a unique sense of self, who stood out in the Hop Hop and celebrity-driven NBA culture. He was a perfect fit for The Bay Area - just as comfortable reading a book in a Berkeley cafe as on the Warriors Bench.
For those who may be inclined to clown Foyle for writing poetry, I can say that, most likely, Adonal Foyle is smarter than you. The dude started a non-profit to activate students on the issue of campaign finance reform. He graduated Magna Cum Laude from Colgate with a History degree and is now working on his Masters. It’s nice to see a professional athlete whose post-sports career will probably be more interesting, and more successful, than his playing days. A future Poet Laureate he is not, but he’s also not going to be the next Antoine Walker. I imagine we’re not done hearing about Adonal Foyle.
Make the jump to read Foyle’s Poem, “Love Song to A Game”
First the diabolical awesomeness of the Auto Tune-d Double Rainbow dude, which practically screamed, “Make a Skittles commercial out of me.” Now this. The death of Auto Tune? Not sure it’s gonna happen any more. It’s like awesome sauce that you can throw on lots of things to make them awesomer.
Among the many salient pieces of excellent advice recently given out to the new owners of the Golden State Warriors, improbably enough in the SF Gate’s baby-rearing blog, one stood out. Have Chaka Khan sing the national anthem. Every night.
Submitted as evidence, was this mind-bending tour through our 3/4 time waltz of a national jam, replete with all the stadium echo and questionable acoustics a real pro has to deal with to make the rocket’s glare get into the red zone. I say yes. Chaka Khan. Pay her. To sing this. Every night. We would be the envy of hoopdom. The rest of the advice wasn’t too shabby either. But seriously? The 1:50 mark? ‘Nuff said.
Turman Approved
PS. I once enjoyed two sets of Chaka at a local venue. Front row. She was relentlessly being courted between songs by an aging quasi-pimp in a suit and a mesh shirt. About halfway through the second set, she cracked a sweat and asked a roadie for a towel. But no. Mr. Pimp stood up, approached the stage, and offered her his pocket square. She smiled, gave in momentarily to his advances and took the pocket square. She wiped the sweat from her brow. She returned the pocket square. What did he do? He held it to his nose, took a deep inhale, looked away in thought for a moment and smiled. Then he put the pocket square back in his jacket pocket and left. Exited the venue. Before the next song even started. Chaka shook her head and counted off the band. No lie.
I’m going to Oracle Arena tonight to watch the Warriors play the Knicks. One of the reasons I’m going is so I can wear this shirt. While I’m a Warriors fan, I honestly have a serious soft spot for the Knicks. Big-market team with denizens of faithful fans, who also spend many a fourth quarter with their heads in their hands glad that they got that extra beer before the third quarter ended. Sound familiar? That’s why I’m wearing this shirt tonight. The Knicks deserve a reprieve. Why not the prize of the offseason free-agent pool, LeBron James?
A couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of working with a talented young art director named Ivan Cash. After about three minutes of casual conversation, both of us realized that we had a similar problem. We both loved bad teams too much. In his case, however, he was actually arrested for it. See, while living in NYC, young Ivan had printed up t-shirts reading, “Don’t hate the player or the game, hate the coach.” At the time, that was a certain Mr. Thomas, he of the inept personnel decisions and sexual-harassment scandals.
Ivan’s latest work combines Milton Glaser’s iconic graphic artistry with a heartfelt plea to restore dignity to one of the cornerstone franchises of the league. Buy one here, if you’re feeling sympathetic to a metropolis that deserves better. It’s certainly sexier than an “I Larry Ellison Oakland” t-shirt, although if anyone has any better ideas I’ll happily forward them to Mr. Cash.
Turman
PS. Keys to the game? Uh, try to suit up at least six guys and score lots. I’m setting the over/under at 280 for this one. Also thanks to Atma Brother One over at the mighty Golden State of mind for the invite. Apparently, he’s thinking along similar lines.
Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s nostalgic for the good old days of the NBA on NBC. Particularly the theme song. Which, of course was written by John Tesh. Yep, that John Tesh. Ever wondered how he wrote it? Wonder no more. Watch as the erstwhile host of Entertainment Tonight, explains the song’s origin. And then plays it live. It’s like eight kinds of awesome dipped in magic pixie dust.
But the origin myth revealed is the best part. Because he came up with it in exactly the same way we can all recall it. Go ahead, hum it. Without much provocation, almost any serious American fan of basketball can kinda half hum, half sing the song. Which, as this video shows, is exactly how he wrote it. That said, the enthusiasm with which he plays “Roundball Rock” is really something to watch and learn from. Who says you can’t just Nietzsche up on being something nobody thinks you should try to be. John Tesh wanted to play music and a lot of us laughed when we first heard about it. And yet he went on to write what is arguably the best song about basketball ever written.
John Tesh, forever linked to my memories of Michael Jordan-era Bulls game Sunday brunches and Marv Albert’s hyperbolic game intros, I salute you. And sometimes when I walk into my local gym, I might be humming this song.
FTB’s own Mike Meezy got another spot on the Warriors’ pregame show highlight montage recently. But this one was different. Given that the track is a slow jam about not being able to let go, it was eerily apropos of current events on the roster and in the locker room. Jack. Monta. Even Kelenna (speedy recovery, homey). But, by the end of the video it feels like a requiem for the “We Believe” era. And thinking of that Spring ‘07 team, I want to think that I’d, “Bet you never thought that I’d be needing you.” But yeah, now I’m not so sure. Somehow Mike has made me feel like I’m breaking up with my primary sports franchise. And unsure of the choice at hand at that.
But this. I was at that game against the Rockets. Season opener. And I saw the Randolph quarter-ending three. The Steph Curry “buzzer beater that wasn’t” that concluded the proceedings too. And everything else. On the way to a one point loss.
Meschery and I were so sick of screaming at Maggette to pass the ball that we skipped the Golden State of Mind-sponsored, postgame, on court, bloggers and friends, free-throw-shooting contest. Seeing the events of that night recast in a video montage starring one of our own is a Seinfeldian moment of pure symmetry. Unfortunately, abject frustration with the team’s rudderless trajectory mixed with the image of one of my closest friends singing this particular song while wearing an “I Want to Believe” t-shirt results in a madness-inducing combination that is as close to the feelings generated by a bitter romantic breakup that a professional sports franchise can generate.
But of course, I still want to believe. And I never thought I’d miss you this much. But my God, I can tell. You’ve been missing me too. Don’t you ever go away. There’s always a chance.
Around this time in 1989, we here in the Bay Area were still reeling from all the concrete that fell down as a result of the Loma-Prieta Earthquake. Half a world away, another seismic shift was taking place, as the Gorbachev-sponsored Glasnost eventually reached the city of Berlin. For me, the end of the Cold War was the end of a particular type of fear. For those of us raised on hide-under-your-desk, the-red-button-has-been-pushed, air-raid drills, it will always be a watershed moment laden with a peculiar mixture of irony and hope.
Above is adept at mixing the visual medias of graffiti and video in compelling ways. Here then, is but one stop on his European tour. Given the anniversary that just passed, take a moment and remember the gravity of the moment he is celebrating in paint and film. Better yet, peruse his video gallery and take a few minutes in the name of an artist at work.
Turman
PS. Warriors at Knicks preview: Monta and Nellie apparently got into it during and after practice. I need to think about this a bit, but man. Practice? We’re talking about practice? I’m supposed to be a franchise blogger, and we’re sittin’ here talkin’ ’bout practice?
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
- Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven
I’m thrilled I got to tune in tonight to watch The Suns shoot free throws and Channing Frye hit threes like a seven-foot Steve Kerr. Channing F-ing Fry. That’s good television. And thank you Warriors for scaring the living s**t out of me. There’s no more dreadful kind of self-loathing than sitting at home by oneself on a Friday night eating cereal for dinner and watching The Warriors try to play basketball. If a goddamn demon raven came knocking on my door, I’d be jumping up to let his ass in just to have some kind of distraction.
“Please devil bird, peck both my eyes out so I don’t have to watch this team play another minute. What’s that you say? Nevermore? Yeah, nevermore. That would be good.”
So, is there balm in Gilead? Nope, and apparently there’s no ball movement in Gilead either. Seriously, what kind of serial killer was I in a former life that I have to watch Corey Maggette play basketball? It feels as if Don Nelson knows I’m watching and is personally tormenting me by keeping Maggette in the game. Maybe it was one of Nelson’s ancestors I murdered. Don, you know this isn’t going to end well for anyone. Okay, maybe it’s going to end okay for you. I’ve heard Maui is pretty nice, but for the rest of us, damnation to countless more years of NBA purgatory isn’t the ending we had in mind after the We Believe Season.
And, can one of the scientists down at Oaksterdam University please tell me what Bob Fitzgerald is smoking? Please? Whatever Godzilla weed it is, it’s definitely “home” grown and came straight from Robert Rowell’s lab. If there’s any justice in the world, an undead Thunder is going to be haunting Rowell’s dreams tomorrow night like Freddy Kruger for unleashing his so-called “Great Time Out” on The Bay Area.
If this Warriors Season is an experiment of sorts, then it is The Stanford Prison Experiment and, we, the fans are the prisoners. We have now programmed ourselves for such abuse. I’m imploring anyone who reads this blog to break the fourth wall on whatever freaky social research project this is and run away. Run to The Timberwolves for all I care. Just run. See, I didn’t choose to be a Warriors fan, it chose me. I was born into it. It’s too late for me, but it might not be for you. Get out while you can.
M. Meschery
Update: Given that the Bay Bridge is done for the night, I figured I’d offer up this last-minute solution for the East Bay and or FTB enthusiasts. Mike Meezy at the Shattuck Down Low, along with Calm-O-Dee. Done. I’ll be enthusiastically attired as a young Fidel Castro.
