The Warriors are up 11 in the fourth quarter against the Pacers, so it looks like I won’t have to get into hating on Mssrs. Murphy or Dunleavy. Or Rowell. So, for the time being, let’s turn our attention to the motor vehicle of the Birdman, Denver Nugget Chris Andersen. This, my friends, is a six and a half ton truck. What you might buy if you had to get 400 cases of Coors from Texarkana to Georgia in 28 hours. With Burt Reynolds in a Trans-Am as your wingman. But, see, Birdman is an NBA forward. Living in Denver. What in all that is holy does he need with a street-legal Freightliner baby 18-wheeler?
No. Let’s ignore that question and just consider Birdman’s whip for a minute. At 22 feet long, it’s relatively modest in, er, length. But at eight and a half feet wide, there’s not a Starbuck’s parking lot in Denver that can contain it. Moreover, as the SportChassis vehicle information page would have it, people will notice your girth. And height. This thing is almost 12-feet tall.
Size Matters: It’s not about how fast your car is; it’s about the size of your truck…The SportChassis P4XL is the ultimate luxury sport utility vehicle on the planet. Everything about this truck is big! A 174-in. wheelbase, 100-in. width and 264 inches from front to back make sure that you impress. Four Michelin XZL 425/65R 22.5-in. tires available in the offroad package powered by the Allison TRV3200 in a 5-speed configuration makes sure that you can go anywhere you need to. The Cummins ISC, an 8.3L diesel, rated at 330 HP with a 1000-ft/lb torque provides more than enough power to pull your boat up that slippery ramp or take you, your friends and all the toys to play in the sand.
Don’t get me wrong here. I love me some Birdman. But this truck? As a means of personal conveyance? What toys? What sand? What slippery ramp on God’s green earth requires the purchase of this thing? Sorry bro, nothing screams out to the world overconsuming American assh&*e more than a superfluous monster truck. Plus, it’s so 2004. I mean, if Birdman was getting all Karl Malone with it and going on some long-haul runs in the offseason, maybe I could see this. But as a means with which to conspicuously engulf the city in which you live in a haze of diesel smoke and crumpled-up double parking tickets, I gotta throw you some hate. Sure, I’m prone to occasional fits of flossing large, but not like this. Dude. You’re telling the world something you shouldn’t be telling it. I’m not going to say what. Not here. But I’m just sayin’.
Think I’m being harsh? Here’s what it looks like in a Starbuck’s parking lot (see below). Next to a flippin’ Escalade. Call me crazy, but unless ‘Melo is at the wheel of the Trans-Am and they’re eastbound and down to play the Hawks, with the whole team onboard, this is just too much dang truck.
Turman
PS. While I wrote, Monta fouled out with a career-high 45 points, but the Dubs actually stepped on the Pacers’ necks down the stretch and pulled one out. Turman approved.
PPS. Shaq also has one of these things apparently, but he might be the only human being on earth who can justify ownership by virtue of the fact that he really does need the space.
PPPS. Anthony Randolph’s PR person kindly contacted the FTB crew today to let us know that he’d be signing autographs and taking pictures at the Adidas store on Market Street in SF on Wednesday from 3:45-4:15. A $500 giveaway is in the mix too. Now you know. Not sure how the ankle injury he suffered tonight (which will keep him from traveling to Denver) will affect the signing.
This will be the first and last time you will hear anyone on this blog come to the defense of a Lakers fan. In our world, Lakers Fans are Socs and Warriors Fans are Greasers. That means The Lakers and their fans deserve all of the disdain that an average weed-smoking, Black Sabbath-listening high school loser would have had for Leif Garrett circa 1978. Of course, that makes us Warriors Fans the scrappy little perma-teen Ralph Macchio - stay gold (and blue) Ponyboy. And if you watched the Lakers vs Warriors game on Saturday, our Macchio-like baby faces were made even more obvious in the presence of the mostly-veteran Lakers team. But I digress. I’m writing this because, until now, The Utah Jazz never factored one way or the other into my Lakers hatefest. However, after watching this video over at Ball Don’t Lie of a practical joke that the Utah Jazz (and the Jazz Fans) played on an unsuspecting Lakers Fan, I felt a tinge of sympathy for this guy. Since Utah doesn’t fit into my Outsiders paradigm (they’re certainly not Greasers or Socs), I’m going to have to say The Utah Jazz are the Nelson Muntz of the NBA. It’s as if the entire Jazz crowd yelled a collective “Ha-Ha” at this poor sap. First, this prank was stolen from College Humor, so it’s not even original (kind of like a wedgie). Second, we’re in the middle of the worst financial crisis since The Great Depression and you’re really going to play with someone’s financial emotions like that, in the middle of the Thanksgiving Holiday no less? “Hey Tom Joad, remember that bet we placed for you on Seabiscuit, well you just won a hundred grand……psych!” Am I the only one who sees the cruelty in this? What if the trick was played on a mother on food stamps?
Because this is a Lakers Fan, it almost makes it excusable. Almost. However, if our halftime entertainment moves from Punked to Viva La Bam, someone’s going to get hurt. If I was this dude, and I just thought I won a million dollars (even for 10 seconds), only to get clowned by the entire crowd moments later, I would have beat the fur off of The Jazz Bear and then choked out Reggie Miller like I was Sprewell. The only reason that this Lakers Fan didn’t do that is because he’s not from the other side of the tracks. Certianly, Two-Bit or Dally wouldn’t have been such “good sports.”
Twitter probably Jumped the Shark when Ashton Kutcher challenged a global news network to a popularity contest and won (Lou Dobbs was never the same after that). However, Tweeting from jail has to be recognized as some kind of milestone, right? I guess people are updating their Facebook status to “locked up,” but I always imagined that there are some things you don’t want to broadcast to the world. However, with Twitter, people just can’t wait to tell you exactly WTF they’re doing - even if it’s avoiding the prison soy meat because it has saltpeter in it. Seriously. Gawker has the snark including this gem about Ed Meese now worried about the prison population. Really, Ed Meese?
Speaking of having no shame in your game, Don Nelson did an interview with KNBR from an Indianapolis Bar a few weeks back. See, like Ashton Kutcher and Twitter, Don Nelson’s liver is taking on the world. If Manny Pacquiao fought Nellie’s Liver at the Oracle, that might get me to go there, but right now, a Warrior’s game ain’t going to do it. I don’t care how many D-League All Stars they call up. (Shout out to our very own FTB-contributor Nellie’s Liver. Not to be confused with the real Nellie’s Liver)
And finally, Oakland criminals may have jumped the shark this week now that The Town is the third highest crime city in the US. We beat out Detroit for the bronze - a significant accomplishment given that there’s nothing to do in Detroit but commit crime. How did we do that? Anyway, now that the Oakland criminals pulled their own Ashton Kutcher, it looks like the new Police Chief really is not playing. As the story goes, he was offered the Oakland Job a year ago when he was in Long Beach and turned it down, but then, while at the funeral for the slain Oakland Police back in March, he decided to take the job because “he wanted to help.” That’s some John Wayne-type ish right there. I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot more Tweeples in jail with this guy around (sorry Ed Meese). Hopefully, he won’t take any cues from the BART Police though. This time, a BART officer in West Oakland put some raving, racist drunk guy’s head through a window, and, of course, someone Tweeted about it, and it was caught on video… and it was posted to YouTube. So, congratulations Oakland for the stellar work on the ol’ public image! Right now, in some bar in Dallas, I’m sure Don Nelson is toasting your success.
Yep. The shark has been jumped. T-Pain on Jimmy Kimmel Auto-Tuning up a recent speech by Barack Obama on the importance of health-care reform? There are so many angles to take on this one, I don’t even know where to begin. So, I’m just going to declare this week another Jump the Shark Week and file this one in the appropriate bin. Enjoy the video. It’s damn funny.
Turman
PS. The Warriors’ surprising victory on Friday, followed by Cal’s upset of Stanford in The Big Game, as well as Oakland’s own Andre Ward claiming the WBC belt at the Oracle Saturday night left me a bit winded. We’ll get back to these types of things momentarily. Once my brain reboots. I was so prepared for multiform disappointment, I’m at a loss. So this. Back to regularly scheduled coverage momentarily.
PPS. I’m starting to wish that late night TV came on earlier. The Yacht Rock thing with The Roots Crew on Jimmy Fallon was epic too. Jump and call me a liar. Seriously. But better still, Yacht Rock is on the verge of jumping the shark for a second time. Who knew? Actually, maybe this was the moment that it did. We shall see. Read More »
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.
I don’t have time for this. I was going to write about the Detroit Pistons having better fourth quarters of late than the Big Three, but now I’m forced to leave basketball behind for a minute. To take a look at scared suburban nerds packing heat. Legally. In California. Under the “open carry” laws passed in the wake of the Black Panther movement.
See, as the story notes, it’s still legal to carry a registered, unloaded, and holstered handgun in California. In urban areas. You know, where things might just get off the hook. Like at the Starbucks in Cupertino. At eleven in the morning. Nevermind the fact that, should you be asked to carefully set down your soy mocha and hand over your (allegedly) unloaded Glock to an officer of the law, he’s not even allowed to look at the serial number. And let’s also ignore for a minute that you are allowed to carry the ammo for said gun in, say, your pocket. Forget all of that for two paragraphs and let’s just consider the “why” of it all.
Gentlemen, do you really feel that threatened? Impossible. Do you really feel that the second amendment is that important? No, because if you did you’d know that it was written into the constitution as a means of confronting your means of governance with violent force, not to foster impotent little displays of “little-dick-syndrome” in a quiet bedroom community. It is almost 2010. You do not need to carry a sidearm like you’re living in Boot Hill, Arizona, at the turn of the century and you just copped a feel on Lester Moore’s favorite lady of the night. You live in Silicon Valley. You’re more likely to get bopped by Sergey Brin’s silent but deadly Tesla than thugged up on by some highly motivated and well-traveled bangers from EPA. But this brings me to the real point.
Have you realized what you just done did, scared white boys on TV? You just let the official television station of Oakland, CA let the entire populace of said city become newly aware of this impossibly stupid legal loophole. You want some real thrills to go with that gun. Stumble upon a sideshow once the word is out in the ‘hood on “open carry” law. Stop on by when OPD is fully powerless to control a well-armed (but holstered) population that is newly aware that all they have to do to be legal is buy a fucking holster and keep the bullets in their pants pocket. Please. Read More »
Even though I’m trying to direct a little less hate the way of the reigning NBA champions, I find it hard to resist. Especially after last night. The Lakers were on cruise control through three quarters and up by a grip at the break. So they take the starters out.
And all hell breaks loose.
The pivotal moment was this crushing block on Shannon Brown—he of what has seemed like dozens of dunks per night—by Jason Maxiell. Jason Maxiell isn’t exactly a household name. But if you think some blocks are at least as good as some dunks, punch him up on YouTube. The Pistons got some 20 odd points back, but couldn’t get the job quite done. Somehow, with the Lakers, things are different though and just seeing Phil have to put his starters back on the floor, one by one, seemed like a strange kind of victory in and of itself.
Before Stephen Jackson went “off-script” at the beginning of this season, everyone here in Warriorsland knew that he could jump off the campaign bus at any minute. Ric Bucher pretty much laid it out back in 2008 when he wrote a very sympathetic article about Jackson. Bucher explained the two sides of Jackson as such:
The two faces of Stephen Jackson are so distinct he has names for each. Stack Jack, a nickname his rappers hung on him as the man with stacks of cash, is the hyperanimated side, forever riding to the rescue, on the street or in the game. Stephen is the relaxed, charitable jokester. “The guy everybody loves,” he says.
What Bucher’s article acknowledges is that, while Stack Jack’s intentions might be noble, his riding to the rescue usually does more harm than good. In the past months, Stack Jack reared his head again, taking over majority ownership of Stephen’s brain and went riding again, but in this case he was out to rescue himself. And as usual, it didn’t quite work out the way he planned - so much for going to a winning team, Stack.
Back to going rogue. So, what do Stephen Jackson and Sarah Palin have in common (besides maybe a fondness for guns and not liking to take directions from stubborn old white dudes)? Well, I remember spotting this article back during the election where some therapists armchair diagnosed Sarah Failin’ as having Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Symptoms are:
A grandiose sense of self-importance (exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements). Has a sense of entitlement, i.e. unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations.
Sound like someone we know? That last part is what gets me - the unreasonable expectations. C’mon Stack Jack, did you really expect to hustle Bobby Rowell for millions, disrespect the organization and teammates, say you’re as good as Kobe Bryant, let your agent talk crazy about your coach, dismiss being a team captain, demand to get traded (and to a winning team at that), and think that your demands would be met in full? Really Stack Jack? Really? This, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when someone gets hijacked by their Texas-sized ego.
The unfortunate thing is that Stack Jack worked against Stephen Jackson’s best interest. I can’t imagine Charlotte and Larry Brown are going to be a good fit for him, but who knows? I really liked Stephen Jackson. How could you not when he was wearing the Santa Hat, reading to kids and making love to pressure? You want this guy on your team. But only with a strong capo, (cough..cough..Baron Davis) can Stack Jack be kept in check. So, today I’m hoping that Stack Jack got on that plane to Charlotte and Stephen Jackson got off - for the sake of all that is good in the world… and for The Charlotte Bobcats. Stephen Jackson, you will be missed. Stack Jack, uh, not so much.
Dock Ellis achieved the single greatest athletic feat ever accomplished by a man who admittedly was under the influence of psychedelics. Recently deceased, this version of his tale, animated by the good folks at our NYC-based kindred spirits at No Mas and narrated by Ellis himself, is an instant classic. R.I.P. Dock, R.I.P. Watching it made me wonder if Brandon Jennings was loose off of two tabs of Mellow Yellow. See, Jennings torched the Warriors for the most points by a rookie (55) since Earl “The Pearl” Monroe went off for 56–41 years ago. He was clearly out of his mind.
All of which made me a bit unstable myself. I was only saved by the fact that I didn’t see it. See, I was watching the wacky end to the Cal/Arizona football thing. Flipping back to the Dubs game after that ish resolved, and after a flurry of text messages, I found that Brandon Jennings had gone off. For 28 in the third. On his way to 55. Another guy we could have drafted. I’m talking about Jennings. Not the first time this has happened either. Kobe, anyone? No, we needed Todd Fuller. But I digress. And I’m not hating on Steph Curry whatsoever. I’m just saying. Even Nellie said he’d never seen a rookie performance like it. Because he was in a bar somewhere falling down off of some single malt when Earl got down with that 56. Or maybe because he prefers to torture his talented rookies with the whole back-and-forth, in-and-out-of-favor, limited-playing-time thing. All of these thoughts made me want my own escape from reality for sure. And the margaritas proved insufficient.
But, no. I didn’t drop a tab after the game, home alone with the dog as I was. But this particularly artful animated micro-documentary made me feel a wee bit inspired. Props to James Blagden. Maybe he’ll be first in line to document the Brandon Jennings story, when it’s revealed that he was zooted to the gills off of some Spongebob Squarepants blotter craziness and thought that the basket was like, really, really big for a couple of hours.
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?
