Let me stand down!
It's funny how things happen. Yesterday's blast of rank feelings was supposed to be the seething unconscious of a far more measured, presentable attack on college ball, but ended up temporarily living life by itself. It caught me at my most airy and mystical, and really didn't bother to address any of the larger socio-cultural hailstorms that this month's high-minded fandom is bound to set 'a brewin'. Here, then, is the frontline explosiveness I'd meant to hit you with all along, a McSweeney's column that gets us back to struggle as usual. Tool up and smile!
If you're near NYC, don't sleep on this. I was supposed to be in it and the Times covered it, and the blog-like section of his site is the funniest thing going these days on the dark side of Jazzebration.
The Lakers didn't look half-bad for the three and quarters I caught last night. Granted, I switched it off when they started to cave in, but double granted, they were playing an elite opponent. No one finished with splendid numbers, but they suddenly seem cohesive as a unit. And make no mistake: Smush Parker is explosive.
(How did I never realize until now that "burst" is the diminutive of "explosive?")
Later and lastly, take a good look at whose jersey is prominently featured behind Herr Baron Cohen in the Ali G/Kerr spot airing these days. The set's got the usual "deck the halls with the All-Stars" array, but conspicuously hung in plain view for the entire scene, practically screaming to overtake the prankster's skull, is a certain god-awful, bright orange #3 joint. . .