Test Run: FD Tourism Brigade Enacted
I decided to clear my head yesterday with a trip to Port Arthur. Thanks to the commenter who corrected me on the name for Gulf Coast Texas; that the most fucked-up part of Texas was the original "Golden Triangle" only adds to its bleak appeal. There was some faint pretense of trying to find records and nick-nacks, but we got a late start and didn't do much of either. We did, however, drive all over the place. Noted: a cluster of young men comparing grills and Caprices outside a convenience stores. Oh, and then we passed a customizing place that had just finished installing three sets of Lambo doors.
If you want to accuse me of exoticizing, I don't care. I'm mildly obsessed with rural-urban versus urban-rural. One is areas of a city that somehow lapse into country; the other is its opposite: a town that takes on some of the telltale features of the inner city. It seems that Port Arthur is the rare community transitioning from one to the other. When oil and fishing thrived, it was the former. The more hollowed-out the place becomes, there, the more it tends toward the latter.
The downtown areas is unreal: vacant lots, a college campus, a bunch of palm trees, and a strip of businesses still inhabiting buildings from the thirties. In fact, there's an old-timey, small-town photo studio with the signage intact. As far as I can tell, most of said businesses were nightclubs, and then at the end of the block is a giant, scraggly wooden structure with all the windows boarded up. . . and the banner you see up top.
A little bit of internet research ruined all my fun. Jackson does indeed fund a private school, it's currently going on at another location, and one day it will take over the site pictured above. But you can imagine my glee when, next to a row of clubs, a revival starting up, and all sorts of mixed-up signifiers of history and neglect, I beheld this proclamation. For something that might or might not have been real, or realized, except as a flimsy claim to the crappiest building around.
And then, as if on cue, a chromed-out black Bentley drove by. Or at least the rare Chrysler that dared you to disagree with its legitimacy.
Oh, and I love you all in the comments section, but come on. Trading Nash makes negative sense. Marion and Amare would be All-Stars without Nash, but with him are able to get it much easier. Kenyon Martin was a figment, but if you think Jefferson is "just a finisher," you watch New Jersey less than I do.
There's really only one pressing basketball question now: does relative lack of boring equal the same thing as relative presence of excitement? Because if not, I might start listening to these games on radio.
Also: over at Deadspin, Dr. LIC brings out his Jazz/Spurs preview. Expect my Pistons/Cavs joint tomorrow.