Bryan Joiner

My conversation with Yoga, the Gym, and Running

July 29, 2010 · Leave a Comment

Don’t know how much zip this one has, but I feed my fans. (That’s actually a line from a Kool Keith show I read about once where he threw fried chicken, in baggies, to the audience.)

(We enter mid-argument)


ME: But I already paid you $30. What else do I have to do?

YOGA: You know what you gotta do.

ME: (sigh) Fine. (Begins to beat the crap out of myself, Fight Club-style.)

YOGA: Don’t you miss a spot. (ominously) You know what happens when you miss a spot.

(I redouble my efforts until I am a shell of myself)

YOGA: You look good. That’s enough for today.

ME: (totally battered)

YOGA: You don’t get that shit at the gym.

(THE GYM pulls up in an Escalade, wearing a sleeveless Under Armour shirt and shades. Basically it’s The Situation.)

THE GYM: You called me? (sees me) Hey man, you want a ride?

ME: I’d love one—

YOGA: He most certainly does not.

(THE GYM and YOGA are having a staredown when RUNNING passes right through them.)

RUNNING: Hey guys!

YOGA and THE GYM: (simultaneously) FUCK OFF!

YOGA: (in consensus) Terrible for your back.

THE GYM: (same, but hurt) Why doesn’t he just use the machines?

(As this is happening, FLAG FOOTBALL, SOFTBALL, and ULTIMATE FRISBEE show up. They are all in their uniforms, and they’re wasted.

FLAG  FOOTBALL has terrible posture, SOFTBALL’s a little tubby, and ULTIMATE FRISBEE is lithe and pretty. SOFTBALL and ULTIMATE FRISBEE are both women.)

THE GYM: What’s up guys?

SOFTBALL: We won!

FLAG FOOTBALL: We lost!

ULTIMATE FRISBEE: WE’RE WASTED!

FLAG FOOTBALL: Check this out! (takes out a flask and puts it to his lips, but RUNNING comes by again and drinks it like a sippy cup)

RUNNING: …thanks guys what was that vod…

SOFTBALL: Asshole!

FLAG FOOTBALL: Play a real sport!

ULTIMATE FRISBEE: I dunno, I think he’s kind of hot. I like the skinny-guy type

FLAG FOOTBALL: (boiling rage)

ULTIMATE FRISBEE: Not as hot as you, babe. (she is obviously lying)

(everyone has apparently failed to notice that YOGA has been doing a headstand for some time now)

ULTIMATE FRISBEE: (quiet enough that no one notices) Or that.

ME: Hey guys.

FLAG FOOTBALL: What the fuck happened to you?

(I nod toward YOGA)

ULTIMATE FRISBEE: (coos) Oh my.

FLAG FOOTBALL: (angrily) He can’t hear you.

YOGA: I hear everything you’re saying.

THE GYM: I can do that too! (springs out of car, attempts to to headstand, does a pratfall)

SOFTBALL: That’s so funny!

THE GYM: Do you want to get a drink! And then maybe… (as cheesily as possible) a workout?

SOFTBALL: Hell yeah!

(the drive away just as RUNNING is passing back through)

RUNNING: …hey guys that wasn’t water…

FLAG FOOTBALL: FUCKER! (runs after him around a corner)

YOGA: He’s pretty hot at that guy, huh.

ULTIMATE FRISBEE (to YOGA): No, that is hot.

YOGA: (stands up in some unbelievably smooth transition) You wanna go back to my place and fuck?

ULTIMATE FRISBEE: Oh yeah.

ME: (shocked, trying to say something while they make sex eyes at each other) More like… ohm yeah. (shakes head at self)

(they look at me like I’m stupid)

YOGA: (to me, menacing again) I’m not done with you.

(I hail a cab and we pass RUNNING increasing his distance on FLAG FOOTBALL until FLAG FOOTBALL stops to talk to some sorority girls. I open the window to yell something at RUNNING but the cabbie tells me to close it because the air conditioner’s on.)

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My conversation with Steve Nash

July 27, 2010 · 5 Comments

(I’m walking down Broadway and it’s so hot I can barely think so I drop under an awning and realize that I’m standing next to Steve Nash)

STEVE NASH: Brutal today, huh?

ME: Yeah. [...] HolyshityoureSteveNash

STEVE NASH: (chuckles) Ha ha. Yeah.

ME: Are you aware that you are very possibly the coolest person in the world?

STEVE NASH: (chuckles politely but, you can tell, slightly warily) I don’t know, there are a lot of people in the world.

ME: Okay. But top… 10. 12.

STEVE NASH: (rolls eyes up, like he’s counting people in 20th story windows, then continues as if by instruction) Higher.

ME: 48. 50.

STEVE NASH: (bulges eyes at me)

ME: 30.

STEVE NASH: I can live with top 30.

(We high five)

ME: Hey remember when you Tweeted that picture of your breakfast?

STEVE NASH: From China?

ME: Yeah. That was awesome.

(pause)

ME: I could go for some food. Hey, let me ask you a question. That was all eggs and sausage and shit. I remember when I read that you don’t eat sugar. That’s true, right?

STEVE NASH: (nodding)

ME: Okay, so. How the fuck do you do that?

STEVE NASH: (laughs)

ME: It’s SUGAR! YOU CANNOT AVOID IT.

STEVE NASH: I do.

ME: I call bullshit on this entire enterprise. You’re misleading the public.

STEVE NASH: (suddenly trying to grasp if I’m serious)

ME: This… this is an outrage.

STEVE NASH: Now you wait just here…

ME: (whips out Pixie Stix)

STEVE NASH: Whoa. Careful with that.

ME: (tears top of one off) I’ll do it.

STEVE NASH: You just carry Pixie Stix around?

ME: (grabs him by the face, jumps, pours it in his mouth, he grimaces and spits it out like it’s salt.)

(I start running.)

STEVE NASH: Get that guy!

(By this time there are a few people watching, and a couple guys stand in front of me, blocking my way. One of them, like several others around us have taken out cell-phone cameras and are taking video.)

(STEVE NASH approaches me and is kind of menacing.)

STEVE NASH: What’s your problem, bro?

ME: I just…

STEVE NASH: You just WHAT? (He’s standing right over me now)

ME: …

(In one quick, effortless motion, he pantses me, revealing boxer shorts with vegetable prints on them.)

STEVE NASH: Nice squash. (Everyone laughs.)

ME: (tries to run, falls over shorts)

STEVE NASH: Have a nice trip. See you next fall. (everyone is dying now.)

ME: Yeah well… you’ll never win a championship.

STEVE NASH: (suddenly downtrodden) Stop it.

ME: Oh, no snappy comeback? You never could play defense.

STEVE NASH: (angry again, pulls a handful of things from pocket, starts throwing them at me) Yeah… but I can play offense.

ME: Ow! Ow! Wait a second.

(STEVE NASH smiles)

ME: Those are MENTOS!

(he guzzles a handful of them, sprints away)

ME: (yelling) Top 20!

(he gives a thumbs up; 20 minutes later, a stray Mentos thwacks me in the head, but he is nowhere to be seen)

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My conversation with Summer

July 21, 2010 · 2 Comments


I went downstairs this weekend and as soon as I was out the front door, my phone rang. It was Summer, the season, who is a dude:

SUMMER: Hey, man! What’s up?!

ME: (immediate wince from heat) Oh Jesus, man. This is a bit much.

SUMMER: What do you mean, MUCH? EVERYBODY LOVES ME!

ME: (Sigh) This again.

SUMMER: SUMMER BREAK!

ME: …

SUMMER: SUMMER CAMP!

ME: …

SUMMER: SUMMER FLINGS!

ME: I got news for you, budy.

SUMMER: What’s that, homeboy?

ME: You ain’t all that. Nor are you a bag of chips. And you are especially not Cape Cod Russet Potato Chips. [Ed. note: best chips ever.]

SUMMER: What the—?

ME: I mean sure, I love going to the beach and yeah, there’s nothing quite like a nice, full day in the sun to really set your mind at ease, really point it back in the right direction after you’ve been writing about dolls and shit for six months.

SUMMER: Alright!

ME: But man that feeling passes quicklyyyyy… and then you’re just annoying as hell.

SUMMER: You’re being mean, dude! Go jump in a pool!

ME: See that’s just the thing. It’s not like I can just go jump in a pool. I live in the city.

SUMMER: So crank up the AC! Hang out in the house nekkid!

ME: Hmm. That’s not really my thing.

SUMMER: You’re a bummer, man. Why don’t you go to the Hamptons or something? Everyone loves the Hamptons!

ME: See, now that’s a problem.

SUMMER: The Hamptons is the greatest place in the world! Southampton! East Hampton! Amagansett! Montauk! They got monsters there, bro!

ME: Don’t I know it.

SUMMER: All of New York City’s richest and best people, all hanging out in one place and having fun! What could be better?

ME: Moronsayswhat.

SUMMER: What?

ME: Exactly. What could be better? Pretty much anything.

SUMMER: What?

ME: We get the point. Now you need to get the point. The Hamptons is hell on earth. Literally—if Satan himself was to appear on this planet, I think it would be at some outdoor bar in Southampton, dressed in pink chinos with a polo shirt and a sweater around his neck, complaining about the slipping fee for his yacht.

SUMMER: Whoawhoawhoa. Aren’t you from freaking Martha’s Vineyard?

ME: Yes. But even for tourists, there’s a world of difference between them. And I grew up there. I, like, hate conspicuous displays of wealth or class privilege.

SUMMER: Says the guy who lives in Boerum Hill.

ME: Guilty as charged. But I didn’t take the easy way here, did I? I’m no lawyer or banker or something like that.

SUMMER: You want a medal or something?

ME: Shit no. It’d burn my skin today.

SUMMER: Man, you’re a dick.

ME: I get that all the time.

SUMMER: You wouldn’t be so pissed if you were in the Hamptons. Or Nantucket.

ME: That’s just low. Even for you.

SUMMER: You’re right, man. I’ll make it up to you. Go to the deli. I’ll call the guy and have him put a sixer of Pacifico on my tab. Bring it over to Bedouin Tent, have a falafel sandwich outside and read or write or something.

ME: Seriously? That sounds awesome. I can dig this.

SUMMER: No problem man! Hold on a second. (I hear him make call on another phone, explain situation.) It’s all set up! Sixer of your choice! Rock on dude.

ME: You know what? I think I do love summer. Rock on!

SUMMER: Alright!

ME: (enters deli) Hey, I think Summer just called? The season? I can get a six pack?

COUNTER DUDE: What in the FUCK are you talking about? I think the heat’s getting to you.

(I just buy a six pack and head over to Bedouin Tent and start reading when I get a text message from Summer that says “ahahahaaha,” but it was only like 80 degrees that night, which was really nice of him, and truth be told I do kinda love summer, which I drunk-texted later. He didn’t respond.)

Remember to check out my Tumblr for this and more stuff.

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Inception

July 20, 2010 · 2 Comments

I can’t remember the last time I’ve a movie as straightforward as Inception. The idea at the heart of the film is simple: no one person (or group of people) can reproduce someone else’s thought process; we will always know what ideas were born in our brains, and which ones weren’t. It’s a tribute to the idea that every waking thought we have is ours and ours alone, and it would be impossible, or simply very difficult, for an outside force to plant just one in our brain without us knowing, even if our brains are full of millions and millions of ideas. In fact, it’s because of those millions of ideas that it’s impossible—how can anyone know what it’s really like to be you, and how you would think?

For all of Inception’s plot twists, I held to the idea and I was stewarded to the end, and everything held up. Actually, after the last shot, I thought the idea was reinforced to the point of certainty, and then I started thinking back to the other “totems” characters had used to ground themselves in the “real” world—Why a dice? Why a pawn?—and then I realized everything in the movie was in its right place, layers firmly stacked upon layers, in the service of an unshakable idea, like a massive pyramid resting upon its tip, unable to be knocked over.

(Remember to check TEH TUMBLR for this and other stuff.)

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Check out the Tumblr

July 19, 2010 · Leave a Comment

Hey doggs, if you’re one of those Tumblr people pop on over to my own personal site-type thing, which I just started. I’m not sure of the future of this site vs. that one, but I’d probably bet on the other one, and if it wins I’ll change the URL over. But I’ll still post longer stuff in both places for now… shorter stuff, HOWEVAH, will be province of the Tumblr. So like go there and stuff. I wrote about golf.

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The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost

July 15, 2010 · Leave a Comment

I came home last night after my 10 o’clock—yes, 10 p.m.—flag football game to find my 31-year-old self (aka, me, last year) on my futon checking his email. The lights had been off and I hadn’t seen him, and I threw my bag on the futon without looking, and…

2009 Bryan: Watch it!

ME: (startled) Aaaaah!

2009 Bryan: Hi. Love what you’ve done with the place. Nice shirt.

ME: (looks down at tie-dyed uniform) Thanks.

2009 Bryan: You wear tie-dye often?

ME: It’s my flag football uniform.

2009 Bryan: You play flag football?

ME: Yep. This is the third season.

2009 Bryan: Nice. What does the lady think?

ME: The who?

2009 Bryan: (uneasily) The lady… what does she think about it?

ME: Oh right, her. Um…

2009 Bryan: Oh.

ME: I’m sorry dude. I know you were excited, especially right about now.

2009 Bryan: (clams up)

ME: It’s just…

2009 Bryan: …

ME: We were still acting a little “young.”

2009 Bryan: I’m trying not to act young!

ME: It’s the fact that you have to try at all. You’ll get it, eventually.

2009 Bryan: So now all we do is write blog posts (turns computer around, shows screen to this blog) and play flag football? And rearrange the apartment a bit?

ME: Yeah, you like?

2009 Bryan: I guess. I don’t see how I’m going to come up with this.

ME: A lot can happen in a year if you let it.

2009 Bryan: (angry) What does that fucking mean?

ME: It means that now that you’re not hiding out in your party palace in Astoria, you can actually grow up.

2009 Bryan: Oh for Christ’s sake.

ME: You know, one of our good friends say we talk in general terms about religion more than we realize.

2009 Bryan: You’re not like some crazy Christian or anything?

ME: (makes sign of cross) No.

2009 Bryan: Shalom.

ME: L’Chaim.

(2009 Bryan’s phone rings. I pull out my phone—the same one—and look at the time. It’s the girlfriend, on the way home from work. It’s a conversation I don’t need to hear, so I go take a quick shower and come back to find him finishing up. And then.)

ME: So?

2009 Bryan: She’s going home. How do you screw this up?

ME: It’s been two weeks. Easy, buddy.

2009 Bryan: You are condescending.

ME: Take my advice: Just do whatever you’re going to do. Nothing is going to change. You’re going to be back here in a year anyway.

(I hear keys in the door and am startled. The door opens, and it’s 33-year-old Bryan, wearing a snappy suit and sunglasses. He carries himself well, but there is an odor of booze on his breath)

33-Year-Old-Me: (Declarative statement:) Boys.

2009 Bryan: Nice suit.

ME: No fucking way.

(33-Year-Old Me just slaps me lightly on the cheek, like a soccer player, and moves over to the desk, where he sits with a dopey smile on his face and starts to talk to 2009 Bryan.)

33-Year-Old Me: Hey dude.

2009 Bryan: What’s up?

33-Year-Old Me: Now listen up. 2010 Bryan knows what he’s talking about, mostly. Just ride out whatever’s going on here until it’s over. But for God’s sake, enjoy yourself.

2009 Bryan: He just told me about that.

33-Year-Old Me: Told you about what?

2009 Bryan: Mentioning God.

(33-Year-Old Me snatches laptop from 2009 Bryan, types furiously into Google until this picture is showing)

33-Year-Old Me: Now do me a favor and shut up for a second. (2009 Bryan would not normally take such talk, but frankly, he’s entranced by the suit. The line from Catch Me If You Can echoes in my head: “They were all looking at the pinstripes…”) That was just S—— on the phone, right?

2009 Bryan: How do you know all this?

33-Year-Old Me: I had the conversation, remember? She said she was just going to go home after work, and you said that made sense, because you have to work tomorrow and it would be too late?

2009 Bryan: More or less.

33-Year-Old Me: Dude! Go over there! Live in the moment!

2009 Bryan: But I’ll be tired… (Both me and 33-Year-Old Bryan look at him like: Get over it.)

33-Year-Old Me: (with dopey smile, takes cigarette out of pocket and starts tapping it on the desk) Live a little dude. Go surprise her with flowers or something.

2009 Bryan: (entranced by cigarette, doesn’t even mention it) Okay.

ME: Get excited, man!

2009 Bryan: Okay! (gets up, walks to door, pulls out out phone to make a call as door closes behind him.)

ME: Wow. That was good.

33-Year-Old Me: Tell me about it.

ME: (in appreciation) Nice suit, man. Why are you wearing it?

33-Year-Old Me: (starts taking it off) Thanks. It was mostly for effect. Scare the kid, you know?

ME: Oh. We own it, though?

33-Year-Old Me: You’ll find out.

ME: We smoke?

33-Year-Old Me: Nope, also for effect. (crushes cigarette in hand) Want to get a drink?

ME: I don’t know, I’m honestly pretty tired.

33-Year-Old Me: (mocking) Live a little! (and then) Ha. Me too.

ME: I’m gonna hit the hay. You gonna take the futon?

33-Year-Old Me: Oh Jesus, this thing?

ME: Will I still have it in a year?

(He can’t answer because he’s already snoring. I try on the suit jacket. It looks nice, but I’d probably rather buy a couch.)

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Nothing today sad face

July 14, 2010 · Leave a Comment

Nothing percolating in the brain today. Sorry.

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My 17-year-old self and I argue and play basketball, I win

July 13, 2010 · 1 Comment

We’ll pick up my conversation with my 17-year-old self the morning after we left off, when I come downstairs for breakfast.

ME: Good morning.

17-Y-O-Me: (waves aimlessly, doesn’t take eyes from TV)

ME: Did you make coffee?

17-Y-O-Me: (looks at me like I’m crazy)

ME: Oh, right. You don’t drink coffee.

17-Y-O-Me: I’m not a pussy.

ME: Right. I forgot I felt that way.

17-Y-O-Me: Big softy now, eh?

ME: You wait until you have a 9-to-5 job.

17-Y-O-Me: I’ll never have one of those.

ME: Hey moron? (does a pointing back and forth between us to indicate yes, in fact, you will)

17-Y-O-Me: (throws remote at me, I dodge it, it hits glass front door but doesn’t break it)

ME: You idiot.

17-Y-O-Me: I’m the idiot?! You’re the one with the 9-to-5 job!

ME: It’s not that simple. And wait, are you blaming me for dodging something you threw at me?

17-Y-O-Me: Of course! You know the glass door is there!

ME: What do you want me to do, catch it?

17-Y-O-Me: Ha! Good one.

ME: Alright, that’s it. We’re playing basketball, right now. You and me. One on one.

17-Y-O-Me: (mocking) Don’t you need your coffee first?

ME: (fuming) Grab your shoes, dickwad.

(He grabs his shoes and we walk the 5 minutes to the basketball court in tense silence. I beat him handily. He’s in better shape, but not better enough, and he doesn’t use his body as well as I do. He challenges me to best two out of three but halfway through game two, which he’s losing, he starts visibly moping. He misses a jumper, and then…)

ME: What’s the problem, hair in your eyes?

17-Y-O-Me: (shoves me, I don’t lose dribble)

ME: Good defense? Where’d you learn that? (Does turnaround jumper, misses)

17-Y-O-Me: Look at Air Jordan over there! (tries running layup, goes out of control, misses wildly, ball rolls into the woods and under poison ivy. Him, instantaneously:) Your ball.

ME: I’m not getting it.

17-Y-O-Me: If I get it, it’s my ball.

ME: I’m not getting poison ivy because you suck at basketball.

17-Y-O-Me: (rage) If I get that ball, I’m taking it.

ME: If you’re taking that ball, I’m not playing anymore.

17-Y-O-Me: Fine, then I’ll just keep shooting until I win without you here.

ME: You think you can make 10 baskets by dinner?

(He attacks me, and now we’re fighting right next to the ball, rolling around in the poison ivy we were just trying to avoid. A car drives by and looks at us strangely, but we stop to both wave to indicate it’s all in fun, relatively speaking. When the car passes, we start again and kick the ball even further in and we stop, and, simultaneously:)

US: Shit.

(Looking all around us, at the plants)

US: SHIT.

ME: We should probably…

17-Y-O-Me: Go to the beach and get this stuff off of us.

ME: I’ll drive.

17-Y-O-Me: Like hell you will, grandpa.

(Ten minutes later, we’re in the car)

ME: Do you have sunscreen?

17-Y-O-Me: (chortles)

ME: I suppose you like getting sunburnt?

17-Y-O-Me: I don’t mind.

ME: That translates to “I’m too proud to put on sunscreen” in adult.

17-Y-O-Me: Oh Jesus.

ME: We going to South Beach?

17-Y-O-Me: Of course.

ME: I figured as much.

17-Y-O-Me: I love it.

ME: You would. I still like it, but I feel old there.

17-Y-O-Me: Well, I’m 17 and the ocean is the ocean.

ME: You’re looking for that girl, aren’t you?

17-Y-O-Me: (obviously lying) No!

ME: Yeah, you are. All the teenagers are at South Beach. That’s why I don’t like to go anymore. Look at it this way: If a girl was two years old when I was your age, she’s 17 now. Just think about that.

17-Y-O-Me: (pulls car over) Lambert’s Cove?*

ME: Lambert’s Cove.

17-Y-O-Me: (turns car around) I feel itchy already.

ME: Oh, don’t be such a drama queen. It wouldn’t work that fast.

17-Y-O-Me: (takes hand, rubs it all over my face) You’d better hope not.

ME: (pushes stick into neutral, he immediately puts in back in gear)

17-Y-O-Me: … (rage turns to admiration)

17-Y-O-Me: Okay, that was pretty good.

(We high five, and then some pop song comes on the radio that we both like and we blast it and start singing together.)

•••

* This would obviously not be happening at sunset, but I mean jeez.

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My 17-year-old self and I debate LeBron James

July 12, 2010 · 3 Comments

Imagine my surprise when, after writing two columns on LeBron James on Friday morning I walked into my childhood home that evening, which I thought was empty, and was confronted with my 17-year-old self watching SportsCenter, LeBron news on repeat. (Please ignore space-time continuum problems.)

ME: Hi.

17-Y-O-Me: Hey.

ME: Do you know who I am?

17-Y-O-Me: (looks me up and down) I have a guess.

ME: Okay, I can tell you do. Because, like, you’re me and we’re still pretty similar.

17-Y-O-Me: (makes show of playing with long hair) In some ways.

ME: I never would have said something like that.

17-Y-O-Me: Apparently you would have.

ME: That either. I wasn’t that aggressive.

17-Y-O-Me: Maybe you should have been.

ME: So, uh… how about LeBron?

17-Y-O-Me: It’s crazy.

ME: He looks so douchey up there. (At the moment, the highlights from the Heat Beach Party are playing and Neil Everett or Linda Cohn is screaming something. Chris Bosh is acting like a wrestler.)

17-Y-O-Me: I don’t know. He looks like he’s having fun.

ME: Douchebags can have fun too.

17-Y-O-Me: What’s wrong with having fun?

ME: Um, nothing, I suppose. But if I was a Cleveland fan, I’d be upset by this.

17-Y-O-Me: But you’re not.

ME: Yeah, but I can empathize.

17-Y-O-Me: Yeah, it sucks. But so what?

ME: Well, I mean, I have a few good friends from Cleveland…

17-Y-O-Me: Oh. What does that matter?

ME: Are you saying empathy is bad?

17-Y-O-Me: (suddenly defensive; I notice this trait from my youth) No, that’s not what I’m saying.

ME: Then what are you saying?

17-Y-O-Me: Isn’t this just kind of cool?

ME: I don’t know. It just feels so yucky.

17-Y-O-Me: Sports are yucky all the time.

ME: I suppose that’s true…

17-Y-O-Me: No really, sports are yucky all the time. Who gives a crap? They’re only sports.

ME: Funny that you say that when you’ve spent your entire life trying to learn everything possible about them.

17-Y-O-Me: (mimics entire sentence in play voice, then turns beet red in embarrassment)

ME: (ignoring it) You know what sucks for us?

17-Y-O-Me: What?

ME: All that memorization we did—who played what position for what team when, all the records and stuff—anyone can get all that off their phone now. Everyone’s a sports expert. It’s really hard to make a name for yourself.

17-Y-O-Me: We probably should have been a lawyer.

(We look straight at each other like: No way.)

ME: You know what you need? Some financial advice.

17-Y-O-Me: I make $15 an hour at Brickman’s at the moment. I’m doing just fine.

ME: I mean long-term, numbnuts.

17-Y-O-Me: Numbnuts. Real original. What are you, from Jersey?

(I pounce on the couch in a rage and we start fighting for about 30 seconds before we simultaneously yell “Glass table!” to remind each other that we risk breaking it, and we stop)

17-Y-O-Me: (sarcastically) Yeah, you’ve changed.

ME: You mean I’m stronger?

17-Y-O-Me: (turns red, doesn’t want to admit it) Whatever.

ME: Whatever.

17-Y-O-Me: (suddenly) Can you buy me beer?

ME: You don’t even know what you’re doing with that stuff.

17-Y-O-Me: Oh, and you do.

ME: You DICK! (start fighting again)

17-Y-O-Me: Glass table!

(I keep fighting, he pushes me off)

17-Y-O-Me: You know, it’s almost like you come back here to just to fight me. I mean look at you! You’re worse than I am. I’m perfectly calm, and by the time you leave you’re sitting on the couch just like me, watching ESPN over and over. It’s almost like you feel like you can’t do that in the city, when you totally can. Not my fault you can’t remember that the good things in life are simple. We island folk have it good.

ME: “We island folk.” You pretentious fuck.

17-Y-O-Me: Whatever. It’s true.

ME: Hey dickhead, I have news for you.

17-Y-O-Me: Oh yeah, what?

ME: I’ve had sex.

17-Y-O-Me: AWESOME.

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A few more LeBron thoughts

July 9, 2010 · 4 Comments

Rather than Twitter my thoughts one by one, here are the remainder of them:

The holdover from the Jordan era, which pretty much wafts at every level of the NBA experience, is that a single, singular player leads a team to a championship, and that amongst a group of elite players, only so many of them have “what it takes” to get there. You can choose to believe this narrative if you’d like, but it’s a flimsy one, because once someone’s won it, it crumbles. Kobe couldn’t win by himself, and then he did. Look elsewhere in sports, and you can see it folding on itself (as you’ll see the next time Kobe loses in the playoffs): Phil Mickelson couldn’t win the big one, then he did, then he choked again, then he won again. Peyton Manning couldn’t win, then he could, then he choked.

I think what people are angry about with LeBron is that we’re not going to get to see if he has that, I don’t know, “it” that may or may not even exist in the first place. That’s a presumption in and of itself, but let’s just say it’s true: If the Heat win the title with relatively equal contributions from Wade and Bron, does that tarnish LeBron’s legacy? The answer, today, seems to be yes. LeBron seems to either not care or to have taken people at face value when they said he needed to win a championship to be a complete player, or something, when they really meant he needed to lead a team to a championship. Having played for a  Team USA—on which he wasn’t the top draw, Kobe was—that was roundly lauded, you can see how he’d come to this conclusion. Why would people praise his ability to play with superstar then, and tear it down now? (He might be asking himself.)

Another thing about Team USA: So many stories about how watching Kobe brought LeBron’s work habits to another level. Maybe this is something where LeBron thinks he can get better just by being around Wade. Kobe himself has admitted that he’s basically stolen every move in his arsenal, an aggregation service along the lines of, jeez, fivethirtyeight.com. Maybe LeBron needs to see things up close to duplicate and surpass them, and got a whiff of it at the Olympics. I don’t know. I’m just saying.

He’s certainly read the tea leaves wrong about what was expected of him, as evidenced by the audible vacuum that hit the Greenwich, CT Boys & Girls Club last night, when he awkwardly spoke the words “South Beach” as his destination. (Seriously?) He honestly thought we just wanted him to win one, when we actually wanted so much more. What did we want? Something we hadn’t seen before, something transcendent. This was something we hadn’t seen before, but it wasn’t transcendent. Our new fear is that it won’t be transcendent even if he wins it all. That’s a disappointment, sure, but LeBron probably won’t feel like it’s a disappointment when he’s holding the trophy. In 20 years, maybe he’ll wonder “What if?” But it doesn’t matter if he knew he had that mythological extra oomph in 20 years; he’s searching for it now, frantically looking for it on the beach like a lost key. The thing is, we told him the key was there, even if it might not exist, and even if he thinks it’s the bottom of that trophy we’ll tell him nope. you don’t have it. Unlike many people, I have no problem feeling a little bit sorry for the guy and also rooting heartily against him, and that’s just what I plan to do (and root for Cleveland to absolutely pound him, somehow). The idea of this team winning the title sickens me to the point that I would root for Kobe against them. I wanted transcendence as much as anybody, and I find the idea of Wade and LeBron playing together categorically unfair. But you know what? It’s totally fucking fair. I’m being deprived of a negative, something that I only imagined existing: LeBron flying through the air, delivering the team on which he was Top Dog to a title, averaging 35 PPG in the Finals with 10 and 10. Now even if that happens we’ll think it’s silly. What a joke.

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