Thursday, June 26, 2008


I get a call at work at about 10:00 and it's my lovely wife who, may I first say, I love dearly. She proceeds to tell me that she dropped off two dogs at the house that she picked up on the way to work. She first attempted taking them to two different facilities, but both cited that they were too crowded or "overstocked" in the retail industry. She said that they recommended taking her to the Humane Society, but they didn't open until 10:00. What kinda city facility doesn't open until 10:00? Bizarre. My lovely wife and I spoke about it last night and, as I knew, she's not normally the type to jump out of her car in traffic and pull a dog to safety. I'm not either. I mean, I might see if they'll willingly jump in the car, but I'm not going to play Frogger in traffic hoping that I save a dog before a car plows into me and rendering me motionless for the rest of my life. There are some people like that. I'm not one of them. I'm glad there are people like that because I'm not one of them. You know, it's like when I'm walking into a building and some dude doesn't hold a door open for a lady, but then I do, he's saying, "I'm glad there's people like him in the world because I ain't one of them. My mama didn't raise me better." So anyhow, my lovely wife picked up these two dogs--one that was obviously a corgie and the other looked like a corgie humped a beagle or "laid down with" to put it biblically. She says that, in her desperation to get to work, she came back home and dropped them off in the backyard with our dogs and split.

So I get the call and, knowing damn well it's better to take care of these things quicker than slower, I dash home to assess the situation and make a call. When I arrive at the house, I realize what the O'Jays were talking about when they wrote the lyrics to "Love Train." Tucker was humping the beagle-looking thingy, Jax was humping Tux (yes, his brother) and then the little corgie was riding on Jax. I opened the backdoor to a bunch of butts moving. It was disgusting. It was a complete violation of the eyes. I run to break it up and when I grab Jax and Tux, they're sopping wet with God knows what body fluid. I was hoping for just saliva.

I couldn't pull Tux off the freaking thing for the life of me. Finally, I get them separated and pop collars on the two dogs (because they're stupid owners didn't/wouldn't) and they freak out. I hate dog owners in this town. They're so stupid. If your dog doesn't wear some sort of collar, I question what kinda dog owner you really are. And, no, the "chip" doesn't count because if your dog gets out, I'm gonna need something to attach a leash to. Don't be stupid, put a collar on your dog. Preferably with tags and a phone number.

Regretfully, I had only a couple of options and neither of them were that great. Against the will of many in my immediate circle of influence, I took them to the Humane Society. Yep, they kill dogs there. I'm aware of that. But when the other shelters tell you they can't take them, what are you gonna do? I'm not a babysitter. I will let you know that both of the employees out there commented that they thought the dogs were "very cute" and "definitely adoptable" while one mentioned that if no one else takes them, she wouldn't mind taking them.

The most troubling unanswered question of this entire story is why does Jax hump Tux?

Saw that Tim McGraw pulled a fan out of the crowd at a concert and tossed him over to bouncers and, when the man turned around, Tim raised fist like he was going to hit him. The tone of the coverage is how much of a hero he is because the dude was allegedly whooping up on a woman on the front row (I don't know how believeable that is, but whatever). It makes me wonder if that was LL Cool J or Lil Wayne yanking a dude out of crowd and raising a fist to him, would it be the same news story? Would anyone even ask "why"?

It's like if a tree falls and no one's there to hear it...if a rapper whoops up on someone in a concert and it's captured on a grainy video from about 150 feet away, does anyone ask why?

Today's my Friday because I'm heading to Houston tomorrow morning. Another early morning today. I've been up since 5:00AM. Loaded the Cure, Charles Mingus, the Band, Typical Cats, Roland Kirk, Aphex Twin and Bjork on the j3 Juggernaut II this morning. Yeah, this 'pod is col' nasty. You ain't ready. I told David yesterday that I want this thing to represent the "perfect record store." All killer. Ya'll be good to your neighbor. Put a leash on your dog and those waiting on jerseys, they're about two weeks away. I apologize for the holdup. Days are busy.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008


Welcome the newest member of the j3 family--the j3 Juggernaut II. No, I don't listen to Nelly Futardo, eh hmm, Furtado. He's a silver, 80GB beast of a player with higher levels of functionality and fashion not to mention...ah screw it. It's a replacement. My iPod got jacked and it sucks.

I never want to be defined by my stuff. I never want people to think that I have more stuff than substance. I know people like that and I really despise them...on multiple levels. You don't want your legacy to be stolen and stuff can get stolen. Much like what happened to my Juggernaut when my car was broken into in the middle of the night. As much as I've tried to brush it off, after now waiting for two weeks for my car to get fixed, I'm learning that it's becoming a little difficult to live with. Maybe I should separate the two circumstances. My car's not fixed. I have no iPod. My car's not fixed because the adjuster that looked at my car said it would be only about $150 to fix (minus the stereo replacement). Turns out that Honda wants $800 to do the job. Yeah, slightly off. I don't know if insurance adjusting is their calling. Turns out getting that $650 difference is proving a challenge. That's one part. And, yep, not having air conditioning in the summer sucks. But, then again, I rarely use it anyway because 1) I don't drive much and 2) my drive is only a mile and a half typically.
This weekend, despite having more players than I probably need, I found myself getting agitated by the iPod situation. Realizing that the refurbs in the marketplace are decent players and usually worth the investment, I just went ahead and got a replacement--except I had to replace up with 80 gigs. It was a trying moment to sit down with a new player, empty, waiting for music, eager to serve--completely empty. Where do I start? Better yet, how do I start?
I plug in the iPod to find out that it's not empty. I begins playing Michael Buble. What the? I scroll through it to find Snoop Dogg, Brooks and Dunn, Eagles. Shoot me in the face. It's like finding out someone was murdered in your home after you move in. I find it odd how, for me, certain combinations of artists can most definitely wipe out the possibility of friendship. Combining Buble, Snoop Dogg and the Eagles on one player doesn't even warrant acquaintance status. Someone didn't clear it out before reselling. It comes with buying refurbs. I wipe out what's left on the pod, take a deep breath and ask again, "How do I start?"
Well, I start where anyone would and that's with Funkadelic's Maggot Brain. Then I loaded on some Beasties. Then some David Bowie. Some Bob Dylan. Some Miles. Some Sly. Album by album. As painful as it was, I couldn't hold it against this new player. It's not his fault. The most frustrating part of the process was spending two hours loading crap onto the iPod and then tracking your progress by looking at the capacity used bar only to find you barely made a dent in it. I gotta long way to go. I keep thinking back to the first Juggernaut. That puppy had about 25 gigs loaded on it. I'm on the fourth gig and I've been loading intensely for about two days.
Just loaded the Beach Boys' Smiley Smile. I think the new iPod will represent the very worst in music snobbery. No Pet Sounds. Just Smiley Smile.
Don Imus got all racist again after asking, about PacMan Jones' legal woes, "What color is he?" After his co-host replied "African-American," Don returned, "Well, there you go." Geez, this dude has a holster full of objectionable comments.
I'm now convinced that the New Balance 574 is, without a shred of doubt, the greatest shoe ever made.
It's 5:20AM and I've been up for two hours. How's your morning going?
Going to Houston this weekend with the David Riesenbergs to watch some hot baseball action between the Red Sox and the Astros. The Sox suck right now. I mean, they're in first place, but they suck. I don't know how much sense that makes. Youks got popped in the eye last night playing toss. Dude's a Gold Glover and he gets busted in the eye playing catch. Papi's out. Manny's struggling. Beckett's hitable. Matsuzaka got shelled the other night. Schilling's out for the season. Middle relief is terrible. Paplebon's never been more shakier. It's amazing we can pinch off enough wins to stay out of the cellar.
I'm tired. Very tired. Must have more coffee. Eggs with hot sauce.

Monday, June 23, 2008


Hmm. Sucks. One of the best ever. Heart failure. Will listen to Complaints and Grievances today in memory.

Sunday, June 22, 2008


Just go pick up the new Erykah Badu "The New Amerykah" and stop being stupid. I gotta work, make dat money, pay dem bills. I ain't got no time to talk. Still celebrating too, honestly.

Gonna see who the C's pick up this week in the draft. Expect no one being that they're already stacked to the ceiling.

I love you. I love everyone.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008


Check this link. It's the first ever post on The Root Down. That was about 3 years ago. It seems like it was decades ago.
It's been a long road. It's been a long, long road. But the Celtics are champions again. Some might say that it was handed to us--especially with the addition of Ray Allen and KG, but let's be real, this was some playoffs for the Celtics. The Celtics played more playoff games this season than any other team in NBA history with 26 games. Now, the regular season is 82 games so to go 26 games past that against four of the best teams in the league is no small task. Wait, make that three. The Hawks shouldn't be in there. We were pushed to the brink in the first two series. Sure, coming from the East, there's a lot of Left Coast fans that would say that we had a much easier path than the Fakers, but c'mon, we beat the Lakers in six and set a record for the most lopsided clinching game in NBA history with last night's 39-point blowout. Not only that, the Lakers were blowing through the playoffs by sweeping the Denver Nuggets, taking the Jazz in six and the Spurs in five. It's not like the Lakers were really pushed on the way to the big dance. If the West is so badass, how come the Lakers only lost three games in the first three rounds? The Celtics handed them more losses than the entire Western Conference could in three rounds. They were 12-3 in the first three rounds and then 2-4 against the Celtics. All you haters, you must think that they hand out "the NBA's best record" as a sportsmanship award. More importantly, we stopped Phil "High Ass" Jackson from surpassing Red for most championships for a head coach.

Last night's game proved my point that the Lakers are not champions and, more importantly, the Celtics are. It was absolute dominance last night as the Celtics spanked the crap out of the Lakers, 131-92. My grandmother was rooting for the Celtics not because I'm a fan, but rather her Spurs were eliminated and she couldn't cheer for the "rapist" Kobe Bryant. After we clarified that he was actually acquitted of those charges, she changed it from him being a "rapist" to being "up for rape." I guess that's different than "down with rape." Anyway, she rooted for us because she didn't want to cheer for a rapist. Whatever reason she needs.

I remember as a kid working on my Kevin McHale turn around jumpers down low way past sundown. I would watch Sunday afternoons as Robert Parish, Larry Legend and Kevin would school the young legs of the NBA. I wanted so badly to own a pair of black sneakers because I wanted to look like the Celtics. I was an oddball. Reggie Lewis would win me over as a Celtic. I had the poster. I watched the games. Reggie represented the young promise of tomorrow and Larry and crew were the aging reminder of greatness.

When Reggie passed away, the Celtics went from being a thriving team to the oldest in the NBA and on the verge of disappearing forever. And, until last night, they pretty much did disappear. My lovely wife surprised me back in 2000 with tickets to my first NBA game--it was Celtics and an also-unknown Maverick team. Tickets were easy to get for that matchup back in 2000. In a way, it reinvigorated my love with the team. It made me love the game again even. Day before my wedding in 2002, I watched the Nets and Celtics Game 4 on a small Watchman during my rehearsal/dinner. They'd lose the series before I'd depart on my honeymoon. And that was the last great Celtics team. Danny Ainge would rip the team apart and leave a lonely Paul Pierce to lead, really no one, to a championship. He had no one around him to help him win that championship. Danny Ainge put that team together last year. It didn't look too promising last year. I mean, just a year ago, I was talking about how bad the Celtics sucked, but then Danny's testicles dropped and dude went off.

I sincerely wish that it went seven games. I mean, I love the game and the rivalry. Angry Tim swore it would because "the league will make more money if it goes seven." ABC certainly would. But maybe last night's blowout (which was a blowout by halftime) served as proof that, at least for last night, the game isn't rigged. If Stern wanted it to seven, he had to be pissed when he saw the Celtics beating the crap out of the Lakers.

Speaking of, I trust I'm the only one up late enough to see it, but the hilarity of David Stern getting boo'd when he was handing out the trophies was just too much to stand. Dude was just getting clowned.

It's 7:01. Gotta step. Show some respect for the C's. Recognize.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008


The world is full of deception. We all know that. As a consumer, you have to have your head on a swivel. You have to evaluate almost every purchase because someone's always trying to get dat money. And, as the money gets sparse, the scam gets more deceptive. When the economy's bottom falls out and into oblivion, people hold their money close. So, to get that money, they have to devise new ways to deceive you, to get you to open that pocket book.

The worst at this is Hollywood. And I'm col' fed up. This weekend, I insisted we go see the new M. Night Shamalamadingdong movie, The Happening. Billed as suspenseful cliffhanger and, like a brand you can count on, there will be the twist, this movie had a good bit of promise. Problem is: nothing happened.

This movie absolutely blew. It was laughable. My nightmares are scarier. My dog's nightmares are scarier. M. Night's crafty trailer filled the late show on Saturday and, probably, ever show before that on its opening weekend and, within the first twenty minutes, half of the theater was laughing (I mean laughing) at how ridiculous this movie was. There was no plot, the was very little climax, there was no hardcore twist and it wasn't scary. Oh yeah, and the acting was so incredible juvenile. Does M. Night do everything on one take?

And he's not the only one guilty of it. In fact, finding a writer or director that's not guilty of it is fairly difficult. They cut a two-hour product down to a thirty second lure, run it to the masses, fill the theaters for the first two nights to make as much money as they can because, if it sucks, there is no second weekend, essentially. Imagine if we were this forgiving with every product we buy. Here's a product that they charge more and more for every year. Hell, we even complain about it costing $10 to see a movie, but we still pay it. And unless every movie you see is the greatest movie ever made, you're getting ripped off. I don't know, maybe you're the type that blows $10 at a time. I'm not. That's not even to mention that a decently sized soda costs you $4.00 and, unless you specify, it's 60% ice and 40% soda.

I demand that Hollywood be held to the same standards of all consumer goods. You should be able to walk out after the movie has completed and get your money back if you were satisfied. I want to be scared and if I see the whole movie and I'm not scared the least bit, then I'd like you to refund my money. I don't want to be shamed for it. I don't want to be questioned. Your movie just didn't work.

Think of the millions of dollars of revenue made off of a single bad movie. Sure, their cost of goods is much higher than, say, a kitchen mop, but at least a kitchen mop can do what it's advertised to do and what it promises to do.

That's why I like sports. There's no promise because it all happens right in front of you. There's no pre-packaged good. You can't cut together a trailer. You just watch and, occassionally, you'll see magic. Back in 2004 when the Sawx came from an 0-3 deficit to beat the Spanks and then go on to sweep the Cardinals in the couldn't write that drama. And, every night, you witnessed greatness unfolding right in front of you. There was no deceiving trailer or packaging. They just told you when and what channel. What happens from there comes down to performance, competition and will. Plus, it's free.

Tonight, I'll watch my beloved Celtics host the False Fradulent Fakers in Game 6. If I could write a trailer for it, it would sound something like this: "Watch as the Celtics, led by Paul Pierce and a phenomenal bench, beat the crap out of the Lakers in Boston to seal their 17th championship. Kobe will act like a prick and Phil Jackson will hold the league liable in the wake of their loss. Also watch as Lamar Odom is exposed for overrated player he is. Some crappy Boston musician will sing the National Anthem, but hey, at least we know it won't be James Taylor."

I call a Celtic victory: 92-88. I'm not making any guarantees so don't demand your time back.

Oh yeah, M. Night Scamwhatever, you lost your touch, homie. Be a director or be a writer, but you suck when you try to do both. Not every movie you make can be Sixth Sense or Signs. Stop frontin'.

Monday, June 16, 2008


Last night, I became convinced that, even though they forced a Game 6 back in Boston, the Los Angeles Lakers are not champions. Even in their wins, they lose. They're being out-played, out-hustled, out-shot, out-benched, out-defensed. Hell, in some cases, in last night's game, they're fans are even being out-cheered by the Celtic bench. I'm not sure if Boston is a champion. I'm not sure if they win, but I can tell you this: the Lakers are not a championship team. They're fakers. It makes me wonder what everyone saw to call Lakers in 6. I mean, it was an overwhelming number of people picking the Lakers. They're actors. They're acting like champions. But like everything else in Los Angeles, it's a front. It's not real. Phil Jackson is like Spielberg and Kobe is like Bruce Willis leaping from the 80th floor. We'll see how your Disney magic works out on the East Coast.

I know you all are getting tired of Finals talk. I don't care. I got up late and I woke up pissed off that the Celtics didn't win last night because, let's face it, that game was theirs to win. So, with my limited minutes this morning, you get sports talk.

It's hot in this country. It's not global warming. It's summer.

I didn't know that TASER is actually an acronym. It's named after a fictional literary character Tom Swift. It stands for Thomas A. Swift's Electric Rifle. That's tight. Tight that they consider a little hand-held device a "rifle." I guess, if it was a "gat," it'd be a taseg. Or if it was "handcannon," it'd be a taseh. Rifle it is.

Thursday, June 12, 2008


Phil, you know I love a good comeback. So, thanks to the Celtics, in the spirit of 2002, came back from a 24-point deficit to mount "the greatest comeback in NBA playoff history" to win and go up 3-1 in the series. Eddie House straight housin'.

The third quarter, in case you turned it off early, featured a 21-3 run from the Celtics in which they silenced the Laker crowd and took the game over. After the third quarter, Phil Jackson said in a courtside interview, "Momentum's a strange girl." Phil, regarded as one of the greatest coaches in NBA history has always been applauded for his timely moves and ability to quell a comeback and kill opponents' momentum. Phil had no answer tonight...again.

Yeah, we love the comeback around here. Love it. Something nice about watching Jack Nicholson swallowing heart medicine like Tic Tacs as the Celtics ram it down Kobe's gully. David Cook, you can eat it. Vujacic, here's a hanky. You ain't been in the league long enough to get that call, homie.
Happy Friday.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008


So, I sit down for Game 3--Lakers and Celtics. Spent all day waiting to enjoy another Laker flogging. My lovely wife, who was actually planning on going to the gym and leaving me behind at the house decided to hang back with me and watch the game. I just finished off my meatballs, cracked open a beer and was ready for action. And now to sing tonight's National Anthem, American Idol winner David Cook! I can't win. I just can't win. David came out and nailed it. What the hell? My lovely wife was swooning next to me the whole time.

I guess, unlike James Taylor, it's not that I really hate David Cook. It's just that he reminds me of all my inferiority. I don't sing (like that--I can sing and some might add that I can sing quite well), I wasn't voted to victory by millions of Americans and I don't have that beautiful smile. I'm jealous. It'll wear off. Especially when his record comes out.

Speaking of records, Lil Wayne is on pace to outsell Kanye's huge first week. Hell, he might go platinum in one week. Possible? Yep. Probable? Slightly. Funny how just earlier this year, industry insiders and writers (sometimes myself included--although I fall into neither category) were writing off the genre altogether.

Lil Wayne's first day number has got to be somewhere around 600,000 units. 1,000,000 might be within reach. It defies all logic really. In a day when they had written off rap's selling power and replaced it with the dreaded Tween Takeover where kid-focused drivel dominates the charts like Hannah Montana, The High School Musical Soundtrack, Jonas Brothers...Eeeeyuk, Brother J says, "Yuk." In a day when the mixtape game hit saturation point and there were numerous concerns about an mixtape-friendly artist like Wayne having his sales jeopardized by competing mixtape product. In a day where illegal downloading and sharing is at an all-time high with expendible income at an all-time low. In a day where it costs you about $10.00 a day just to get up, eat breakfast and go to work and then come home again. In a day where distrust and disconnect between fans and the industry over high-priced, low-quality product is most commonplace. A parental advisory title without the benefit of cross-format radio saturation and coming from a guy who definitely is not as PG-13 as Kanye Weezy. Yep, Lil Wayne put it back on track. Let's not forget that the rap game is the only genre that could potentially go platinum in a week. Ain't no Mariah Carey. Ain't no High School Musical. Ain't no U2. Ain't no System of a Down. No one can put up those kinda numbers like the rap game.

The real buzzkill of the day was this...

Yep, Boggs got broken into and had his after-market stereo swiped along with my air conditioning controls, iPod and use of my blinkers (which I found out at an intersection with some lady laying on her horn behind me--Relax, homey, you're only two minutes away in this town.) He didn't take my grandfather's old-ass golf clubs, my new softball glove (thank goodness) or the new Roots and Portishead records (which were laying on the seat and fingerprinted). Those albums are badass. Guess there's not much to be said for his taste. Guess, too, I can't assume that it was a dude. Maybe it was Angelina Jolie.

Funniest part is they cleaned out my glove compartment which consisted of an iPod (which has become a backseat player to Da Pocket Prophet and Da Pocket Preacher), a multi-tool and one of those leather sleeves that has car receipts and insurance except he took out my car insurance card and kindly set it on the floorboard. I thought that was pretty sweet of him.

Celtics lost last night too making my day a little worse. We still lead 2-1. I really wish that we could put them in an 0-3 hole in front of Jack Nicholson and Donald Sutherland. Have Rajon Rondo slap Steven Spielberg as he runs past him for putting out The Terminal. We'll see if we can do it on Thursday night. Either way, we got a ticket back to Boston, but it'd sure be nice to steal one in LA.

It's humpday. Holla atcha boy.

Saturday, June 07, 2008


Thursday night. Game One of the NBA Finals. I'm on fire. I got two of six beers already down the hatch, a bowl of kraut and sausage in front of me. I'm so ready I'm not even sitting on the couch. I'm more like hovering over the it. I watch about an hour and a half of pre-game discussions. I'm ready for the matchups. Stephen Smith keeps talking about Kobe. I keep talking up Paul Pierce to myself. I'm walking around the house shadowboxing, saying, "What! What!" It's customary.

About five minutes until tip-off, I'm riding a high. I'm thinking about all of those great Celtics teams that never made it to this point. I remember watching Reggie Lewis on Sunday afternooons thinking that "this would be the year" for him to finally break through to the finals. I hit this really reflective moment. Not over sentimental, but definitely dizzying. The Garden's lights go dark, the Celtics emblem lights up center court. "And now to sing the National Anthem, James Taylor."
Dude's sense of timing is just incredible. I swear he's on a shortlist of poor-ass musicians who love sports and are willing to sing publicly in exchange for tickets to high-priced sporting events. Dude's a sucka. If he's not showing up at Red Sox games with his "just an old man with a guitar" routine, he's meddling in Celtics games. There's not even room for his sappy old ass at a Celtics game. Everyone's amped up, punching each other in the chest, the crowd's absolutely goin' off and then, "Let's pause for James Taylor to pass." The ovation afterwards was like, "Damn. Okay, until then I was really enjoying myself tonight." James Taylor is sad and boring like the pool of contents settled in the bottom of a used bedpan. I hate him with unrivaled hate. If you'll remember, last time I posted about James Taylor, it was an historical rant that left such a deep imprint on this nation that if you search it on Google, it pops up at the top. And, no, it's not because I'm the only one that hates him. Check out the link below. Oddly enough, in that same post I praised the current Celtics team. It was meant to happen to me. Maybe James Taylor reads the blog. Maybe he really is out to get me.

In all seriousness, I think James Taylor is an evil person. We must keep away from any broadcasted event because it serves as an opportunity for him to spread his evil perspectives of the world. The very root of him is rotten and cancerous and I won't stand for this. Henry should've told him something at this appearance at the Sox/Indians series from last year.

Man, it's early. I've been up since 4:30 this morning and, yep, it's a Saturday morning. How awesome. Paul was lights out on Thursday night. Yeah, I don't know how bad that injury was or even if there was an injury at all. It could've been the "bloody sock" of the series, but even without the distraction, the dude came up huge. There's little denying that.
I love how Kobe just couldn't stand giving the Celtics defense credit claiming that he just kept missing easy shots or "bunnies" as I believe he said. Yeah, the tape would reveal something quite different. Whatever. Dude's a stud, I know, but he's also a prick. That might be the difference between him and Paul Pierce. Oh, and Paul plays much tighter defense. And he's won a game in the Finals.

In case you missed it, Coco dodged a punch on Thursday night. It looked like this.

After dodging that punch and missing one of his own, he was pounced by the Devil Ray team and then beatdown like Rodney King. Afterwards, he called them out by saying they were "scratching and pulling hair like little girls." Yeah, I gotta feeling this one ain't over.

Meet Riley Wyrick. Dude, he's like the deer whisperer. How does he keep it that still? Oh wait, I think it's dead.
I'm kicking off my Saturday by mowing the yard. I'm thinking about doing it at 6:30 to piss off my neighbors. See what kinda rise I can get out of them. I can do it because I roll with these dudes.

Tuesday, June 03, 2008


Here we go. Obama gets the nod. The table's set for what will be a historical presidential race. And, as the spokesman for your favorite blog, The Root Down, I'm proud to announce that the site, its administrators, writers and programmers are fully backing Obama for president. No more waffling. Now, where can I get one of those Punahou jerseys?

Maybe it's because I've always been a fan of the underdog. Maybe it's because I actually believe that there might be change and know that we desperately need it because the current plan just doesn't work. Maybe I think that what an African American president would represent in this country is that people can move on, grow, accept and bring hope to a future without prejudice and racism. People have questioned what change Obama really influence. I say Obama, alone, is change.

Let's talk real hype. What in the hell is with this Joba Chamberlain kid from the Yankees? Everyone's been talking about homie like he's the second coming. I've seen his heat. I've also seen him lose. He does all of his first pumping and crowd-rallying antics. Yeah, he's pretty awesome. I guess.

Wow, my favorite player of all time? Must be a real baseball fan here. Let's go to the stats. In his rookie campaign last year, he pitched an incredible 24 innings. That, alone, is astounding. Such durability. He struck out 34 batters in those 24 innings. I mean, this kid is on fire. This year, so far, he's 1-2 with a 2.42 ERA. He hasn't saved a game. This dude hasn't pitched more than 3 innings at a time. Yet, still, you'd swear he was the next great superstar. I ain't seen nothing yet except a guy who tries to act the Charlie "Wild Thing" Sheen part. He's a good t-shirt at this point. A cute name. But when he hits the mound, he hasn't done nothing yet.

Celtics vs. Lakers. Ya'll ain't even ready. It all begins tomorrow. I want bruises, blood, hard elbows, trash talk and hard fouls. The league's become way too soft over the last few years. After the Artest event, it seems this league ducked into insipid "positivity" PR campaign and looked to sharpen up their image (see also: PLAYER DRESS CODES). It's laughable. This is a sport. This is a competition. And when you talk Celtics and Lakers, it's all that times three. Last year, the NBA Finals reached an all-time low in viewership as the league's new Jordan, Lebron James (we are all witnesses) got swept by the Spurs in the finals. It's time to show them how it's really done.
Opio, from Hieroglyphics/Souls of Mischief, might have dropped one of the nicest gems this year, in my humblest. Vulture's Wisdom doesn't hit the stores until July (even though I heard it was pushed to August), but it's totally badass. I ain't heard anything meritable from Opio since 1993 (yep, 93 Til Infinity). But with producer The Architect providing the very Dilla-drenched backdrop and Opio ducking and diving like a prizefighter, we got a beast on our hands here. I hear it only times out at just over thirty minutes. Perfect.

It's been another lackluster year for hip hop. It's just mad boring out there. People are so uninspired. Defeated. I don't know what it is. It's like we've hit the end of hip hop's creative spectrum. Of course, I say we hit the wall because we've spent a decade serving a master that doesn't really care about your longevity, your livelihood and your artistry. The fans. Because we're a fan-first, packaging-second and artistry-third genre, we're built to fail once the winds shift. And the winds have shifted.

Monday, June 02, 2008


Woke up to Tux barking like crazy in the back yard. Went out to find Tux and Jax along the back fence barking and nabbing at something on the ground. I walk up to the commotion and grab the dogs by the collar and pull them away to find a half-living, half-dead, half-skinned possum laying on the ground gasping for his last breath.

That's disgusting. I grab a snow shovel, scrape it up off the ground and toss it over the fence into my jerk neighbor's yard making it his problem. I don't have any problem telling you this because they lady's got no computer and watches Animal Planet all day. Hell, maybe she's seen something on there about how to administer aid to a dying possum. Here ya go, lady. Get to work.

How's your morning?