MISADVENTURES IN PLUMBING

As many can attest to, there are things, details, finer points of information to homeownership/improvement that can only be learned from a panicked, freakish moment of absurdity. You could do all the research in the world in preparation for a project, but some times, your dumbass just has to learn the hard way. Saturday was one such moment. (side note: Word is there's a Madvillainy Remix coming out through Stones Throw entirely remixed by the album's original producer: Madlib. Listening to snippets right now. Dope.)

Alright, not sure what you know about our master bathroom project so let's just bring you up to speed in two sentences or less. Watch this TAKS English mastery: Originally planned to be simply putting in tile into bath and the floors, the scope of the master bathroom project has changed slightly to include putting in a new vanity, relocating some lights, putting in tile on the floors and throwing a new toilet in there with a little more, um, torque. After getting estimates from the outside (one of which drove the price of just the tiling to the tune of $3000), we decided to proceed with only small handfuls of experience between us, but also a great deal of logic and coolheadedness. You dummy, you just can't write sentences that nice.

(puts on Eric Dolphy's Out to Lunch)

It's 9:00 in the morning--the time I designated as "go time" the night before. The plan for the day is to remove the cabinet. That's my only plan. The floor, for the most part, is complete. The toilet stays for now. But the cabinet needs to come out and travel to the alley and into the dumpster. I throw on a little Quest and begin removing doors and drawers. That was pretty simple. Took only five minutes or so. That brings me to the removal of the sink.

At this point, my lovely wife begins walking around asking where she can help. Since, she removed and replaced the sink in the small bathroom, I asked her if there were shut off valves on that sink because there are none visible on the sink I'm working on. Possible for a sink to not have shut-offs? We were soon to answer that. I begin loosening many nuts and mechanisms under the think and, yes, I began toying with the pipes. I loosen a hose and, suddenly, a mist begins to emit. I'm thinking, "Shit, here we go." I remain as visibly calm as I can, but my lovely wife is beginning to freak out. We have no floors to protect from the moisture and, if those floors get wet and then warp, we're screwed. Big time.

The mist becomes a spray.

We grab towels, a bath mat, shirts, anything we can find and put it on the floor under us to protect it from the moisture. I tell my wife to grab the portion spraying so I can go turn off the water out back (insert obvious comment here). I dash out back into the alley and locate the water meter. I toss the lid off and look into the hole crawling with roaches and crickets. Yes, I don't like roaches. Crickets, I can handle. Roaches suck. I see no obvious switch. What the? I begin to panic. I run back inside to see if I can assess the situation while waters spraying my wife and maybe get what I unconnected reconnected. I run in, push her out of the way and take over. Now trying to screw a connection that has water coming out of it is not only difficult, it's damn near impossible. After about two minutes of fiddling with it, I manage to get it back together with very little harm done. Both of us out of breath and with our hearts racing, look at each other, laugh a little nervously and then proceed with a little more caution. But just a little more.

This time, we collectively agree that by disconnecting the hoses that actually hook into the sink, we'll be able to avoid water and then can proceed with removing the cabinet which, if you'll recall, is all I'm looking to do today. My scope is very limited. I'm removing a cabinet. The sink is just a small inconvenience, if you will.

I position myself under the sink on my back looking upwards at the sink. I take the toilet seat cover and put it under my head because it's still a little wet under there. I loosen the hose at the sink and I'm thinking this could go one of two ways: really good or really bad. Actually, either nothing happens or catastrophe. I stop for a second and just think through a few "safety nets." Truth be known, I didn't really have any. I was just hoping for the best. We're hoping for no water. I loosen it to a point that I can just yank it out. I wrap my hand around the hose, adjust my tension and then just yank.

POP!

Out of the small quarter-inch opening, water absolutely spews forth at an unfathomable rate. It's coming out at a rate that has the end of the hose whipping uncontrollably. I snag the snake-end of the hose and now realize that we're in seriously deep shit. Seriously. I call to my wife to bring me a plastic trash can so I have somewhere to direct the hose. I fill up the trash can she brings me in about five seconds and then dump it in the nearby bathtub all from a sitting position. I repeat. Fill it. Dump it. Fill it. Dump it. But while I'm dumping it, this hose is hitting everything in site. The bathroom is now officially hosed. I yell at my lovely wife, "Get me something bigger! Get me something much bigger!" I needed a bigger basin to buy me some time so between filling the small one and dumping it. Water continues to spew. I'm now emptying the hot water heater. Scalding water begins to come out of the hose. My glasses fog over. I can't see anything and both hands are working overtime. I hear the vibration of my lovely wife stomping around house. She appears with a large storage tub. I take it and jam it under the sink. Now I have some time. But I look at the tub filling up and I realize that time is only assumed. This thing's filling up really fast. I begin filling the large tub, but trying to empty the large tub by using the smaller trash can to fill from the storage tub and dump into the bathtub. My lovely wife's standing there in complete disbelief. She says, "I don't know what to do!" With obvious fear in her voice. These are really honest moments for a young couple.

I say, "I don't know either! Go call someone! Go ask our neighbor how to turn off our water! Go talk to the marine across the street! Just do something!" She disappears like a flash of lightening. I know, at this point, two things: if I can visibly see my lovely wife, nothing's happening. She needs to be in the alley, at the neighbor's, anywhere, but she needs to be out of my sight. When I couldn't see her, there was hope that the resolution was coming soon. Also, I know I can keep up this fill-and-dump transfer method for another twenty minutes tops. She comes charging back in yelling, "Where are the keys to the alley gate?"

Of all the things...

I know they're in my shorts pocket, but I'm sending with my legs crossed and my pockets are unaccessable. Not to mention, my hands are little busy. I grab throw my right leg under the big tub to wedge it into place and then hold the little bucket with my right hand. I begin digging into my pocket with my left. I couldn't grab it. The water's rising in the tub. Must hurry.

Within probably ten seconds, I snag the little rubber duckie keychain, toss it to my lovely wife and tell her to get lost. She knows what I mean. The sound of the water rushing out at this point is deafening. It's so loud. It's coming out with such brutal force it could strip paint and, you can trust this, it would absolutely ruin a house full of wood floors. I keep filling and dumping. It feels like we're about the five minute mark now. I haven't seen my lovely wife in a couple of minutes which is a good thing. All of the sudden, I feel the pressure begin to dwindle and then, within seconds, the water stops.

I begin yelling, "That's it! That's it! That's it! It's done! It stopped!" I take a deep breath. I'm soaked. I look around me. There's water everywhere. The bathtub's up to about the halfway point because the plug at the drain had dropped in the process.

My lovely wife comes running back in. She recalls her side of the story. She ran next door and was banging on our poor neighbor's front door. She answers the door and my lovely wife yells at her, "Do you know how to turn off the water!?" She says, "Uh, no I don't." My lovely wife then runs back to our house. Grabs the phone, finds the Water Utility department and, thank God someone answers. The old voice at the other end of the line walks her calmly through the shut off from the alley. She said when she opened water meter, the meter was spinning at a rate of about a gallon every four seconds.

We go outside. Even though it's about ten in the morning, I tell her I really want a beer. I'm so rattled at this point. We sit there and walk through possible solutions. The most obvious one to me is that we need to install shut-off valves on those pipes. We go to Home Depot, I have a verbal spat with one of the employees who was attempting to excercise his smart-ass tone with me as we discussed plumbing supplies. His questions were obviously a little over my head. I returned at one point with, "I don't know, dude. I'm not a plumber." To which he responded sarcastically with, "Well, neither am I." I then, said bitingly, "Well, I don't work at Home Depot. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

It took only $25 to install shut off valves onto the pipes, we turned the water back on successfully and managed to dry out the floors pretty quickly using a series of crafty fan positions. This could've been an absolute disaster. Five minutes of water running into the house at that speed would've flooded not just the bathroom, but probably the living room and two bedrooms as well. Bullet dodged. Lesson learned. Always shut off the water in the alley before proceeding with any plumbing work.

HIT OF THE SUMMER, VIDEO OF THE YEAR...

I'll be the first to tell anyone when I like something. Well, the new Lil' Wayne is growing on me. I don't hate things because they're popular or like things because they're not, I just don't share the same taste as the masses. And while I'm late (close to two million people have already bought the album in physical form), I right. This ish is ill. I don't care if you agree or not. I don't even care if you go on some Def-Jux-Stones-Throw snobbery and tell me my site sucks and my taste sucks. That's alright. I'm old enough and paid my dues...I don't owe you nuttin'.

When we were in Houston watching the Sox set Astros attendance records, the Lil Wayne had just dropped and the song "Milli" was starting to spread hard at radio and this Houston station was playing the remix and it had me open. The bass was so hawd. I mean, this bass is so low and loud that it splits heads in two. Its blockrocking bass, its verses dripping with adoration of money and excess, it's a superficial and shallow bona fied summer anthem.

Thursday, we had a label in to present (among other things) the video to "Milli." We blasted it so the entire building could feel it. While my lovely wife thinks he should just make a "real video like everyone else," she's just hating. She'll even admit it. Alot of cats hate on dudes who can turn dimes into ten dollar bills. That's why people hate hip hop. Whatever.

Without further ado, I present to you the video for Lil Wayne's "Milli."

Enjoy.

HOW MUCH DO MASCOTS GET PAID...ANYONE?

Represent the Boston Red Sox as Wally at select community and corporate events; always conducting him or herself in a professional manner during appearances. Must be available in a part time hourly role on weekdays, weeknights, weekends and holidays. Must have reliable transportation.

Minimum of one year experience as a sports mascot, theme park character or actor. Must have general knowledge of baseball and the Boston Red Sox. Ability to interact with and entertain a crowd. Must be able to withstand high heat in costume and be able to lift 50 pounds.


Note: When you apply for this job online, you will be required to answer the following questions:


1. Yes/No: I live in the Boston area
2. Yes/No: I have experience as a mascot, theme park character or actor
3. Yes/No: I have reliable transportation
4. Yes/No: I am available to work days, nights, weekends and holidays



I have reliable transportation: my feet, my bike and my Honda. And, if in Boston, the subway. I have no experience as a mascot, but I've never punched anyone and don't drink before work. I don't live in the Boston area, but hourly pay for 80+ home games at Fenway might make it worth it. Days, nights, weekends and holidays? Hell yeah! Able to lift 50 pounds? You bet. I can also toss 100-pound kids. Able to withstand high heat in a costume...crap...f'get about it.

MY NEXT PURCHASE(S)...COLLECT 'EM ALL!

Yeah, I really can't help it. Especially with these ill convenience store color configs. These are just nasty. They're not my typical 574s, but instead, these are 576s. Now, I just gotta find a trusty source. No one tell my lovely wife or she'll punch me in the eyeball.

SOME WEEKS YOU'RE A T-REX GETTING RACKED BY A BLIND CAVEMAN

You know I hate going so long without updating The Root Down, but this week was col' brutal. Yeah, I've been bad to my readers. I know this. How can I make it up to you? Let me know and I'll do it. It just needs to be legal. Immoral I can deal with.

Yeah, if it ain't work killing me (I'm almost done planning out Christmas...Christmas), we're remodelling the master bath room at home as an anniversary gift to ourselves. Of course, that also comes with excruciating back pains and the knees that pop when I get up from a sitting position. It'll be nice when it's done, but let me just give you a little tip when doing any kinda of tile work in your house: screw Lowes. Just go directly to the tile guys. Lowes tells you they will hook you up with $4.25 per square foot installation, but what they don't tell you is they basically give the contractor of their choice all the liberty in the world on their estimate (they wanted to charge us $1,900 for the removal of the floor tile and bath tub liner) and then you basically hand over a blank check to the contractor to go on a shopping spree at Lowes without any knowledge of what they're buying (they would show me the list, but wouldn't let me have a copy of it...same with the estimate) and whether or not it'll actually be used in the project. I lost $35 in that deal because they require you to pay for the estimate and if you get the job done, you'll get that $35 rolled into the total bill. Too bad that $35 was only 1% of the total. We're going to get the floor done for only $500 saving about $600 just by going directly to the tile guys. Plus, the moron at Lowes who admittedly was "not too good on computers" charged us twice to the tune of about $700. Whatever.

Elsewhere in loose ends, I got my air conditioning and stereo back in my car about a month later. I ain't pissed. Nice to have air conditioning during July in the Yellow. Better to hear the sounds of Ol' Dirty Bastard blasting through the speakers. Now I'm that dork that takes the face off, puts it in the little carrying case and preps the car for overnight parking. At least I learn a lesson.

Joined LinkedIn this week after hearing all about it. Pretty slick. Found some former employees and was amazed at how some people overstate their qualifications. Beyond my own resume, I haven't read too many, but geez, when you've actually worked with an individual and know all that they did (and didn't do) and then you read their resume, it's like a completely different person. You did what? You were responsible for what? I worked with you for three years and you didn't do anything except talk on the phone. Stop your frontin', homegrown.

Red Sox are a half game back of first place after falling to five and a half back to Tampa Bay (who?!). I guess the Rays are discovering you gotta win a few games on the road if you wanna win a division. Hopefully, after today, everything will be back to normal. And Papi's expected to return shortly. AL East beware.

Went to see Wall E last night with my lovely wife. I think this movie confirmed for me that I'm becoming a softy. I really am. Not because I went to see the movie, but because I became overwhelmed emotionally at a few scenes and really had some difficulty coming to terms with those emotions. It's not that I don't like getting sappy. I can cry. I don't care. But it's a freaking animated robot...what the hell? There was me, probably about ten families so, let's say, 1.3 kids per family...about thirteen kids. I hear 'em talking through the whole movie and I'm slumped over in my chair chewing on my knuckle screaming from my inner self, "I'm experiencing incredible swings in mood and character and I don't know why!!" I even had a hard time with the after-movie discussion with my lovely wife. "Yeah, I thought the choice in direction to really expose the concepts right out of the gate instead of unfolding them gradually was really ballsy, but I got it. It didn't seem to hurt the pace of the movie. It's just unusual that you see that from an animated feature. I also think the...geez...the landscapes were crazy. The animation was...uh...it was, uh...I'm, um, having some difficulty here...please bear with me. Um, I, uh...I almost cried, damn it!" My lovely wife can respect it. I just don't know if I respect myself because of it.

Digable Planets killed. Peep their two records.

On the music tip, Owen and I are working on a mix using Serrato. It's the dopest program ever. I wasn't familiar with it except the name until I went over to his house to gander at the setup. Basically, it perfectly replicates the sensation of scratching off of two turntables onto the digital file of your choice. That's the basic function of it, but it has so much more. Afer first discovering some of the capabilities, I started building a mix for us to work with. The theme of the mix is to dive right into the greatest Gangsta Rap tracks (man, it's been years since I've said that) from 1986-1991 and weave it together with a backdrop of original breaks, related movie/TV soundbytes to create a 360-degree, all-out blazing gangsta soundspectrum. It's like a quilt or a goulash, if you will. Included are Ice-T, Ice Cube, Geto Boys, Pink Floyd, Royal Flush, Gary Numan, NWA, Cypress Hill, Parliament, Dr. Dre, Cream, Scarface, Chuck Cornish, MC Twist, Def IV, Above the Law, Curtis Mayfield, 2Pac, Jimi Hendrix, Robert Deniro, Isaac Hayes, the Isley Brothers and more. Yeah, tell me that don't sound dope. Still working on a title. Any suggestions, holler at me.

Also piecing together a mix that's all about money. Yeah.

I'm sorry for leaving you for so long. I love you. You're beautiful. Happy Sunday.

FIREWORKS ARE ALMOST AS COOL AS EATING OVER 60 HOT DOGS

Just wrapping up another interesting Independence Day with a warm Shiner Bock and a handful of dry Frosted Shredded Wheats. Good stuff.

Went to Canadian, Texas this morning for their parade. You might recall that Tucker the Beagle hails from Canadian and, well, they had turtle races (with 144 entries). Interesting how such ridiculously cool customs become tradition on national holidays. Nathan's Famous celebrates unrivaled glutony and then we race the slowest animals on the planet. Onlookers were encouraged not to place any wagers on the races. Damn, you're hard up if your dropping cash on the turtle races.

Canadian was interesting, to say the least. I like the community. Everytime I'm there, I'm reminded that I really wouldn't mind living in the middle of nowhere. There's a ton of white trash in Canadian though. And they have a lot of white trash kiddies. They were everywhere. One mother of, geez, I'd guess twelve, had a tattoo on the back of her calf. It was a memorial of sorts reading "Heath: 12-03-77 - 03-15-07...He has become comfortably numb." What the hell is that? I mean, I don't need the story. I'm just wondering when is it appropriate to quote Pink Floyd on a memorial piece? And, apparently, ankle tattoos finally made it up in the panhandle. Everyone was rocking an ankle tattoo. You know: the ying yang, the skull, the rose, the frog, the Pink Floyd quote, the Misfits logo, the Nascar tribute.

Apparently, some time between today and the last time I was at a July 4th parade, floats began turning lame and it's really only an excuse to overhand hard candy at people in the crowd. Most people didn't even wave, they just took fistfuls of candy and chunked it at the crowd. And if you weren't dodging the local little league team trying to break skin with Jolly Ranchers, you had others that would just come around the corner and blast the crowd with Super Soakers. What happened to the "wavers." Now I gotta worry about missles flying at me. White trash got most of the candy anyway as they positioned themselves about five feet off the curb. C'mon, what else are they gonna eat for dinner?

Jax left a huge dump on the courthouse lawn and I didn't pick it up. For whoever is smelling the bottom of their Nikes tonight wondering what died, I'm sorry.

I came home, ate barbecue and passed out face down in front of the TV. Woke up to find that the Red Sox beat the Yankees (second day in the row) and that we were heading down to the big city park to see the fireworks tonight. None of which were to be launched out of some kids mouth thankfully. We took our place for the fireworks, in all places (shoot me in the face), the Wal-Mart parking lot and they were launching them some hundred yards from our chairs. We had front-row view of the fireworks while thousands of cats were trapped at the park and had the back-row perspective. So maybe the Wal-Mart parking lot wasn't such a bad idea.

White trash love them some fireworks. And, apparently, drinking in a Wal-Mart parking lot is not too far-fetched for them. They just lined up and took it in. Of course, I did too. What can I say, there's a little white trash in all of us. But I still don't know a single Nascar star except for Jeff Gordon (only because we share the same name) and Dale, Jr.

Sox and Yanks tomorrow and Sunday--both televised. Classically American. Keep chillin.

PATRIOTISM AND BLOWING CRAP UP...

I'll be honest. I haven't really been into the whole July 4th thing for years apart from taking the day off and watching fireworks. I don't know why I'm not that patriotic. I'm going to try to get back in touch today. My lovely wife, brother-in-law and I are going to drive to a small town in the Texas panhandle and watch a parade. Then, we'll enjoy turtle races. Maybe that'll help. I don't want to be viewed as un-American. I'm just frustrated. Is it really possible to love your country, but hate their war? How do you totally embrace a country whose modern history, especially, is underlined by its insatiable greed and hunger for global domination? I mean, I was really just born here.

I like basketball and baseball. That's American. I like Montell Williams. He's American. I like tornadoes. Are there ever tornadoes anywhere else in the world? I like chili dogs. I like Eazy-E, the blues, Dunkin Donuts, watching high school theater students drink too much coffee at the local coffee shop, Bobby Knight, New Balances, Sportscenter and the sound of aluminum bats hitting fastballs. I like Oliver Stone. I like Starbucks even though they supposedly "burn their beans." I don't really care. I like the smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline. Specifically when together. I like fighting. I mean, I really like fighting. Fighting is pretty American. I like funk. I like Donny Hathaway. I like Val Kilmer. I might need to make sure Val's American. Yep, from California. Led Zeppelin's not American, but Bob Dylan is. I like Sam Adams when it's in a chilled glass, but truth be known, I can drink it at room temp too. I root for the underdog and enjoy documentaries. I don't know if those things are specifically American, but I like to think so.

Do you ever get the idea that those firework safety videos are less about firework safety and more about just blowing up mannequins? I mean, who puts an ignited Roman candle in their jeans pocket? Or who holds an M-80 in their hand waiting for it to explode? Who sits at a school desk with a firecraker powerful enough to split metal in two exploding in their face? I mean, those aren't fireworks. Those are explosives.

I guess we have a legacy in blowing up things. It's just the way we are. Don't put any bottle rockets in your mouth and have a great July 4th, you col' patriot.

AN ODE TO ASTRO FANS

Dearest Astro fans,

Thank you so much for allowing me into your beautiful city and even nicer new ballpark. Looks like you've struggled to keep it full at times. Thank goodness for a little interleague play to fill it up with the Red Sox and Yankees come to town. I know it's not easy when you build a ballpark that holds more asses than your team has in fans, but you did well this last weekend.

With all due respect, however, I found your interest in the sport, its history, your team and its players to be quite questionable. As I've found in my travels and my particular fandom for my beloved Red Sox, it's normal for fans to show the greatest interest in their team and their players and also have a level of conversational knowledge of the game, the current stars of the league and, maybe, for the advanced fan, some historical context. It was disconcerting that only images of Nolan Ryan and Craig Biggio were inspiring enough to deserve an applaud. I realize your team hasn't been around since the turn of the century, but you've had some phenomenal players come through (one, even, that the Sox let you have in Jeff Bagwell). Craig Biggio was decent, but by no means the greatest ever to play. How does Nolan Ryan get outshined by Biggio? But, hey, it's your house. I wouldn't come over to play dominos and re-write the rules so whatever.

I had a hard time understanding your hate much in the same way that I found Rockies fans to be a bit abrasive when discussing the ethnicity of the players. Turns out that, again, I'd hear a few racially insensitive comments ricochet about Sox pitcher Matsuzaka and star outfielder Manny Ramirez. Makes me wonder if it's something with the National League. Could be just some good ol' Texas racehate. I mean, this is the town where a dude shot and killed two Mexicans with a shotgun while witnessing them burgularize his neighbors house yelling, "Boom! You're dead!" Not to mention Jasper, Texas is just over an hour away. Not saying the town has an outbreak and, I should be fair in saying that I know not all Astro fans got race issues, but check out this gem that was taken from outside Minute Maid.

I wonder if it has anything to do with that stupid jackalope mascot you have. In a way, the mixed-breed jackalope might be an desperate attempt by management to build racial and social tolerance amongst the Astro fans both toward themselves, their team and opponents.
Of course, it could be that no one had any ideas of how the hell you make an "astro" into a furry mascot. Hey, you can't do it with a red sock either. We got Wally the Green Monster. I know how it feels.

Especially troubling was the early exit after going down 4-0 in the seventh inning on Friday night. I wonder if there's still some residual sadness left over from when they got swept by the White Sox in the series. I guess 4-0 might translate into "time to go home" in Houston. By the middle of the eighth inning, Minute Maid had become a full-on Red Sox Nation convention. I wouldn't think the home team would let that happen. Deafening were the cheers for the Red Sox and, while I felt quite welcome (except for the $7.25 beers), I'm concerned about your defeatist disposition and what the long-term effects are. Trust me, I'm a Red Sox fan. I understand. So Houston, pick yourself up. You gotta fantastic team (as evident by the next two games where the Sox dropped both) and you should be proud of it.

I'll offer up Tucker to replace your stupid jackalope if you would like him for the rest of the season. He's very responsive to a piano and could lead the crowd in a rousing version of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" much better than a mute jackalope. My offer stands.

TUX'S SKILLZ AS A HOST

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.

REPLACING AN IPOD...A TEST OF PATIENCE AND ACCEPTANCE...

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.

R.I.P. GEORGE CARLIN

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

THIS IS SOME REVOLUTION MUSIC...

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.

I'LL SAY IT AGAIN: PAUL PIERCE...BORN WINNER

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.

HOLLYWOOD: THE GREATEST SCAM EVER...

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 series...you 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'.

FALSE FRAUDULENT FAKERS

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.

HEY, PHIL JACKSON...MOMENTUM'S A BITCH.

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.

SHOOT ME IN THE FACE: THE DAVID COOK BUZZKILL

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.

SHOOT ME IN THE FACE: THE JAMES TAYLOR BUZZKILL

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.
http://therootdown.blogspot.com/2007/08/im-not-american-because-i-absolutely.html


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.

JOBA, OBAMA, OPIO AND MORE...

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.

LOOK WHAT THE BOYS DRAGGED IN...

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?