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?

CELTICS MOVE ON AND OBSERVATIONS FROM TWO AIRPORTS.

Remember this banner? Well, it looks to be a reality. Celtics vs. Lakers. Yeah, this is what it's all about. Defense vs. offense. Adidas vs. Nike. The Big Three vs. Kobe. The Working Class vs. Hollywood. Hell, make it a rap battle: East Coast vs. West Coast. It's the best that basketball can offer. I'm sorry to all other teams, but nearly half of the Finals in NBA history have been won by either the Lakers or the Celtics. They have 69 Finals appearances between them. 102 teams have played in the Finals. Clash of the titans. Gotta love it.

And I like the fact that Paul's chanting "Beat L.A." in the locker room after clinching the Finals appearance. This is a rivalry. This ain't no Derek Jeter backslapping. Nah, it's on. I love it for Paul too. I remember watching him run circles around Texas Tech when I was on the come-up and when the Celtics drafted him, geez, almost a decade ago now, I thought this was going to the resurgence of the Celtics. We would return to the glory that we lost when Reggie Lewis died in 1993. This team's hungry.

And while I've enjoyed watching the Big Three this year, it's all about Kendrick Perkins and Rajon Rondo. Dudes have grown up right in front of me. Watching them come to it against the Pistons prove to me their as ready as they'll ever be for the Lakers.
The Lakers will be tough, no doubt. The Celtics know that. They just abused the Spurs in five games. All that history is out of the door because these dudes are not the Lakers of yesteryears. Better? I don't know. But they're different. So are the Celtics. Ray Allen is the shooting finesse (at times) of Larry Legend. Kendrick is our new Chief. Paul is the workhorse of McHale. Rondo is our DJ. KG? Eh, I'm not sure. He's kind of a McHale/Parish blend, if you will. I'm excited. Should be a fantastic series. I'm hearing alot of dudes call the Lakers in six. Good. I like being the underdog. Most said it would be Lakers in six on the strength of Phil Jackson. I'd love to send him packing.

I honestly don't know what to predict from the series so I'll just default to the very best we could ask for: Celtics in seven and they win it at home in Boston on a game-winning three from Ray Allen. How confident of that outcome? Not at all really. These teams are playing their very best basketball. Stay tuned, Rajon's gonna get his boxing gloves out. Ready for action.

I traveled to the northeast this week. Spent some good time in airports. Had a chance to think about a few things. Like I kinda think that Nice & Smooth were gay. Dope. Made some great party music. And gay. Check out this early picture. It get a serious, "Ayo."

And then, there's their first record where they're really close. Perfectly manicured. The moustaches neatly trimmed. Their second record, Ain't a Damn Thing Changed, came out a couple of years later and it seemed that they were trying to switch it up, but I wasn't falling for it. Check out the video for the albums, "Hip Hop Junkies." What's up with that handshake at the beginning? C'mon, now.

Kimbo Slice, from Miami, thinks he's Raw Daddy. He's col' knocking dudes out across America and maybe has some of the raddest chest hair, but we know that beard ain't the real deal.

Also a native to Miami, rapper Rick Ross, had that style going long before Kimbo broke with it. Although, let's be real, Rick Ross would whimper at a Kimbo punch.
But we know who the OG of this facial hair game is doe. I got it locked down. Ain't no one better. Real gangstas rock the Abraham.
You notice that, once you're in airport, they still warn you about staying near your stuff and never losing sight of your baggage. Why should we be concerned about someone messing with out stuff? I mean, once you're in the airport, shouldn't that be the safest place to leave your bag? Isn't it safe to assume that no one's going to stick a gun, bomb or drugs in your bag because that would've meant that security didn't do their job in the first place? The only reason you keep a close eye on your bags is so no one steals it, but do you really need someone reminding you every fifteen minutes to keep an eye on your bags. While you're at it, don't forget to breathe and swallow too. Someone sticks a bomb in my bag, I'm going at the airport for allowing a bomb to get through the security gates.

Speaking of, I forgot to take a pocket knife out of my bag before boarding in the Yellow. They passed my bags through the scanner twice because they didn't "find what they were looking for." I thought that was a peculiar comment. Tell me what you're looking for and I'll find it for you. It's my bag, after all. Turns out they eventually found it. My lucky one-handed knife. What can I say? I never travel with the bag and I'm a Boy Scout so I'm never far away from a blade. They allowed me to take it to my car. Leave the weapons at home, kiddies.

On my way out of Philly, dudes were stumped by my portable turntable. They didn't know what to make of it. I got pulled out of line and quarantined along with every East Indian in the security area. It was crazy. I mean, it was me and my turntable getting swiped for gun powder and about 10-15 East Indians. There's some haters in Philly, damn.

Funkadelic's Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow is one killer record. I mean, it's just sick. I listened to an incredible amount of Funkadelic while in transit. I'm serious, it's deep. My fascination with Funkadelic's music has hit a new level. If you want a starting point, please listen to Let's Take it to the Stage, Cosmic Slop, Uncle Jam Wants You and, of course, Maggot Brain. There's "Back In Our Minds," "Good to Your Earhole," "We Hurt Too" and "Brettino's Bounce." All of it dope. The 574 from New Balance is, without a doubt, the most comfortable shoe ever made. I say that after wearing Sauconys for the last few weeks. They're super comfy, but you can always go back to the 574. They're just the best shoe ever made. That's all there is to it. Perfect for air travel too. They're great for making the sprint from one gate to another and if you lace 'em loosely, they come right off and back on in the security gate. I prefer my purple, grey and white pair. You know, when it's time to get ill.


You've heard this before, but Fear of a Black Planet is the best hip hop album ever made. And it's probably fair to say that it will always be the best ever made because hip hop sucks now and no one has a clue what they're doing anymore. These kids don't even know what hip hop is. The artist don't even speak the language because they don't know who the hell Big Daddy Kane is. Or Rakim. Or Posdonous. If you don't know the history, it's like not knowing the language. If you don't know the language, how do you expect to make a decent hip hop record?But I digress. Fear of a Black Planet is the illest record ever. I was listening to "War at 33 1/3," "Revolutionary Generation" and "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" over and over again when I was waiting to go home. That's an three-song arsenal that can't be touched. I realize that's out of sequence, but listen to Fear of a Black Planet and give particular interest to those three songs.

I had to do everything in my power to resist picking up the above 12" in Philly. I found it at a local spot. It was beautiful. And it was over $30. Collector? Yes. Dumbass? Nah, homie. Think again. I did, however, pick up Tribe's first on vinyl for $13 and Ultramagnetic's Critical Beatdown for only $8.99. Nice score. It sucks that Flav turned out so badly in his age. Dude could've used a decent manager along the way. Not that he was mad talented in the shadow of guys like X and Chuck D, but just to keep his ass out of trouble and off TV.

Dude, I gotta tell you, my nephew is freaking amazing. Yeah. He's not pitching off the mound yet, but we have him working on shoulder strength and leg strength. He should be ready for Opening Day next year. Ladies, give him a few years. Dude's gonna be a heartbreaker. Good looking kiddo, Bro Bro.
Heading to the canyon this weekend for some camping. It's our sixth anniversary. Give respect. 95-degree heat in Texas. Now that's some camping, wussy.

JUST HOW STRONG IS THAT COFFEE: SATURDAY MORNING, 4:42AM.

Awesome. It's like I jinxed myself. Sleeping in on Saturday morning?! Ha. Who am I kidding? I fell asleep on the couch last night trying to watch Stephen King's The Mist. Fell asleep again in a bed properly like most people do. Woke up a few seconds ago panicking because I was short of breath. Then noticed it was Tux sitting on my chest. Dude just got heavy overnight or something. Probably will walk him before the sun rises. So starts my Memorial Day weekend. You know, some people really plan for this weekend. I mean, they plan like months in advance. Honestly, you have to tell me when Memorial Day is because I'll always forget. I usually think it's sometime in August. Sometimes I feel sorry for people who look forward to Memorial Day because I think, "Man, they must really hate their job to look forward to three day weekends like that." Does that mean I'm insensitive to the meaning of Memorial Day? I don't think it should. I'm respectful about what it means...I just never remember when it is. It's like most people's birthday.

When I'm awake like this, my lovely wife has advised me from staying away from any activities that provide a stimulus so that I can go back to sleep. My problem is that I'm stimulated by mostly anything. The other night, I awoke and thought about how many types of "white trash" there are. I came up with four. Why in the hell am I thinking about that at 3 o'clock in the morning?!

The four classes of white trash could also be broken apart by economic class. It's more like "how ignorant white people act in four different economic situations." Just for your information, the four are as follows.

GOOD OL' BOY
The Good Ol' Boy is like Bo and Luke Duke. They idolize David Allan Coe, go to church, respect their mother, failed algebra until the teachers figured they'll never hold a job so what does it matter. On the surface, they're pretty harmless, but underneath boils a frightening patroitism that often borders on the boldest of racism. This is probably the most common form of white trash. Your kids grow up with them. You were in a frat with them. They often shapeshift and can blend in with others in society quite well. They brush their teeth, use deodarant and even cologne. They're not so far gone that they don't care about attracting the opposite sex. In fact, sex is sometimes all they care about. That and Nascar. They think the Eagles are the truth. They've worn jeans to both a funeral and a wedding. Most of them have had some sort of run in with the law and say things like, "Dat's what I'm talkin' 'bout!" There's probably very little in the kingdom that awaits them except for a job in sales--perhaps at your local convenience store. Hell, maybe they'll land a management job there. Some will actually manage to graduate from college (provided they have the means to pay for it) and find better jobs. Those become our second class. One last fact about this group, they don't particularly like minorities, but they love Snoop Dogg.

SUBURBAN WHITE TRASH
Unfortunately for deserving cool folk, the thought of the suburb is fairly attractive to white trash. It's like living with all of the modern conveniences of a urban community, but without all of the pesky stuff that comes with living in the city--like crime, terrorist attacks, diversity, cultural exchanges and fear. They'll have good schools for their kids, a fire department, elected officials, sturdy fencing and maybe even tornado shelters. This is like graduation for most white trash. They're allowed to (or more accurately: required to) shake or, at least, turn down many of the characteristics of their trashiness. They do so to fit in thus giving them a full sense of belonging that they never had yet yearned so dearly for. They like Tom Petty, uphold the "American dream" (whatever that is), have Nascar tendencies, but more prefer the football because it, again, helps them fit in. They have to try their hardest to not park in the lawn or leave the house without a shirt on. Intellectually, they're present, but still have difficulty escalating the conversation to things other than sports, war and cars. This is their downfall is the confusion experienced in their attempt to reach comfort. By compromising themselves, they're never really happy and always hang onto a little bit of residual aggression from their dissent. Overall, they're pretty harmless because they want so badly to be accepted that they won't dare show their true colors. Some hold white collar jobs, hell, some of them actually might be in office in your communities.

YOUR AVERAGE TRAILER PARK TRASH
They have an electric stove, perhaps a microwave, running water and they don't read by candlelight, but who are we kidding, they don't read anyway. The trailer park is much like any community whose people are beaten down or struggling. Getting out of the trailer park is their only ambition, but the likelihood that it'll one day happen is fairly slim. It's like the Swamp of Sadness in The Neverending Story, if you give in, it'll eat you whole and will also consume future generations. Optimism and intellect are seldom experienced and, because of this, the park breeds a cancerous hate and jealousy that usually rears its ugly head through battery, burgularly and perhaps the occassional grave robbing. They listen to whatever cassettes are available and normally don't deal with the same racial issues as their counterparts because, well, they might share communities with other races so they've adopted healthier race perspectives to help them cope with their socio-ecomonic status. Some enjoy Nascar, but their really at the mercy of what is broadcasted because they're not cable-equipped. While they're the easiest to pick on, they're probably the most socially equipped of all the white trash because they're status and location has put them in a position where reality is not something that is chosen, but is rather put upon them and they are asked to deal with it. And they do. It's not always pretty. It's not always lawful, but they work with what they have. Intellectually abandoned, their "survivor" mentality keeps them moving.

THE BANJO BOY
Yep, you guessed it, the Deliverance white trash. The backwoods, no-income, teeth-optional, inbred, dirty, filthy, moonshinin', gut-pigs-by-candelight white trash. Stripped of (or forfeiting) all the modern conveniences of civil life, this trash is so far removed from reality that they are more primitive alien beings asked to living in frightening electronic world. Rather than adapting modern practices, they revert to frontier living like crapping in a can and eating varmint. Sports? Nah. You'll find none of it here. It's a little unfair to classify these individuals as white trash because they're more "trash that happens to be white" because they only breed with their own. Minorities are viewed more as a paranormal occurance. Understanding music other than the sound of a banjo and a foot tapping on a wooden porch is incomprehensible. All animals are kept as pets until its dinner time and ignorance isn't bliss, it's a way of life.

I'm not saying it's the only classifications of white trash. I'm not even saying their accurate depictions, but that's what I came up with at three in the morning.

It's now seven...some time has passed because I got sidetracked by listening to Funkadelic. These dudes were insane. No, I mean, insane like in the head. But they made some crazy music.

The Roundhouse is going to the tournament next weekend. That's right. This last week's win put us over into the tourney. I believe such a performance is deemed "clutch" meaning when it counts, we kill it. Still taking orders for the new jersey which will roll out at the start of next season. The last thing I want to do is bring them out for the tournament, get hung on the wall and then have someone utter, "Must've been these new jerseys." Holla atcha boy.

I MADE THE STRONGEST COFFEE EVER THIS MORNING...

...and it wasn't entirely on purpose. More like accident. I'm needing it though. I'm so freaking tired. So glad it's Friday. Thinking about maybe sleeping on Saturday which, if you know me, is something I absolutely never do.

Listening to DJ Quik this morning. Dude, this cat started out so hard and ended up so corny. It's funny because as I load Da Pocket Prophet, I wonder if I am, in fact, writing its eulogy. I looked at the hip hop charts yesterday and the top title didn't even crack 15,000 units nationwide. Yeah, I suppose someone could say that most of the "scans" aren't charted, but when you're genre leading artist can't even crap out 20,000 in a week, is the genre still viable? Geez, electronic music's top title can hit 7,500 units with almost nothing going. Maybe hip hop is dead. It's hard to believe, but it's hit such a stagnant point. Maybe this Lil Wayne record coming out in June will put it back on track. Maybe it's just a dry spell.

I can't really say I'd be bummed if it was the end of hip hop (gasp!). Maybe I need the coffee to kick in. But if hip hop ended today, don't I have enough material to last me for the rest of my life. Can't I find consolation in old Nice and Smooth records? Why can't I still discover groups like the Dream Warriors? Is it okay to not look forward to a new De La Soul project but rather enjoy what they've already contributed? Is it really worth keeping hip hop alive if we have to tolerate Soulja Boy? Wouldn't it be better to die a respectable death? I should stop there. I'll probably get kicked out of the club.

Celtics lost at home. If you're counting at home, that means they have to win on the road--something they've failed to do yet after two rounds in the playoffs. Geez. I'll be watching Game 5 from Philadelphia. Hoping that won't be the last we see of the C's this year. Still hoping for a Celtics/Lakers championship.

This is gonna sound really weird, but I had a dream about David Lee Roth last night. It was David Lee Roth in his prime not hairless, old-lady David Lee. There really wasn't much to it except that we were close friends. It's like take Danny and replace him with David Lee Roth (sorry Danny). We're just walking through my old neighborhood and he's dressed in his traditional Roth cloth. He was talking to me but going in and out of the "Just a Gigalo" scat talk. It was really bizarre, but made me miss David Lee Roth. So here, let's just throw a photo montage up in honor of David Lee.
Really, how can you like Sammy Hagar? Hagar ain't bustin' no high kicks. I mean, I don't even consider Hagar's Halen as Van Halen. It's just not Van Halen. It's would be like calling Audioslave "Rage Against the Machine." Look, the singers are so dynamically different, they're not even the same band in my mind. I'll call them Van Montrose or something. Maybe there's nothing wrong with Hagar except that he's not David Lee Roth.
And David Lee put up with some shit. I mean, people hated on this cat hardcore. I don't get it. He absolutely resembled the very best of rock. Powerful vocals, stage presence, sexuality. Saying you think Hagar was better than David Lee Roth is like saying, "Robert Plant who?! Nah, David Coverdale." Y'playin yaself.
It's like every morning, the predictions about gas costs get worse and worse. This morning, they're saying that gas could rise to $7.00 a gallon. Maybe that'll take care of all the SUV's on the road. Look, I don't want $7.00 gas, but at the same time, I've been doing everything I can over the last few years to be less reliant on fuel altogether. I walk everywhere. And if I'm not walking, I'm riding. I'll take up flying like a bird if I have to. I ain't paying no $7.00 a gallon. Americans are stupid by nature though. Someone would pay it. Yeah, there's some cat in an Expedition or Executioner that will still roll around solo blasting his music so people will look at him for $7.00 a turn. It's a hard lesson for us as Americans. I'm not saying we deserve it, necessarily, but maybe these hardships will teach us something in the way the Great Depression crafted an entire generation out of our grandparents. I don't know. Maybe we're too stupid to learn anything.

Well, the Roundhouse won its last game of the season beating the Aztecas 8-3. It was the Roundhouse at the very best. It was a full-on assault of defense, offense, Newman dropping his shoulder on the catcher and getting ejected. It was disputed, but whatever, I shouldn't have sent him from third. Of course, I say that, but if you know Newman, it's not like he was going to stop anyway. That catcher made a helluva play anyway. Short field, hard winds blowing in and fast outfielders. Yeah, nothing's getting passed us.

The old Roundhouse design will get one more wear during our tournament next week and then it'll be retired for the new style.I love the old design alot. I always will, but it's time for a refresh. Every design needs a refresh. It's like when they changed the adidas logo. Or switched from the old Looney Tunes oriole to the actual bird (although I like the old logo). It's time for a change. So, I officially present to you (again), the new style.
Believe it or not, I'm still working on getting them pressed, but it'll get done hell or high water. I am taking orders. I got an order from all the way up in Yankeeland. Kris is in for one. Don't know if my Austin peeps would like one (or two). I would estimate the cost at about $15-17. Bro Bro? Just reply to the post with quantity and size. I'll give you the weekend to put in your requests. Kris, please post your size below. Don't be shy about wearing a medium. It's alright.

BARTOLO ARRIVES AND WINS...DAVID WINS THEN DEPARTS...OUT OF MY LIFE.

The Sox finally got a chance to see Bartolo Colon (spelled like your sh*tsack, but pronounced like "cologne") in action. Homie came in from Pawtucket last night and pitched a beauty against the Royals. Yeah, I know it's the Royals, but we're taking baby steps with Bartolo. It's his first start. Probably doesn't mean much in the grand scheme of things, but at least he won. It would've been a lot different if he lasted only two innings and walked off the field crying. Dude looks really heavy. I really shouldn't talk, but I mean, homie put on even more weight since I last saw him. Whatever. Bart can't kick the donuts. I love donuts, too. I did notice a Bartolo's striking resemblance to another sports superstar last night.

David Cook won "American Idol" last night. Thank God I can finally see him walk out of my life (and, more importantly, my lovely wife's life--before we celebrate our sixth anniversary). Dude started crying and all. My lovely wife was like, "Aw, look...he's so sensitive." I'm sensitive too. But I don't cry. I punch through walls. Snap necks. Yeah, good for him. I hope it ruins his career. That's probably why he was crying. "I tried to lose, but you all still gave me the title?! Are you trying to kill me?! I wanted to be Daughtry! There goes my career!"

I'm sure he's a nice guy, but I don't appreciate dukes encroaching on my marriage. I just want him to disappear.

On another note, I can't stand watching "American Idol" anymore. It's just a two-hour Ford and Coke commercial. I don't have a problem admitting that I used to enjoy it. Probably less for the performances, but more for the peripheral cultural discoveries about how catty and fickle the American public can be. The constant battle of love and hate, popularity and rejection, boos and cheers, going from the "new sweetheart" to "get the hell outta here." You gotta give it to my lovely wife, at least she's loyal.

I'm just glad that pipsqueak "Little" David didn't win. Dude was mad annoying. I like how they called him "Little David" and Cook "Big David." Ha. Like he doesn't have a complex already.

Why am I talking about "American Idol"? Gotta go to work.

IT'S A FAMILY BUSINESS...

My aunt located this gem. Yeah, some of us have a little Nascar, "hang-it-on-the-wall" in us. It's a rare breed that mack the multi-color hat. Here's a young Wyrick tending to the booth at a county hunting show.You know, I'm not much for shooting things. It's not that I don't like guns, it's...well, actually, I think that it's that I don't like guns. I don't even think I have much of problem putting an animal down. I just don't like the mechanics of guns. I don't like the sound. I get shaky when they're in the area. Actually, now that I think about it, I guess I do have a problem killing an animal. I don't think it's wrong. I just think it's not for me. I think the animals of the kingdom talk to me. There, I said it. A stray dog on my ride home yesterday warned me that, "Tux gets it if you tell anyone I was here."




And, while I'm not a fan of hunting or guns because I'm a new-wave, young buck who didn't grow up on a farm shooting beer cans and varmint, waiting for the next funny car race, I like hunting when it gives us well-hung caribou like this. Imagine this thing in my front yard. Maybe then, my neighbor will concede and put up his stupid fake deer.


I'd just put it right on the edge of my yard. Nah, I ain't related to these dudes, but sometimes I fantasize that there are some dark corners of my family where dudes make money stuffing animals and glazing fish with a hardening glop that freezes them in a position like their swiping at nearby bait.




Speaking of family, I just noticed that I missed my sister-in-law's birthday because I'm an all-star. Yeah, no excuse for that. Sarah, I'm calling you today and, for your birthday, you'll get to listen to me apologize a day later about how much of a moron I am. Yeah, that's your gift. Love you, Sarah.



Bro Bro watched his Cubbies lose to the Astros live in Houston. At least he got to see an Aramis homer. Unfortunately, it also came with a Houston grand slam. 'Stros win 4-2. I'm confirmed for two games in June at Minute Maid in Houston...Sox versus the Astros. Yeah, it'll be a bloodbath. Thanks, David.



Listening to Prince Rakeem "Ooh, We Love You Rakeem" from 1991. Man, this is some classic material here. Prince Rakeem would only release a 12" and then would disappear into one of 36 chambers only to resurface later as the leader of one of the most feared groups in hip hop's history. Well worth the listen. Check it out. It's corny, but he rocks it.

This dude is an imposter: Check this. He is not me. I don't know him. I'm younger, better looking, a better writer and don't take stupid pictures of myself.

Holla atcha boy--it's humpday.

1991: NO YEAR GREATER

Turned over another year on Da Pocket Prophet. Yep, we're up to 1991. Geez, I've reached the Promised Land. My head's about to explode. Sad to think that we're now 17 years past now. Maybe that explains the grey in my sideburns. Check out just a sampling of the list I added to Da Prophet this weekend:

Ice Cube Death Certificate
KMD Mr. Hood
3rd Bass Derelicts of Dialect
Public Enemy Apocalypse
De La Soul De La Soul is Dead
A Tribe Called Quest The Low End Theory
Cypress Hill Cypress Hill
Geto Boys We Can't Be Stopped
Scarface Mr. Scarface is Back
Nice and Smooth Ain't a Damn Thing Changed
Naughty By Nature Naughty By Nature
Organized Konfusion Organized Konfusion
Black Sheep A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing
Main Source Breaking Atoms
2Pac 2Pacalypse Now
Del tha Funkee Homosapien I Wish My Brother George Was Here
Leaders of the New School Future Without a Past

Listening again to Naughty By Nature, I'm impressed by Treach's skills as an emcee. Dude was dope as hell.

Crap, gotta get ready to go work. Guess I won't need the gold thong this morning as the Celtics are going to the Conference Finals and the Sox swept the Brewers.

CELTS MOVE ON...A LEBRON JAMES TEAM IS NEVER DESPERATE.

I agree, Lebron, they never really looked that desperate.

Wally, Delonte, good to see you both again. Good luck on your off-season ventures. Wally, missed you at Game 7.

Make no mistake, this is Paul's team. He's one of only three Celtics from the last time they made the playoffs back in 2005. Homie killed it. Now, we still gotta win one on the road.