Neal Pollack's The Maelstrom

Before I begin today, I want to apologize to all of you who've attempted to comment on this site but have had your comments disappear into some Internet netherland. In a misguided attempt to prevent my site from becoming clogged with shillery for Hoodia and penis enlargers, I accidentally had my spam filter on a very high setting, thereby nuking some of your profound insights. I've recovered some recent comments, but others have long since disappeared. Regardless, you all may begin commenting at will now, and your contributions will be heard. Welcome back to one of the Internet's least vibrant community forums.

Since today's theme is "adult economic circumstances not meeting expectations," I would welcome you all to share your own tales and anecdotes of class angst, or your commentary on what a spoiled bobo I am. Keep it lively, people!

Now then, let's talk about my glamorous writer's existence in the high-end Los Angeles neighborhood of Highland Park. They say this neighborhood is "up-and-coming," which is English for "bye-bye, long-time Mexican residents," and it's true that there are sidewalk repairs ongoing, a sure sign that the city is anticipating yuppie complaints, but let me tell you, life ain't Entourage.

Two nights ago, I was happily reading about the Suns' game-four whipping of Dallas and exulting in the Dodgers' shelling of the Braves, when Regina walked into my office.

"All the frozen fruit is melting," she said.

I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes, as I often do when another unamusing sitcom episode is about to unfold in my life.

Of late, the fridge has been making noise, somewhere between whirring and wheezing, but really it's been saying "you're about to be out 200 bucks." There's a clause in our lease that says we're liable to pay for repairs if our appliances break. Spare us your vitriol, oh superior humans. We moved in a hurry and this place, we thought, suited us. Besides, we thought, they're brand-new appliances. They never break.

As of this writing, we have about half our food in our neighbor's fridge, and the other half has gone into the garbage. If the repairman doesn't show up today, we're going to have to buy Elijah's lunch on the way to school tomorrow. Oh, wait. There is no school tomorrow. It's Shavuot. Regina is complaining about that, and I'm calling her an anti-Semite.

Let me tell you, there's nothing like trying to set up an appointment with the Maytag repairman while you're waiting at a car-repair place in Burbank, getting the brake pads replaced on your mother's 1998Nissan Sentra. That's how I spent yesterday morning. The Nissan is our number-two car, with our number one being a station wagon that's currently bankrupting us with its gas-guzzling. My parents gave the Nissan to me for free. Note to my mother, who reads this site regularly: I'm grateful, I'm grateful. OK? I'm just trying to make a point here to anyone who thinks publishing books and writing for magazines brings you vast riches. I'm driving my mother's 1998 Nissan Sentra around town. Hot.

So this car-repair place is right at the entrance to I-5 South. I spent the morning wandering around the Ramada Inn next door, because I had nothing else to do, other than read the pulpy, enjoyable dragon novel that I carried in my sweaty right hand. I'll amend an earlier statement. There's nothing like eating a Cibatta breakfast sandwich at Jack-In-The-Box and walking around a Ramada by the highway while there's a Mary Kay meeting going on. From personal experience, I can tell you that somewhere in America, there's a man sitting alone in a hotel bar called Whispers, staining his teeth and his fingers by smoking Parliaments, watching Regis and Kelly, and drinking a scotch and soda at 10:30 AM.

This morning, I woke to the incessant barking of George, the dog next door. George's ancient, drunken cuntburger of an owner keeps in a cage half the time, but particularly while she brings guys in to whack her weeds, which don't look any better after they've been whacked. I pulled the pillow over my head, but then the drunken cuntburger started yelling at her guys to dig up George's bones and rebury them somewhere away from her roses. This is the same woman who had the city put a warning ticket on our windshield because we kept our 1998 Nissan Sentra parked on the street, in front of our house, for four consecutive days without moving it. If I could take a crap on her roses, I would.

Now I'm waiting for the refrigerator repairman. Boy, I can't wait to argue about the warranty with him. Then later Schneider is going to come over to fix the pipes and he'll say something inappropriate to Valerie Bertinelli.

Posted by at 11:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (45)

Over the next 48 hours, we're going to hear a lot about how the Mavericks lost tonight because they played at the Suns' "pace," and that they only need to use their "superior depth" to get them right back where they belong. I realize that all fans think that their team doesn't get enough credit, but my god, we smacked Dallas by 20 points tonight. They barely even played in the second half. And yes, they're ten deep, but when two of those ten are Erick Dampier and Keith Van Horn, you can't exactly call that an incontrovertible advantage. A lot of people didn't pick the Suns to beat the Lakers, even more didn't pick them to beat the Clippers, and virtually no one picked them to win the Western Conference Finals. Oh, but they will. This may be the only team in NBA history to win the Finals and be told that they didn't "deserve" the championship. If we can get past Dallas--and it's a sizable if, still, at this point--we will win the title.

As for Raja Bell, there's little more that can be said. The guy stood up to Kobe like everyone else in the NBA wishes they had the guts to do. He hit a game-tying shot when the Suns were facing a dying breath. And he came back from the dead tonight to play a fine, well-rounded, thuggish game. To add insult to the NBA nostalgia hounds' injury, who don't believe that a team built on speed and shooting can win the title, he didn't even say that his number 19 is a tribute to Willis Reed. Raja Bell wasn't born when Willis Reed took the floor at the Garden. What possible tribute could he pay? The man has had the most dramatic single postseason since Michael Jordan hung up his sacred jersey-shroud for the second time. Attention must be paid.

Also, Kurt Thomas creaked off the bench for five ineffective minutes. But let that be a warning to the rest of the NBA. Every time the Suns add another man to the rotation, you are all one step closer to your doom. These Suns are going to be your champions whether you want them to be or not.

Posted by at 9:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (55)

This is the time in a fan's season when faith must play a part. Of course, since I have no religious beliefs (or at least not ones that I'm willing to talk about publicly), my only faith is in the Suns. I must trust in the wise, kindly ways of the Nash-Christ. He delivered us from Kobe-Satan and now he will deliver us from the less evil but still threatening Teutonic hippie and his cartoonish coach.

The Suns specialize in the key injury at the wrong time. Last year, Joe Johnson broke his face. About ten years ago, we saw Danny Manning's leg separate from his body at half-court. And when Amare went down in October, everyone, myself included, predicted mega-doom. Same with the Kurt Thomas injury. That was a wrap; no way the Suns could win without him. Now Raja bell suffers a popped calf, for no particular reason. Why do you test us so, Lord? How much more sacrifice do you require?

Go Suns.

Posted by at 10:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (194)

Elijah was the ringbearer at a friend's wedding over the weekend, though he might more realistically have been called "cute boy in tuxedo who ran very fast down the aisle with a pillow flopping around in his right hand." Perhaps having me hold out a new Batman figurine as a lure wasn't the best idea. With less incentive, Elijah might have walked more slowly.

At home, the act of getting Elijah into his tuxedo had resembled a sequence from Cops more than a getting-dressed session. Around the point that he was slinking down the hall on his stomach, screaming "It's too tight!" while I tugged on his pants leg to pull him back into the room, I thought, you know, this really isn't worth the trouble. Regina got it even worse, since she had to put on his vest.

But once we actually got to the wedding venue, the boy's behavior picked up. This had partly to do with the rubber bugs we'd brought to entertain him, partly to do with the bag of Jelly Bellys that Regina had purchased as bribe material, but mostly to do with Liberty the beautiful flowergirl.

Liberty's parents adopted her from a Buddhist monastery in Taiwan. The groom informed us that she's a "crystal child," only one step below the Dalai Lama when it comes to holiness. "She exhibits incredible spiritual wisdom for a four-year-old," he said.

"Elijah has spiritual wisdom too," I said.

I looked over at him. He'd just picked his nose and was proudly turning in a circle, showing off his booger, loudly and repeatedly saying "poo poo nuts."

Still, Liberty saw his charms. Plus, she enjoyed playing with Elijah's bugs. He was in love.

"Liberty is my favorite person in the whole world ever," he said.

After the ceremony, Elijah and Liberty danced in a circle during cocktail hour, oblivious to the fact that the string quartet wasn't really playing dance music. It came time for dinner. As we were sitting down, I heard:

"Grab the baby! Save my baby!"

This came from a woman at the table next to us. I looked to my right. People were falling down. Other people were shrieking. Fat men were wrestling on the floor with thin men. Shirt-tails flew. A fight had broken out.

"Regina!" I shouted. "Get Elijah out of here. Now!"

It's not as though I was going to have anything to do with this fight, which had its roots in an internecine family dispute. But that's what a patriarch is supposed to say to save his family, right?

The fight ended quickly, though I was somewhat disappointed that they hadn't knocked over a cake. That would have been hilarious. Elijah looked very scared. They'd battled not ten feet away from us. But he didn't say anything. We kept him eating chocolate and dancing with Liberty until it was time to leave.

"I've never seen a fight before," he said in the car on the way home.

"We know, sweetie," said Regina.

"Fights are weawy weawy bad."

"Yes."

"Bad people fight at weddings."

"That's right."

"It's bad manners."

"Very bad manners."

"When you...when you...when you go to a wedding and get in a fight....that's....that's...bad. People shouldn't do that. Why do people do that?"

"Sometimes people fight," I said. "It shouldn't happen but it does."

"They might have been drunk," said Regina.

"Daddy gets drunk!" Elijah said.

"Not very often," I said.

"Daddy, you don't fight at weddings."

"No."

"Can I pway wif Wiberty sometime?"

"We'll see."

"I'm scared."

"Don't be scared, son."

"I don't want to see fights anymore."

We'd taken Elijah to a wedding in total innocence, so people could gurgle over how cute he looked in a tuxedo. Instead, he witnessed the human animal engage in meaningless territorial combat. Typical. Of course, unlike adulthood, childhood isn't traumatic all the time. We tried to reassure.

"There were good things at the wedding, too," I said. "You danced."

"Uh-huh," he said. "I also got to eat a chocolate eye."

"It's called a truffle," Regina said. "It looks a little bit like an eye, but it's actually a very special chocolate."

"I ate poo-poo nuts!"

"Yes dear," I said. "You ate poo-poo nuts."

Posted by at 12:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (32)

I have so much to discuss with both of you, including Elijah's bizarre weekend turn as a ring-bearer at a friend's wedding, Elijah's first swim lesson, and my whiny yuppie complaints at having yet again moved my family into a neighborhood where people drag-race down the street on Saturday afternoon. But first things first.

The Suns are going to the Western Conference Finals. Again. I didn't write about the Clippers series while it was going on because, well, it took three-plus weeks to complete and I'm just not that kind of blogger. Also, the series gave me no anxiety at all. The Clips were a worthy opponent, and there was something very funny about the "Mongo discovers fire" look on Chris Kaman's face every time he scored, but I had few doubts that the Suns would win, and that includes when they were behind by three in overtime with 1.7 seconds left in game five. As I've said before, this team appears touched by destiny. I will amend that destiny. It's to lose to the Pistons in the NBA Finals. You heard it here first, because you won't hear it on ESPN.com. The Suns are going to beat the Mavericks.

Really, I was looking forward to a San Antonio series. The Spurs are so damn smug. Also, I very badly want to make Eva Longoria cry, and this would have been my only chance, albeit by multimillion-dollar coprorate entertainment proxy. I won't get as much satisfaction out of beating Dallas, a team that, despite its marshmallow-voiced coach, Michael Clarke Duncan-like center, and lanky Black Forest wunderkind superstar, doesn't exactly emanate evil. Jason Terry is a cool customer, and so is Josh Howard, though Howard is so physically unattractive that he makes Sam Cassell look like Denzel Washington. And while I find Mark Cuban kind of annoying. I would probably act the same way if I were a billionaire and owned a basketball team. He's certainly better than the Suns' control-freak orange-finger-waving douchebag of an owner, and he beats the Clippers' Donald Sterling, who you could just see counting his money at halftime tonight. Try to look a little upset there, Donald.

Prediction: The next time Steve Nash gets interviewed before going into the locker room at halftime, he will praise his teammates, and then he will say something self-deprecating. In general, he will sound like the interviewer caught him heading to the corner store for a bag of pretzels.

Second Prediciton: Suns in seven. Based on the events of the last month, that seems like a pretty good bet.

Posted by at 11:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (52)

Elijah was on the bed, bouncing, at 7 AM. I took my turn getting up with him. We went into the living room and sat on the couch. He threw a blanket over his head.

"I'm Dr. Boney!" he said.

Dr. Boney is a new character in the Hot Man pantheon, a horrible monster that is, according to Elijah, "made of blood on the outside, and skin on the inside." Sometimes Dr. Boney has six arms, sometimes he has eight, but regardless, he hurts people.

"Well, Dr. Boney," I said. "What do you want to eat this morning?"

He threw off the blanket.

"Orange juice," he said. "And strawberries. And oranges. And...."

An evil smile spread.

"Strawberry juice."

"We don't have strawberry juice, silly."

I began to tickle him. He wasn't in the mood.

"I want strawberry juice."

"No."

"MAKE ME STRAWBERRY JUICE!"

I was working on six hours of sleep, and had a bit of a hangover. This kid didn't know it yet, but he was playing with tinder.

"There is no strawberry juice."

"Make me some in the juice machine, daddy."

"No."

He stood, and began to scream.

"AHHHH! I WANT STRAWBERRY JUICE! STRAWBERRY JUICE! STRAW! BERRY! JUICE!"

"Don't push me, kid."

"Make me strawberry juice right now!"

And then I blew.

"Elijah! I am not going to make you any damn strawberry juice! You will drink orange juice! And like it! And if you don't, I'm going, to, um, let's see, take away some of your toys for a while!"

He ignored my effective disciplinary skills, and instead ran into the kitchen, down the hall, and toward the bedroom, flailing. Shit. If he woke up Regina, the house would crumble under the weight of her righteous anger. I ran after him. He pounded on the door.

"Mommmmm-eeeeee! I want strawberry juice!"

I wondered: Is 7:15 AM too early to get high? Then I thought: The odds are pretty good that 40 years from now, I'll be dead. And they're very good that I'll be dead in 50 years. I've never visited 95 percent of the world's countries. Or even attended a professional football game. And yet here I was, arguing with a petulant three-year-old about strawberry juice. I stared into my soul, searching for peace, and maybe answers. Instead, there was only an endless black void.

"Strawberry juice!" he said.

"Get back in the living room now," I said.

"No."

"Yes."

"NO!"

"Yes."

"I want strawberries!"

"I told you...wait. Did you say strawberries?"

"Uh-huh. I'm hungwy. I wike strawberries."

"OK."

"Do you wike strawberries, daddy?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to share my strawberries with me?"

How could I have ever been mad at this sweet darling boy?

"Sure," I said.

"And I want strawberry juice," he said.

"Cut it out."

"OK, daddy. I'm sorry that I asked for strawberry juice."

"Whatever. Don't let it happen again."

"Let what happen again?"

"Ask for strawberry juice."

"I want strawberry juice. Do we have any?"

"No."

"But I want some!"

FICTIONAL ENDING:

"I can't get you any strawberry juice."

"I'm waiting for Godot."

Posted by at 10:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (24)

We received a notice in Elijah's inbox the other day. About four of these arrive a week, usually telling us to send him to school in "traditional Mexican clothing" (as though we have that laying around) for Cinco de Mayo, or to give money to one of the three fundraisers the school holds a week. This one, however, informed us that there had been an outbreak of head lice on campus.

"Look at this," Regina said, when she brought Elijah home from school.

"Oh, that's just fucking great," I said.

The flier read, "Please help us by checking your children's head/hair regularly, and as per our school policy in our parent handbook..."

"Did we ever get a parent handbook?" Regina asked.

"I don't think so."

The next day, we received a seven-page photocopied handout, that, among other things, encouraged us to buy something called a LiceMeister comb. This rhyme was on the front page:

Share a toy, share a slide,
Share the feelings deep inside,
But never share a hat or comb
Or lice could make your head your home.

Good grief. This lame piece of low-level propagandistic fear-mongering reminded me of something I used to hear when I was a kid in Phoenix, about a different health danger. It went:

Wash your hands after going to the bathroom
Wash your hands after changing baby too
'Cause you don't want to catch hepatitis
And we don't want hepatitis to catch you
WHO?
YOU!

Elijah has not yet contracted the evil head parasite. But if he does succumb, there goes my work week. Imagine this: Sorry I had to miss that deadlne. I'm busy at home. My son has lice. LICE!

I've got a feeling deep inside, but you don't want me to share right now.

Posted by at 10:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (35)

Elijah: "Mommy, why was I inside you when I was a baby?"

Regina: "Because babies grow inside their mommies at first."

"How?"

"They do."

"But how do they get there?"

"A man and a woman make them."

"Which man? Which woman?"

"The mommy and the daddy."

"How do they make a baby? How?"

"They just do."

"Will you make a baby with me?"

"NO!"

"Why?"

"Because."

"Then can daddy help me?"

"No."

"Please?"

"You don't have to think about it until you're older."

"But I want to!"

"Or maybe you can adopt one."

Posted by at 11:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (34)

It had already been a lively Saturday by the time we arrived at the school for the Bangles concert. That morning, a little girl from Elijah's class had celebrated her birthday in a sylvan Silverlake park. Elijah enhanced the affair in a number of ways, but one incident stood out prominently. He climbed a hill, went behind a tree, pulled down his pants and underwear, and unleashed a thick, solid, grown-up-looking turd from his anal cavity. I scrambled up the hill, desperately shouting "do not step to your left, Elijah!" Fortunately, he stood still. I picked up two large handfuls of pine needles. These I dropped on the telltale dookie, and I added another layer of leaves. The other parents found this hilarious. I consoled myself that at least he hadn't taken his dump in the jumpy castle.

We got there close to the 4 PM start. I began to grumble because there was nothing going on yet. Then someone told me that an opening band would play , and I really got grumpy. There are few things on earth I want to do more than watch Game 7 of a Phoenix Suns playoff series, yet here I was, TIVOing the big game so I could go see The Bangles.

The decoration committee had done a charming, tasteful job of garlanding the school, mostly in deep pink, with accents of brown and orange earth tones. There were Chinese lanterns strung above the schoolyard, and tasteful cloth ribbons tied all over the front gate. The stage had a lovely, whimsical backdrop that recalled an old Good & Plenty candy box, without all the lettering. A professional sound system played old R.E.M songs, and various numbers that encouraged people to get funky.

Refreshments were available with the purchase of drink tickets. I spent $6. Regina and I drank cups of peach apricot oolong tea, while Elijah got a strawberry lemonade and a cupcake. Also for sale: Bowtie pasta with salmon and quinona salad with fruit.

I saw a mother I knew, sort of.

"Dude," I said. "they put something in this peach apricot oolong tea. I'm feeling kind of craaaazy."

She laughed, so I ventured again.

"I'm totally getting high off the quinona salad."

Quickly, I realized that I'd gone too far, something that I realized again when I went up to a guy I'd met once at the park, flashed him some devil hands, and said, "ROCK!" He laughed nervously and weakly, and I knew I'd never speak with him again.

Elijah saw his friend Ariel, the girl whose aunts comprise half the Bangles. As always, he threw his arms up in the air and shrieked.

"ARIIIIIIIIIIIEL!" he said.

"ELIIIIIIIIIIJAH!" she said.

Ariel and Elijah have what Ariel's mother wearily describes as "passionate relationship." When it's going well, they shriek with hand-holding glee, united in their mocking disdain of the rest of the world. Occasionally, they spend the entire day smacking each other around. They have no internal checks on their emotions or their actions, or at least not many. I see them as a sort of Id of the middle-class American marriage.

The Id couple decided that it would be fun to run around the schoolyard shrieking at the top of their lungs, only occasionally stopping to bury their faces in the lost-and-found clothing bin. We've recently determined that Elijah is a "spirited child," a new psychological term that I will attempt to define over time. But one thing we know is that spirited children, when overwhelmed with too much sensory input, will experience a brain short-circuit and must be removed to a place of quiet and calm. Twice we removed him, yet no it had no effect. The Bangles show totally freaked Elijah out.

The opening band, for which Ariel's father played drums, was charming and peppy, and Elijah danced enthusiastically for a couple of songs. Suddenly, he bolted for the stairwell, and I found myself chasing him up and down the same flight of stairs for what seemed like an hour. The other children were playing nicely on the playground, but Elijah and Ariel were running into bathrooms and closing themselves in a stall. Somebody please help me, I thought. But Regina was busy talking to another mother about their mutual love of Battlestar Galactica. Today's chase was mine alone.

Between sets, the chase continued. But it was a short break, because the Bangles were going acoustic, with a small drumset, and required essentially no load-in. Our evening's host was dressed as a hip variation on goofy embarrassing dad, wearing a thin-striped white suit, an open-collared shirt, and a white straw hat. He took the microphone.

"Hello, everyone," he said. "And welcome to the JCC. Kids? Are you ready to walk like a drunk Scotsman?"

"A what?" I said to Regina.

"Noooooooo," the kids said.

"Are you ready to walk like a Mexican?"

I looked around to see if there were any offendable Mexicans present, but couldn't detect one.

"Noooooooo," said the kids.

"So what are you going to walk like?"

At least 10 kids, most of them girls, said,

"An Egyptian!"

He then introduced the Bangles, including Susanna Hoffs and everyone. And they launched into....an acoustic version of Manic Monday.

I'd been behind the stage while chasing Elijah, and had seen the set list, so I'd had an inkling of what was coming. The group's one super-fun nostalgia hit was buried at the bottom, followed by a cover of Yellow Submarine. Ellijah was squirming in Regina's lap, arching his back, raising his head to the sky.

"He's gonna blow," she said.

Thus, we left, missing all the fun because of our spirited child. In the parking lot, Elijah began to calm down.

"There's too much people," he said.

"I know, honey," said Regina.

So we took him home, and I acted the same way he had at the school, only this was acceptable, because I was watching basketball.

Posted by at 2:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (387)

Soon, I will write about the Bangles concert that rocked my son's school last Saturday afternoon. Goddamn! My ears are still ringing from all the acoustic guitar! But all you Bangles fans--and you are legion, I know-- will have to wait until Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday. Before I get to that coverage, let me return to the NBA, in my continued mission to land a gig on ESPN.com's Page 2.

In the end, it didn't really seem fair. The Lakers looked like a bunch of special-ed students out there. The only difference, really, is that a team of special-ed students would have at least tried to beat the other team. Plus, they would have been gracious in defeat. Now, the Suns move on, while Mr. Parker drives off in his Smushcalade. Seriously, though, who names a car after themself? Well, I did, once, when I was 16 years old. I had something called The Nealmobile. But it was a 1978 AMC Concord. It had a red plastic roof and no shock absorbers. I had little confidence in its worth, or in mine. So anyway, The Smushcalade? Pathetic. And I hope you enjoy your sexual assault trial, Kwame. After what you did to Boris Diaw, tossing him to the ground and wagging your crotch in his face, I'm sure you're not guilty or anything. Sexy sex guy.

And then there's Kobe, a real superstar, who quit on an important game and then had the rotten balls to then blame his athletically inferior teammates for the loss. He should have finished 104th in the MVP balloting, behind the entire starting lineup of the Charlotte Bobcats and Darko Milicic. Instead, he finished fourth, behind a short guy from Vancouver, a tall guy from Germany, and LeBron James, the actual heir apparent to Michael Jordan, who just got his ass handed to him by the Pistons to the tune of a 31-point loss. But, you know, it's all about LeBron's education. And his development as a player and a man.

So now tomorrow night, we start all over again. The Clippers are a far superior team to the Lakers, though that's not saying much. Still, you have to respect a team that features, in its starting lineup, a Teutonic nut-crusher in the "Mongo discovers fire" mode, a point guard who looks like a Ferengi, and a power forward who's what Tim Duncan would be like if Tim Duncan were cool. Also, they have three-point shooters. This isn't going to be an easy win. Sam Cassell helped gun down my championship dreams more than a decade ago, when he and the rest of the Houston Rockets stole a series from the Suns after being down 3-1. And by "stole," I mean, "outplayed them." But Cassell is such a goofball that I can't be mad at him. That's the problem with the Clippers. They're hard to hate.

I won't mock Clippers fans here. If I've suffered as a Suns fan, and I have, oh, have I suffered, it's nothing compared to what the Clippers Drum And Fife Society has endured over the years. Nevertheless, the Suns can't lose to a team that started in Buffalo. The Suns are a team of destiny, even if that destiny is to lose to the Spurs in six. So go, tall, laid-back French guy! Go, tall, laid-back stoner guy! Go, smart liberal Canadian guy! Go, pixie-like Brazilian speed demon! Go, dude playing for a multi-million dollar contract! Um, who else? Go, guy who throws assholes like Kobe Bryant to the ground! And go, go, go Coach Pornstache!

Beat L.A.! Beat L.A.! Beat L.A.! Again.

Posted by at 11:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (77)

It's been a light week here at the Maelstrom Ranch. Nothing exceptional has happened with the boy, other than the daily sticking-feet-in-the-toilet-for-no-reason ritual. Besides, I've been rather pre-occupied by the epic first-round NBA playoff series between the forces of pure good and the forces of pure evil. Regular readers know which is which in my mind, and also in reality. I've wanted to write about each game, but have refrained for three reasons.

1. I was tired.
2. I was depressed.
3. I wasn't getting paid.

I realize that my prose doesn't reach the heights of, say, Marc Stein's, who authors ESPN.com's "Daily Dime" column. He comes up with such gems as "even when they win, they lose." This followed the Suns' game-five ass-reaming of the Evil Empire and Raja Bell's subsuqent suspension for giving Public Rapist Number One exactly what he deserved. Where's your Moses now, Mr. Stein? Where's your Messiah now? I think that next season, ESPN should give me a shot at a column, thereby closing the holy triangle of nerd writers who didn't get laid much in high school. Put me on that Chuck Klosterman/Bill Simmons axis, yo.

So where was I? Oh, yes. The Lakers are a bunch of thugs, head cases and rapists, led by a cocky, stupid man-child who lords his admittedly superior talent over his opponents (and everyone else), as though he was living out some sort of pre-ordained historical destiny. The Suns are a likable gang of misfits, plus one thug, led by a Communist Canadian with bad hair. Who would you root for?

I will always hold firm to my conviction that game four was rigged in some way. As Steve Nash put it in the locker room last night (not that I was present, mind you), "come on, guys. We're only up four games to two." There are obvious reasons as to why the NBA wants a Lakers-Clippers series. TV ratings and merchandising trumps justice. Yet if the NBA were really smart, they'd be pumping up the Suns, a team with a three-continent international presence and a star who you don't want to punch in the face. As intense as Michael Jordan was in his heyday, you just had to bow down to him.

No one should be bowing down to Kobe. And shame on Lakers fans for doing so. You've had real stars in the past: Kareem, Magic, even Shaq. They had class and style. This douche is beneath you all. My only press ally in this assessment, outside of Phoenix, is Skip Bayless, a half-writer who's best known for wearing funny hats on ESPN2's abysmal morning show, "Cold Pizza." You can find his analysis, complete with de rigeur Caddyshack references, here.

The Suns will triumph tomorrow night, but in many ways, we already have. And yes, since I've been a fan for 30 years, I've earned the right to use the royal "we". We stood up to the NBA's phoniest superstar. We stared Jack Nicholson's finger-waving hoax in the face. I've never been prouder or happier as a sports fan. Even if we lose, we win.

Posted by at 1:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (760)

Today's historic "Day Without Immigrants" touched our non-immigrant lives in a very small way. Elijah's teachers joined the protest, so Regina took Elijah to the park. His entire class, plus parents, was there. I stayed home to do very important work, which continued after they returned home around 1 PM. Meanwhile, Regina and Elijah watched Wallace And Gromit: The Curse Of The Were-Rabbit (a very educational movie), for the third consecutive day.

Then it was off to the gym. We dropped Elijah off at the atrociously named Kids' Klub for 45 minutes. Regina went to do the treadmill, while I headed for the schvitz. While I was towelling myself off in the locker room, some TV coverage of the protests on Wilshire Boulevard came on. A diverse crowd gathered. With a somewhat Slavic accent, a middle-aged man bemoaned the poor intellectual quality of American newscasting. A young black guy shook his head a lot, but didn't say anything. The only Mexican guy in the room spent his conversational capital on calling Teri Hatcher "a slut who demeans the sacred institution of marriage in this country," while I spouted my usual line of psuedo-populist semi-Marxist bullcrap.

But the whitest guy in the room, someone who, by appearance alone, might have been an SS officer in a previous life, spoke the loudest.

"They should all go to jail," he said.

"I believe that the Constitution allows people to assemble," I said.

Like most of his kind, this man showed no interest in the Constitution.

"Why don't they go back where they came from?" he said. "They don't even speak English."

"So?" I said. "Either did your parents, or grandparents, or whoever, when they came to this country."

"But they learned it."

"What? And Mexicans aren't learning English?"

"They don't want to learn."

"I disagree."

"Language. Border. Culture. That's what makes up a country."

"Actually," I said. "A country, or at least this one, is made up of competing economic interests that are bound together by a social contract that allows them to co-exist in relative peace under the law."

And yes, I really said that, because I am a Sarah Vowell-style civics dork.

"Language. Border. Culture," he repeated.

"But..."

"Language. Border. Culture. Language. Border. Culture."

For the last 15 years, I haven't lived in a neighborhood without immigrants. And I mean a lot of them. I've had Nigerian neighbors, and Bosnians, and Pakistanis, and Guatemalans, and lots and lots of Mexicans. Some of them I've liked, and some of them I haven't. I've even, on occasion, called the cops, usually if the least savory of said immigrants were soliciting prostitutes on my front lawn, which happened far too frequently when I lived in Austin. But it never even occurred to me for a second that these people didn't belong in America, even if they were here illegally. Diversity is one of the few things that makes this country tolerable these days. If we made 12 million people citizens tomorrow, none of our lives would change for the negative; our current economic problems are not their fault.

I picked up my bag and headed for the door.

"Enjoy your white America, guy," I said. "Glad I don't have to live there."

Posted by at 11:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (598)