“The Refugee shower.”

The words came out before I could think twice. “Why don’t we go to American Family Fitness.” Like a fool, I couldn’t stop myself. “The one across town has electricity, so we can get cleaned up over there.” The strategy was to use my membership to gain entre to American Family Fitness-a local gym. I would inform the attendee that the 4 mangy, unsmiling family members with me were my guests and that they wished to use AFF’s unparalleled pool and Nautilus facilities. Or perhaps their world class whirpool. My “guests” would then use the showers and rejoin the ranks of people enjoying early 20th Century technology.

In the aftermath of Isabel, many local businesses had relaxed their policies regarding restrooms. Almost every place was now offering public restrooms, provided they had power. If a store had power, you could go number one or number two. Anywhere in the city. Even a bank. You could go to the bathroom at a bank.

Showers were another matter entirely. Options were limited. No merchant wanted to turn their gym, or model home into a bathhouse. Short of distracting a realtor long enough for my family to use the showers in a model home a gym was our only option. Besides, it was Wednesday, a bad day for open houses. After collectively counting the 19 whore’s baths we’d taken over the last five days we agreed to use my gym membership. American Family Fitness was actually going to charge my account for 3 guest passes for our trouble. 40 dollars to take a shower. But money doesn’t matter when you smell like marathon crotch.

So we piled into the minivan. Fearing we might be denied entry if our true intent was discovered, we decide that we should deceive the gym attendant into thinking that we were actually there to work out. Necessity dictated we create a ruse. To throw the underpaid, teenage gym attendant off our trail, we would each proceed to an individual machine and work out for five minutes. Technically, a workout. Without actually breaking any rules, we would still be good people. I guess this is the type of thing you consider when children are involved. I was tired of smelling like feet, personally.

The mood in the van was light, if anxious. En route, my dad made the executive decision that we would make a night of it and dine at Shoney’s. My mother pleaded for CrackerBarrel but my dad would have none of it. He refused to eat at a place that “co-opts our culture like that.” “Those fake rocking chairs, that crappy tea, and the food. The food’s weak.” Shoney’s it was. Oh, Shoney’s! An endless, breakfast buffet, free refills and the roving “Shoney Bear” mascot awaited my exhausted family. A shower and Shoney’s in the same day! Rarely did fortune smile on us so brightly. But our thoughts soon turned. First we’d have to fool the staff of American Family Fitness into thinking we weren’t there just to take a shower. They’d have to think we were athletes or atleast people concerned with cardio. Despite the fact that my father and I are the type of guys that swim in t-shirts.

Before I could objectively explain why I swam in a t-shirt, we pulled into the gym’s parking lot. As was his custom, Stephen sprang from the minivan and sprinted. No commando roll. Not in front of the folks. We were back to being harmless children–Emery and Lynn’s kids. Laura even tried to make some jokes about shampoo. They were still the most intense jokes ever. Once a cuthroat, always a cuthroat. The rest of the family took their time getting to the gym entrance. The summer heat combined with the fact that we all smelled like feet meant movement wasn’t a priority. When we sidled up to the desk Scott, a 17 year old with cystic acne and a 22 inch neck, was waiting for us. “Welcome to American Family Fitness. My name is Scott, how may I help you?” Scott looked like a rube. Laura smiled like a psycho. This would be easy.

“Fuck you, Scott. That’s how you can help me. Give us a golden ticket to showerland and free my family from their own stench. But before he could check my family in, much less allow me to utter such witty reparte, he was shooed away by Nick-a 30 something with a crew cut and a 24 inch neck. Nick ate liars like me for breakfast. Nick was Elliott Ness with testicular atrophy and a sneer. Nick would spot the flies encircling my pungent family and revoke my membership to the gym. The only gym in Hanover with a whirlpool. He could destroy us all.

By day 5 it was the kind of bathroom only a survivalist could appreciate. The kind of guy who bombs abortion clinics. Air conditioning, the running water, everything had been dead for 5 days. Hurricane Isabel cut a swath through Mechanicsville and the rest of Central Virginia, felling thousands of trees, telephone poles and homes. Cars had been sent skittering across the streets by gale force winds that topped out somewhere between howling and “oh shit, we’re all gonna die.” After Isabel had decided she’d had enough of my hometown, residents of towns like Mechanicsville, Studley, Beaverdam and Cold Harbor were grateful but we didn’t know that we’d have to wait so long to get our power back.

So, you sit in your den and you sweat. You stick to the couch from the heat. You remember liking your den once. Only it’s not a den anymore. It’s more like underwear after a 5 mile run. Everything smells like your running shoes. You then ask yourself why you’re in the den when the TV doesn’t work. You don’t have an answer.

But the biggest problem at the moment was that 4 people, all blood relatives, had already used the bathroom before me. I wanted to flush it so bad. But that would mean another trip to a neighbor’s pool to bucket more water out to use for the tank. In the country, your plumbing operates using well water, which requires a pump. A pump that runs on fucking electricity. No power means that every time you flush the toilet, the tank empties and has to be refilled manually. So, every day or so we’d raid the swimming pools of various neighbors. An unspoken agreement: you let me use your pool to flush my toilet, I won’t use your pool for a toilet.

My parent’s children loved aspects of those bucket raids. If allowed to raid unsupervised, the durability of the minivan’s speakers would be “battle tested.” My brother Stephen would squat by the sliding door, two buckets in hand. So that no time would be wasted opening the door from a dead stop, we held the sliding door ajar as we drove 45 mph to the target objective. Once we touched down, Stephen could bound toward the unsuspecting neighbor’s pool more efficiently. Not that it mattered. Sometimes he would commando roll out the sliding door while the van was still in motion. Years ago he had supplanted Patrick Noble as the neighborhood crazy kid, these tactics only solidified his legend.

My sister, Laura, was typically behind the wheel of our wood-paneled Chrysler Caravan. On these errands, she would aim the minivan down the target’s driveway at around 25 miles an hour. Usually, she would slow down before Stephen made his stunt exit. But not too much. She’d been pushed to the brink by five days without running water. Ordinarily the most relaxed member of our family, I hardly knew her now. Her playful, verbal jabs-the hallmark of our family meals had turned malicious and cruel the last few days. She was getting personal with her insults and even Dad avoided her.

As self appointed cammander of this outfit, my job was to bark orders. “Faster, Faster, Faster Damnit. Go. Go. Go. GO!!!!!” I managed to do this while chain-smoking the entire quarter mile drive to the target objective-trying to cram a day’s worth of nicotine into a 45 second drive. My parents didn’t know I smoked. I wasn’t about to break the news following a natural disaster. The results could be catastrophic. With 5 days of no place to go, I was pushing myself further than I probably should have.

Occasionally, a night raid was in order. This would necessitate driving at full speed with the minivan’s lights off so that we could proceed undetected. Laura loved these. No music was allowed to be played during a night raid. Dressed in all black, the routines remained the same except that now I communicated my commands using hand signals typically used in jungle warfare. Two finger puppets meant “the Rogers are playing badminton by the pool.”

But there were no guarantees that we would be allowed to make a raid on our own at this point. It had been 5 days since we last heard the dulcet tones of a decent toilet flush. Our parents smelled gamey and their behavior had become erratic. Manners had gone out the window. On day one, it was “Please try to conserve the water, kids.” Slowly that morphed into “Don’t let me hear you flush that toilet! I swear to Christ, don’t let me hear you flush that toilet! Do you want to go to the Jenkins house with five 10 gallon Home Depot buckets? ‘Cuz I don’t and I don’t think your mom wants to either!” We’re over 50, we can’t be doing this everyday. Unless you’re trying to kill us. Are you trying kill us? Because I didn’t ask to die today. I don’t think I did. Mother, did I ask the lord to take us today? I didn’t think so. Don’t LET me hear you flush that toilet!”

CNN is reporting that Karl Rove will be stepping down as President Bush’s senior political advisor as of Aug 31st. Good news for people who want the truth about whether or not a presidential candidate has an illegitimate, biracial child. Great news for people who prefer their CIA operatives to remain anonymous and fantastic news for people think I. Lewis Libby was a White House patsy.

Anyway, seeing as this is the individual most responsible for the election and tone of this presidency, the beltway press corps decided to bull rush him with probing questions like…”what will [he] do with [his] free time?” Never one to miss an oportunity to mix iconic metaphors with a partisan message, Mr Rove responded: “[I plan to] go dove hunting in West Texas with family and friends, then drive my wife and the dogs to the beach.”

How fitting. In two sentences, Rove toed the party lines of (1) Family (2) The common touch [West Texas and the Beach–I’m just like you!] and (3) The common touch [West Texas and the Beach–I’m just like you!]. I’m not going to discuss how the Dove imagery affects me because it’s so perfect and ridden with landmines. But I will say that it’s a perfectly bifurcated image: Rove’s dove hunting is exactly why Liberals hate him and precisely why Conservatives love him. Liberals think to themselves,”Oh my God, he can’t be serious! Did he really just say that he’s going to go hunt the INTERNATIONAL symbol of peace. Are we the only ones hearing this?! What a jerk! He’s doing this to antagonize us! He’s using the Doves to portray us a weak vermin that he kills for sport.” This normally results in the Liberally-minded citizen blacking out and waking up in a puddle of their own filth. The Republicans love it. They think to themselves–”Hahaha, Karl! He’s antagonizing the Dems again! They’re going to wake up in a puddle of their own filth after they black out.”

This is what Mr Rove and his acolytes have always excelled at and perfectly illustrates one of the main reasons the Dems have been left in the dust the last two presidential elections. Rove and his people are always on message and nothing else. Who needs policy speak when a press junket can essentially be a morality play? I’m certain that my Dad and other Republicans will decry my liberal paranoia. On the contrary, this kind of message making, while surely making us all dumber and lowering the discourse of the american electorate, is the perfect way to conduct an advertising campaign–for soap, for politics, for a lifestyle. The Republicans found this out with Reagan and they haven’t let up. It is brillliant, almost infallible and almost certainly a disservice.

“Alright, Brantley, play nice with the other dogs…unless you see one you wanna get freaky with.

That looks good–a bandana on a dog. I don’t know who thought of that first but THAT dude’s rich. ‘Hey, I love my dog AND I got all of these bandanas! OH MY GOD! Epitome!!’ Smart. Must be nice. Having all of that dog-bandana money. Or is it bandana-dog money? Dog, Bandana, Bandana, Dog. Gah, this is making my head hurt. Settle down, Cameron. Thinking makes wrinkles makes ugly. Thinking wrinkles ugly. Think wrink uggo. Oh my God, I don’t ever want to be ugly. That would be the worst. Those poor, poor people. What must they do? What do you do if you’re ugly? Who’s gonna sleep with an ugly person? Not I, said the fly. Hahahahaha. Definitely not any of my friends. And mos def not Caitlin. She’s taken, uggos! Cam and Caitlin…for now. Oh man, she’s good. It’s cool when you don’t have to worry about your girlfriend embarrassing you by talking too much, or complaining, or crying. And she’s hot, so that makes me look good. Plus, she’s hot. So hot, like fire island hot. I’m really glad she’s hot. It’s cool to have a hot girl with you. Whoa, hold on a second, Of course she’s with you; I mean me! Whatever. Damn, Cam. It sounded like you almost sold yourself short for a second there. Who else is Caitlin Bowdoin gonna get with–some dumb, dayjob workie? hohohoho!

Noise? Damnit, the 10:15 bus downtown! Argh, what was I saying? Nevermind. Do you jerks have to drive right by the park on the way to work? I’m recooperating here. It takes a lot to close Enclave, jerks. Let’s see you dance until 3am on a Tuesday and look this good on Wednesday. Jerk ass, morning rush workies. Man, you guys look mad. AND UGLY. Guess you thought you could get away from the office today, but it’s not happening! Going in late is still going to work–dentist appointment or not. Have fun at your office. Fluorescent light ages you! Office air makes ugly. Have fun! You’ll be at your desks soon enough. Unless the bus explodes. Then you’d probably get fired! Explode, Fire. Fire Explode…wait…Oh my God, a joke! I can’t wait to tell everyone. They will freak at lunch! Lunch. Wednesday…that means lobster. ‘help me, I’m boiling alive!’ Oh, a-Ha! A red light! Perfect. Hello, workies! Look over here! I’ll just pretend to yaaaawwwwwwnnnn and do some more fake yoga. Taking my time. TAKING. MY. TIME. And lady-workies…just so you know these shorts are tight for a reason.”

Thank you, thank you for stealing my debit card around midnight Tues night. I was pretty blue before you ripped me off. My friend had just done his last show before his move to LA and the beer I’d had with my other friend wasn’t sitting very well in my stomach. It was a night of bad choices and the blues. I also hadn’t worked out in about 12 days, so I felt pretty craptastic in general. I’m not a gym rat by any stretch but swimming helps you feel good, you know? And I hadn’t done that in a while. So, things were bad in general.

That is until about 9:00 am Wednesday morning when I checked my account balance and found about $200 missing. Ordinarily, your actions would have pissed me off. That’s saying something. Let me tell you, Wrigleyville Thief, I’m not an easily piss-offable type. People can say pretty much anything to me or do anything to me and I don’t often get offended or irritated. I’m pretty easy going for the most part, or maybe I’m not. People don’t really do too well at objectively assessing their own temperament. OK, I don’t. Anyway, ordinarily, your decision to steal my card and take $200 from me would have been one of those things. Real steam-coming-out-of-my-ears anger.

But then I looked at what you bought with my $200. You went to a bar I know called Hi Tops. It’s a pretty awful bar. It’s where assholes go to drink. Guys that get their hair cut every two weeks. Guys who use Mystic tan because tanning lotion is too messy. Guys who stare at themselves in the mirror when they lift weights. Not looking in the mirror to check their form but looking in the mirror because “Sweet Broseph, I am RIPPED right now.” And you went there. Willingly. When you had the option of going anywhere and drinking for free. You chose Hi Tops. A place where you’ll get called a faggot for ordering an Amstel.

Maybe you didn’t think that you had a lot of time on your hands. Maybe you’re new to town. Or you were in a hurry because your friend was going to pay two homeless guys to fight. Maybe you know the bartender and he gives you the sweet hookup on Aristocrat Vodka tonics. Maybe I don’t look like the kind of guy with much money in his checking account (I’m not a snappy dresser I’m told, that could be it). In anycase I felt like you could have done a lot better. You could have bought pretty much anything with that card. I don’t have a lot of money, so maybe not anything. But I would have understood if you had bought something that you really needed or that would have been useful to you. So, my friends and I put together a list of things they would buy if they were a thief with someone else’s debit card.

Gasoline (this one’s flawed, maybe you don’t own a car)
A Month’s Worth of Groceries (everybody eats)
Lightbulbs (my friend has a hard time burning through light bulbs)
Best Buy Shopping Spree (this probably would have been my choice)
Target Shopping Spree (it sounds dull I guess, but my friends and I don’t make a lot of money. And have you been to Target lately? That place is great!)
Banana Republic Shopping Spree (It doesn’t matter who you are, everyone can use an $80 dress shirt)
FootLocker Shopping Spree (my friend still has NBA aspirations and the Air Jordan XX’s look interesting)
Fireworks Shopping Spree
$200 in outdated feminine hygiene products (my friend went to art school)

But you chose to drop $200 at a place called HiTops. In any event I hope you used the money pick up a really nice guy/girl. Otherwise, I feel bad just buying you a hangover. I should have gotten you something nicer.

Before “The Wire” premiered and introduced a new level of nuanced, almost novelistic writing and depth to television, The Sopranos carried that mantle for at least 3 or 4 years. Let’s face it, half of Season 2 of the Wire went too far afield in it’s quest for varied narratives—are we ever going to get more than a fleeting nod to the Stevedore plot lines? David Chase and Co, perhaps in response to the vulgar amounts of praise heaped on the series when it debuted in 1999, haven’t gotten the media exposure they’re due for ushering in a new, not totally shitty era of television. Well, at least cable television. And now on the eve of the premier of show’s final nine episodes, it’s hard to even imagine how we would describe “good writing” for television without The Sopranos as a basis for comparison. Would we use Friends (fart noise) as the benchmark, or maybe the deathless writing of 2 and a Half Men (blood vomit)?

Probably because weak-willed network executives have killed off almost every other promising series that’s debuted in the last several years: “Freak and Geeks,” “Arrested Development,” “Rome,” “Boomtown,” “Coupling,” and about 30 others that I’ve forgotten about since they were dumped by some coked-up, 45 year old Princeton-bred network executive, the end of the Sopranos (along with Deadwood’s impending demise and The final season of the Wire) means a return to blood vomit worthy television may soon be upon us. Rules of Engagement sure as hell isn’t going to raise the bar.

We’re getting off track. Amazingly, in spite of the myriad plot lines, narrative twists and countless gallows-inflected moments of hilarity, someone has produced a 7 minute web trailer that encompasses all 77 episodes. The moments chosen and editing manage to almost completely summarize a show that’s made it’s name by not being easily summarized.

Enjoy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tz_Ees_-kE4

I watched the NCAA Championship game last night. As I had no stake in the game, I can assure you that I have no axes to grind, except regarding Joakim Noah.

Last night was OSU’s one shot at offering an argument for retaining Greg “Robert Parrish Jr” Oden for 2008. Win convincingly or show a lot of depth in a loss to the Champion Gators and perhaps another year at Columbus could be worth the risk to Oden. Particularly, if it meant that the Buckeyes wouldn’t have to rely on him so heavily that he couldn’t develop other aspects of his game in the relatively dimmer spotlight of Columbus.

After last night, Greg Oden is gone. Parrish Jr’s supporting cast, with the exception of Conley, was shit last night. They went 2 for 19 from behind the arc at one point and got outhustled on every play that Parrish Jr. didn’t make. Even when Parrish Jr made a block, his other four teammates were typically beaten to the ball by the UF swarm. Wow. WOW. One of the greatest individual performances (25pts, 12 rebs) in a Championship game rendered worthless by the Buckeyes’ inability to hustle or make the extra pass on offense. There was no composure. Florida’s perimeter defense completely confused OSU’s backcourt and reduced them to chucking 3’s from the parking lot. Brewer and Green made Lewis, Conley and Butler’s night a living hell. OSU’s trio of guards will see Brewer and Green in their sleep. Worse still, most of OSU’s non-Parrish Jr points were the result of an isolation and drive–just sorry.

Thad Matta, c’mon buddy–atleast ask your guys to pass around the perimeter before you dump it off to Chief Jr. Give your team the illusion of an offensive scheme. Mike Conley’s only 19, he shouldn’t have to run the team completely by himself–he can’t even drink. That’s why YOU have the whiteboard and markers in YOUR office. C’mon, Thad, you went to school for this stuff, right?

This all happened because UF is a great team. They are a great TEAM. Not five great players who all happened to sign the same letter of intent (see: Michigan ‘92-’93). There is no superstar among them. They play as a single unit and are engineered to do one thing-win games. Their cohesion easily undid any damage Parrish Jr was able to do– particularly Brewer and Green’s D, Horford’s hustle and garbage points, Humphrey’s treys and Richard’s body/bulk/5 fouls. I also love that this team passes, they pass like a dream. Not lame-ass dribble penetration and kick outs, actual perimeter passing. Good old fashioned, “you don’t have to walk there to get there” passing. Nice, unselfish, passing.

For the longest time, I thought they were going to let one of their lazy streaks get the best of them– they almost did against Butler and Purdue.
Anyone who was lucky enough to see this team play over the 3 days saw a TEAM performing. UF’s ability to hit the open man, at the expense of individual statistics is what will separate it from 90% of the teams that succeed them as NCAA champions, especially in the new era of “One and Done” phenoms. They win because whoever’s hot is getting the ball. In the 1st half it was Brewer, in the second half it was Humphrey–just a great team effort. I’m very happy that Joakim Noah was barely a part of it. It means I can be happy for this team.

A Brief Detour into Player-Hating:
Joakim Noah–he of the Franco-African pop star father and Ms Sweden mother–shocked me with his selflessness and his mediocrity. More than anyone on the Gators, he gave up the most to attempt this repeat. He could very well have been taken over Bargnani as The Raptor’s #1 pick last year if he had chosen to enter the draft. Last year, he was a proven winner, an agile center with speed and the intangibles label that GM’s build contenders around. Now, he will likely be the 3rd or 4th person taken from this team. Today, Horford and Brewer are seen as the best prospects on the team, provided that Brewer can bulk up a little and Horford can improve his handle. Green will be playing in the NBA Development League within 4 years if he can’t get on with a team that needs a bruising Point Guard–read that again, I meant it but I’m not quite certain what it means.

But Noah has lost a lot in the last year (besides the millions that come with a lottery pick) He was completely marginalized by Parrish Jr’s size, strength and quickness. I think Joakim may break Shawn Bradley’s record for poster-ization over an NBA career. He has the arms of an athletic swimmer and he may well be battered into puddy by NBA bigs. He and Josh McRoberts will vie for the 2008 Cherokee Parks Memorial “Harsh Transition” Award. Or his abilities as a passing center will spell success with a small, quick team like Phoenix or New Orleans.

I was also very pleased that the NCAA cajoled the refs into actually letting Oden play in this game. If they hadn’t this game would have been even more anticlimactic. Even if it meant that Chris Richard, who is not Oden, was sent away early in his final college game.

Any Thoughts?

The Wilsons have posted a new blog entry and we are better for it.

We had to drive my grandfather’s ashes the 8 hours from Mechanicsville, VA to Burnsville, NC. I don’t own a car and my parents haven’t had to drive their 3 kids anywhere since ‘98. So, we borrowed the neighbor’s Dodge Caravan. For 5 and one half hours of highway, the Caravan performed valiantly or as close to valiantly as a van is capable. But around the time we started the 2.5 hour drive through the Blue Ridge Mountains, the transmission started to freak and we couldn’t get out of 2nd gear. Driving on mountain roads is bad. The scenery’s beautiful but there is the constant threat of instant death; and the turns! The turns make you dizzy. Driving on mountain roads is bad. But riding with your two siblings and your grieving mom in a Dodge Caravan on a bad transmission with your Grandpa’s ashes in the back is completely messed. It’s like writing a post-dated check for rehab.

With the threat of the motor erupting in flames, we had to find a place to pull over. Dad was tired of the dirty looks he got from passing F-150’s and after driving uphill for an hour, nobody could feel their ass anymore. It also bears mentioning that my brother was in need of a Mello Yello. Soon enough, up the road, we spotted an auto shop. It was attached to a bar–the kind of bar that gives a county a bad name among real estate people. I was pretty content remaining in the van while the mechanics worked on the car. We’d exchange awkward pleasantries but that was better than the alternative. When my parents told me I had to get out of the van so the mechanics could work, I was pretty certain I would die by some crazed hillbilly’s hand. I’m country folk but godless, drunken hillbillies are another thing entirely.

Josh the mechanic, who had that weary, rawboned look that some Appalachian Mountain people get at 17 and keep for life, recommended we just drive up the rest of the mountain in 2nd. He spoke with the kind of slow certainty that puts some people at ease or makes southerner’s sound pious to others. Or dumb. Some people think we’re dumb because we talk slow–or that we’re really friendly. My folks thought Josh was pretty friendly. But I just saw flashes of blood spatter every time he opened his mouth. Josh was surely a criminal genius psychopath rapist. Bloodlust in his eyes and rohypnol in his handshake. Days from now a grizzled detective would be kneeling over my lifeless, shaved body.

“Goddamnit, another one. But why does he shave them? Goddamnit, why do you shave them!”

“Get a hold of yourself Quincy! Go home, get yourself cleaned up. You’re a mess.”

“I’m not sleeping much. Since…”

“…Since your partner died! Goddamnit, I told you it wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it though chief! Wasn’t it!”

Josh shook our hands again, wished us luck and gave my brother a Mello Yello from his private stock as we returned to the van. I made sure to avoid eye contact with Josh and two other quiet gentlemen wearing Hank William Jr’s “Bocephus” shirts and hats. I couldn’t tell if they were with the garage or the bar, probably both. I’m sure that they were good people. Probably even deacons at their church. Fuck that, get me back in the van.

The next three hours were a protracted jaunt through hell. Driving in 2nd gear up a mountain is to regular driving what making out in a sandpit is to sex, only everybody passing you on the mountain hates you. Real, feral hate. 5-8 seconds of brimstone-hot malice. People don’t love or hate someone as abruptly or passionately as they do a stranger. 5 minutes later it’s usually gone. Family’s different. Our 2 hour trip through the Blue Ridge mountains ballooned to 3 hours and change. The atmosphere inside the Dodge Caravan was a sure sign of the apocalypse. My mom was apologizing for all of the trouble the trip was “causing.” Like somehow grandpa’s death had caused the flaws in the Caravan. We tried to point out that she shouldn’t feel bad — it wasn’t her fault that Grandpa had asked to be buried on a mountain top.

On a mountain top.
You heard me.
On a fucking mountain top.
Where’s your Grandpa buried?

I could see the toll this was taking on my Dad. I started to worry that he had had a stroke at some point. His swearing was becoming irregular and abstract. Adjectives were modifying adjectives. Nouns were popping up in odd places. “Shitty…infernal. Turn left on 255 Business…Rigmarole!”

(to be continued…)

I apologize. The ACC Tournament started 10 minutes ago, so this post is going to be almost entirely about basketball.

The ACC Tournament is easily one of my favorite times of the year. It’s “only” basketball but it can also be incredibly nerve-wracking and exciting, especially if your alma mater is actually a contender. But even if your team’s not a contender, there’s always something to see because a team you abhor is also guaranteed to be playing (Virginia Tech, UNC, Duke). Sadly, my alma mater has done poorly the last few years and I basically count the hours until either Duke or North Carolina do something to ruin the tournament for me. And most years, they oblige me. It’s like going to a Science Fair with your hopes up only to look across the convention hall and see that you’re up against kids with names like Owen, Miles, Simon, Harish and Amit.

The ACC tournament weekend is also filled with mundane ceremonies that are given, in typical collegiate fashion, undue amounts of importance. Witness:

The 2007 Men’s Basketball Tournament Legends

http://www.theacc.com/sports/m-baskbl/spec-rel/020507aad.html

LEGENDS!
::monster truck voice::
LEGENDS!
::fire, landslide::
LEGENDS!
::IMAGE OF A BASKETBALL EXPLODING::
LEGENDS!
::DICK VITALE FIRES A GUN INTO THE AIR::
LEGENDS!

Among the LEGENDS! this year are:
Christian Laettner
Tom Gugliotta
Rodney Rogers
Bob Sura
Bimbo Coles

All in one weekend, in the same place. Oh the times, they’ll have! Bimbo will most certainly hit Laettner up for a loan at some point in the evening and Gugliotta will try to seduce at least one 22 year old with the line “3rd team All-American.” Rogers and Sura will leave a strip club in a huff after Laettner refuses to pick up his part of the tab. And Laettner will irritate Sura to no end by insisting on calling him “Bobby,” “Bob-O,” “Bob-arino,” “Bob-ylvania,” etc. All will share a laugh over the fact that Laettner was mentioned by name in a song by Fu’schnickens. But Laettner will have his revenge when Tim Duncan pretends to recognize him in front of Columbo Yogurt while Gugliotta, Rogers, Sura and Coles are sharing a heath bar fro-yo sundae.

I agree that Laettner deserves to have the term “legend” attached to his collegiate career but I’m guessing that Tim Duncan, David Thompson, Julius Hodge, Sam Cassel, Charlie Ward, Michael Jordan, James Worthy, Sam Perkins, Brad Daugherty, Stackhouse, George Lynch, Rasheed, Montross, Antawn Jamison, Stephon Marbruy, Kenny Anderson, Matt Harpring, Mark Price, John Salley, Randolph Childress, Juan Dixon, Lonnie Baxter, Joe Smith, Keith Boothe and the Bias family were already busy this weekend.

I’m also assuming that Virginia couldn’t invite Ralph Sampson because of all of his legal problems. That’s fair. Ralph’s been charged with failure to pay child support so no need to draw attention to that. The seersucker set protects it’s own, atleast at awards ceremonies. So did they invite Cory Alexander–probably the best ACC point guard no one’s ever heard of? No. Harold Deane–a top 20 ACC point guard no one’s ever heard of and one of the best defensive players in ACC history? NO. Curtis Staples–deadly perimter player and mentor to one JJ Redick? No. Bryant Stith? No. Olden Polynice? Stop Asking! (he was caught cheating in college anyway, so they don’t really acknowledge him). Instead, Virginia’s contribution will be none other than Buzzy Wilkinson. Yes, THE Buzzy Wilkinson.

The article describes Buzzy as follows:

Wilkinson (Pineville, W. Va.), perhaps the most prolific scorer in ACC history, still holds Conference records for highest scoring average for a career (28.6) and season (32.1). During his career with the Cavaliers, he topped the 40-point mark 10 times and twice averaged more than 30 points a game for a season, including a league-leading 30.1 points a game average as a junior. In the ACC’s 55-year history, there have been only four times where a player has averaged 30 or more points per game, and Wilkinson managed two of them.

WOW! I’m pretty psyched for Buzzy. I’m excited that he scored more points per game than anyone in the ACC’s lillywhite history. A career 28.6 PPG is pretty astounding for anyone who’s last name isn’t Maravich and I’m sure that Buzzy’s a decent man, a good grandfather, an astute businessman and gentleman scholar. But I can’t help being annoyed by those statistics and the way that they invite comparison, particularly to the other “Legends”. I think comparisons across eras and huge social changes are a bit useless. Like comparing a person’s ability to survive a gunshot wound today versus 50 years ago. It just looks stupid to do it. Training is more efficient, techniques are more developed, the demands on players are much higher. And of course, until 1966, 25% of the male population wasn’t allowed to play in the ACC. Sorry, but it’s true. I imagine that if we put 21 year old Buzzy out on the floor at Cameron or the Dean Dome in ‘95 Rasheed, Stack, Grant, Trajan, even Cherokee Parks would embarrass him. Jeff McInnis would make fun of his socks. Buzzy would try his patented “whirling dervish with the underhand scoop” and Sheed would block the ball into the fourth row. He’d be lucky to average 10 pts a game. Still it’s nice that the ACC tried to include someone from my school among a list of “Legends”

I am happy for Buzzy.