Blogs. Bloggers. A whole new culture that spawned out of our constant search for bigger and better things. Nobody knew this would take off the way that it did. Now any Joe can write himself into a coma if he wishes. The funny and the more disturbing scenario is that this in itself becomes an addiction. Just like heroin. It's the type of addiction where you don't need pants to enjoy yourself. Just like heroin. Or so I hear anyway.
Around the world, the less serious folks type their way into new highs, right in the dead of the night sometimes. Shit - we really love attention don't we? An obsessed culture. Blogging. Most are guilty of this. It is a guilty pleasure. "Wow somebody likes me." "Why do I get all this hate mail?" "Who the hell is this guy?"
For better or worse, this shit storm known as blogging is on the rise.
This is a quote from the site:
Glenn Reynolds, who runs the vastly popular blog InstaPundit, says blogs provide an alternative to the sameness of most print newspapers, many of which run the same stories from wire services like AP or Reuters.
"When papers treat news as a commodity to be gotten from the lowest bidder, it's not surprising that people start eliminating the middleman," says Reynolds. "Bloggers aren't just cutting them out, they're replacing them, because they regard the pros' work as inferior. It's like discovering you can hit a baseball as well as Sammy Sosa: empowering for the discoverer, not so good for newspapers."
Oh Hunter where are you now? "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."
Just the other day, I woke up to the sound of heavy Vietnam Era, chopper mounted assault rifles, spraying bullets in all directions. Geez - what the hell is going on. Yeah - I check where the sound is coming from - I'm a journalist in training for fucks sake! It turns out it's my sister working her way through the second keyboard. RATTTA RATTA TAATAAA TAA TA ATA. That space bar is seeing more action than Peter North. And that guy sees some serious action.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm blogging."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"It sounds like World War III in here. Fuck. Keep it down. Calm down. Have some tea."
Of course you don't get it past these blogger freaks. A new movement. Anyone with some time on their hands can sit at the helm of creation. I guess I shouldn't be talking shit. I'm blogging, glued to the monitor, in the dead of night, actually taking the time to write up some meaningless trifle about blogging while blogging. This place sounds like Apocalypse Now. Jim Morrison's words have never been truer. This is the end. Beautiful friend. The End.
Yeah right. Better put some pants on. Get this robe off.
Oh wait - I feel something stirring in my stomach. BBBBBBBBLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOGGGGG!!!
Monday, May 23, 2005
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Time to do the Job
The Sun Times ran this story a while ago.
This next post, not really in tune with the idea of the blog, will take a stab at some actual reporting. As HST would say "It was time to do the job."
Pacific Garden Mission – Their mission relocates.
CHICAGO – The sight is all too familiar around the South Loop area. A man takes up a temporary residence in front of a convenience, liquor, or any other store that generates a lot of traffic, despite the warnings that indicate “Police Order: No Loitering.” This man lingers in front of a Seven-Eleven on Dearborn and Van Buren, holding a withered white paper coffee cup, depending on the mercy of the passersby’s. The change rattles in the cup, and whenever someone finds the heart to drop a quarter or two, the man bellows out a loud “Peace and Love,” followed by a “Thank you, God Bless.”
“It’s not the place; it’s the people that are running the place that are fucking it up,” he says. He wears worn out brown leather shoes, stained black sweat pants, a black sweatshirt, and a yellow ski hat that bears a “CO” logo. He says his name is Rocko, but as he looks around and fumbles for more change, the possibility of him providing just a nickname is high. It doesn’t matter though – he is a homeless man, who is down on his luck, with a lime green bag resting next to a garbage can, as his only ally. Those are his belongings.
“The people there, man. You gotta kiss their ass. You gotta kiss their ass in order to get any kind of good clothing – that’s why I’m wearing this shit now,” he says while pointing to his shoes. He has a Christian cross hanging around his neck, which is flipped backwards, as it swings back and forth when he rattles the cup half-full of change.
The Pacific Garden Mission, located at 646 S. State Street, has been lending a helping hand to those in need since 1877. Innumerable amounts of needy people have been coming to this “Old Lighthouse” seeking food, shelter, as well as clothing, medical and dental care for years. The mission’s plight has been shortchanged in the recent years by various pressures from the city of Chicago, and the Public School System, to relocate the mission to a new destination.
Where is it going? 14th and Canal Street. The move of the mission, once the financial aspects as well as site testing of the new site become final, will possibly occur in the next two years.
“I don’t care where they go. Usually I don’t stay there. I’m not going to be there,” says Rocko, referring to the possible new location of the mission. “I get my own food out here – most of the time I do. “
The various business owners that surround the Pacific Garden Mission, despite their concern for those in need, are rather pleased with the news of the move.
The big neon orange sign which illuminates in the evening and reads “Christ Died for Our Sins – Jesus Saves” might soon be retired. Yet – many business owners who are close to the mission don’t share the same enthusiasm.
In the back of the mission, under a towering water tower that reads “This here is our time. Dream your world alive” is a parking structure. The alley of the mission resides in front of the garage, and often gets to see the more negative aspects of homeless life.
“The people bother me a lot,” says Daniel, a parking attendant for Park 1, who refused to give his last name, worrying about the impact of his comments. Daniel, who in-between taking care of the customers, reflects on past experiences with the homeless, says his experience is rather negative.
“Especially, they come to pee in the garage.” He speaks with an accent, but his intentions are good. “It is better for the area [if the mission moves] – but I don’t want the mission destroyed.” He motions to the size of rats that he sees. He said that one day he went up to the second floor and saw a man sleeping in someone else’s car, since the door was unlocked.
“You see this shit [and you think] downtown Chicago should be like Paris,” Daniel says. Ultimately it is bad for business he says, to have the mission around.
Deep down in the basement, accessible through Daniel’s office, the air is cool and moist. Upon entering through the door, a shinny metallic blue Harley welcomes the guests.
Shane, who coincidentally also refuses to give his full name, is busy polishing a metallic silver BMW SUV. The soft buffer cloth rests in his hands, as he voices his feelings about the mission.
“I’ve been here for 15 years – I paid my dues,” he says. “As a business owner, unfortunately, I’ll be happy to see them move.” Shane has been working at Park & Shine Valet Auto Detailing Service for quite some time. “I love the people who work there,” he says, but the mission brings undesirable people. “I’ve known some old timers, and once you get to know them they are good people. The new [comers] are a problem. I’ve hired a few, but they don’t work.” It’s also bad for business he says.
“The sad part about that is that it’s been there since Chicago was Chicago,” said Joseph K., who is familiar with the Pacific Garden Mission. “Now they have an excuse – the yuppies moved in and they don’t want to raise their kids in the suburbs, and they want the city [downtown] to be their living space.”
The feeling goes across the board. Omar Castillo, computer lab technician at Columbia College says that “It’s about time,” when referring to the mission moving. The people who desperately need and use the missions services, in the end, appreciate the mission for all its shortcomings.
Rocko, despite his ill feelings towards the mission’s administration, says that he sleeps by Columbia College on many occasions.
This next post, not really in tune with the idea of the blog, will take a stab at some actual reporting. As HST would say "It was time to do the job."
Pacific Garden Mission – Their mission relocates.
CHICAGO – The sight is all too familiar around the South Loop area. A man takes up a temporary residence in front of a convenience, liquor, or any other store that generates a lot of traffic, despite the warnings that indicate “Police Order: No Loitering.” This man lingers in front of a Seven-Eleven on Dearborn and Van Buren, holding a withered white paper coffee cup, depending on the mercy of the passersby’s. The change rattles in the cup, and whenever someone finds the heart to drop a quarter or two, the man bellows out a loud “Peace and Love,” followed by a “Thank you, God Bless.”
“It’s not the place; it’s the people that are running the place that are fucking it up,” he says. He wears worn out brown leather shoes, stained black sweat pants, a black sweatshirt, and a yellow ski hat that bears a “CO” logo. He says his name is Rocko, but as he looks around and fumbles for more change, the possibility of him providing just a nickname is high. It doesn’t matter though – he is a homeless man, who is down on his luck, with a lime green bag resting next to a garbage can, as his only ally. Those are his belongings.
“The people there, man. You gotta kiss their ass. You gotta kiss their ass in order to get any kind of good clothing – that’s why I’m wearing this shit now,” he says while pointing to his shoes. He has a Christian cross hanging around his neck, which is flipped backwards, as it swings back and forth when he rattles the cup half-full of change.
The Pacific Garden Mission, located at 646 S. State Street, has been lending a helping hand to those in need since 1877. Innumerable amounts of needy people have been coming to this “Old Lighthouse” seeking food, shelter, as well as clothing, medical and dental care for years. The mission’s plight has been shortchanged in the recent years by various pressures from the city of Chicago, and the Public School System, to relocate the mission to a new destination.
Where is it going? 14th and Canal Street. The move of the mission, once the financial aspects as well as site testing of the new site become final, will possibly occur in the next two years.
“I don’t care where they go. Usually I don’t stay there. I’m not going to be there,” says Rocko, referring to the possible new location of the mission. “I get my own food out here – most of the time I do. “
The various business owners that surround the Pacific Garden Mission, despite their concern for those in need, are rather pleased with the news of the move.
The big neon orange sign which illuminates in the evening and reads “Christ Died for Our Sins – Jesus Saves” might soon be retired. Yet – many business owners who are close to the mission don’t share the same enthusiasm.
In the back of the mission, under a towering water tower that reads “This here is our time. Dream your world alive” is a parking structure. The alley of the mission resides in front of the garage, and often gets to see the more negative aspects of homeless life.
“The people bother me a lot,” says Daniel, a parking attendant for Park 1, who refused to give his last name, worrying about the impact of his comments. Daniel, who in-between taking care of the customers, reflects on past experiences with the homeless, says his experience is rather negative.
“Especially, they come to pee in the garage.” He speaks with an accent, but his intentions are good. “It is better for the area [if the mission moves] – but I don’t want the mission destroyed.” He motions to the size of rats that he sees. He said that one day he went up to the second floor and saw a man sleeping in someone else’s car, since the door was unlocked.
“You see this shit [and you think] downtown Chicago should be like Paris,” Daniel says. Ultimately it is bad for business he says, to have the mission around.
Deep down in the basement, accessible through Daniel’s office, the air is cool and moist. Upon entering through the door, a shinny metallic blue Harley welcomes the guests.
Shane, who coincidentally also refuses to give his full name, is busy polishing a metallic silver BMW SUV. The soft buffer cloth rests in his hands, as he voices his feelings about the mission.
“I’ve been here for 15 years – I paid my dues,” he says. “As a business owner, unfortunately, I’ll be happy to see them move.” Shane has been working at Park & Shine Valet Auto Detailing Service for quite some time. “I love the people who work there,” he says, but the mission brings undesirable people. “I’ve known some old timers, and once you get to know them they are good people. The new [comers] are a problem. I’ve hired a few, but they don’t work.” It’s also bad for business he says.
“The sad part about that is that it’s been there since Chicago was Chicago,” said Joseph K., who is familiar with the Pacific Garden Mission. “Now they have an excuse – the yuppies moved in and they don’t want to raise their kids in the suburbs, and they want the city [downtown] to be their living space.”
The feeling goes across the board. Omar Castillo, computer lab technician at Columbia College says that “It’s about time,” when referring to the mission moving. The people who desperately need and use the missions services, in the end, appreciate the mission for all its shortcomings.
Rocko, despite his ill feelings towards the mission’s administration, says that he sleeps by Columbia College on many occasions.
Friday, May 20, 2005
"Punch it Chewie!"
Long time ago...
I still remember it. I was a young whippersnapper back in Poland, and my dad took me to see the first Star Wars in some run-down, drunkard filled, dark and twisted movie theater. I didn’t know what a drunkard was, so the sight of some poor fool sleeping or taking sips of clear bottles didn’t bother me. Star Wars was the main event. And it was an awesome sight. Now remember – this was Poland – in the 80’s none the less, so seeing an X-wing fly through the Death Star, or TIE Fighters zipping by, all to the theme John Williams made famous was unbelievable.
And I wasn’t the only that couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Light sabers – oh my FUCKING God. It was the stuff gold should be made of if it wasn’t made of – well shit – gold I guess. Between Obi Wan Kenobi using the force, Han Solo smugly saying “You’ve never heard of the Millennium Falcon?” and Leia saying “Aren’t you a little short to be a Storm-trooper” there was not that much else young adolescents could want. And then of course – the world went Star Wars crazy.
Of course last week – all those people who actually dress up as Jedi’s, and Wookies, and Troopers, and fuck-faces, and shit-eaters, staked out movie theaters across the country to watch Revenge of the Sith . Hey I love Star Wars and the lore and the fantasy as much as the next guy, but you don’t see me jumping into old washing machines and pretending I’m R2-D2. I haven’t done that since last week, and that’s because it was laundry day.
But – I did manage to go see the film. And I went with my dad, so that Vader quote applies. “We meet again at last. The circle is complete.” And the circle was complete after we drove around the parking lot a few time, because he “didn’t think he could fit in there” when referring to a parking spot.
One part of me said – FUCK! I’m going to the movie with my DAD. The other said – well he has tickets. Fuck it – so we went. Then the nostalgia button snapped into place. He was the person that took me to see the first one, he might as well be the one who took me to the last one.
The movie, if you haven’t seen it yet, basically justified to me that as awful as Episode I was – all that bullshit and the pod race and that fucking kid – well it was leading up to this. And I’m not going to spoil it for you. Go see it. It’s Star Wars. I grew up on those movies. I’ve always wanted to be a rebel smuggler. There is a moment of sheer panic mixed in with the type of exhilaration that I haven’t felt since I was a boy. (Not when I found the Hustlers) It’s when the whole theater goes silent – and we hear that Vader breath echo through the speakers. I was like – fuck – I need a cigarette.
My dad is not the most articulate person to discuss the movie with, but you kind of have to try.
ME: So – what do you think?”
DAD: Great.
Then there’s a big spiel in Polish about me trying to explain it to him.
DAD: But you know what – I realized as I watched it that I understand more English.
ME: Great
Then I lead him on since I know a blog has to come out of this.
ME: What about the effects?
DAD: Great. The technology now is amazing. I bet you they loop some of the background. And you know what – all things considered – if they really fought like that by a lava pit they would burn in two minutes.
Holly Shit - It seems he thought it through. And I know that if I was discussing this with some of my buddies they would be like "NAH MAN - THEY ARE JEDIS - THE FORCE IS STRONG AND ALL THAT GOOD SHIT. THEY PISS LAVA!"
ME: Oh yeah – I never thought of that. But ya know – you can’t piss on Star Wars.
The afternoon and the conversation degenerated into grunts after that point. And apparently he liked the movie. He reminded me what the conversation went like after I saw the first movie in Poland.
DAD: So what did you think? You like it?
Young ME: Very much.
“Hopefully the old man got the tractor beam out of commission or this is going to be a really short trip. Hit It!”
I still remember it. I was a young whippersnapper back in Poland, and my dad took me to see the first Star Wars in some run-down, drunkard filled, dark and twisted movie theater. I didn’t know what a drunkard was, so the sight of some poor fool sleeping or taking sips of clear bottles didn’t bother me. Star Wars was the main event. And it was an awesome sight. Now remember – this was Poland – in the 80’s none the less, so seeing an X-wing fly through the Death Star, or TIE Fighters zipping by, all to the theme John Williams made famous was unbelievable.
And I wasn’t the only that couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Light sabers – oh my FUCKING God. It was the stuff gold should be made of if it wasn’t made of – well shit – gold I guess. Between Obi Wan Kenobi using the force, Han Solo smugly saying “You’ve never heard of the Millennium Falcon?” and Leia saying “Aren’t you a little short to be a Storm-trooper” there was not that much else young adolescents could want. And then of course – the world went Star Wars crazy.
Of course last week – all those people who actually dress up as Jedi’s, and Wookies, and Troopers, and fuck-faces, and shit-eaters, staked out movie theaters across the country to watch Revenge of the Sith . Hey I love Star Wars and the lore and the fantasy as much as the next guy, but you don’t see me jumping into old washing machines and pretending I’m R2-D2. I haven’t done that since last week, and that’s because it was laundry day.
But – I did manage to go see the film. And I went with my dad, so that Vader quote applies. “We meet again at last. The circle is complete.” And the circle was complete after we drove around the parking lot a few time, because he “didn’t think he could fit in there” when referring to a parking spot.
One part of me said – FUCK! I’m going to the movie with my DAD. The other said – well he has tickets. Fuck it – so we went. Then the nostalgia button snapped into place. He was the person that took me to see the first one, he might as well be the one who took me to the last one.
The movie, if you haven’t seen it yet, basically justified to me that as awful as Episode I was – all that bullshit and the pod race and that fucking kid – well it was leading up to this. And I’m not going to spoil it for you. Go see it. It’s Star Wars. I grew up on those movies. I’ve always wanted to be a rebel smuggler. There is a moment of sheer panic mixed in with the type of exhilaration that I haven’t felt since I was a boy. (Not when I found the Hustlers) It’s when the whole theater goes silent – and we hear that Vader breath echo through the speakers. I was like – fuck – I need a cigarette.
My dad is not the most articulate person to discuss the movie with, but you kind of have to try.
ME: So – what do you think?”
DAD: Great.
Then there’s a big spiel in Polish about me trying to explain it to him.
DAD: But you know what – I realized as I watched it that I understand more English.
ME: Great
Then I lead him on since I know a blog has to come out of this.
ME: What about the effects?
DAD: Great. The technology now is amazing. I bet you they loop some of the background. And you know what – all things considered – if they really fought like that by a lava pit they would burn in two minutes.
Holly Shit - It seems he thought it through. And I know that if I was discussing this with some of my buddies they would be like "NAH MAN - THEY ARE JEDIS - THE FORCE IS STRONG AND ALL THAT GOOD SHIT. THEY PISS LAVA!"
ME: Oh yeah – I never thought of that. But ya know – you can’t piss on Star Wars.
The afternoon and the conversation degenerated into grunts after that point. And apparently he liked the movie. He reminded me what the conversation went like after I saw the first movie in Poland.
DAD: So what did you think? You like it?
Young ME: Very much.
“Hopefully the old man got the tractor beam out of commission or this is going to be a really short trip. Hit It!”
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Check Yo Self before you break Yo Self.
What’s up folks? It doesn’t happen often – but hey. "Here come the Predators!" Sometimes you have to kick back and chill and revive the sloppy glory of yesteryear; those hard filled nights where a buck went a long way. Yes – the ghetto. Elvis used to rave about the experience. “In the Ghetto” anyone? Which is weird since Elvis was as white as they come. Granted – FUCK - I’m as white as they come. Shit - if the summer goes bad, and there’s no tan, some might call me transparent.
Satire time!
You ever drink a few of those King Cobra’s? Yeah? You know what ensues. Various ramblings of the I’m-not-all-there-kind.
"God damn another fucking payback wit' a twist
Them motherfuckers shot but the punks missed
Ice Cube is out gunned what is the outcome?
Will they do me like Malcolm?
Cuz I bust styles new styles standing. . .
Strong. . . while others run a hundred miles"
There is that odd phenomenon that happens with white people. For some twisted reason, the constant bombardment of TRL, BET, a Night at the Apollo, and Carson Daly makes the whitest motherfuckers act like they just came out of the hood; South Central L.A, pants sagging, baseball caps cocked to the side, rappin’ about this and that.
Yeah – some white folks are guilty of this. I just hope we don’t take it seriously. Ya – know what I’m sayin’ G? I usually take it with a grain of salt, but hell – even I get suckered into the “bounce with me” thing. I enjoy the absurdity of it all, and I marvel at the idea of how easily I get amused.
Yo check this shit. All you need, B, is a King Cobra 40, a blunt, some Newports, and you’ve got yourself a nice little cheap evening. Yeah – thunder for the mind, and the morning for the blind. Oh yeah – and Ice Cube. Because there is nothing like a white Polish kid bobbing his head to Ice Cube, and screaming Gorillas in the Mist, while drinking King Cobras, and doing the twist.
Fuck those are horrible. Get off me punk. Yeah. Yeah. There is something free about rap music, which those white boys from the South don’t understand. There are only a certain number of times that one can listen to “Free Bird” before blowing one’s head off with a shotgun, or tying oneself to a red pickup truck. And I love Lynyrd Skynyrd and I still say that. Shit – I’m this close to calling my car “General Lee” And it’s a piece of shit. Oh yeah – don’t’ forget the rims, man.
I don’t have a gat, or a shank, or a sharpened blue plastic toothbrush in my arsenal, but I do have a 40 OZ. Yeah – nothing like a giant bottle of beer to sip on, and spill for the hommies. Because my white bred hommies are down with the “You’ve won the wet t-shirt contest, motherfucker - bam bam bam!” drive by thing. The only drive by that I’ve ever participated in was cruising by an old neighbor’s house yelling “Break yoself bitch!” And that only ends with “You goddamned kids,” followed by dumb giggles, anyway.
And then there’s the malt liquor. Ahh – yes – the malt liquor. Geez – who invented that shit? White people and NWA should not be used in the same sentence. Eazy E should definitely not be quoted by white folks. “Gimme that, gimme that, gimme that nut.” What the shit?
Faggoty Polkas? OK. Fools trying to blast me? I don’t think so. Takin’ a sip of the potion? Dude – I drink brewskis man. Have you ever heard a brotha ask for some brewskis? Not likely. A white man concept. Brewskis.
But still – white folks know that it’s all about the feeling. The laid back, its aight, type of shit. We do the best that we can. No Mack Ten’s. Number one’s from McD’s maybe. Number 1, please, coke no ice, please, thank you, can I have some ketchup? OK. We try.
What is the point? Those 40’s kick some ass. Nothing like cheap ass liquor, to fuck me up quicker. Droppin them dimes, killing the rhymes, smacking behinds, cracker, motherfucker, slacker, dirty macker, lip smacker. No flow. UR Done.
For my hommies. My niggaz! “Jesus – did I say that, or just think it?” - HST
Written under the influence of King Cobra. So – check Yo Self before you break Yo Self.
Satire time!
You ever drink a few of those King Cobra’s? Yeah? You know what ensues. Various ramblings of the I’m-not-all-there-kind.
"God damn another fucking payback wit' a twist
Them motherfuckers shot but the punks missed
Ice Cube is out gunned what is the outcome?
Will they do me like Malcolm?
Cuz I bust styles new styles standing. . .
Strong. . . while others run a hundred miles"
There is that odd phenomenon that happens with white people. For some twisted reason, the constant bombardment of TRL, BET, a Night at the Apollo, and Carson Daly makes the whitest motherfuckers act like they just came out of the hood; South Central L.A, pants sagging, baseball caps cocked to the side, rappin’ about this and that.
Yeah – some white folks are guilty of this. I just hope we don’t take it seriously. Ya – know what I’m sayin’ G? I usually take it with a grain of salt, but hell – even I get suckered into the “bounce with me” thing. I enjoy the absurdity of it all, and I marvel at the idea of how easily I get amused.
Yo check this shit. All you need, B, is a King Cobra 40, a blunt, some Newports, and you’ve got yourself a nice little cheap evening. Yeah – thunder for the mind, and the morning for the blind. Oh yeah – and Ice Cube. Because there is nothing like a white Polish kid bobbing his head to Ice Cube, and screaming Gorillas in the Mist, while drinking King Cobras, and doing the twist.
Fuck those are horrible. Get off me punk. Yeah. Yeah. There is something free about rap music, which those white boys from the South don’t understand. There are only a certain number of times that one can listen to “Free Bird” before blowing one’s head off with a shotgun, or tying oneself to a red pickup truck. And I love Lynyrd Skynyrd and I still say that. Shit – I’m this close to calling my car “General Lee” And it’s a piece of shit. Oh yeah – don’t’ forget the rims, man.
I don’t have a gat, or a shank, or a sharpened blue plastic toothbrush in my arsenal, but I do have a 40 OZ. Yeah – nothing like a giant bottle of beer to sip on, and spill for the hommies. Because my white bred hommies are down with the “You’ve won the wet t-shirt contest, motherfucker - bam bam bam!” drive by thing. The only drive by that I’ve ever participated in was cruising by an old neighbor’s house yelling “Break yoself bitch!” And that only ends with “You goddamned kids,” followed by dumb giggles, anyway.
And then there’s the malt liquor. Ahh – yes – the malt liquor. Geez – who invented that shit? White people and NWA should not be used in the same sentence. Eazy E should definitely not be quoted by white folks. “Gimme that, gimme that, gimme that nut.” What the shit?
Faggoty Polkas? OK. Fools trying to blast me? I don’t think so. Takin’ a sip of the potion? Dude – I drink brewskis man. Have you ever heard a brotha ask for some brewskis? Not likely. A white man concept. Brewskis.
But still – white folks know that it’s all about the feeling. The laid back, its aight, type of shit. We do the best that we can. No Mack Ten’s. Number one’s from McD’s maybe. Number 1, please, coke no ice, please, thank you, can I have some ketchup? OK. We try.
What is the point? Those 40’s kick some ass. Nothing like cheap ass liquor, to fuck me up quicker. Droppin them dimes, killing the rhymes, smacking behinds, cracker, motherfucker, slacker, dirty macker, lip smacker. No flow. UR Done.
For my hommies. My niggaz! “Jesus – did I say that, or just think it?” - HST
Written under the influence of King Cobra. So – check Yo Self before you break Yo Self.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
"And now, the starting lineup, for your Chicago Bulls!"
Back in the 90’s; back when that shameless NBA “I Love This Game” saying actually meant something, and wearing basketball jerseys was the thing to do, I got hooked on basketball. We’ve just moved to America, (America was pronounced with an accent back then – Am-er-rricka!) and all the “cool” kids wore red Jordan jerseys. It was a sight to remember. All these bastard kids playing hoops in the alleys, all wearing Jordan jerseys, beating up on other people’s garage doors, with total disregard to warnings like “Don’t play here!”
Naturally the first jersey I bought was a Jordan jersey. Fuck – it was a thing to do. It was the staple of youth back then – a white T-shirt covered with a freaking Bulls jersey, Air Jordan’s on the feet, and sweat pants. Come to think of it – that was a really lousy way to dress. Then of course kids wanted to be different – so they wore different jerseys. I was one of those assholes. Instead of continuing the tradition of getting other Bulls’ jerseys I went the other way. Like an idiot, instead of Scottie Pippen, I bought a Reggie Miller jersey. That was back before I realized that Reggie was a bitch, and that we hated him here.
So all the kids, in the midst of the playoffs, wore their City colors, and me, wore the Reggie jersey. I had visions of grandeur that I could actually shoot for three. I couldn’t. I still tried. That was the only shot I took. Fuck going for the lay-up when you can shoot it from the arch. The basketball madness was everywhere. Grant park gatherings after the Bulls won yet another championship. It’s odd – but I think Reggie Miller, who is finally retiring, probably believed his bullshit. He thought that the 3-pointer was “HIS” shot. And sure – he did have his moments – but towards the end of his career – he became the asshole that always shot for three – yet he rarely made it.
Of course I retired the fucking Miller jersey sooner rather then later, since the block kids used to talk mad shit. “What kind of a Bulls fan are you sporting that ugly shit?” I was fed up. Fuck Reggie Miller. Back to Jordan it was.
Then Jerry Krause fucked with the winning team, and everybody went their separate way. So did I. I stopped giving a shit about basketball and went the rock and roll way – the decadent behavior you don’t admit to when you are young. Partying!
But since this is about sports – this lengthy tirade is about the Baby Bulls. This season was when I got to know these guys. And many nights watching the games, cursing at the TV, and jumping from joy, did I realize that these new guys have the potential to be great. Shit – we haven’t been in the playoffs for the past seven years. So I was psyched.
I followed this season, albeit sometimes missing a few games, but generally watching. These new Bullies have the shit man. If management doesn’t break them up – and they get that chemistry to evolve – then we will see great things from them.
Which brings me to this year’s playoffs – poor Bulls are out!
But that is beside the point.
I was never good with numbers, but the stats for 2004 show that our most beloved player apparently is Eddy Curry. I got into the season when Eddy had heart problems – so he is alien to me. I got my favorites of course – the top of the list being Kirk Heinrich, followed by Jannero Pargo, Andres “Noch” Nocioni, Ben Gordon, and Chris Duhon. I can still hear the crowd at the United Center screaming “No-ci-oni!”
First Round.
Game 1 – No-ci-oni kicked some ass. The crowds went wild, and it was this performance that coined the No-ci-oni thing. Ben Gordon scored 30 points.
Game 2 – This was Captain Kirk’s game. Heinrich scored 34 points and proved that this is the go to guy when he gets hot.
I could care less about the other games since we lost them, but Pargo’s role in game 4 should not be played down. That 3-pointer in game 5 that tied the game had me doing cartwheels in front of the TV. Fuck I lost my cool when he made that. Then of course we lost - and the air went out of the United Center faster than a 300 pound man sitting on a whoopie cushion. Pargo will bring much to the Bulls in the future if they keep him. Dude - Pargo rocks!!!
All in all, as much as I think the Washington Wizards are a bunch of asshole, cocksucking, no good, bitch-ass, piss poor dickwads, who should be eliminated from the playoffs as soon as possible, sons of bitches; they still won the series. May the better team win I guess.
Like those Comcast commercials say – true fans stick with their teams through thick and thin. So long Jordan Dynasty – this is the time to celebrate us actually getting into the playoffs. And I’ve bought a new basketball for fucks sake. Next to recycling a lot of empty bottles of booze, I haven’t owned a basketball for the past seven years. That should say something, I guess. No-ci-oni! (My pops calls Nocioni “Scooby Doo” for some odd reason. He does resemble Shaggy in a way, doesn’t he?)
Naturally the first jersey I bought was a Jordan jersey. Fuck – it was a thing to do. It was the staple of youth back then – a white T-shirt covered with a freaking Bulls jersey, Air Jordan’s on the feet, and sweat pants. Come to think of it – that was a really lousy way to dress. Then of course kids wanted to be different – so they wore different jerseys. I was one of those assholes. Instead of continuing the tradition of getting other Bulls’ jerseys I went the other way. Like an idiot, instead of Scottie Pippen, I bought a Reggie Miller jersey. That was back before I realized that Reggie was a bitch, and that we hated him here.
So all the kids, in the midst of the playoffs, wore their City colors, and me, wore the Reggie jersey. I had visions of grandeur that I could actually shoot for three. I couldn’t. I still tried. That was the only shot I took. Fuck going for the lay-up when you can shoot it from the arch. The basketball madness was everywhere. Grant park gatherings after the Bulls won yet another championship. It’s odd – but I think Reggie Miller, who is finally retiring, probably believed his bullshit. He thought that the 3-pointer was “HIS” shot. And sure – he did have his moments – but towards the end of his career – he became the asshole that always shot for three – yet he rarely made it.
Of course I retired the fucking Miller jersey sooner rather then later, since the block kids used to talk mad shit. “What kind of a Bulls fan are you sporting that ugly shit?” I was fed up. Fuck Reggie Miller. Back to Jordan it was.
Then Jerry Krause fucked with the winning team, and everybody went their separate way. So did I. I stopped giving a shit about basketball and went the rock and roll way – the decadent behavior you don’t admit to when you are young. Partying!
But since this is about sports – this lengthy tirade is about the Baby Bulls. This season was when I got to know these guys. And many nights watching the games, cursing at the TV, and jumping from joy, did I realize that these new guys have the potential to be great. Shit – we haven’t been in the playoffs for the past seven years. So I was psyched.
I followed this season, albeit sometimes missing a few games, but generally watching. These new Bullies have the shit man. If management doesn’t break them up – and they get that chemistry to evolve – then we will see great things from them.
Which brings me to this year’s playoffs – poor Bulls are out!
But that is beside the point.
I was never good with numbers, but the stats for 2004 show that our most beloved player apparently is Eddy Curry. I got into the season when Eddy had heart problems – so he is alien to me. I got my favorites of course – the top of the list being Kirk Heinrich, followed by Jannero Pargo, Andres “Noch” Nocioni, Ben Gordon, and Chris Duhon. I can still hear the crowd at the United Center screaming “No-ci-oni!”
First Round.
Game 1 – No-ci-oni kicked some ass. The crowds went wild, and it was this performance that coined the No-ci-oni thing. Ben Gordon scored 30 points.
Game 2 – This was Captain Kirk’s game. Heinrich scored 34 points and proved that this is the go to guy when he gets hot.
I could care less about the other games since we lost them, but Pargo’s role in game 4 should not be played down. That 3-pointer in game 5 that tied the game had me doing cartwheels in front of the TV. Fuck I lost my cool when he made that. Then of course we lost - and the air went out of the United Center faster than a 300 pound man sitting on a whoopie cushion. Pargo will bring much to the Bulls in the future if they keep him. Dude - Pargo rocks!!!
All in all, as much as I think the Washington Wizards are a bunch of asshole, cocksucking, no good, bitch-ass, piss poor dickwads, who should be eliminated from the playoffs as soon as possible, sons of bitches; they still won the series. May the better team win I guess.
Like those Comcast commercials say – true fans stick with their teams through thick and thin. So long Jordan Dynasty – this is the time to celebrate us actually getting into the playoffs. And I’ve bought a new basketball for fucks sake. Next to recycling a lot of empty bottles of booze, I haven’t owned a basketball for the past seven years. That should say something, I guess. No-ci-oni! (My pops calls Nocioni “Scooby Doo” for some odd reason. He does resemble Shaggy in a way, doesn’t he?)
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