Sweet Spot #7
I’m particularly pleased with this one for some reason…I just like the way the songs fall together. Maybe you will too. Happy Thanksgiving, turkeys.
Hit the road, Jack
In this shot from the good old days, Stephen Jackson makes some kind of measurement involving Boom Dizzle's head.
It was Cecil who broke the news to me yesterday that Stephen Jackson had departed for the East, leaving behind the flaming mass of writhing agony that is Your Golden State Warriors Basketball Team. Hard to believe that it was only two and a half years ago that I was writing giddy little love poems to Don Nelson and his ragtag bunch of small-w warriors as they shocked the world by upending the mighty Dallas Mavericks.
Where are they now? Jason Richardson, unceremoniously dumped for salary cap room. Baron Davis wearing a Clippers jersey, the most shameful item of clothing in all of basketball, possibly all of sports. Al Harrington keeping LeBron’s seat warm in New York, in between launching up threes. And now Captain Jack, that lovable lunatic, gone in a cloud of bitterness and recrimination. The only ones left are Nellie himself — increasingly embattled, looking more and more like Captain Ahab or Colonel Kurtz — and moped enthusiast Monta Ellis, who is no doubt on the phone to his agent right this minute looking to follow Jackson out of town.
It’s an ugly scene, and there’s no comfort to be had from watching the Raiders, who are a mortal lock to lose pretty much every game they play. (Though there is money to be made betting on their opponents.) As a matter of fact it’s hard to say which organization is more dysfunctional these days. And, honestly, why bother? I’m going to take a nap now; wake me up when either Chris Cohan or Al Davis drops dead.
Oh, wait
Water. NASA found water on the moon.
Never mind.
Whitey on the moon
Gil Scott Herring
I was a little groggy when I was reading the paper this morning, so I may have this wrong, but I’m pretty sure NASA found whitey on the moon. That Gil-Scott Heron is a prophet!
Having a Moment
Got to spend some quality time last night with my old friends Dan and Bob, and also with our other friends Charles, Kim, Joey, and David, who play together in a band called the Pixies. The Pixies were in town to play some shows marking the 20th anniversary of their album Doolittle, an album which, like the first Velvet Underground record, launched a thousand bands—including Nirvana, who launched ten thousand more.
It’s hard to get too sentimental about Pixies music, which is loud and aggressive and full of death imagery, though I suppose you could shed a tear over “Monkey Gone to Heaven” or “Silver.” (Speaking of the latter, can I rant for a minute? Why is it that a minute a band plays anything less than punishingly loud, a hundred conversations start up? You have the rest of your goddamn life to yammer on about whatever you please. Can’t you just shut up for a minute so we can hear the music we all paid to hear? OK, thanks, I feel better now.) The highlight for me was probably “Hey,” which triggers some vivid memories of my 20th and 21st years. Aided by lyrics on the video screen—although I think they knew the words anyway—most of the crowd sang along, and it was surreal to hear a thousand people singing
Hey
Been trying to meet you
Must be a devil between us, or whores in my head
Whore, door, whores in my bed
But hey, where have you been?
If you go, I will surely die
We’re chai-ai-ai-ained…
It gave me the chills, actually, but the good kind. Worth the price of admission alone, right there.