Raptors-Suns -- Homecoming

Tonight was supposed to be a night of booze and food with friends. Instead, because I'm battling a cold that's rapidly becoming a fever, I'm watching the Raptors-Suns game at home, a cold beer in hand (no virus will deny me that pleasure) and warmth in my heart. It's been a terrific trip home, and there's still so much more I'd like to see and do, so many people I haven't had enough time to hang out with; but alas. Consider this my farewell letter to Canada, disguised as a game log and sponsored by Nyquil.

(After tonight, I can hop off the Raptors' bandwagon. Again.)

- Shawn Marion is back home! I mean, he's probably been back to Phoenix since his trade to Miami, but the insular Toronto media doesn't care about that. By the way, the collective Raptors' fans belief that a) the Raps can still make the playoffs, and b) that Marion won't Usain bolt after the season is over is pretty laughable. If I weren't crying, I'd be laughing, too.

- Jay Triano is a good coach like Stephon Marbury is a good teammate.

- I guess Steve Nash is out again tonight. Cancon is having a coniption fit. They might start pumping in canned Tom Cochrane to make up for it. Don't put it past them.

- Andrea Bargnani is playing like a champ lately. Still, it's too soon to (again) call the guy the Italian Dirk Nowitzki. Besides, who'd want to be compared to that choker. Oooh.

- Joey Graham isn't on the floor tonight. Boo-hoo. Thank god your favorite yeoman's favorite yeoman, Matt Barnes, is.

- One more for the Cliche Collector: "They gotta get him going early." I should note that the subject of that trite phrase was one Shaquille O'Neal. Yeah, Shaq is notorious for getting going early. On a smorgasboard! (I know I'm trying too hard. What can you do?)

- Marion with a dunk off the feed from Bosh. Next possession, Calderon nails a J. OMG, World Champs! To quash my cynicism, Barg's gets an and-one and makes good on the three-point play. Pencil him in as an All-Star starter for 2010.

- Time for a commercial break. I'm contemplating another beverage. (Who am I kidding? Like I really had to think about it.)

- Look, I know this post is a little prosaic, so in case I'm underwhelming you, here's a little treat:

One sexy woman

(If, like my Constant Retards, you're female, you're probably not reading this blog post, anyway, right? Right? If you are, just go back a couple posts to that pic of me wearing a bra. I hope that makes up for it.)

- Aparently, there's nobody more hip in the NBA than Steve Nash. Bias! Dwyane Wade has a few words for you, Raps announcers. Have you seen his custom Band Aid collection?

- Roko Ukic looks eerily like that kid from Freaks N Geeks. Seriously, it's uncanny.

- Matt Barnes and Jake Voshkul have some words for each other, then we cut to a shot of some guy in the stands wearing a Team Canada hockey cap. God bless nationalism. Afterward, Barnes comes with an and-one. Take that, Jacob.

- Bill Simmons...sorry, Jason Kapono, hits a J. The Raptors are within four with just under a minute remaining. Don't wanna meet them in the playoffs!

- In a perfect world, Jack Armstrong would be commentating on a national level. (Different nation, though.)

- It's 37-30 Phoenix after one. Really, we've only run through a single quarter? I need to pace myself. Excuse me while I browse Google and Naver for pics of a scantily clad Jessica "Sexiest Woman Alive" Gomes. Part portuguese, part Singaporean, and all woman. Now I definitely have a fever.

- Jack Armstrong condones sports gambling. It's a good thing the 18th Letter is safely abed. Otherwise, I might have had to write a stern letter. Get it? A "Stern" letter? (Again, my apologies.)

- We are tied at 44 with 8:54 remaining in this...the second quarter. Next possession, the Raps take the lead off of a Kapono J. Alvin "Dr. Octogonycologist" Gentry opts for a time-out.

- I have two things on the brain for tomorrow, and neither include Niagra Falls. Arby's and Taco Bell, in that order.

- Some fan shoots a halfcourt shot, granny style (props), for $77,000, and the douchebag announcer -- certainly not Jack Armstrong, the Superman to Doug Collins's Plastic Man -- has to smarmily note that he'll be taxed for it but wouldn't were he living in Canada. Good grief.

- Did you know that Grant Hill is married to Ontario native and Grammy-nominated R&B singer Tamia? You do now!

- Phoenix is up by four with just over five minutes left in the second, and I have to pee like no tomorrow. C'mon, Jay Triano, call a T, not now but right now.

- A succession of poorly played turnovers brings the crowd alive. "Are we at a roller derby here?" Armstrong asks.

- Grant Hill with a monster dunk, and I get that time-out I've been praying for. Thusly, I've been "Grant-ed" a pee break. (Okay, kill me now.)

- By the way, if I have to take a pee break on March 7 when Kmart and I see Watchmen, I'm going to hate myself, and I'm sure I won't be the only one. They don't call me The Iron Bladder for nothing.

- What do you know, I go for leak and suddenly the Raps are down by nine. That never happens!

- At the half, it's 68-67 Suns. Yes, you read that correctly. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to break for more sizzurp.

- The Raptors (laughable) quest for the playoffs contines on Sunday with a game against the Mavs; then they face the Rockets and the Heat next week. I. Will. Not. Hold. My. Breath.

- Purolator Courier, the company that always loses shit shipped to Korea, is sponsoring this game. There's a metaphor in there somewhere.

- Marion hasn't exactly asserted his presence this game. The Hyundai Genesis certainly has, though. It's the Canadian Car of the Year! Hold on...

- The Raps are up by three, and I'm 101 degrees Celcius. And climbing. As far as game logs go, I hope you all consider this my MJ flu game. If anyone were actually reading this, I mean.

- With those chicken legs, it's surprising that Chris Bosh has a bum knee.

- My bad: Marion has 18 and 8. Sometimes I really should watch these games instead of staring at my laptop screen -- and pics of Jessica Gomes -- the entire four quarters. Some analyst I am. Still, I'm pretty sure I'm a better one than Dick Vitale, even though my name isn't nearly as cool.

- 4:54 to go in the third quarter, and the Raps are up by one, 84-83. Cleveland, you don't want none! Boston, you don't want none!

- Anthony Parker nails a big three, and the Raps announcers say absolutely nothing. Either one of them had his mouth full of food, or a fan was getting a little too rowdy. I'm genuinely curiously which one it is.

- The Raps are back down by five with 2:42 to go in the third. I know you're picturing this in your head right now, which is why I'm writing so clinically about the matchup. I'm like the Slick Rick of basketball live blogging, son!

- Kaps (we're tight like that) drains a three to bring Toronto within two -- a bucket that Louis "Captain Feathersword" Amundson quickly makes up for with a flush in the paint. Or makes up two-thirds of. You know what I mean.

- After three, it's 86-82 Suns.

- Again, I come back from the lavatory to find the Raptors down big, this time by eleven. And here I was just about to promise to permanently remain in Canada should Toronto win. Fuck it: I still do. There are suddenly a lot of nubile virgins who have stakes in this contest.

- I might throw up anyway, but if the announcers compare Bargnani to Dirk one more time, I surely will.

- Just under seven minutes left and the Raps are down by fourteen. Make that sixteen. Shaq has 38 points, and I need a cold shower. Here I come, South Korea!

- Roll out the garbage time players. This game is over, and so am I. The Suns have 90 points IN THE PAINT, and Shaq has 45.

It's a good thing they got him going early.

Happy Birthday to Yoo

The greatest rapper of all time may have died on March 9th, but the most beautiful woman of all time was definitely born on February 25th.

It's all subjective.

Suns-Lakers -- Burn, Baby, Burn

Tonight's theme is hair. Don't ask why; it just is. Ben Wallace cut his fro/braids, AI cut his braid-braids, and Von Wafer has a bro-hawk. I'd like to think I invented that term, but it's probably already been coined, like how David Foster Wallace beat me on the whole asterisk thing by a few years*. Anyway, I've had a few beers, a lot of ketchup chips, and I just heard that the Celtics will announce tomorrow that they

(hate themselves)

have signed Stephon Marbury. (Perhaps you've heard of him.) So please forgive me if this game log is a little manic. I just don't know what to think anymore.

- Cavs-Rockets is wrapping up, and we go to downtown Los Angeles, California. I wanna see some blood, whether it's pussy blood, or busting your fucking face...some blood!

- Alvin Gentry is a competent coach, but he's an even more accomplished gynecologist. Trust me.

- I'm wearing my Doug Collins repellent tonight. Hope it works.

- Barbosa is starting at point guard. I'm no basketball strategist, but something doesn't smell right. Oh, yeah, it's Steve Nash lamping on the bench in a suit. With Ill Mare out, this game just lost a few more thousand Marquee Matchup points in my book**. I will try to disguise my disappointment the same way Mickey Rourke probably did after losing out on the Best Actor Oscar: by getting shitfaced.

- Doug Collins is talking about Trust Factor. Am I the only person who thinks Collins would make a terrific life coach/inspirational speaker/guidance counsellor? Anything to get him away from announcing basketball games. He always sounds like he's crying, like he's projecting his failure as a coach onto the youngsters. Between Collins's weepiness, Craig Sager's suit, and Louis Amundson's ponytail, I'm tempted to say fuck it and throw a trash can through this game's figurative window like Radio Raheem. Voice of Reason.

- Kobe is 6-of-6 in the first quarter. Yay!

(Okay, fuck that noise.)

- The other day, during our trip to Toronto, I tried to buy two T-shirts from the Air Canada Center: one Chris Bosh tee, one Jose Calderon tee. And my credit card was declined. I don't think that was simply a coincidence. It was a prophecy. See, I'm somewhat of a clairvoyant; and it runs in the family, as evidenced by the 18th Letter's question to me last night: "Daddy, when I can see people's thoughts, can they also see mine?"

- According to Doug Collins, Alvin Gentry is a special coach. After I crash into the Pacific early next week, can someone please hire that fucker to eulogize me? I'll even write the opening paragraph: "Eoin Forbes was a very special man who could have been a carpenter or a plumber, but instead he was a writer. What a lot of people don't understand is that he used his inherent gifts as a builder and fixer to construct sentences rather than floors, tighten syntax instead of pipe valves."

- Adam Morrison is in the game, and, sadly, Collins doesn't make me feel sorry for what a shitty NBA player the guy is. I guess he's saving it for fawning over Grant Hill's lamentably sporadic career.

- I should probably note that the Suns are down by 15 at halftime. Maybe if I stop obsessing over how poor a commentator Doug Collins is things'll turn around. Probably not, though, because Craig Sager's thow-up suit just made another appearance. Are you telling me that Stern mandated players not in uniform wear suits while on the bench, that shorts shouldn't go lower than the knee...and yet Sager is allowed to assault both my sense of taste and hearing with his loud suits? Shit ain't fair.

- Apparently Ben Wallace broke his leg and Lebron had no assists tonight against the Rockets. If I knew anything about Photoshop, I'd drop a pic of Tracy McGrady as the Phantom of the Opera below. Since I don't, you'll just have to settle for this:



- Doug Collins, who I'm sure must have a restraining order against me by now, just called the Lakers the "Lackers." Somewhere in cyberspace, 15-year-old Lakers fans are calling for his head like extremist Muslims do when someone draws Mohammed. And while I know it was a slip of the tongue, I hate Doug Collins a little less right now. Two more beers and I'd let him caress my leg.

- Where is Matt Barnes? A ridiculous question, perhaps, but we are living in ridiculous times.

- Don't tell anyone, but -- word to Jeon Jihyeon -- I tapped KG's cell phone and recorded his convo with Stephon Marbury. A transcription follows:

Steph: Back one more 'gin!

KG: [click]

- The Suns are only down by 21 halfway through the third quarter. Make that 23. Ugh. A little too early to trot out your garbage time players, though, Dr. Gentry. This game is a pap smear!

- Doug Collins calls this season a war of attrition. Again, I agree. Hells bells, these pills are working!

- Fuck it, I'm done. I cannot stand to listen to Doug Collins pontificate over a blowout any longer, especially since he's making way too much sense. And there's a full quarter left. I'm going to hang myself like John Locke. Spoilers***?


* I, however, would have the last laugh.

** "Blood, Sweat, and Eye Water," available this November in paperback at all Barnes & Noble stores nationwide (in Uzbekistan).

*** They killed Cedric McDaniels!

Lifestyle Change

If this doesn't get you to quit, then I don't know what will.*






* I'm not naming any names, but she gave birth to me.

The T Dot

After a day of sloth (and shaving cream), the phoenix in me rose to conquer the world, or at least the Greater Toronto Area. Soon after breakfast, I sauntered down to the 18th Letter's school -- the same school I attended as a kid, which made me feel old and, truth be told, a little nervous -- to observe her class. I'm happy to report that my daughter is one smart cookie. But you already knew that.

After two hours of watching five-year-olds have to go to the bathroom like they were patrons in a bar who had each had about twelve drinks, I met up with my sister, Beatrice, and Legs. Our destination: Toronto, the New York City of Canada. Because my driver's license expired five years ago and Legs lost her international driving permit* somewhere between Tokyo and Toronto, we had to take the bus ($2.75) down to the Go Station and ride the train ($7.80) into the city. I hate communism.

Upon arriving in Toronto, Canada's real capital city**, my sister, Audrey, left us to attend to some personal affairs (read: sports books), and Legs and I headed to that big fucking tower you always see in pictures of the city. I think it's called the Space Needle. Did you know that for the reasonable price of twenty-seven dollars plus tax per person you can ride in an elevator to the top of a tall building and look down at tall-but-considerably less-tall buildings? You do now! If you squint your eyes, you can even see urban gentrification expanding everywhere like a virus spreading under a reverse microscope. Money well spent!

Sorry for sounding caustic, because I really did enjoy the experience; but that's mostly because I forced Legs to have a drink with me in the tower's restaurant. I had heard that the restaurant rotated and was sad to discover it doesn't. But maybe that's my own fault for only ordering one beer.

Our fun time at 553 meters over, we headed back to Union Station to meet my sister, Claudia, and the three of us took the subway*** to...Korea Town. Yes, even though I'll be breathing that fresh peninsular air in less than a week's time, I couldn't help it: I wanted kimchi, soju, and Big Bang on the radio. You can take the boy out of Korea, but you can't take Korea out of the boy.

(But before my appetite would be sated, I dipped into a convenience store for some cigarettes. Upon exiting the Space Needle, I had smoked the last square of the two cartons of Dunhill Legs and I had brought with us on our trip, and I was in dire need of some nicotine -- so much so that I paid $10.80 for a pack of 25 DuMaurier king size cancer sticks. Make fun of me; I deserve it. I haven't felt so guilty for wasting money on something so trivial since that one time I spent $2.75 to ride the subway, or the time I bought Idlewild on CD when I knew full well how shitty it was but thought that actually owning a copy of it might somehow make it better, like how parents of retarded children can grow to love their kids.)

Dinner consisted of nakji bokkeum, haemul jeon, and a whole load of beers. I was -- strangely, mystifyingly -- jonesing for some soju, but when it was pointed out to me that the menu gives you the option of five beers or one bottle of soju, it was pretty clear which alcoholic beverage would win this war. And here I thought Asians were good at math.

I must say, that meal felt like home.


* No car + Canada = a lot of nights at home watching basketball and drinking Labatt Blue. I don't see how that's a bad thing.

** Come on; they have the Leafs, the Raptors, the Blue Jays, and the best hot dog vendors in the world. Beat that, Ottawa (sorry), Montreal, Vancouver, and Fredricton.

*** "Ride the Rocket" is the TTC's slogan. "Only ride it if you have to" is mine. Compared to the Seoul metro, the Toronto underground is like waking up in a world where iPods have been replaced by ham radio, televisions by flip books, Conan O'Brien by Jay Leno, and air conditioning units by paper fans. And, yes, the fare is $2.75. Finally, someone put a price on discomfort. What irks me even more is that I wasn't chased by a lycanthrope on my way out.

백조 (The White Swan)

Because I know you're enormously curious, here's what I did today, edited for content (i.e. blowjobs and bowel movements):

After celebrating Slumdog Millionaire's Best Picture win last night a little too indulgently by way of Tennesse Sipping Whisky and Cheetos (because I can!), I woke up at seven, not long before the 18th Letter left for daycare. The little girl safely on her way, I heated two cheeseburger Hot Stuffs in the microwave and then ate them with a cold can of V8. Then I went back to sleep.

I awoke three hours later, smoked a square, and watched The Curious Case of

(Tracy McGrady)

Benjamin Button with Legs. Here's my rapid-fire review:

I love David Fincher like I love my dick size. I will again state, for the record, that Zodiac is one of the finest, most well-directed and acted films I've ever seen. But for every Fincher masterpiece (Zodiac, Se7en, Fight Club), there's a failure (Alien 3, Panic Room). Like The Game, Benjamin Button falls somewhere in the middle for me. Its first and third acts are outstanding, and while the second act is certainly compelling, it's too bad it stretches out longer than Manute Bol. 3/4 *_*

After the movie finished, I helped the 18th Letter with her homework, ate a fish dinner, and watched Hanna Montana. (And while I begrudgingly accept and understand the show's popularity, I get up in arms at its portrayal of adults -- parents, teachers -- as idiotic buffoons. Then I remind myself that Saved by the Bell did the same thing. Then I stop thinking about kids shows.) I tucked the 18th Letter in, thought about reading more of Aravind Adiga's phenomenal "The White Tiger," opted instead to drink cold beer and warm whisky while watching/listening to the Celtics-Nuggets game, and took a picture of a behemoth chocolate bar.

And here I am, half drunk and full retard, trying to find a way to rationalize my hyperactive anticipation for the March 6 release of Watchmen. Like many people, I'm constantly revising my geek checklist of Things I Want to Watch/Hear/Experience/Fuck Before I Die, and presently Zack Snyder's Watchmen film is the sole occupant on that list. The Star Wars Saga, the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, the Harry Potter books, and Barack Obama's presidency have all occurred within my lifetime, and save perhaps Guillermo del Toro's The Hobbit and seeing Lee Hyori naked, Watchmen is the only thing I have to obsess over as far as entertainment is concerned.

So it is with a hopeful heart and an alcohol-drenched liver that I pray, pray, pray to return safely to the Peninsula in a week's time so as to fulfill a promise I made to a dear friend. See, Kmart, the Laurel to my Hardy, the Rerun to my Roger, is not long for this world -- and before he passes under the veil of mystery that is human existence and won't have to hurt anymore, I'm taking him to Hooters and to see Watchmen.

March 7, 2009.

Psychedelic Kimochi

Chocolate bar, I dub thee Big Boy. You are 120 grams and 800 calories* of tasty chocolate filled with "peanut butter," and you are special. I bought you almost three weeks ago for a dollar at -- coincidentally -- Dollarama, and still I have not had the heart to eat you.

But I will. Soon. Sorry, bar, you have it coming.


* more calories than a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese (!), which I again had the pleasure of eating/making ingestion love to during my pilgrimage to the nation's capital last Friday.

For Salim

Never bring a knife to a gunfight, a child to a bar, or Hugh Jackman to host the Oscars. All are good ideas that in hindsight bring clarity, and that's how herpes happens.

After my whirlwind tour of Ottawa, during which I marked my territory, swam, ate poutine, and peed on Parliament Hill (though not in that order), Dr. Manhattan returned to Mecca 2 with family in tow, eager to watch the Academy Awards.

Naturally, things didn't go according to plan. The 18th Letter couldn't fall asleep, I had a hard time accepting the fact that I'll probably never eat a poutine ever again, and Legs got loopy off Midol.

Still, I tried. Which is more I can say for one Mr. Hugh

(G. Rection)

Jackman. Seriously, where'd he go? If he hosted the Oscars, so did I!

But let's leave that to the trades and Gay Blade. All I want to do now is celebrate.

Hooooooooooooooooooo!

This evening, I turned on the television and flipped through the channels, hoping to see something other than a myriad of Steven Seagal movies. I'll be forthright and mention that my hopes were, within a minute, dashed by the appearance of Exit Wounds, but I'd also like to point out that I stumbled upon a showing of the 2009 Royal Rumble.

You know, I've never been a huge fan of professional wrestling, but like most boys that watched a lot of TV during the eighties, I was certainly exposed to it,* and I've always enjoyed the concept behind the rumble: a large number of guys going apeshit (or pretending to do so) within a ring. Fun times had by all.

At some point during this year's rumble, 'Hacksaw' Jim Duggan entered the fray, and yes, you heard me right: Jim fucking Duggan, the same guy that wrestled against the Iron Sheik and Sgt. Slaughter some twenty years ago. I had to wonder, just how old is that guy? I'm not going ageist on anyone, I just can't help but think that Duggan's a tad past his prime, and judging by his performance during the match, that prime coincided with the release of Jumpin' Jack Doritos.

So, curious guy that I am, I went to Wikipedia and did a search on Mr. Duggan. Turns out he's fifty-four years old. Not terribly surprising, I suppose, but I did come across this amusing tidbit:

In 1987, Duggan and the Iron Sheik (Hossein Vasiri) were pulled over by New Jersey police after a WWF event, suspecting Duggan of driving under the influence. After a search of the vehicle and the persons, police discovered that Duggan was under the influence of marijuana and alcohol, while the Sheik was high on cocaine. Small amounts of cocaine were also found in the vehicle.

For a wrestling aficionado, this kind of thing may be par for the course, but for laymen like myself, it was rather comical for a variety of reasons,** and as one may guess (and rightfully so), I was compelled to click on the link to the Iron Sheik, where I was treated to another amazing factoid:

In recent years, the Iron Sheik has expressed intense dislike for many wrestlers, wrestling promoters, former friends, and celebrity figures, including Brian Blair, Nikolai Volkoff, The Ultimate Warrior, Hulk Hogan, André the Giant, Michael Richards, and others. In various interviews conducted with the Sheik, he has lashed out at these and other figures, using extremely profane language and often threatening to "humble" them by means of anal rape.

Seriously now, I can understand the theatrical aspect of professional wrestling as well as the behavior expected from faces and heels, Mr. Hossein Khosrow Ali Vaziri, but is the threat of anal rape really necessary?




(This was my Sunday evening.)



* I also went through a period, in the latter nineties, during which I watched WWF/E on a weekly basis, but hey, I lived in an all-male dormitory my freshman year of university, and it's tough to avoid being sucked into the Nothing. Word to Atreyu.

** The least of which being that Sparkles *_* and I have found ourselves in a similar situation on numerous occasions and, more often than not, there was a 2x4 in the back seat of Forbes' El Camino.

Coming Up on a Minute Remaining in This Third Quarter

(Sometimes these post titles write themselves; sometimes -- usually is more like it -- alcohol does; and sometimes Marv Albert throws me a dime, as is the case tonight. Thanks, Marv, for providing me with the perfect metaphor.)

As much as I love Burlington, Ontario (16 years lived in), Bundang (5 years*), and Seoul (3 years), it is the city in which I was born, Canada's capital, Ottawa, that I have the most nostalgia for. Born in 1978, I lived In Ottawa** until I was six. Then my father, a civil servant for Environment Canada, was relocated to Burlington; and thus my life as a person who would do many things began. I grew up, moved around, learned how to shave, and then taught myself to shave against the grain. Now, here I am. My name is Eoin A. Forbes. I own a mansion and a yacht.

(There's your bildungsroman in a can.)

On this, the final minute remaining in the third quarter of my four quarters of Canada, on the night before I return to the place of my birth, please indulge an old man his memories...

Thanks for waiting.

Now here's a picture of me wearing a bra:



Smiles and cries.



* So far!

** Nepean, actually; but that's splitting hairs.