Greece, The Musical

Now available from K-Tel, the official soundtrack for the USA Men's basketball team, featuring the following hits:

Gone 'Til November (Wyclef Jean)
Let Down (Radiohead)
The Bronze (Queens of the Stone Age)
Satisfied (J-Live)
The Roil, The Choke (Brian Eno)
Secret Wars (The Last Emperor)
Hit the Road, Jack (Ray Charles)
What's Goin' On? (Marvin Gaye)
You Played Yourself (Ice-T)
Deja Vu (Iron Maiden)
Loser (Beck)
Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen (Louis Armstrong)
Nobody Cares (Outlawz)
Turning Japanese (The Vapors)*
MacArthur Park (Richard Harris)**
Summer Overture (Requiem for a Dream Soundtrack)
Won't Get Fooled Again (The Who)

Bonus Track:

Exit Music (For a Film) -- Radiohead

Cop it! And be sure to be pick up Volume II, to be released in late-summer, 2008!





* a song about masturbation, which, considering that the US ostensibly sat around with their dicks in their hands against Greece, is apt.

** And I'll never have that recipe again. Oh, no!
Oh, no
No, no
Oh no!!

I Used To Read Word Up! Magazine

The Internet and old age rendered SLAM magazine irrelevant to me half a decade ago, but yours truly was recently put on blast on their online -- too many prepositions! Can't compute! -- edition, which you can peep here, and which serves as vindication that

(the Internet sometimes takes notice of even the lowliest of talent)

people in positions of notable rank read my basketball ramblings.

Props to SLAM and Sam Rubenstein.

(While you're here, it's only right that I admit to biting NOIZE for my game logs, although, to take a cue from Jay-Z, I've always believed I'm paying homage more than anything else.)

Thinking of a Master Plan

The flag raising on Iwo Jima. Malcolm X holding an M1. Jessica Alba's nipple slip (Hello, Googlers!). Paul Newman on salad dressing bottles.

All of these iconic images kneel to the profundity of the 18th Letter, future President of the World and hip-hop, sports, music, and literary luminary.

Know Thine Enemy

Q: Why do vegetarians insist that their diet is so humane? Plants are living things too!

A: Plants do not have a nervous system and therefore do not feel pain. They also are not noted for their emotional responses. If you want to test this for yourself try the following...

The next time you are walking by a tree stick a pin in it and see if it yelps or makes any kind of protest (it doesn't have to be a tree for the puposes of this experiment...any other type of plant would do just as well).

Weak. Plants live, they have a lifespan -- and in fact they may be more spiritual than animals. Ever heard of photosynthesis? That's some far-out shit. Besides, I've never seen humans, dogs, or cows complement a work of art with their background the same way trees and leaves do.

The fact that plants don't have a brain exempts them from pity? Maybe the fact that bovines and canines lack adequate conversational skills and can't dribble a basketball fails to elicit a lack of pity from others. Ever think about that, lumberjacks?

Plants have souls. And they're killers just like us:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pitcher_plant

Think about that the next time you tuck into a veggie burger; for, unbeknownst to you, the consumer may quickly became the consume.

Better to get them before they get you.

Be ever vigilant, my veggie friends. Your chosen lifestyle is very risky.

Please, educate yourselves. Don't fall victim to the agricultural industry's evil scheme.



(Ripe for the picking, I'm sad to say.)

Tally Ho!

For Idealjetsam: Hold on. I'ma comin'.

For everyone else: potato salad in a sandwich is surprisingly tasty. Props, 7-Eleven.

2005-2006 NBA Champions - Miami Heat (DVD Review)

For a while now I've felt that something essential is missing from my life*. That gnawing feeling came to a head on Sunday when, hype to watch team USA team play Australia in the FIBA World Basketball Championship, I discovered that the game wasn't going to be broadcast on Korean television, nor would it be streamed on Stream TV. Shit ain't right.

And that's just sad. Say what you will about the FIBA tournament, but since basketball is the world's second most popular team sport (behind women's volleyball, I think), reason dictates that it should be a big deal. I dunno, maybe it's different in Spain or Argentina. Fucked if I know why, but the tourney is relegated to ESPN2 in the States, and Yahoo! doesn't even run live scores. ESPN.com has made most of the FIBA coverage available only on its paid-subscription service, Insider. Way to support your country, fellas. Way to also piss off a b-ball addict who, during these slow summer sports months, would probably sell his soul for a game, even if it is the Daydream Team vs. Australia.

I saw (on TV, mind you, because I'm a glutton for regret) Team USA play Lithuania and Korea in the warm-up World Basketball Challenge; and I'll admit, watching the L's biggest stars play in what appears to be a glorified high school tournament isn't very thrilling. But there's fucking pride at stake, man. The US has the best ball players in the world; doesn't it mean something to prove it, to reassert that fire, that dominance?

Ironically, I'll probably learn of Team USA's ultimate shame or glory from Yahoo!'s main page: if they're ousted, it's big news; if they win it all, it's bigger news. One thing will be the same, however, regardless of the outcome, and that's that casual sports fans the world over will say to themselves Hey, there was a World Basketball Championship this summer? Why didn't somebody tell me? FIBA has a long way to go before they gain the same level of attention as the FIFA World Cup. At this point it's like comparing the World Championship of Poker to a game of Go Fish played by two siblings in the back of their parents minivan en route to a family vacation at Disney World. And that's just sad (the FIBA Championship, I mean, not parents taking their kids to Disney World: the Happiest Place on Earth).

Lucky for me, the basketball and Amazon gods chose this day to deliver my 2005-2006 NBA Champions - Miami Heat DVD. It couldn't have arrived at a better time.

If you're not a fan of the Miami Heat

(may the Lord curse you with incontinence)

the disc may not be the morning sex of basketball fandom that it was for me; but for any true b-ball fanatic who can manage to put aside their biases and admire the Heat's historic season for what it was (proof that there is a God, and that He has a place reserved in the Kingdom of Heaven for Riles, Shaq, 'Zo, Flash, Antoine Walker, the New-Millenial Charles Oakley Udonis Haslem, James Posey, Jason "I only smoke a lot of grass, I don't shoot limo drivers" Williams, little Gary Payton as Toto, and the rest), there's a lot to love.

With such a remarkable season, the 2005-2006 Miami Heat truly rank as one of the greatest, most inspirational stories in the history of not only basketball, but all sports. Word to Rocky Balboa.

The disc begins with a brief history of the Heat franchise, from its innaugural season where they set an NBA record for futility, losing their first 17 games, to Pat Riley's initial stint as head coach, the 'Zo and Hardaway acquisitions, the tough playoff losses at the hands of the New York Knicks (believe it or not, kids, there was a time when the Knicks made some noise), to 'Zo's departure due to kidney disease. Then the silver linings: the drafting and emergence of Dwyane Wade (the best basketball player on the planet, by the way) and the Shaq trade. The 2004-2005 season is only touched upon, for dramatic effect, to highlight the Heat's devastating loss to the Detroit Pistons in the conference finals.

Then follows a recap of the regular season: Shaq's injury which led to Stan Van Hedgehog's departure. (Oddly, but perhaps tastefully, that's not mentioned. It is instead -- and rightly so -- spun that Pat Riley assumed head coaching duties to prove that the franchise's off-season reconfiguration was a sage decision) The crushing mid-season 34-point loss to the Mavs and the stunning comeback against the Pistons in the Heat's following game are, for good reason (foreshadowing, you see) given particular shine, and then it's on to the playoffs.

(While you're here, if you haven't peeped it already, ga'head and read this and this. Shit still gives me chills.)

The Bulls are handled, they come back, and are then manhandled (D Wade's ill pass to 'Zo is inexcusably absent, however); the Nets prove an early threat before Wince Carter receives his second sex change operation (peep Shaq's hilarious comment on the series for the DVD's best quote); and next is the series with Detroit, a matchup which didn't live up to the hype (thankfully in my team's favor), and which, soundly, doesn't get much shine.

The Finals, of course, is the best part. Word to J-Live.

The two Heat losses in Dallas still had an effect on me, even though I knew the eventual outcome of the series; and, manipulative or no, the dramatic music which serves as a precursor to Game 3 is a downright marvel, possibly -- Mido's Theme from the Oldboy soundtrack notwithstanding -- the sweetest piece of music I've ever heard.

And then...

Wham! (Game 3**) Bam! (Game 4) Thank You... (Game 5) Ma'am! (Game 6)

By disc's end I was pumping my fist and leaping about giddily, as though the Heat's Finals victory occurred not over 2 months prior, but tonight. All that was missing was pickled chili peppers and a sore back.

I'm still hungry. Tonight I sate myself with SPAM and hot dogs; come November, however, my palate shall undoubtedly demand something more, namely a repeat.

In the meantime, I'll try not to get too upset over the lack of WBC coverage, knowing that a new season is ever approaching the horizon, and that this: a 13-disc DVD package containing every Heat conference finals and NBA Finals game is scheduled for a mid-November release.

Let's Go Feet!

(Sorry, I'm a little rusty.)

Let's Go Heat!

Rating: 3 1/2 out of 4 *_*

* Two things, actually, but I'm discreet enough to only admit one.

** I won't lie, Shaq's crucial free throws brought a tear -- likely more than one, but one is the most I'll admit to -- of joy to this fan's eye.

Better or Worse?

2006 is the second consecutive summer with disappointing financial results for major studios in Hollywood. Bombs such as Poseidon, Mission Impossible III and now Snakes on a Plane seem to indicate a general befuddlement amongst studio honchos over just what it is the American (and international) viewing public want to see.

In the interest of saving the industry itself and the jobs of the good (guffaw) people who work there allow me to make a point and a counter-point out of two movies scheduled for release in the near future.

The Guardian

imdb.com Plot Outline: In an effort to find his place in life, a troubled young man enlists in the Coast Guard, where he's taken in by a renown(sic) rescue swimmer who's hardened by the loss of his team from an accident years back.

Stars: Kevin Costner (Bull Durham, Field of Dreams)
Ashton Kutcher (The Butterfly Effect, various tabloids with Demi Moore and Bruce Willis's kids)

Also appearing: Sela Ward

Director: Andrew Davis (Collateral Damage, Chain Reaction, Under Siege)

The Departed

imdb.com Plot Outline: Two men from opposite sides of the law are undercover within the Boston State Police department and the Irish mafia, but violence and bloodshed boil when discoveries are made, and the moles are dispatched to find out their enemy's identities.

Stars: Leonardo DiCaprio (The Aviator, Gangs of New York, What's Eating Gilbert Grape?)
Jack Nicholson (Easy Rider, One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest, Chinatown, The Shining)
Matt Damon (The Bourne Identity, Saving Private Ryan, Ocean's 11)

Also appearing: Martin Sheen, Mark Wahlberg, Alec Baldwin

Director: Martin Scorsese (Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas, Casino)

Okay, now, if you're a studio head and you're reading this I want to tell you this: One of these movies is going to suck. It's going to get raped in reviews, it's going to make shit at the box office and it's going to be pointed at as a laughingstock for the rest of the industry. The other is going to make me spooge myself in my pants while at the theater it's so awesome, it will garner award consideration, it will make oodles of money and will assume its rightful place among the pantheon of great crime movies.

If you can't tell the one from the other resign immediately. And give your job to me. Or Sparkles.

You get a great script, you hand a great director a truck full of money, have him cast whoever the fuck he wants and stay out of the goddam way.

The name's Deluxe, son. It ain't hard.

And for god's sake stop giving Ashton Kutcher work.

Psychedelic Kimochi

God bless America. Guess what Seo Ji-Su (서지수) does for a living and you'll probably be wrong.

By the way, the kimochi part refers of course to that hearty slab of tonkatsu, though it by far isn't the only part of the photo to make my mouth water.

Make Me Wanna Holler

Two recent headlines found on the main page of Yahoo!:

Rapper Foxy Brown skips NJ court session

Owens might not play until opener

If you take a second to read those articles, I'm sure you'll quickly understand that there's barely a worthy news story in either of them. Let's face it, if somebody somewhere saw T.O. with his shoelaces untied the press would probably run a piece on it. It's the Foxy Brown story that is really perplexing. How is that news? Check that, How the fuck does that make Yahoo!'s main page!? I'd sorta understand were it, say, 50 Cent or Kanye West, but Foxy Brown? What year is this, 1997? Does anyone even remember her anymore?

But she's a celebrity (or was) and she's black, and the mainstream press loves to report on their transgressions, however minor, as proven by the articles above.

Which reminded me of something I had been meaning to mention for the past two weeks. You see, Los Angeles Clippers owner Donald Sterling is being sued by the Department of Justice for housing descrimination. Sterling, it seems, has no problem hiring black players to help make him rich, but he doesn't want to rent homes to them.

The Sterling story is by far bigger than both the T.O. and Foxy Brown stories combined, but the case has been ignored by the press. Shit ain't right.

I urge everyone to read Bomani Jones's great ESPN article, Sterling's racism should be news, here.

An excerpt:

There was a time when Donald Sterling was a joke. His Los Angeles Clippers got all the laughs, but he got all the credit. Sterling was the absent mind behind the NBA's longest-running vaudeville revue, his stinginess serving as the fuel behind the rust standard for ineptitude.


He was condemned with ridicule for coldly running a losing basketball team, a sin deemed unforgivable by most. Sterling was a skinflint, so despicable that you couldn't help but wonder if the man who makes most of his money from real estate was only concerned with building a dream home in the most famous tropical enclave of them all: hell.


What Donald Sterling's doing now is no laughing matter.Now, Sterling signs free agents and signs his best players to extensions. Maybe he's OK after all?


Or, maybe not.


Sterling was sued by the Department of Justice on Monday for housing discrimination. Though Sterling has no problem paying black people millions of dollars to play basketball, the feds allege that he refused to rent apartments in Beverly Hills and Koreatown to black people and people with children.


Talk about strange. A man notoriously concerned with profit maximization refuses to take money from those willing to shell it out to live in the most overrated, overpriced neighborhood in Southern California? That same man, who gives black men tens of millions of dollars every year, refuses to take a few thousand a month from folks who would like to crash in one of his buildings for a while? You gotta love racism, the only force in the world powerful enough to interfere with money-making.


Sterling may have been a joke, but nothing about this is funny. In fact, it's frightening and disturbing that classic racism like this might still be in play.


What's even more disturbing? Sterling was sued for housing discrimination by 19 plaintiffs in 2003, according to The Associated Press. In this case, Sterling was accused of trying to drive blacks and Latinos out of buildings he owned in Koreatown. In November, Sterling was ordered to pay a massive settlement in that case. Terms were not disclosed, but the presiding judge said this was "one of the largest" settlements ever in this sort of matter. The tip of the iceberg: Sterling had to play $5 million just for the plaintiffs' attorney fees.


And the coup de grace? Neither that case, nor the more recent one, has qualified as big news.


The tragedy of Maurice Clarett is big news. So are the legal adventures of the Cincinnati Bengals, Rhett Bomar's inability to recognize that not all money is good money, Floyd Landis' daily excuse, and teenager Michelle Wie's being too nervous to tell a grown man she would no longer pay him to carry her stuff around a golf course.


But Donald Sterling's refusing to offer housing to blacks and Latinos? Must not have that sizzle.

Shit ain't fucking right.

Last Days

One of the many paradoxes of cinema: It's easy to make a boring action movie (ask Brett Rattner or Paul W.S. Anderson), hard to do the same with a realistic drama comprised of everyday routine. Gus Van Sant is a master of mundanity, and I mean that as a compliment. While his three most recent films are undoubtedly filled with scenes which are boring, there's no question about the skill it took to make them so. Was I bored while watching Last Days? Certainly. Do I consider it a great film? Definitely.

Structurally and stylistically Last Days mirrors Van Sant's 2003 film, Elephant, but where Elephant took the Columbine massacre and basically recreated it, Last Days is far less "faithful" to its source material, Kurt Cobain's suicide. Which works for me; I'm unsure whether Van Sant changed the plot due to his own artistic vision or whether he was afraid Courtney Love would sue and have the film's distribution halted, but, regardless, it was a sound decision. He managed to make a film inspired by Cobain's suicide that isn't a cliche, and that is perhaps the film's ultimate triumph.

Van Sant is of a dying breed: an auteur in the truest sense, a director who doesn't make his films too abstract or weird simply for the sake of being abstract or weird, instead aiming for realism. (I'd love to see his film adaptation of Flaubert's Madame Bovary.) Perhaps that's too middle ground for audiences on both sides of the moviegoing spectrum: Van Sant's last three films have been neither grossly gratuitous nor subtly sedated (please forgive me my alliteration, father, for I have sinned): they exist in their own world, a world strikingly similar to ours, where people act mundanely, utter unintelligible words, and yet still manage to be wholly interesting. People tend to watch films to escape reality or make their own reality seem more vivid than it actually is, and it serves as a pleasant shock when one sees a film that, instead of being a conduit for escapism or reality on steroids, conforms to one's boring existence. And it's profoundly engaging. It is art imitating life in its simplest, truest form.

It sounds contradictory, but dullness, so long as it's not our own, is gripping. This is what rivited Jimmy Stewart's character in Rear Window, what boosts the ratings of a myriad television reality shows. I truly believe that our imaginations have been subjected to so much fantasy and hyper-realism in media that natural selection of the psyche is leading us back towards media that is a much more honest reflection of ourselves. In the case of reality TV this is fool's gold; but Van Sant is onto something here, and I sincerely hope that his ostensible trilogy becomes a quadrilogy, a quintilogy, and continues to multiply ad infinitum like wet Mogwais.

On to the film proper, Last Days tells the story of Blake, a rock star escaped from rehab. He wanders through the woods until he finds his way to what can only be described as a Victorian-style flophouse. The place is inhabited by a motley crew of Blake's friends -- though that term should be used loosely, because he's barely regarded and only solicited when one of them wants something. Likewise, Blake stalks about the house like a phantom (a phantom who dresses in women's undergarments and cooks Kraft Dinner like a retard, mind you), isolated and never making even the most basic social connection, not even when, near the film's end, he ventures outside in an attempt to interact with others.

It's clear that Blake is a drug addict and that he kills himself, although no scenes of either drug abuse or suicide are shown. What is unclear, though, is the torment of which they are a result. Is Blake weighed down by the pressures of fame? Does he have psychological issues? Is he in a Darwinian sense an unevolved species, in a commercial one a defective model? Or, perhaps like the character Kirilov in Dostoevsky's The Devils, does he believe that suicide is the singular expression of free will?

These questions and many more are never answered. Good. A typical biopic would spoon-feed its audience with theories and answers. Last Days opts for realism, and in doing so stays true to its inspiration and, most essentially, its reflection of the truth vis-a-vis the beauty of our miraculously dull existence.

Rating: 4/4 *_*



Note: Ricky Jay -- who along with Tom Wilkinson and Brian Cox are the MSG of cinema: they make every movie in which they appear taste better -- has a great cameo as a private investigator. His Chin Ling Fu/Chun Ling Soo anecdote is among the best pieces of dialogue in modern cinema.