This afternoon we got a phone call telling us that our friend Rod Poole was stabbed to death last night in Hollywood - I think we're still having a hard time believing that it's true. Rod moved from England to LA in 1989 and met my family shortly afterwards - I first met him when I was eleven or twelve when he was helping my grandparents around the house (amongst other odd jobs) to support himself while he was trying to work on his music. Later on, when I moved down to LA and started going out to live shows pretty much every musician I ever talked to about Rod agreed that he was one of the most amazing improvisational guitar players they had ever heard. I have a lot of really funny memories of Rod but what I remember the most about him is how impassioned he was about politics and his sense of justice, especially for those who had less (both economically and socially) in society.
On Friday the NBA League Office reviewed the tapes of Wednesday's Suns-Spurs match up and determined that no action was necessary against Bruce Bowen for sharply kicking Amare Stoudemire in his Achilles tendon. Even though Stoudemire joins a long list of players who have come out against Bowen for being a flagrantly physical player, the office just dropped it. Note I didn't use the term "allegedly" in describing the incident- in the video I have seen, Bowen fully creeps up behind Stoudemire and clearly looks down to aim his foot so he can quickly kick Stoudemire as he's shooting. Check it out:
After the incident, Stoudemire told reporters on Thursday that Bowen intentionally tried to hurt him, called Manu Ginobili out for his behaviour during the regular season, and suggested that, overall, the Spurs are a "dirty team." Here's the thing: he's right. When I'm not so bored to tears by the Spurs and I actually take the time to watch them playing basketball it's like watching high school drama practice. In a single game you can see Ginobili and others trying to draw fouls by flopping over the stage, err I mean court, more times than in a Shakespearean tragedy. The frustrating thing is that for some reason most sports critics refuse to call out the Spurs for the way they behave on court. There was some minor backlash against them last season for their questionable behavior and a few bloggers calling for the end of the patented Ginobili flop that - in trying to draw attention and amplify a fake foul, has actually hurt other players in the process.
Maddeningly, in this recent Stoudemire-Bowen incident (especially after the NBA review on Friday), most sports bloggers and writers have turned against Stoudemire calling him "young" and immature for making comments against the Spurs in the media. You know what? I disagree. The Spurs do play dirty and I'm starting to suspect that Greg Popovich was the inspiration for the Evil Sensei character in The Karate Kid.
For all my complaining about the heat and other worries the last few days, it is nice to take a moment to appreciate the ephemeral joys outside and on the court. My grandma had more orchids bloom this year than any year before and - even though I'm here only a few weeks earlier than I was last year when I took somepics - they seem more vibrant. Her flower garden in the springtime has always made me so happy - I love the way it smells right after watering every little pot and the ground (especially right by the blossoming lemon tree and the rosemary).
Speaking of vibrancy, Derek Fisher always seems to pull a clutch play (dagger even? ugh, that term is so overused) during playoffs every couple of years just to remind me of what a subtly awesome player he has been. He gets on the court last night in the middle of the third quarter - after seeing his ten-month-old daughter through dangerous surgery - and reminded the Warriors why dropping him this past season might not have been the best idea. I miss the sweatband though D. If the NBA were to have additional awards each year, D-Fish would totally get the MBTB award (Most Believable as a Teddy Bear) and Mr. Congeniality.
Who knew vinegary hot sauce and fried chicken wings could taste so good? Like the Pavlovian dog that I am, my mouth keeps watering every time I think about it. I'm going to become a fixture at Harold's Chicken Shack #47. It turns out they had their grand opening earlier this month. I'll never forget who gave me my first wing dude.
Kim reminded our brave group of five last night before we set off into the early, spring evening for the KFC on University Avenue of the following adage: Remember the lessons of the past. You gorge on KFC and you feel sick. A month later you forget and the fried chicken cravings start all over again.
We didn't listen - but as you can see from this handy diagram, the ears are not a part of the digestive system (please, no Deleuzean critiques in the comments section about the body, its organs and its systems, because I'm sure you were so just about to go there).
The Odyssey of KFC:
1: The cornucopia of riches that KFC (or "KFCucopia") offers enters your mouth (last night this included honey bbq boneless wings; extra crispy wings and drumsticks, gravy, green beans, corn, biscuits, cole slaw, and even more gravy that you fondly refer to as "meat soda"). MOOD: Frenzied but happy.
2: Yay Saliva! The mouth's natural lubricant to ease the bounty down. KFC gravy assists with the lubrication process. MOOD: Still frenzied. Still happy.
3,4,5,6 Don't have much to say about you... too busy eating fried chicken. MOOD: Smug, happy, with a beginning onset of greasiness.
7: The hardly chewed food begins to make its way down through the espophagus. Were this an image of my esophagus last night, you would be able to detect the faint outline of a drumstick I may or may not have swallowed whole. MOOD: Sluggish but content. Definitely feeling greasy.
8: Once the food reaches the stomach research has shown that KFC products act much like those little capsules you had when you were a kid that expand fifty times their original size into sponge dinosaurs when you place them in water. MOOD: A contest between remorse and sleepiness. Remorse sets in as you begin to question if the second biscuit and all of those swigs directly from the styrofoam gravy container were really necessary. As you contemplate their comedic necessity, an overpowering sense of fatigue sets in that attempts to battle the remorse. This may or may not be linked to a "forget-me-now" chemical that KFC adds to their food items - after all, who can remember their digestive unhappiness if they are asleep?
9 and 10: Your body continues to battle the onslaught of fats, preservatives, and other noxiously delicious KFC chemicals. MOOD: Rage. If you have resisted the food's "forget me now" sleep agent, you become filled with rage and disbelief at the Colonel. Who wears white when they're eating fried chicken anyway?
11: It's the next day and much of the KFCucopia exits from your body. MOOD: No comment.
I would like to make it clear for the record: I was thousands of miles away when Winston the Cat's person was violated with an object of clothing for the purpose of photographing and exploiting his moronic cuteness. Sure sure, you all thought it would be me that would be the one to make Sikky or Winston wear clothing but it wasn't (btw, Easter or no, my first choice would have been a plucky little felt pirate hat - it's totally a sea theme and everyone knows cats love fish).
Meanwhile, I was exploring the Woodland Park Zoo today where I witnessed the following sad scene unfold at the gorilla exhibit: Although it's pretty obvious what is going on in the picture sequence above, let me just break it down for you: [Frame 1]: In a moment hearkening back to the rock giant Biter in The Neverending Story, the gorilla looks down at his hands that clutch nothing and he considers all that he has lost and stands to lose during his stay at the Woodland Park Zoo. [Frame 2]: The gorilla vomits into his hands. [Frame 3]: The gorilla eats his own vomit. This went on for about fifteen minutes. Hey - at least it drove most of the kids away from the exhibit. [Frame 4]: This was taken after a heart-to-heart I had with the gorilla and presented him with a copy of Chicken Soup for the Primate Soul. Yet another life transformed by a metaphorical hot dose of restorative broth.
