Random notes from last nights draft:
- Thank you ESPN for having me rush home, disregard my dry cleaning when they have three of my pants, because I didn’t want to miss anything because you said it started at 7. I turn on the tv and you have a count down to the start of the draft and its at 28 minutes. Now I had to wear my worst pair of pants to work. My job isn’t like Cold Pizza where I can just walk around naked:
http://www.nypost.com/seven/06292007/news/nationalnews/espns_grope_dopes_nationalnews_kati_cornell.htm
My only regret is that Skip Bayless wasn’t implicated as well.
- Greg Oden’s hilarious. I’m a fan of this guy for life if only because he said in his blog that he wants Nike to do a commercial for him with a Lil’ Penny like character. How many 19 year olds know about Lil’ Penny? Kids these days don’t know about the important things.
- Kevin Durant apparently played basketball for 9-10 hours a day when he was 10 years old. Even my workaholic self was impressed by that. The first time I saw Durant play was when he played at the Garden. I saw five minutes and fell asleep or changed the channel or something. That’s all I needed to see that he was the truth. When the hype on him started around January, I wasn’t surprised at all, and I hadn’t seen him play since then. My reaction was, “Yup, that’s a bad man right there.”
- I officially hate Joakim Noah. First off, don’t wear a seersucker suit and claim you rep NYC. And this whole “I’m a thug” thing needs to stop. All street cred was lost when they said that your mom was Miss Sweden. Stop acting like that and maybe we can talk. At least I didn’t hear you say “Dem Gator Boys.” Enjoy the winter in Chicago prick.
- Good to see Tim Duncan get his Fuck You commercial from Adidas. He needs to remind people that he’s the best player since Jordan from time to time in case people forget. Granted it wasn't in the same league as Reggie Bush and Vince Young antagonizing Houston in terms of Draft Fuck You Commercials, but it was good none the less. I wouldn't be surprised if those two started riots in Houston. If I were a Texans fan, I know I would have wanted to (Its great having Mangini running the J-E-T-S, Jets, Jets, Jets. I feel completely comfortable making draft jokes these days. I was even hoping for the Jets draft blunders montage just to reminisce, but the didn't show it this year. Oh well)
- I wish I had Tivo so I could do things like check to see if Fran Fraschilla really said Yi “is hip hop, is 50 Cent”.
- Speaking of Yi, Stuart Scott asked him, "What is it best that you like about America?" I think they should have brought in Colbert to ask this question. "What is it that you like best about America? The capitalism? Democracy? It's the freedom, right?" We'll have more political commentary at the draft later on.
- By the end of the night I was pretty drunk (big surprise there). Bourbon and Guinness were involved, but yet I digress. I was writing notes so I would have some idea what to write about the next morning and the last thing I wrote was “FUCK THE SUNS OWNER” after he sold his first draft pick. Portland picked the guy that would be a good fit with them (Rudy Fernandez). His team has a chance to win the title next year and he’s selling picks. Un-freakin-beliveable. If I was Steve Nash I’d feel pissed on. If you’re a sports owner, do you really need to worry about making money? So you lose a few million a year. You’re only worth $437 million instead of $441 million. You make most of your money when you sell the team and the franchise’s value has increased anyway. And how do you increase your franchise’s value? I’m pretty sure winning championships is a good way to do it.
- I think I laughed every time Jay Bilas said that a player needed to “Improve Ball Control Skills.” If only I had my friend Beavis sitting next to me, we could have really had some laughs.
And now we get to my three favorite parts of the night.
1. On their draft ticker, ESPN had “Stephen A. Smith’s Needs Assessment” for each team. Seattle’s was “NEEDS KEVIN DURANT.” That killed me for some reason. Probably because I assumed that he would turn of the Stephen A. Smith button while writing, but apparently not.
2. Julian Wright saying that his favorite ESPN announcer was Stephen A. and that he didn’t want to do an impression of him for fear of pissing him off. Then they cut to Stephen A. who had the goofiest of goofy grins on. Highly entertaining (2 entertaining Stephen A. Smith moments? What were the odds of that happening?)
3. And finally, while Stuart Scott was interviewing Spencer Hawes it was revealed that his truck has a bumper sticker that says “God Bless George W. Bush.” When’s the first team hunting trip with him, Brad Miller and hopefully Ron Artest? We can only hope that this leads to Spencer and Ron Ron discussing politics and possibly doing a Sacramento version of Hannity and Colmes. Reggie Theus could even be the moderator. He has tv experience. Make it happen David Stern.
And yes, I realize that my three favorite moments featured Stephen A. Smith and Stu Scott. I know, I’m scared too.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
NBA Draft Preview
The NBA Draft night used to be my favorite night of the year. Three things changed to move it down to my second or possibly third favorite:
1. I became an alcoholic. Irish Day is now in the # 1 spot.
2. Sports Guy’s NBA Draft running diaries completely changed it for me. I’m not as much worried as who goes where as who wears what and if Stuart Scott says Booyah. Not that this is any less entertaining, its just different and doesn’t feel as right. Plus, I’m looking forward more to the article the following day than anything else, so that the day after the draft has moved up the ranks.
3. Tonight marks the two year anniversary of the Phone Call. Yep, that’s right, the one that started with a long pause and then, “…I’m pregnant.” She didn’t even have the common courtesy to wait until after at least the first round was done (joking). Now, the result of that call has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but that was a pretty awkward/traumatic night. It wasn’t the George Castanza “My boys can swim” type of reaction. In fact, I had to get off the phone, give myself a few minutes to realize what happened (and chug a bunch of Jack, John Belushi style) and then call her back. Anyway, it changed the way I look at draft night a bit.
But it’s still an entertaining as hell night.
While the so called draft experts compare players to other players, I go a different route (would you expect anything less from me). Back in 2003, I compared the top prospects to female celebrities. I said Lebron was like the Olsen twins (In that the anticipation for them going pro/turning 18 was unprecedented. Not in terms of talent/skills). Melo was Lindsay Lohan in that they both had astronomical rises is a year to the point that people were making the case that they should be #1. Looking back, I pretty much nailed that one. Both have shown talent and a propensity for dumb ass decisions.
So now I’ll break down Oden/Durant celebrity style (and yes I know Chad Ford made the girlfriend comparisons yesterday. I doubt he spent as much time working out the details as I have). For comparison purposes, we have to assume that personality does not factor in, this is strictly in hedonistic terms.
Greg Oden is Britney Spears. Now this is Britney in 2002-2003 range when she was considered sane and still hot (when she was in Esquire wearing just a sweater is the ideal timeframe). Both Mr. Oden and Ms. Spears are what we’ve been told is exactly what we’re looking for physically in a classic sense. Oden’s the dominant 7 footer that anchors championship teams. Britney had the blond bombshell/Marilyn Monroe/Barbie doll thing going for her. Both have untapped potential. Britney was a virgin/only slept with Justin Timberlake so there could teach her. Same with Oden in that his offensive game can only get better. Now even if they just turn out to be average in those departments, it’s still incredible because of the physical skills. Normal sex gets improved because it’s Britney freakin Spears, same as if Oden develops a jump shot he’ll be pretty much unstoppable because of he’s a 7 footer with agility. But if they turn out to excel at those things, its pretty much everything you could want in a girlfriend/player.
Durant on the other hand, is Angelina Jolie. While not quite the physical specimen, there’s that thing that you can’t teach that lifts the ceiling on where the relationship/career can go. Durant’s raw talent = Jolie’s raw sexuality. Just as you can’t put a price on having a guy with a 7’5” wingspan with NBA 3 point range, you can’t put a price on random women saying about your girlfriend, “I’m not lesbian, but I would sleep with her and only her.” I really can’t imagine what the limit would be on what could happen with either of them. Durant’s 27 point first half at Kansas = having sex in the limo on the way over to award shows.
Finally, I’d be letting you the reader down if I didn’t talk about the one thing that might shift the balance in your decision. Oden at the predraft combine = Britney’s quickie wedding. Now this depends on your aversion to risk. On one hand, you find out that one leg is longer than the other which raises the injury risk. On the other, you have the revelation that Greg was the second best athlete in the draft and he’s 7 feet which raises his upside potential. In Britney’s case, you realize that she might be crazier than you thought. But if you talk yourself into that it was just a youthful mistake, you realize that Jason Alexander was allegedly getting dome action that whole time in Vegas so this raises her tremendous upside potential (I remember reading that he got it in the shower and for awhile I was trying to push the term “getting a Britney” for that sexual act. Unfortunately, no one I knew ever got that so it fell by the wayside. The fact that I remember these details four years later tells you how impressed I was by it).
So there you have it, a sane Britney Spears or Angelina Jolie. Tough decision for any man, but there are no losers with that choice. Unless a Kevin Federline comes into the equation. And it’s quite possible that I wrote this entire episode to be the first to compare K Fed to Zach Randolph (once again blazing new territory here on the Barney Show).
1. I became an alcoholic. Irish Day is now in the # 1 spot.
2. Sports Guy’s NBA Draft running diaries completely changed it for me. I’m not as much worried as who goes where as who wears what and if Stuart Scott says Booyah. Not that this is any less entertaining, its just different and doesn’t feel as right. Plus, I’m looking forward more to the article the following day than anything else, so that the day after the draft has moved up the ranks.
3. Tonight marks the two year anniversary of the Phone Call. Yep, that’s right, the one that started with a long pause and then, “…I’m pregnant.” She didn’t even have the common courtesy to wait until after at least the first round was done (joking). Now, the result of that call has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but that was a pretty awkward/traumatic night. It wasn’t the George Castanza “My boys can swim” type of reaction. In fact, I had to get off the phone, give myself a few minutes to realize what happened (and chug a bunch of Jack, John Belushi style) and then call her back. Anyway, it changed the way I look at draft night a bit.
But it’s still an entertaining as hell night.
While the so called draft experts compare players to other players, I go a different route (would you expect anything less from me). Back in 2003, I compared the top prospects to female celebrities. I said Lebron was like the Olsen twins (In that the anticipation for them going pro/turning 18 was unprecedented. Not in terms of talent/skills). Melo was Lindsay Lohan in that they both had astronomical rises is a year to the point that people were making the case that they should be #1. Looking back, I pretty much nailed that one. Both have shown talent and a propensity for dumb ass decisions.
So now I’ll break down Oden/Durant celebrity style (and yes I know Chad Ford made the girlfriend comparisons yesterday. I doubt he spent as much time working out the details as I have). For comparison purposes, we have to assume that personality does not factor in, this is strictly in hedonistic terms.
Greg Oden is Britney Spears. Now this is Britney in 2002-2003 range when she was considered sane and still hot (when she was in Esquire wearing just a sweater is the ideal timeframe). Both Mr. Oden and Ms. Spears are what we’ve been told is exactly what we’re looking for physically in a classic sense. Oden’s the dominant 7 footer that anchors championship teams. Britney had the blond bombshell/Marilyn Monroe/Barbie doll thing going for her. Both have untapped potential. Britney was a virgin/only slept with Justin Timberlake so there could teach her. Same with Oden in that his offensive game can only get better. Now even if they just turn out to be average in those departments, it’s still incredible because of the physical skills. Normal sex gets improved because it’s Britney freakin Spears, same as if Oden develops a jump shot he’ll be pretty much unstoppable because of he’s a 7 footer with agility. But if they turn out to excel at those things, its pretty much everything you could want in a girlfriend/player.
Durant on the other hand, is Angelina Jolie. While not quite the physical specimen, there’s that thing that you can’t teach that lifts the ceiling on where the relationship/career can go. Durant’s raw talent = Jolie’s raw sexuality. Just as you can’t put a price on having a guy with a 7’5” wingspan with NBA 3 point range, you can’t put a price on random women saying about your girlfriend, “I’m not lesbian, but I would sleep with her and only her.” I really can’t imagine what the limit would be on what could happen with either of them. Durant’s 27 point first half at Kansas = having sex in the limo on the way over to award shows.
Finally, I’d be letting you the reader down if I didn’t talk about the one thing that might shift the balance in your decision. Oden at the predraft combine = Britney’s quickie wedding. Now this depends on your aversion to risk. On one hand, you find out that one leg is longer than the other which raises the injury risk. On the other, you have the revelation that Greg was the second best athlete in the draft and he’s 7 feet which raises his upside potential. In Britney’s case, you realize that she might be crazier than you thought. But if you talk yourself into that it was just a youthful mistake, you realize that Jason Alexander was allegedly getting dome action that whole time in Vegas so this raises her tremendous upside potential (I remember reading that he got it in the shower and for awhile I was trying to push the term “getting a Britney” for that sexual act. Unfortunately, no one I knew ever got that so it fell by the wayside. The fact that I remember these details four years later tells you how impressed I was by it).
So there you have it, a sane Britney Spears or Angelina Jolie. Tough decision for any man, but there are no losers with that choice. Unless a Kevin Federline comes into the equation. And it’s quite possible that I wrote this entire episode to be the first to compare K Fed to Zach Randolph (once again blazing new territory here on the Barney Show).
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Shawn Kemp Strikes Again
Not sure if you've been following the murdered pregnant woman in Ohio. If you haven't, a lady who was due next week to give birth was murdered with her baby's father being arrested as the prime suspect. The suspect, Bobby Cutts Jr., has children with three different women. Now you're probably saying to yourself, "I get it, he's just going to make a stupid Shawn Kemp reference about the Rain Man being the only person who's done that before." You underestimate me, fair weathered reader. The patron saint of multiple baby mamma's is indirectly involved in this story:
"In 1998, Cutts was accused of breaking into Giavasis' (the mother of his first child)home while she was inside with former NBA player Shawn Kemp of the Cleveland Cavaliers."
http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/06/26/cutts.profile.ap/index.html
I was reading that on cnn.com and they just drop that in there. I need more details. Drop Paris from Larry King and put Shawn on.
"In 1998, Cutts was accused of breaking into Giavasis' (the mother of his first child)home while she was inside with former NBA player Shawn Kemp of the Cleveland Cavaliers."
http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/06/26/cutts.profile.ap/index.html
I was reading that on cnn.com and they just drop that in there. I need more details. Drop Paris from Larry King and put Shawn on.
RTC: He Got Game
I’ve been gone for a minute but I’m back. I took a brief vacation to go back to the West End. I didn’t have topics to post about while there (well I probably did, but was too drunk to remember them). We’re starting a new thing here on The Barney Show: “Reviewing the Classics”. On these episodes (I’m calling blog posts episodes for two reasons. One, it gives me a reason to call it The Barney Show. Second, when I say on the next episode, I’ll get that classic Dre beat going in my head. You can’t be upset if picture Snoop blowing massive amounts of haze while a stripper is in the background and that beat is in your head. It’s pretty much impossible.) I’ll review the positives and negatives of a movie that I feel are of high quality. I’m going to avoid reviewing actual classics because I feel that there’s no way my writing could do justice to how good movies like The Godfather is. Instead, I’ll be focusing on movies that most normal people would not consider classics, but on ones that pretty much only I consider important movies that everyone should watch. Alright, not everyone. Just people that have multiple head injuries so their sense of reality is distorted. First up, He Got Game.
Plus: It’s a movie about basketball. I’d give pretty much any movie about this at least a chance (except Crossover. I will never watch a movie where Wayne Brady is a streetball villain). There are some great basketball scenes in it, most notably where they’re playing pick up in the park and the Aaron Copland music is playing the “Beef, its what’s for dinner” song. The highlight is when Booger (that name’s another plus), pulls out the paper from his sock and goes, “We the Lincoln Railsplitters. What, you ain’t read the paper that day?” And if you think I didn’t keep a copy of my picture in Newsday with me, on the off chance that I could say that, you don’t know me.
Plus: Public Enemy soundtrack. The title track where they sample “There’s something happening” is great. Plus, looking watching it on DVD these days, I get flashbacks of Flava of Love.
Plus: Jim Brown as a probation officer. Whoever did that casting job should have gotten a bonus. Me and my roommates in college used to play the “Baddest Man on the Planet” game where we debated which person would intimidate you the most if you were locked in an empty room with them and they were pissed (It had to be a celebrity though. I mean, you couldn’t just say some random guy out in Folsom.) Ray Lewis and Roy Jones, Jr. in their primes were always good choices. My point is, that if you had to play all time, I think Jim Brown would win it hands down. The man was in his 60s during this movie and I was still afraid of him.
Plus: Rosario Dawson as LaLa. Any movie that features her calling someone Papi gets bonus points. Also, this was the first big movie that she was in, so it was a major discovery for my 15 year old brain. The fact that she gets naked in it doesn’t hurt either. Her actions in this movie also taught me never to trust women even if you’re the # 1 recruit in the nation. If he can get cheated on, anyone can. When I’m single and bitter in 30 years, this probably will get moved to the negative column.
Plus: The entire college recruiting trip scene. This completely destroyed my college recruiting trips for me. I kept looking around for the white girls that wouldn’t require me to kick my roommate out, and would let me drive Daddy’s Benz. I guess my first hint this wasn’t going to happen was that Rick Fox didn’t greet me in a Kangol.
Plus: Booger as Jesus Shuttlesworth’s cousin. This guy had great lines. I mentioned the paper one earlier, plus “I feel sexy when I’m on the court” and walking around with a sign that said “HE DEOSN’T KNOW YET”. Plus any movie is enhanced by someone named Booger.
Plus: The opening credits. This made me miss basketball so much. Spike Lee just captures the beauty of the game. Plus, Booger Smith NYC Playground legend is in it. And like 0.03 % of the population could identify him 10 years after he was in a Sports Illustrated article. That’s why you need me reviewing movies for you, for insight like that. Now you understand where Booger the PG on Lincoln comes from.
Plus: Big Time. In pretty much any other movie, this would be the “Reason you should see this movie” that will be further down. This guy should have gotten his own movie. If I could actually have put it down, this exchange would have been my high school yearbook quote:Big Time: How do you spell pussy?
Booger: P-U
Big Time: H-I-V
That my friends, is hilarious. “the pussy be talking to you Jesus”. Plus the fact that he was the only one not on Ray Allen’s nuts was fun. He provided nothing to the plot except for an entertaining as hell 5 minutes.
Plus: Ray Allen shooting jump shots to open the movie. I may have problems that I consider that more beautiful than Rosario Dawson topless.
Plus: George Karl commenting as coach of the Sonics about his future player in Milwaukee. Apparently, he didn’t hold the same respect for Ray Allen as he did for Jesus.
Plus: The role call scene in the locker room. This only gets a plus because we did this on a bus ride home from a game back in high school and I completely froze up and couldn’t think of anything after “my name is…”
Plus: The scene where Jesus and Lala get it on in a Ferris Wheel, and the quick release that Jesus had. This led to the great quote from my friend’s dad, “If that’s how long he lasted, he ain’t my man anymore.”
And the final plus: Gus Johnson is the announcer when Lincoln wins the PSAL championships.
Minus: The actual plot itself. Has anyone ever actually sat down and analyzed what the plot of this movie is? In a nutshell, a convicted murderer is allowed out of prison to try and convince his All-American son to go to a particular school so that his prison time can be reduced. I mean, what is the actual probability that this happens? 1% tops? I don’t care how much the governor loves Big State, he’s not risking the him not being hard on criminals so they can go to the Final Four. Could you imagine the political fallout if this ever went public? Let’s just move on before my head explodes.
Minus: The way college coaches completely sold out to appear in this movie. I mean, show some class guys and turn a movie that depicts you accurately as blood sucking leeches down. And yes, I’m still mad that Dean Smith was in that montage and Coach K held out. Fucking Duke bastards.
Minus: The ending. Did this make sense to anyone? Why shoot the ball into various arenas? This was like that Jordan-Bird McDonald’s commercial where they shot it through interstates and stuff except that the film version served no point. I’m still mad at this ending today. Could have made it a classic, instead its relegated to me reviewing it.
Minus: The whole hooker with a heart subplot. Does anyone in the theater say, “Hey, I want to know what a convicted murderer does for sex on the off chance that he gets out because his son is the best high school prospect in the country,”? Absolutely not. So why include this? To get Milla Jovovich involved? I’m completely baffled as to why this was included. It’s just a forward button part of the movie for me.
And finally, the Reason You Should Watch This Movie: the sex scenes. Ray Allen going down that dorm hallway to meet Buffy and Suzy gives me goose bumps. Rick Fox’s, “Brooklyn is definitely in the house,” deserves an Oscar at some point for its sheer brilliance. Add in the Big Time sex montage as well as Rosario Dawson getting naked and you have the recipe for dynamite sex scenes. As a guy who was in high school when this came to video (no dvd’s back then), this was a great movie to own just for the fact that it doubled as a porno. I could watch it anytime as a basketball movie and then when the house was empty, fast forward to Buffy and Suzy and have 2 minutes of bliss. This movie is completely underrated in this aspect. And that’s one of the reasons it’s a Barney Show classic.
Plus: It’s a movie about basketball. I’d give pretty much any movie about this at least a chance (except Crossover. I will never watch a movie where Wayne Brady is a streetball villain). There are some great basketball scenes in it, most notably where they’re playing pick up in the park and the Aaron Copland music is playing the “Beef, its what’s for dinner” song. The highlight is when Booger (that name’s another plus), pulls out the paper from his sock and goes, “We the Lincoln Railsplitters. What, you ain’t read the paper that day?” And if you think I didn’t keep a copy of my picture in Newsday with me, on the off chance that I could say that, you don’t know me.
Plus: Public Enemy soundtrack. The title track where they sample “There’s something happening” is great. Plus, looking watching it on DVD these days, I get flashbacks of Flava of Love.
Plus: Jim Brown as a probation officer. Whoever did that casting job should have gotten a bonus. Me and my roommates in college used to play the “Baddest Man on the Planet” game where we debated which person would intimidate you the most if you were locked in an empty room with them and they were pissed (It had to be a celebrity though. I mean, you couldn’t just say some random guy out in Folsom.) Ray Lewis and Roy Jones, Jr. in their primes were always good choices. My point is, that if you had to play all time, I think Jim Brown would win it hands down. The man was in his 60s during this movie and I was still afraid of him.
Plus: Rosario Dawson as LaLa. Any movie that features her calling someone Papi gets bonus points. Also, this was the first big movie that she was in, so it was a major discovery for my 15 year old brain. The fact that she gets naked in it doesn’t hurt either. Her actions in this movie also taught me never to trust women even if you’re the # 1 recruit in the nation. If he can get cheated on, anyone can. When I’m single and bitter in 30 years, this probably will get moved to the negative column.
Plus: The entire college recruiting trip scene. This completely destroyed my college recruiting trips for me. I kept looking around for the white girls that wouldn’t require me to kick my roommate out, and would let me drive Daddy’s Benz. I guess my first hint this wasn’t going to happen was that Rick Fox didn’t greet me in a Kangol.
Plus: Booger as Jesus Shuttlesworth’s cousin. This guy had great lines. I mentioned the paper one earlier, plus “I feel sexy when I’m on the court” and walking around with a sign that said “HE DEOSN’T KNOW YET”. Plus any movie is enhanced by someone named Booger.
Plus: The opening credits. This made me miss basketball so much. Spike Lee just captures the beauty of the game. Plus, Booger Smith NYC Playground legend is in it. And like 0.03 % of the population could identify him 10 years after he was in a Sports Illustrated article. That’s why you need me reviewing movies for you, for insight like that. Now you understand where Booger the PG on Lincoln comes from.
Plus: Big Time. In pretty much any other movie, this would be the “Reason you should see this movie” that will be further down. This guy should have gotten his own movie. If I could actually have put it down, this exchange would have been my high school yearbook quote:Big Time: How do you spell pussy?
Booger: P-U
Big Time: H-I-V
That my friends, is hilarious. “the pussy be talking to you Jesus”. Plus the fact that he was the only one not on Ray Allen’s nuts was fun. He provided nothing to the plot except for an entertaining as hell 5 minutes.
Plus: Ray Allen shooting jump shots to open the movie. I may have problems that I consider that more beautiful than Rosario Dawson topless.
Plus: George Karl commenting as coach of the Sonics about his future player in Milwaukee. Apparently, he didn’t hold the same respect for Ray Allen as he did for Jesus.
Plus: The role call scene in the locker room. This only gets a plus because we did this on a bus ride home from a game back in high school and I completely froze up and couldn’t think of anything after “my name is…”
Plus: The scene where Jesus and Lala get it on in a Ferris Wheel, and the quick release that Jesus had. This led to the great quote from my friend’s dad, “If that’s how long he lasted, he ain’t my man anymore.”
And the final plus: Gus Johnson is the announcer when Lincoln wins the PSAL championships.
Minus: The actual plot itself. Has anyone ever actually sat down and analyzed what the plot of this movie is? In a nutshell, a convicted murderer is allowed out of prison to try and convince his All-American son to go to a particular school so that his prison time can be reduced. I mean, what is the actual probability that this happens? 1% tops? I don’t care how much the governor loves Big State, he’s not risking the him not being hard on criminals so they can go to the Final Four. Could you imagine the political fallout if this ever went public? Let’s just move on before my head explodes.
Minus: The way college coaches completely sold out to appear in this movie. I mean, show some class guys and turn a movie that depicts you accurately as blood sucking leeches down. And yes, I’m still mad that Dean Smith was in that montage and Coach K held out. Fucking Duke bastards.
Minus: The ending. Did this make sense to anyone? Why shoot the ball into various arenas? This was like that Jordan-Bird McDonald’s commercial where they shot it through interstates and stuff except that the film version served no point. I’m still mad at this ending today. Could have made it a classic, instead its relegated to me reviewing it.
Minus: The whole hooker with a heart subplot. Does anyone in the theater say, “Hey, I want to know what a convicted murderer does for sex on the off chance that he gets out because his son is the best high school prospect in the country,”? Absolutely not. So why include this? To get Milla Jovovich involved? I’m completely baffled as to why this was included. It’s just a forward button part of the movie for me.
And finally, the Reason You Should Watch This Movie: the sex scenes. Ray Allen going down that dorm hallway to meet Buffy and Suzy gives me goose bumps. Rick Fox’s, “Brooklyn is definitely in the house,” deserves an Oscar at some point for its sheer brilliance. Add in the Big Time sex montage as well as Rosario Dawson getting naked and you have the recipe for dynamite sex scenes. As a guy who was in high school when this came to video (no dvd’s back then), this was a great movie to own just for the fact that it doubled as a porno. I could watch it anytime as a basketball movie and then when the house was empty, fast forward to Buffy and Suzy and have 2 minutes of bliss. This movie is completely underrated in this aspect. And that’s one of the reasons it’s a Barney Show classic.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Chasin' the Ponies in WVa
So a couple weeks ago my friend from work, Doh Boy, tells me his birthday in next weekend and he’s planning a day of golf followed by some horse racing at night. He follows this up with a question, “You ever go to the track?” I try to play dumb for a bit and answer, “Ummmm….yeah, I’ve gambled on the ponies before.” It’s kind of like David Hassellhoff’s daughters saying, “ummm….yeah, I know a little bit about drinking,” while visions of their dad passed out on the floor dance in their heads. If you’ve been in an OTB at age 6, you’re kind of exposed to that thing at a young age. My dad used to take me and my brother to both OTB and Belmont all the time. The main advantage to going to Belmont was that we each got $2 a race to bet. At OTB, we just had to walk around, watch the race, and hope we didn’t get lung cancer in the 20 minutes we were in there. So I was significantly intrigued to find out there was a horse track near by enough to go gamble a bit…in West Virginia.
Before we get into the whole WVA thing, I gotta say, working with someone who calls himself Doh Boy would be a lot more fun if I worked with my friends. He could have his own theme song: “I stay, Doh Boy, Doh, Doh, Doh Boy fresh…” (I’ve been watching too much HollyHood lately). We also could make random Boyz N The Hood references too. We’d probably get fired by demanding that he say, “Ho’s gotta eat too.” So much fun that goes to waste by my co-workers lack of knowledge of Three 6 Mafia and John Singleton movies. Since I’m writing this at 8 pm on my way home from an 11 hour day in a shirt and tie, I probably should have expected this though. For the record though, Doh is part of his name, so that’s where it comes from.
So off I am to the land of Jason Williams, Randy Moss and Kevin Pittsnogle. White Chocolate and Moss immortalized their hometown in one of my favorite Nike ads where they show old high school clips with the “Just some good ol’ boys” song playing. Why no one has done a documentary on these two in high school is beyond me. It might be the most interesting/revealing/hilarious hour ever put on film. What are the freakin odds that two of the entertaining athletes and biggest head cases grew up in some bum fuck town the same year? It boggles my mind. As for Pittsnogle, he became a hero to me when he revealed that Domino’s pizza was served at his wedding and a karaoke machine doubled as the entertainment. That my friends, is country. Plus the fact that he played on one of the most entertaining college teams in my lifetime doesn’t hurt either.
My first instinct when I cross the border is to check the radio. The first two songs I hear are hip hop. I go through the entire airwaves without hearing any banjo music. I’m surprised already.
I’m not surprised when I see my West Virginian. He’s wearing a wife beater to go into a diner while carrying a small child. Just picture Cletus and you know what I mean. Also, there are several shacks here. They’re just right next to really nice houses. This might be the upscale part of West Virginia. But I’m pretty sure I could ask the price of those nice houses and $200K would be a good estimate. I gotta get out of the city. My entire price range for houses has been skewed tremendously.
I arrive at the track at 7:15. Doh Boy is supposed to be there at 7:30 with some of his friends. He shows up at 9. Not that that bothered me. I was happy to drink beers and gamble by myself. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
The good news is I won the first race. That’s always good because it feels like I’m playing with house money the rest of the night. The next race featured a horse named “Out of the Trap.” I took this as a sign and decided that I needed to wager heavily on this horse on the off chance that it was owned by Young Jeezy or TI. Plus the fact that I’d have a fine selection of celebratory music if I hit it big had an influence on this selection. Alas, it was not to be. Out of the Trap finished out of the money. (I think that’s the first time in the history of the English language that “Alas, it was not to be,” was in the same paragraph as Young Jeezy. We break new ground every day here at The Barney Show.)
So after Doh Boy shows up is the real reason I ended up coming to this place. The track had this offer where for $70, you could name a race, meet the winning owner and jockey and give them a trophy. That might be the best deal ever. After getting stuck on an e-mail chain with him and his buddies debated the name of the race with inside jokes galore (and me on the outside), the settled on NBG’s 3rd Annual Ride to Save Friartucks. This would be hilarious if I knew the back story. I eventually got it out of him. Friartucks was a gay bar where they all went to college. Doh Boy while highly inebriated one night decided to take a bike ride by Friartucks…completely naked (NBG = Naked Bike Guy). NBG topped this off by smacking his ass out front and yelling “Hey, want some of this?” and riding away. Just a tremendous college story. Also, there was no 1st or 2nd annual running of this. They just went right to the third.
So as I mentioned before, we got to meet the winning owner. All of us have a beer in our hands. Doh Boy goes up to the guy and hands him the trophy, and says, “Congratulations on winning the 3rd Annual Ride to Save Friartucks.” The owner turns dead serious, thinking we’re actually trying to save something and says something along the lines of, “It’s a great honor.” Also the owner showed up wearing beaten up sneakers and a West Virginia NIT Champs t-shirt. Apparently, everyday isn’t the Kentucky Derby for owner. Or maybe that’s West Virginia owners. How I didn’t check if the t-shirt was the one with Virginia misspelled that they gave to the players on the court is beyond me. I’ve been kicking myself for days now.
On the way home, I stop at a local 7 Eleven for some water for the ride home. As I’m at the counter, I notice the magazine rack…with The Economist and Time. Maybe I’m wrong on this, but do people from West Virginia really make impulse buys of these two magazines? I would be surprised to have them in the store at all, never mind right at the cash register. I’d think it would be something like Guns & Ammo, but what do I know.
Before we get into the whole WVA thing, I gotta say, working with someone who calls himself Doh Boy would be a lot more fun if I worked with my friends. He could have his own theme song: “I stay, Doh Boy, Doh, Doh, Doh Boy fresh…” (I’ve been watching too much HollyHood lately). We also could make random Boyz N The Hood references too. We’d probably get fired by demanding that he say, “Ho’s gotta eat too.” So much fun that goes to waste by my co-workers lack of knowledge of Three 6 Mafia and John Singleton movies. Since I’m writing this at 8 pm on my way home from an 11 hour day in a shirt and tie, I probably should have expected this though. For the record though, Doh is part of his name, so that’s where it comes from.
So off I am to the land of Jason Williams, Randy Moss and Kevin Pittsnogle. White Chocolate and Moss immortalized their hometown in one of my favorite Nike ads where they show old high school clips with the “Just some good ol’ boys” song playing. Why no one has done a documentary on these two in high school is beyond me. It might be the most interesting/revealing/hilarious hour ever put on film. What are the freakin odds that two of the entertaining athletes and biggest head cases grew up in some bum fuck town the same year? It boggles my mind. As for Pittsnogle, he became a hero to me when he revealed that Domino’s pizza was served at his wedding and a karaoke machine doubled as the entertainment. That my friends, is country. Plus the fact that he played on one of the most entertaining college teams in my lifetime doesn’t hurt either.
My first instinct when I cross the border is to check the radio. The first two songs I hear are hip hop. I go through the entire airwaves without hearing any banjo music. I’m surprised already.
I’m not surprised when I see my West Virginian. He’s wearing a wife beater to go into a diner while carrying a small child. Just picture Cletus and you know what I mean. Also, there are several shacks here. They’re just right next to really nice houses. This might be the upscale part of West Virginia. But I’m pretty sure I could ask the price of those nice houses and $200K would be a good estimate. I gotta get out of the city. My entire price range for houses has been skewed tremendously.
I arrive at the track at 7:15. Doh Boy is supposed to be there at 7:30 with some of his friends. He shows up at 9. Not that that bothered me. I was happy to drink beers and gamble by myself. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
The good news is I won the first race. That’s always good because it feels like I’m playing with house money the rest of the night. The next race featured a horse named “Out of the Trap.” I took this as a sign and decided that I needed to wager heavily on this horse on the off chance that it was owned by Young Jeezy or TI. Plus the fact that I’d have a fine selection of celebratory music if I hit it big had an influence on this selection. Alas, it was not to be. Out of the Trap finished out of the money. (I think that’s the first time in the history of the English language that “Alas, it was not to be,” was in the same paragraph as Young Jeezy. We break new ground every day here at The Barney Show.)
So after Doh Boy shows up is the real reason I ended up coming to this place. The track had this offer where for $70, you could name a race, meet the winning owner and jockey and give them a trophy. That might be the best deal ever. After getting stuck on an e-mail chain with him and his buddies debated the name of the race with inside jokes galore (and me on the outside), the settled on NBG’s 3rd Annual Ride to Save Friartucks. This would be hilarious if I knew the back story. I eventually got it out of him. Friartucks was a gay bar where they all went to college. Doh Boy while highly inebriated one night decided to take a bike ride by Friartucks…completely naked (NBG = Naked Bike Guy). NBG topped this off by smacking his ass out front and yelling “Hey, want some of this?” and riding away. Just a tremendous college story. Also, there was no 1st or 2nd annual running of this. They just went right to the third.
So as I mentioned before, we got to meet the winning owner. All of us have a beer in our hands. Doh Boy goes up to the guy and hands him the trophy, and says, “Congratulations on winning the 3rd Annual Ride to Save Friartucks.” The owner turns dead serious, thinking we’re actually trying to save something and says something along the lines of, “It’s a great honor.” Also the owner showed up wearing beaten up sneakers and a West Virginia NIT Champs t-shirt. Apparently, everyday isn’t the Kentucky Derby for owner. Or maybe that’s West Virginia owners. How I didn’t check if the t-shirt was the one with Virginia misspelled that they gave to the players on the court is beyond me. I’ve been kicking myself for days now.
On the way home, I stop at a local 7 Eleven for some water for the ride home. As I’m at the counter, I notice the magazine rack…with The Economist and Time. Maybe I’m wrong on this, but do people from West Virginia really make impulse buys of these two magazines? I would be surprised to have them in the store at all, never mind right at the cash register. I’d think it would be something like Guns & Ammo, but what do I know.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Weekend Musings
Now for some random thoughts from the weekend:
- So I’m leaving the mall on Sunday, and I see this guy in an Iverson jersey. Not a Nuggets one, but a Philly one. On the ballerific scale (I’m trying to use ballerific as much as possible to get it out of my vocabulary. Don’t ask.), where does this rank? I mean, this guy couldn’t possibly not know that Iverson got traded, right? He also had the fully coordinated outfit with it. After thinking about it, I remember how pissed I was that I got rid of my Antoine Walker jersey after he got traded back to Boston, so maybe the guy thought there was a chance that Iverson might go back to Philly. (I know Walker is everything I don’t like about basketball but anyone who answers, “Because they don’t have 4 pointers,” when asked why he shoots so many 3s deserves some respect. That jersey also was responsible for this exchange:
Puerto Rican: Why are you wearing a Celtics jersey in New York?
Me: I’m Irish. If they had a team called the Banana Eaters I’m sure you would rock their jersey.
How I didn’t get my ass kicked is beyond me.)
- My most satisfying moment of the weekend was finding out that Jimmy King of the Fab Five is now working at Merrill Lynch as a financial analyst (wikipedia that shit, it’s true). I’ve now decided that my goal in life should be to accumulate enough money that I can have Jimmy King solely dedicated to my account. That way, I can call him and say things like, “I know the yen is in the crapper, but where did Jalen get that fire truck red pinstripe suit for the draft?” or “How much did Juwan pay for that box haircut? If you say more than $3, you were a shitty financial advisor to him at that point in your life.” I’ve also decided that if I ever win the lottery, when the media asks its obligatory “What will you do with the money?” question, my first response will obviously be “Makin’ it rain, Pacman Jones style.” My next response will be “And give the rest to Jimmy King to invest.” A lot of key decisions were made in my life this weekend.
- So with that in mind, which is the most random Fab Five thing accomplished outside of basketball: Jimmy King working on Wall St, Chris Webber producing a song that ended up on a Nas album that wasn’t Nastradamus, or Jalen Rose being named the only athlete on America's Leading Black Philantropist list? This might take me all week to figure out. Plus, one of their bench players is Kobe’s agent. If I’m ever on Jeopardy, I’d root for categories like “Michigan’s Fab Five” even though there’s not a chance in hell it would happen.
- Speaking of the Fab Five, they gave me an idea on how women’s hoops could be entertaining. They popularized the crotch grab after a dunk. Could this work for the WNBA? How ‘bout rubbing on some titties after a strong drive to the basket? I mean, the ultimate end result would be the whole “pull my jersey across my chest to show my heart” trend going over to the women’s game, but this could be a first step. (And I say this knowing full well that the thought of Sue Bird showing some nip after a shot clock beating jumper during crunch time will be dancing through my head in 8 years when I start going to these games with obviously no chance of it ever happening)
- Caught Fight Club on tv Saturday night. I’m moving toward the whole not letting my possessions own me thing. So much in fact that I’m refusing to put a sheet on my bed. That’s right, just a mattress on the floor baby (Ballerific personified). I don’t need shit besides a bottle of booze. You wouldn’t expect this the same week I got a raise, but a lot of things in my life don’t make sense. Have you read the previous 500 words? There is not one thing that makes sense in there.
- Finally, the Sopranos ended. I didn’t see it (basic cable…FLOSSIN!), but have heard about it. I don’t want to talk about that. I want to tell two stories that show the effect that show had on people. First, I was a college intern and was getting a ride home from an Italian co-worker. The Pulaski Skyway was jammed, so we took the scenic route, which basically turned into her pointing out half the opening credits to the show. It wasn’t that she pointed these out, but the pride that she had in it. You would think these were the works of Michelangelo. That’s the one thing I miss about Jersey, the ridiculous amount of pride they take in The Sopranos.
Secondly, one of my favorite exchanges while hammered off of Henn Rock:
Me: (random Jewish joke)
Chick that’s out of my league, but I somehow think I have a chance with: I’m Jewish
Me to my friend, but loud enough (not on purpose)so that the said chick could hear: Fuck, ain’t that my luck. She’s Jewish, but has the same last name as someone on the Sopranos. Bevilaqua was the kid that got shot last season. And here I am trying not to make spaghetti jokes all night. Fuck, man.
Really out of my league now chick: I’m Italian too.
Me: FUUUCCK
I’ll miss ya Tony.
- So I’m leaving the mall on Sunday, and I see this guy in an Iverson jersey. Not a Nuggets one, but a Philly one. On the ballerific scale (I’m trying to use ballerific as much as possible to get it out of my vocabulary. Don’t ask.), where does this rank? I mean, this guy couldn’t possibly not know that Iverson got traded, right? He also had the fully coordinated outfit with it. After thinking about it, I remember how pissed I was that I got rid of my Antoine Walker jersey after he got traded back to Boston, so maybe the guy thought there was a chance that Iverson might go back to Philly. (I know Walker is everything I don’t like about basketball but anyone who answers, “Because they don’t have 4 pointers,” when asked why he shoots so many 3s deserves some respect. That jersey also was responsible for this exchange:
Puerto Rican: Why are you wearing a Celtics jersey in New York?
Me: I’m Irish. If they had a team called the Banana Eaters I’m sure you would rock their jersey.
How I didn’t get my ass kicked is beyond me.)
- My most satisfying moment of the weekend was finding out that Jimmy King of the Fab Five is now working at Merrill Lynch as a financial analyst (wikipedia that shit, it’s true). I’ve now decided that my goal in life should be to accumulate enough money that I can have Jimmy King solely dedicated to my account. That way, I can call him and say things like, “I know the yen is in the crapper, but where did Jalen get that fire truck red pinstripe suit for the draft?” or “How much did Juwan pay for that box haircut? If you say more than $3, you were a shitty financial advisor to him at that point in your life.” I’ve also decided that if I ever win the lottery, when the media asks its obligatory “What will you do with the money?” question, my first response will obviously be “Makin’ it rain, Pacman Jones style.” My next response will be “And give the rest to Jimmy King to invest.” A lot of key decisions were made in my life this weekend.
- So with that in mind, which is the most random Fab Five thing accomplished outside of basketball: Jimmy King working on Wall St, Chris Webber producing a song that ended up on a Nas album that wasn’t Nastradamus, or Jalen Rose being named the only athlete on America's Leading Black Philantropist list? This might take me all week to figure out. Plus, one of their bench players is Kobe’s agent. If I’m ever on Jeopardy, I’d root for categories like “Michigan’s Fab Five” even though there’s not a chance in hell it would happen.
- Speaking of the Fab Five, they gave me an idea on how women’s hoops could be entertaining. They popularized the crotch grab after a dunk. Could this work for the WNBA? How ‘bout rubbing on some titties after a strong drive to the basket? I mean, the ultimate end result would be the whole “pull my jersey across my chest to show my heart” trend going over to the women’s game, but this could be a first step. (And I say this knowing full well that the thought of Sue Bird showing some nip after a shot clock beating jumper during crunch time will be dancing through my head in 8 years when I start going to these games with obviously no chance of it ever happening)
- Caught Fight Club on tv Saturday night. I’m moving toward the whole not letting my possessions own me thing. So much in fact that I’m refusing to put a sheet on my bed. That’s right, just a mattress on the floor baby (Ballerific personified). I don’t need shit besides a bottle of booze. You wouldn’t expect this the same week I got a raise, but a lot of things in my life don’t make sense. Have you read the previous 500 words? There is not one thing that makes sense in there.
- Finally, the Sopranos ended. I didn’t see it (basic cable…FLOSSIN!), but have heard about it. I don’t want to talk about that. I want to tell two stories that show the effect that show had on people. First, I was a college intern and was getting a ride home from an Italian co-worker. The Pulaski Skyway was jammed, so we took the scenic route, which basically turned into her pointing out half the opening credits to the show. It wasn’t that she pointed these out, but the pride that she had in it. You would think these were the works of Michelangelo. That’s the one thing I miss about Jersey, the ridiculous amount of pride they take in The Sopranos.
Secondly, one of my favorite exchanges while hammered off of Henn Rock:
Me: (random Jewish joke)
Chick that’s out of my league, but I somehow think I have a chance with: I’m Jewish
Me to my friend, but loud enough (not on purpose)so that the said chick could hear: Fuck, ain’t that my luck. She’s Jewish, but has the same last name as someone on the Sopranos. Bevilaqua was the kid that got shot last season. And here I am trying not to make spaghetti jokes all night. Fuck, man.
Really out of my league now chick: I’m Italian too.
Me: FUUUCCK
I’ll miss ya Tony.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
(Insert combination of Lebron, king, crowned, reign here)
I know, I know. You the reader have been anxiously waiting for my take on Lebron James. You’ve been pounding the message boards across the internet asking, “What does Barney have to say about last week’s performance? When will it be posted?” Wait, that’s not what’s been happening? Sorry, confused myself with an actual writer there. I tend to do that some times.
Let’s start by delving into where I was when this historic performance was going on: at the bar. See, I had gotten out of work at around 7:45. 12 hour days have a way of making me want bourbon so I don’t start computing how much my per hour pay decreased that day. Plus, a couple of my friends were already at happy hour, so I figured, why not just stop by. Three hours later and many double jack on the rocks, I’m plastered. On the way home, I’m in the cab when the second overtime starts. I knew something was up when Mike Tirico sounded like Gus Johnson. After asking myself, “Did I get so drunk that Mike Tirico sounds excited in my mind,” I actually listened to what he was saying and understood why. I was missing Lebron’s coming out party and got a little emotional. By the time I got home, the game was over, but I stayed up for another hour flipping back between Sportscenter and Inside the NBA, which is saying something considering how drunk I was. And the first thing I thought off when waking up the next morning, besides, “I don’t want to go to work”, was of that ridiculous three pointer he made on the left wing to tie the game up in the 2nd OT.
So after a week’s time of reflecting back, I have two feelings on this performance. The first was, “Wow!” Even just seeing the highlights was amazing. I forget who said it after the game, but Lebron was actually intimidating them. Jordan and Shaq were the only two players he saw who actually intimidated entire teams. Jordan’s was more mental (as evidenced by an opposing coach telling his young star to not say anything regarding Jordan as he began his comeback with Washington), but I thought that was a good point. This wow feeling turned into cursing myself that I had been waiting for this performance from Lebron and I missed it. I might go to AA one day and go, “I’m an alcoholic. I got so drunk one time, I missed Lebron James score 29 of the Cavs last 30 points.” (Though it won’t be as awkward as two weeks ago when my AA speech would have included, “I was so drunk, the Kelly Clarkson movie after she won American Idol was entertaining to me.” That’s the best one I’ve had so far, but there’s still time before I make this speech)
My second thought was, “What the hell took so long?” Here’s a guy who has “Chosen One” and “Witness” tattooed on himself, who embraces a nickname calling himself royalty (note: I actively try not to call him King James. I have a problem calling someone younger than me “King,” plus I feel like a tool). This was what was expected of him, right? I was about to jump off the “Lebron James will be up there with Jordan” bus after his incredible act after game 5 of the Nets series. “It’s just a basketball game,” should not come out of his mouth, I don’t care how pregnant his girlfriend is. This was needed to redeem himself for that crap. Then I realized that I sounded like a jaded sportswriter, so I try to block this thought out of my head. I’m already jaded enough about the rest of my life, no need to extend this to the NBA.
Quick Lebron story before I get into the Finals a bit: A couple of months ago I was talking to my brother and he just casually mentioned that he played against Lebron in AAU ball, like 8 years ago. He mentioned this like he was talking about some random ok movie he saw a few years ago. After nearly punching him for withholding this information from me, which he had to have known I would probably pay some money to hear, he told me, “Yeah, he was going up for a dunk, I was in the area, I left the area before he dunked. He was really, really good.” That’s it. My brother’s a fuckin’ genius, but he needs to kick some of that chemical formulas out of his head so he can remember more details about that game. (I’m sorry if I just wasted 2 minutes of your life with that last paragraph. It added nothing to this post. I’m just venting that my brother didn’t have a good story. I guess it shows how much I expected from the guy that I was anticipating a story where he just kept discarding random white kids with reckless abandon on his way down the lane for vicious dunks for 32 minutes. Oh well. He might have had gears in eighth grade. If so, my brother’s team would have been one of those “coasting” games.)
As for my Finals prediction, Spurs in 5. I expect something along the lines of the 2001 Finals, where Iverson got hot one game, carried his team, but couldn’t do it for the other 4. I have a feeling Tim Duncan will be a ready to play and remind people how good he is. That’s probably a discussion for next week.
Let’s start by delving into where I was when this historic performance was going on: at the bar. See, I had gotten out of work at around 7:45. 12 hour days have a way of making me want bourbon so I don’t start computing how much my per hour pay decreased that day. Plus, a couple of my friends were already at happy hour, so I figured, why not just stop by. Three hours later and many double jack on the rocks, I’m plastered. On the way home, I’m in the cab when the second overtime starts. I knew something was up when Mike Tirico sounded like Gus Johnson. After asking myself, “Did I get so drunk that Mike Tirico sounds excited in my mind,” I actually listened to what he was saying and understood why. I was missing Lebron’s coming out party and got a little emotional. By the time I got home, the game was over, but I stayed up for another hour flipping back between Sportscenter and Inside the NBA, which is saying something considering how drunk I was. And the first thing I thought off when waking up the next morning, besides, “I don’t want to go to work”, was of that ridiculous three pointer he made on the left wing to tie the game up in the 2nd OT.
So after a week’s time of reflecting back, I have two feelings on this performance. The first was, “Wow!” Even just seeing the highlights was amazing. I forget who said it after the game, but Lebron was actually intimidating them. Jordan and Shaq were the only two players he saw who actually intimidated entire teams. Jordan’s was more mental (as evidenced by an opposing coach telling his young star to not say anything regarding Jordan as he began his comeback with Washington), but I thought that was a good point. This wow feeling turned into cursing myself that I had been waiting for this performance from Lebron and I missed it. I might go to AA one day and go, “I’m an alcoholic. I got so drunk one time, I missed Lebron James score 29 of the Cavs last 30 points.” (Though it won’t be as awkward as two weeks ago when my AA speech would have included, “I was so drunk, the Kelly Clarkson movie after she won American Idol was entertaining to me.” That’s the best one I’ve had so far, but there’s still time before I make this speech)
My second thought was, “What the hell took so long?” Here’s a guy who has “Chosen One” and “Witness” tattooed on himself, who embraces a nickname calling himself royalty (note: I actively try not to call him King James. I have a problem calling someone younger than me “King,” plus I feel like a tool). This was what was expected of him, right? I was about to jump off the “Lebron James will be up there with Jordan” bus after his incredible act after game 5 of the Nets series. “It’s just a basketball game,” should not come out of his mouth, I don’t care how pregnant his girlfriend is. This was needed to redeem himself for that crap. Then I realized that I sounded like a jaded sportswriter, so I try to block this thought out of my head. I’m already jaded enough about the rest of my life, no need to extend this to the NBA.
Quick Lebron story before I get into the Finals a bit: A couple of months ago I was talking to my brother and he just casually mentioned that he played against Lebron in AAU ball, like 8 years ago. He mentioned this like he was talking about some random ok movie he saw a few years ago. After nearly punching him for withholding this information from me, which he had to have known I would probably pay some money to hear, he told me, “Yeah, he was going up for a dunk, I was in the area, I left the area before he dunked. He was really, really good.” That’s it. My brother’s a fuckin’ genius, but he needs to kick some of that chemical formulas out of his head so he can remember more details about that game. (I’m sorry if I just wasted 2 minutes of your life with that last paragraph. It added nothing to this post. I’m just venting that my brother didn’t have a good story. I guess it shows how much I expected from the guy that I was anticipating a story where he just kept discarding random white kids with reckless abandon on his way down the lane for vicious dunks for 32 minutes. Oh well. He might have had gears in eighth grade. If so, my brother’s team would have been one of those “coasting” games.)
As for my Finals prediction, Spurs in 5. I expect something along the lines of the 2001 Finals, where Iverson got hot one game, carried his team, but couldn’t do it for the other 4. I have a feeling Tim Duncan will be a ready to play and remind people how good he is. That’s probably a discussion for next week.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Welcome to The Barney Show
So I imagine this should have been the first posting, the origins of this blog. But of course, I’m an idiot and decided to put 2700 words about Communist strippers up first. Any way, for those of you unfamiliar with The Barney Show it was a started in 2000 as a way to pass time on road trips and was somehow entertaining. But being on a bus that couldn’t go on the highway, I imagine anything short of a kidney punch could be considered mildly entertaining. We were also told that playing any more games of red light would result in our team being disbanded, so we had to find other ways to amuse ourselves without beating the living piss out of freshman. I, the show’s host, would start every “show” off by going, “Live from the back of the bus (later changed if we were on “location”), its The Barney Show.” The first time I did this, I realized I needed a theme song, and started humming “The Hustle” on the spot. So 3 seconds into this show someone should have realized that my ad-libbing might need work (Young Jeezy, I am not). Also, it’s worth noting that when I call it a “show”, I mean it in the loosest sense of the word. I was usually talking into a pen or possibly a plastic spoon. We had a budget of three sheets of paper on that show.
The show was a blatant rip off of David Letterman. There was my opening monologue, usually a guest (me talking to my idiot friend about something retarded), and several Top 7 Lists(I think this started because the first time I did it, I only had 7 lines that I thought were funny. Now that I look back, I’m surprised I had 7. That might be a record for me, though I’m sure in hindsight, not all of those would be funny). The Top 7 Lists were based on the stupid things that my friends and I did in high school. Every show had the same jokes, just in a different order. It lasted 15 minutes tops. The musical guest usually consisted of me singing (and badly I might add). And yet, what was once supposed to be a one time deal to basically make fun of someone for not scoring with this chick, some how evolved into a fairly regularly “show”.
The biggest obstacle I faced at the time was people who didn’t know how to make fun of themselves (an impartial observer would say that I did cross the line numerous times, so I deserved to be called an asshole). I tried to tone it down one time to attract a broader audience (read a chick with a nice ass), but that show was a disaster and the girl didn’t like the show. So I vowed never to do it again in front of her and made her promiscuity a running joke throughout the rest of the show. You mess with the bull, you get the horns (and that’s the best I could do to end that paragraph. Let’s get it out there right away that I’m not an English major. I took engineering courses so I wouldn’t have to write. This blog thing is going to be a disaster, don’t ever doubt that.)
After I graduated high school, I still did shows from time to time. The same jokes were still made, but since I only did like one a year, it seemed some what funnier because the audience (3 of my idiot friends) hadn’t heard it in awhile. I think the highlight of this period was writing a show while we visited someone’s girlfriend’s house at Sea Isle City, NJ, when the girl was convinced I was outside doing coke. This night ended with me passing out with steak knives next to me because I was convinced the entire town was possessed by a demon or something, so she might have been right. Cocaine is a hell of a drug. It was a decent show, even though I was too plastered to remember much else besides the pure evil that that town had.
So with that illustrious history behind us, we’re now into the 21st century Barney Show, blog style. Apparently, the internet is on computers now as well. The idea for this came from one of my friends, who thought it would be a good idea to start a blog. I think it was a nice way of telling me, “Stop sending me retarded e-mails about random things you saw in Texas. You’re clogging my inbox. Put it on a website and I’ll check it when I feel like (and by that I really mean never).” We’ll see how this works out, but it can’t be worse than talking into a pen for cheap laughs.
The show was a blatant rip off of David Letterman. There was my opening monologue, usually a guest (me talking to my idiot friend about something retarded), and several Top 7 Lists(I think this started because the first time I did it, I only had 7 lines that I thought were funny. Now that I look back, I’m surprised I had 7. That might be a record for me, though I’m sure in hindsight, not all of those would be funny). The Top 7 Lists were based on the stupid things that my friends and I did in high school. Every show had the same jokes, just in a different order. It lasted 15 minutes tops. The musical guest usually consisted of me singing (and badly I might add). And yet, what was once supposed to be a one time deal to basically make fun of someone for not scoring with this chick, some how evolved into a fairly regularly “show”.
The biggest obstacle I faced at the time was people who didn’t know how to make fun of themselves (an impartial observer would say that I did cross the line numerous times, so I deserved to be called an asshole). I tried to tone it down one time to attract a broader audience (read a chick with a nice ass), but that show was a disaster and the girl didn’t like the show. So I vowed never to do it again in front of her and made her promiscuity a running joke throughout the rest of the show. You mess with the bull, you get the horns (and that’s the best I could do to end that paragraph. Let’s get it out there right away that I’m not an English major. I took engineering courses so I wouldn’t have to write. This blog thing is going to be a disaster, don’t ever doubt that.)
After I graduated high school, I still did shows from time to time. The same jokes were still made, but since I only did like one a year, it seemed some what funnier because the audience (3 of my idiot friends) hadn’t heard it in awhile. I think the highlight of this period was writing a show while we visited someone’s girlfriend’s house at Sea Isle City, NJ, when the girl was convinced I was outside doing coke. This night ended with me passing out with steak knives next to me because I was convinced the entire town was possessed by a demon or something, so she might have been right. Cocaine is a hell of a drug. It was a decent show, even though I was too plastered to remember much else besides the pure evil that that town had.
So with that illustrious history behind us, we’re now into the 21st century Barney Show, blog style. Apparently, the internet is on computers now as well. The idea for this came from one of my friends, who thought it would be a good idea to start a blog. I think it was a nice way of telling me, “Stop sending me retarded e-mails about random things you saw in Texas. You’re clogging my inbox. Put it on a website and I’ll check it when I feel like (and by that I really mean never).” We’ll see how this works out, but it can’t be worse than talking into a pen for cheap laughs.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Road Trip to Philly
So I spent part of this Memorial Day weekend in Philly visiting K-Dog. My reasoning for this was something along the lines of “I only have enough energy to spend two afternoons at my condo’s pool trying to figure out the girl I’m staring at is 18” mixed with “I want to get away, but don’t have the patience to A) Drive to NY or B) Deal with the out of town douche bags that come to the West End bars for Memorial Day.” Thus on those two noble platforms, a weekend trip began.
I pull up to the apartment in Philly fully prepared. I’ve got a friend with me who K-Dog remembers: Good Ol’ Jack Daniels. He put his full liter outfit on for this trip. First sign we’ll have some fun. K-Dog also has a female acquaintance with him, who has some admirable physical characteristics about her. Unfortunately, it is revealed by him 15 minutes later that she like to munch carpet, so Plan A is out. By the end of the night we’re on Plan AL.
After a delightful dinner at the local TGI Fridays, it’s my favorite part of any night, getting the bottle open and making a dent in it. The said Jack Daniels gets poured quite a bit into my glass, as is the Patron that K-Dog has sitting around. By the time we head out to the bars, I probably have a few beers and 400 mL of liquor in me. That’s what I call a pre-game. We head out to a few bars, combining the above liquors with Hennessy and a few other adult sodas and then finally end up at an Irish bar.
Upon hitting the dance floor, I’m immediately grinding with a girl. This surprises me immensely, because I’m usually the guy who doesn’t dance, but when is drunk enough, gets pissed off at girls who want to dance, just not with him. In fact, I once compared me going out to establishments like this as my emotional response to watching Goodfellas. First I’m like, “Yeah, this is fun, there’s a bunch of hot chicks dancing. This is going to be a great night,” which coincides with my emotion through the first half of the movie where Liotta is saying things like, “As long as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster,” and Joe Pesci is killing people for having to get his shine box, and you’re thinking, why don’t I watch Goodfellas more often? But by the end I’m in full on, “Why the fuck won’t these bitches dance with anyone? Why do you come to a place to dance with your girl friends? If it’s because I don’t have enough money, just tell me,” mode, which coincides with “So in the end, was it worth it?”, which end with me asking why did I spend 3 hours of my life, knowing Henry Hill would get coked up and rat everyone out? Why, Why? Anyway, back to the story I’m trying to tell and the first of numerous distractions to the actual plot line that you the reader will have to navigate. This girl, however, seems sufficiently skanky enough that I might have a chance of banging her tonight, but experience tells me that I’ll just end up pissed off again. So my liver and I decided to try another approach.
Instead of dancing with the younger girl who is just waiting for a wealthier male to look at her, I decide to change strategies. There are two older women at the bar, looking to dance. One is probably around 40, with the lines on her face to prove it. Her friend is less obviously older, but still looks pretty cute. The dance begins. It was actually kind of refreshing to dance with girls who weren’t looking to grind on you. I mean, 80s (and one could possibly be a 70s) babies don’t just start dry humping the first person they meet in a club. Ah, a simpler time. Anyway, we’re dancing 3 feet apart from each other, which is really not my strong point. Definitely not my strong point when I’m out with a black guy who can do a whole hell of a lot more than just shake his pelvis randomly and dip his shoulders at appropriate times (two staples of my game). So of course K-Dog ends up dancing with the younger, cuter one, and I end up with Squint Lines. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. A divorcee looking to get her freak on with no strings attached seems like a good idea to me. What seemed like a good idea was evidently not when K-Dog asked one of them if they wanted to split a cab. Her response was, “No, it’s ok, my husband is coming to pick me up.” After the shock wore of in 15 seconds, I wondered where their rings were and why they even danced with us. My brain swimming in alcohol came to the conclusion that they were just “trying to have a good time” and “35 year olds need to dance to some Ludicris every once in awhile too.” Not the greatest explanation, but it got me from really regretting that I didn’t dance with Lil’ Miss Grind on you 30 seconds into seeing you. Because that probably would have ended badly. In fact, I can almost guarantee that. You know your life might need to have some changes where getting turned down by a 40 year old woman is actually a better scenario than what could have occurred. Let’s just move on before I need a glass of bourbon to continue.
Being that getting turned down by a 30 year old who faked her entire situation to us wasn’t enough of a weird evening, K-Dog asked, “Wanna go to a strip club?” Me, not deterred by the fact that a 40 year old just turned me down, thought nothing of responding, “Sure.” I probably should have been a little more suspicious when K-Dog mentioned that he has a membership at this strip club and that I might be able to get a blow job if I’m a shrewd negotiator. Not that I’m a connoisseur of strip clubs like King Bunt is (who can not only discuss the quality of women at nearly every strip club in New Jersey, but also the quality of the buffet. I made the obligatory comment that Chris Rock has about food at a strip club and I asked King Bunt if he wanted another shot of Henny), but somehow, I was under the impression that wasn’t part of the standard lap dance (but what do I know? My entire strip club experience is from my freshman year when I learned never to take Day-Quil before going to a strip club. You don’t want to be the 18 year old who can’t get it up during a lap dance. I probably killed that stripper’s self esteem for quite awhile).
My should have been suspicions were confirmed when we got to the strip club, if you want to call it that. First off, we were in the hood. Not the rap hood, the real hood. Every other store (nothing else was open at 2:30 in the morning) had bars over it. There was a cop car parked in the middle of the street and someone was arguing with the cop. It also would have been worth noting to myself that they just had a report about the murder rate in Philly going through the roof recently, but that’s what a normal person on a normal night would have thought. I had 10-15 drinks in me (depending on your definition of a drink and what my memory serves me), so I obviously wasn’t thinking about last week’s cnn.com.
I mentioned above that it was a strip club, if you want to call it that. It really was more like someone converted their basement into a place for people to strip in a way to make money between the hours of 12 – 5 AM because they had some available time. It was set up with a bunch of recliners set up on the outside, with the VIP section being made up of actual couches. I wish I was making this up, but I actually got asked to leave “VIP”. They pat you down, not once, but twice for firearms before entering. Plus, they check you wallet for condoms twice as well. After going through the intense security, I walked into what looked like a rap video. Not the ones you see on 106 & Park though. This was pretty much exactly like the ones on BET Uncut at 3 am by rappers you’ve never heard off. As a topper, just to make it more ghetto, someone decided that putting Christmas lights on the walls would add a touch of class. I was the only white person there, and possibly, ever. There was a good 5 minutes where I kept asking myself if this was real.
After sitting in the Lay-Z-Boy for 10 minutes just waiting, I decided, “How many other times am I going to be in a South Philly strip club? Let’s get a lap dance.” Brilliant logic if there ever was. Its part of a long standing tradition of brilliant logic on my part, kind of like “There’s a random girl waiting to have sex with me on the beach, let me run and get condoms” and “There’s no lasting side effects of drinking while concussed, right?” Anyway, there was no possible way I could shrewdly negotiate a BJ from the stripper so this was not even approached (how does one start that off? I’m sure just asking how much would be the appropriate way to go, but isn’t that just prostitution? I’m not sure if there’s a certain moral thing this woman has to be a stripper, but at least she’s not a whore), and I just settled for my lap dance. Upon leaving, I told K-Dog “I wasn’t sure if this was one of those strip clubs where you can’t touch the girls.” He gave me a look that said “Do you see where you are? There’s some girl getting fingered for $5 in singles over there. What made you even ask that question?” I’ve know the guy for 10 years and we’re able to communicate strip club questions through body language. Whoever said 90% of all communication was non verbal was a fucking genius (one final side note to interrupt any semblance of a cohesive story line here: has anyone else been more concerned for the feelings of strippers than me? Between the day-quil and this stuff, I’m starting to see why I don’t go more often. It’s hard to enjoy yourself if your constantly asking yourself retarded questions that normal guys just don’t give a shit about).
As I’m standing around waiting for K-Dog to get his lap dance, I noticed a stripper walking around in a red New Era fitted…with the USSR sickle and hammer. It takes a lot to shock me (as I shout “Whoa, a blue car”!!! while one drives by), but this did. Could this be real? Who is New Era marketing this to? I don’t think any wanna-be hippies are buying New Era hats at $30 a pop, so it has to be to the hip hop crowd. Would any of them think of pairing this with a Che Guevara shirt that wasn’t red? How many teenage hip hop fans even know what that stands for? 12 percent? I’m completely in shock by this.
I first think that this stripper might be a budding Marxist, but soon realize that A) probably not, and B) If she was intelligent enough to actually understand Communist thought, she would have to see that a stripper is probably more comfortable in a capitalistic society. I mean, commanding top dollar for shaking your ass probably doesn’t occur in Communist cultures. There’s probably a flat rate for that type of action regardless of how hot you are. And from my very limited experience with strippers, they try to milk every dollar out of you. They’re not dancing for Mother Russia. Just look at how the Russian whores embraced capitalism. They’re all over Europe already. In fact, this ghetto strip club might be the best example of pure capitalism that I can think of at the moment (there are probably 100 better examples that I’m just too dumb to think of). Consider this:
Supply and demand rules are in effect. There’s a finite supply of women willing to dance naked for complete strangers, and are hot enough to have men interested in the said dance. There is a steady demand from horny males. Thus, a stripper is able to command $20 for a 5 minute lap dance. Most jobs do not have $80-100 (and probably more) an hour pay rate.
The owners of this establishment recognized a need in the market place (a place for gentlemen to be entertained at a reasonable price) in this location (South Philly).
Though most strip clubs in the suburbs have to deal with zoning restrictions, I don’t think this one had quite the same restrictions as the Bada Bing. They probably don’t call the cops unless absolutely necessary. No liquor, so no license necessary. So there’s probably the least amount of government interference in this establishment as you can get. And if you think those strippers report every dollar to the IRS, you also might believe that I have a very slight drinking problem (very slight, I promise).
So there you go, a stripper wearing a hat with the sickle and hammer when she is actually bleeding capitalism out of her. At least that’s what I tell myself when it’s probably just a cold sore from her herpes (kidding, kidding, these were all very healthy girls, don’t sue me). If I hadn’t spent my last $20 on a lap dance from a non-Marxist stripper, I would have definitely bought one from her, just to see if she actually knew what she was wearing. But I don’t even want to think of the fees on an ATM in a strip club. It has to be higher than Chris Henry at the Bengals Memorial Day BBQ (just an awful, awful, awful joke, but I couldn’t think of any other way to finish that paragraph. Please forgive me and don’t hold this against my children).
So now that I think I convinced you at least 32% that this strip club is a great example of what Adam Smith had in mind, what do you think the bouncer would say during this exchange:
Bouncer: What are you doing touching the girls like that?
Drunken Me: That wasn’t me, that was the metaphorical invisible hand of Adam Smith.
Granted the response would be “Fuck you cracker, I’m gonna kick your ass”, but I’d take an ass whooping knowing that I delivered the greatest response ever to a bouncer asking why you’re getting a little too friendly with the strippers.
So that rambling story right there is a microcosm of what I plan to do with this blog. If you ever had a dissertation in your mind on the capitalistic tendencies of a strip club while waiting for your friend to finish his lap dance, this might entertain you. If you’ve ever thought at the end of a night that having the person you were dancing with say “My husband is picking me up” and then going to the most ghetto strip club ever and you go to bed thinking it was a normal night, this might be a blog you want to add to your favorites. If you get half of the movie quotes, sports references and other random insertions that don’t add anything to the story, this could be a way to kill 15 minutes instead of stabbing your eyes with a pencil. If you feel that your outlook on life is a bit too optimistic and want a sardonic and sarcastic commentator to bring you down, please feel free to stop by and check this out every once in awhile. And I’ll stop now before someone makes a snide comment, “You might be a redneck if…”
I pull up to the apartment in Philly fully prepared. I’ve got a friend with me who K-Dog remembers: Good Ol’ Jack Daniels. He put his full liter outfit on for this trip. First sign we’ll have some fun. K-Dog also has a female acquaintance with him, who has some admirable physical characteristics about her. Unfortunately, it is revealed by him 15 minutes later that she like to munch carpet, so Plan A is out. By the end of the night we’re on Plan AL.
After a delightful dinner at the local TGI Fridays, it’s my favorite part of any night, getting the bottle open and making a dent in it. The said Jack Daniels gets poured quite a bit into my glass, as is the Patron that K-Dog has sitting around. By the time we head out to the bars, I probably have a few beers and 400 mL of liquor in me. That’s what I call a pre-game. We head out to a few bars, combining the above liquors with Hennessy and a few other adult sodas and then finally end up at an Irish bar.
Upon hitting the dance floor, I’m immediately grinding with a girl. This surprises me immensely, because I’m usually the guy who doesn’t dance, but when is drunk enough, gets pissed off at girls who want to dance, just not with him. In fact, I once compared me going out to establishments like this as my emotional response to watching Goodfellas. First I’m like, “Yeah, this is fun, there’s a bunch of hot chicks dancing. This is going to be a great night,” which coincides with my emotion through the first half of the movie where Liotta is saying things like, “As long as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster,” and Joe Pesci is killing people for having to get his shine box, and you’re thinking, why don’t I watch Goodfellas more often? But by the end I’m in full on, “Why the fuck won’t these bitches dance with anyone? Why do you come to a place to dance with your girl friends? If it’s because I don’t have enough money, just tell me,” mode, which coincides with “So in the end, was it worth it?”, which end with me asking why did I spend 3 hours of my life, knowing Henry Hill would get coked up and rat everyone out? Why, Why? Anyway, back to the story I’m trying to tell and the first of numerous distractions to the actual plot line that you the reader will have to navigate. This girl, however, seems sufficiently skanky enough that I might have a chance of banging her tonight, but experience tells me that I’ll just end up pissed off again. So my liver and I decided to try another approach.
Instead of dancing with the younger girl who is just waiting for a wealthier male to look at her, I decide to change strategies. There are two older women at the bar, looking to dance. One is probably around 40, with the lines on her face to prove it. Her friend is less obviously older, but still looks pretty cute. The dance begins. It was actually kind of refreshing to dance with girls who weren’t looking to grind on you. I mean, 80s (and one could possibly be a 70s) babies don’t just start dry humping the first person they meet in a club. Ah, a simpler time. Anyway, we’re dancing 3 feet apart from each other, which is really not my strong point. Definitely not my strong point when I’m out with a black guy who can do a whole hell of a lot more than just shake his pelvis randomly and dip his shoulders at appropriate times (two staples of my game). So of course K-Dog ends up dancing with the younger, cuter one, and I end up with Squint Lines. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. A divorcee looking to get her freak on with no strings attached seems like a good idea to me. What seemed like a good idea was evidently not when K-Dog asked one of them if they wanted to split a cab. Her response was, “No, it’s ok, my husband is coming to pick me up.” After the shock wore of in 15 seconds, I wondered where their rings were and why they even danced with us. My brain swimming in alcohol came to the conclusion that they were just “trying to have a good time” and “35 year olds need to dance to some Ludicris every once in awhile too.” Not the greatest explanation, but it got me from really regretting that I didn’t dance with Lil’ Miss Grind on you 30 seconds into seeing you. Because that probably would have ended badly. In fact, I can almost guarantee that. You know your life might need to have some changes where getting turned down by a 40 year old woman is actually a better scenario than what could have occurred. Let’s just move on before I need a glass of bourbon to continue.
Being that getting turned down by a 30 year old who faked her entire situation to us wasn’t enough of a weird evening, K-Dog asked, “Wanna go to a strip club?” Me, not deterred by the fact that a 40 year old just turned me down, thought nothing of responding, “Sure.” I probably should have been a little more suspicious when K-Dog mentioned that he has a membership at this strip club and that I might be able to get a blow job if I’m a shrewd negotiator. Not that I’m a connoisseur of strip clubs like King Bunt is (who can not only discuss the quality of women at nearly every strip club in New Jersey, but also the quality of the buffet. I made the obligatory comment that Chris Rock has about food at a strip club and I asked King Bunt if he wanted another shot of Henny), but somehow, I was under the impression that wasn’t part of the standard lap dance (but what do I know? My entire strip club experience is from my freshman year when I learned never to take Day-Quil before going to a strip club. You don’t want to be the 18 year old who can’t get it up during a lap dance. I probably killed that stripper’s self esteem for quite awhile).
My should have been suspicions were confirmed when we got to the strip club, if you want to call it that. First off, we were in the hood. Not the rap hood, the real hood. Every other store (nothing else was open at 2:30 in the morning) had bars over it. There was a cop car parked in the middle of the street and someone was arguing with the cop. It also would have been worth noting to myself that they just had a report about the murder rate in Philly going through the roof recently, but that’s what a normal person on a normal night would have thought. I had 10-15 drinks in me (depending on your definition of a drink and what my memory serves me), so I obviously wasn’t thinking about last week’s cnn.com.
I mentioned above that it was a strip club, if you want to call it that. It really was more like someone converted their basement into a place for people to strip in a way to make money between the hours of 12 – 5 AM because they had some available time. It was set up with a bunch of recliners set up on the outside, with the VIP section being made up of actual couches. I wish I was making this up, but I actually got asked to leave “VIP”. They pat you down, not once, but twice for firearms before entering. Plus, they check you wallet for condoms twice as well. After going through the intense security, I walked into what looked like a rap video. Not the ones you see on 106 & Park though. This was pretty much exactly like the ones on BET Uncut at 3 am by rappers you’ve never heard off. As a topper, just to make it more ghetto, someone decided that putting Christmas lights on the walls would add a touch of class. I was the only white person there, and possibly, ever. There was a good 5 minutes where I kept asking myself if this was real.
After sitting in the Lay-Z-Boy for 10 minutes just waiting, I decided, “How many other times am I going to be in a South Philly strip club? Let’s get a lap dance.” Brilliant logic if there ever was. Its part of a long standing tradition of brilliant logic on my part, kind of like “There’s a random girl waiting to have sex with me on the beach, let me run and get condoms” and “There’s no lasting side effects of drinking while concussed, right?” Anyway, there was no possible way I could shrewdly negotiate a BJ from the stripper so this was not even approached (how does one start that off? I’m sure just asking how much would be the appropriate way to go, but isn’t that just prostitution? I’m not sure if there’s a certain moral thing this woman has to be a stripper, but at least she’s not a whore), and I just settled for my lap dance. Upon leaving, I told K-Dog “I wasn’t sure if this was one of those strip clubs where you can’t touch the girls.” He gave me a look that said “Do you see where you are? There’s some girl getting fingered for $5 in singles over there. What made you even ask that question?” I’ve know the guy for 10 years and we’re able to communicate strip club questions through body language. Whoever said 90% of all communication was non verbal was a fucking genius (one final side note to interrupt any semblance of a cohesive story line here: has anyone else been more concerned for the feelings of strippers than me? Between the day-quil and this stuff, I’m starting to see why I don’t go more often. It’s hard to enjoy yourself if your constantly asking yourself retarded questions that normal guys just don’t give a shit about).
As I’m standing around waiting for K-Dog to get his lap dance, I noticed a stripper walking around in a red New Era fitted…with the USSR sickle and hammer. It takes a lot to shock me (as I shout “Whoa, a blue car”!!! while one drives by), but this did. Could this be real? Who is New Era marketing this to? I don’t think any wanna-be hippies are buying New Era hats at $30 a pop, so it has to be to the hip hop crowd. Would any of them think of pairing this with a Che Guevara shirt that wasn’t red? How many teenage hip hop fans even know what that stands for? 12 percent? I’m completely in shock by this.
I first think that this stripper might be a budding Marxist, but soon realize that A) probably not, and B) If she was intelligent enough to actually understand Communist thought, she would have to see that a stripper is probably more comfortable in a capitalistic society. I mean, commanding top dollar for shaking your ass probably doesn’t occur in Communist cultures. There’s probably a flat rate for that type of action regardless of how hot you are. And from my very limited experience with strippers, they try to milk every dollar out of you. They’re not dancing for Mother Russia. Just look at how the Russian whores embraced capitalism. They’re all over Europe already. In fact, this ghetto strip club might be the best example of pure capitalism that I can think of at the moment (there are probably 100 better examples that I’m just too dumb to think of). Consider this:
Supply and demand rules are in effect. There’s a finite supply of women willing to dance naked for complete strangers, and are hot enough to have men interested in the said dance. There is a steady demand from horny males. Thus, a stripper is able to command $20 for a 5 minute lap dance. Most jobs do not have $80-100 (and probably more) an hour pay rate.
The owners of this establishment recognized a need in the market place (a place for gentlemen to be entertained at a reasonable price) in this location (South Philly).
Though most strip clubs in the suburbs have to deal with zoning restrictions, I don’t think this one had quite the same restrictions as the Bada Bing. They probably don’t call the cops unless absolutely necessary. No liquor, so no license necessary. So there’s probably the least amount of government interference in this establishment as you can get. And if you think those strippers report every dollar to the IRS, you also might believe that I have a very slight drinking problem (very slight, I promise).
So there you go, a stripper wearing a hat with the sickle and hammer when she is actually bleeding capitalism out of her. At least that’s what I tell myself when it’s probably just a cold sore from her herpes (kidding, kidding, these were all very healthy girls, don’t sue me). If I hadn’t spent my last $20 on a lap dance from a non-Marxist stripper, I would have definitely bought one from her, just to see if she actually knew what she was wearing. But I don’t even want to think of the fees on an ATM in a strip club. It has to be higher than Chris Henry at the Bengals Memorial Day BBQ (just an awful, awful, awful joke, but I couldn’t think of any other way to finish that paragraph. Please forgive me and don’t hold this against my children).
So now that I think I convinced you at least 32% that this strip club is a great example of what Adam Smith had in mind, what do you think the bouncer would say during this exchange:
Bouncer: What are you doing touching the girls like that?
Drunken Me: That wasn’t me, that was the metaphorical invisible hand of Adam Smith.
Granted the response would be “Fuck you cracker, I’m gonna kick your ass”, but I’d take an ass whooping knowing that I delivered the greatest response ever to a bouncer asking why you’re getting a little too friendly with the strippers.
So that rambling story right there is a microcosm of what I plan to do with this blog. If you ever had a dissertation in your mind on the capitalistic tendencies of a strip club while waiting for your friend to finish his lap dance, this might entertain you. If you’ve ever thought at the end of a night that having the person you were dancing with say “My husband is picking me up” and then going to the most ghetto strip club ever and you go to bed thinking it was a normal night, this might be a blog you want to add to your favorites. If you get half of the movie quotes, sports references and other random insertions that don’t add anything to the story, this could be a way to kill 15 minutes instead of stabbing your eyes with a pencil. If you feel that your outlook on life is a bit too optimistic and want a sardonic and sarcastic commentator to bring you down, please feel free to stop by and check this out every once in awhile. And I’ll stop now before someone makes a snide comment, “You might be a redneck if…”
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