Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Jones, Basketball

So, The Goon Squad are a bunch of non-sports-loving folks. J plays videogames or watches movies. A just watches movies. I works the swing shift, and is a queen, which doesn't preclude him from liking the sports, but he plays into the stereotype that way.

Anyway, I am a sports loving freak.

You ask any Puerto Rican from the island and they'll tell you that three sports dominate the place: Baseball (not surprisingly), soccer (very much not surprisingly), and basketball.

(You can imagine my prideful surprise when my boys beat the "dream team" a few months back.)

(There was a point to this...hmm.)

So, the whole Ron Artest thing (not the point)...I dunno. I'll say this: Suspended for a season seems about right for his fuck up. But for every one of my friends, or favored columnists who point the finger at the athletes (rightfully so, it must be said), I just gotta marvel at the fucking chowderheads who would throw a cup of beer on someone taller and more muscle bound than they are. Where do they think they get off?

Also, the athletes are people who've been playing hard for over an hour, whereas the chump has been sitting, yelling and drinking for all of that time. The athlete has adrenaline, the fuckwad has beer.

Gee, I wonder how a match up between these two archetypes would turn out?

Yes, yes. Ron Artest (or Frank Francisco, or Pedro Martinez last year, or any number of examples any of us can think of) should have a thicker skin, and should know better, yeah. But what in the hell gives the spectator the right to be such a fucking dick about it?

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the shit talking when I'm watching a game, especially live. But am I gonna shove Shaq? Am I gonna throw a beer at/on Latrell Sprewell? Am I gonna come on to Kobe Bryant? No, I am not. I don't think I'd ever be drunk enough to do any of these things.

King Kaufman talks about the rising level of disrespect, or perceived disrespect athletes harbor these days; I have to wonder when sports fans started emulating England's hooligans.

No longer can we say that hooliganism in the US can be kept to wrasslin' fans, or fans from Philly.


oh, so, non-sports household, right. What this means for me is that if I want to watch a game, I have to go to a bar to see it. Tough shit, I know, but the best ideas for writing seem to come on the bus ride home, and by the time I get there writing is the last thing I'm thinking about.

I'll try to rectify that.


So the point: Sonics, 10-2 to start the season, an incredible run so far, and the team seems to be clicking on all cylinders. I am trying so hard not to get worked up about it, and just enjoy the ride. That's a lot harder than it sounds.

Monday, November 22, 2004

An awful tale...

The paperboy is asleep in his room, along with his dog, and his dog's sister. This is the sister dog's first night in the household. She is whimpering.

He is dog sitting for his aunt. His aunt sadly, did not leave any food for her, and so the paperboy fed it what he fed his dog.

The alarm clock rings, it is 5:30 a.m. He groggily turns it off, after a couple swipes at the snooze, and sits up.

He takes a step towards the door, on his way to the bathroom, when his foot slips on something squishy on the floor. He is barely aware of what's happening as he falls back, and is just thinking "What the--" when his hand lands on something just as squishy. So does his head.

It is at this point that he begins to smell something.

"Fuck," he whispers. He gets up, and his knee lands in another puddle. "Shit," he says, appropriately enough. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he realises that his floor is spotted with the poor sister dog's...

"Who did this?!?" The sister dog tries to hide in a corner of a room, and whines. "You Stupid Fucking Dog! What the fuck did you do! What the FUCK did you do?!?"

"What the hell's going on over there," his mother asked, sleepily."

"This STUPID GODDAMN dog just SHAT all over the floor in my room!"

"Don't swear in my house, son."

"But, mom! The FUCKING dog just shat all over--"

"What did I just tell you?"


"Well, take a shower! Don't be a stupidhead!"

He mutters, "you fucking stupid dog," as he grabs her by the scruff of the neck and rubs her nose into some of what he's had to deal with.

He drops her, and takes a shower. His day pretty much ruined.

Friday, November 12, 2004

Moving in with the Goon Squad (Monster Post Style)

Hello...It's been a while hasn't it?

Couple of quick updates: The Seattle Monorail has been voted in...for the fourth time. Which doesn't alleviate the direness of everything else that happened on 11/02, but hey.

Also, I am not moving to Canada at this point (though Vancouver BC is just a tantalizing few hours away) , and while I can't wrap my mind around it all, better commentary can be found elsewhere. In surprising news, The Stranger actually comes out with something I can stand behind.

Now, remember how I mentioned how I needed to find a roommate a couple of weeks ago? Well.


On October 30th, I called the landlord to let him know that the search was on. He calls me back and says that we needed to talk. We play phone tag until that fateful November 2nd, when he informs me that in order for me to stay in the apartment, he needed to be paid the back rent due.

What back rent?

It turns out that when my former roommate told me he was moving out, he neglected to inform me that he hadn't paid rent for two months.

Now, extenuating circumstances being what they are, it must be said that the former roommate has not been the same since he was diagnosed with intestinal cancer (found early, treatable, but cancer at the age of 32 is a big fucking deal).

Still though.

So, I needed to move out, and what with one thing and the other (which I won't get into here now, seeing as I just dumped all of that on someone else) I am forced to move in with The Goon Squad.

I'll give you the Goon Squad roster at a later date.

But, if there's one thing I've learned about myself since leaving the CoSpgs 12 years ago, it's that I like living by myself. If there's a relationship going on, that's something else, but otherwise, I just don't like the notion of roommates. Not at all.

The reason is simple: I like not having to deal with other people's habits...The dirty dishes in the sink are mine, the laundry laying around on the bedroom floor is mine, and cleaning is my responsibility alone, and I can do it on my schedule...

(after several cigarettes, some other stuff, and Melt Banana, I return in a milder mood. The Creatures accompany me in the rest:)

So, anyway, I'm moving in with the Goon Squad. Once I settle, things won't seem so melodramatic. Yes, circumstances could be, as Laurie Anderson put it, "much much better," but then, as one hit wonders Opus once said, "c'est la vie."

The cat, a moody bitch to begin with--especially during stressful times, could deal with being with other people again (something that has helped a lot in the past). Also, other cats. (And, gods help me, one of the roommates Entireshome, loves to push its buttons...jesus, what am I getting into.)

Myself, I'm going into it with the goal of doing it for just three months, but realising it'll probably be for six. Or more.

My friend, L, said something to me about recognizing that, for him, each leap year tends to be cathartic in nature. I looked back at my own leap years, and had to agree. Going as far back as 1980, I can recall something just overwhelming happening.

There are other thoughts in there somewhere, but, like the man tattooed behind my right ear once said, "I must be going."

(ps--I need to thank L and S for their hospitality over the last 24 hrs. Each of them allergic to cats, they let me crash, go to work and relax before the mayhem of moving in begins. I owe them a debt of gratitude.)