Archive for December, 2011

Alastair Overeem?

December 31, 2011

Brock Lesnar is a beast, but this nigga is the truth.


Uniform Watch: Oregon 2012 Rose Bowl

December 27, 2011

I like these.  Classy and simple.  These Oregon uni’s are hard.

Racist Ejection?

December 27, 2011

Rivals – You probably don’t know Justise Winslow yet. It might be worth getting to learn the name, especially if he continues to produce incredible feats of athleticism like the preposterous slam you see below. After finishing the slam, Winslow stared down his “dunk victim”, promptly earning a technical foul from the nearby referee. Then, to cap things off, as he walked back up the court, Winslow offered up a salute to the St. John’s fans in attendance, an act of perceived braggadocio that earned him an instant second technical and an ejection from the game.

You got to chalk that ejection up to racism pure and simple right? 6’5 black kid dunks on a bunch of 5’10 crackers. Knocks one of the crackers over. Stares at one of the crackers and then salutes the honkeys in the crowd and boom your night is over. The ref can’t let perfectly good white boys get humiliated like that in front of friends and family. Speaking of which what is this kid doing playing in this league? I think it’s time to step up the competition brah. I have no problem with him staring down people after a monster dunk, but do it vs. people who can jump over the Sunday newspaper first.

Rise of the NBA nerd?

December 25, 2011


Last April, Kevin Durant, of the Oklahoma City Thunder, held a playoff postgame press conference in a blue long-sleeved shirt with tiny screen-window checks. It had a spread collar and was buttoned up to his neck. Durant’s attire was noteworthy for several reasons, the first of which was that for most people it wasn’t noteworthy at all. Once upon a time, NBA press conferences were no different from the press conferences of other sports. An athlete looked like he threw on whatever was handy, answered reporters’ questions, then went on with his night. Durant is a good example of how that’s changed: He also likes to meet the press wearing a backpack.

For the people who notice this sort of thing — and it must be said that the backpack is something you’re meant to notice — the change Durant encapsulates is both surreal and ironic. The bag is never removed, worn with the safety strap fastened, and rarely acknowledged, as if the affectation is actually just natural, as if Durant might be carrying actual homework. In the same way that there are people who never thought they’d see a black American president, there are also people who never thought they’d see a black basketball star dressed like a nerd.

Durant isn’t alone. In their tandem press conferences, LeBron James and Dwyane Wade, of the Miami Heat, alternate impeccably tailored suits with cardigans over shirts and ties. They wear gingham and plaid and velvet, bow ties and sweater vests, suspenders, and thick black glasses they don’t need. Their colors conflict. Their patterns clash. Clothes that once stood as an open invitation to bullies looking for something to hang on the back of a bathroom door are what James now wears to rap alongside Lil Wayne. Clothes that once signified whiteness, squareness, suburbanness, sissyness, in the minds of some NBA players no longer do.

If you happen to be someone who looks at Durant, James, or Amar’e Stoudemire’s Foot Locker commercials — in which he stalks along a perilously lit basketball court wearing a letterman’s cardigan, a skinny tie, and giant black glasses (his are prescription) — and wonders how the NBA got this way, how it turned into Happy Days, you’re really wondering the same thing about the rest of mainstream black culture. When did everything turn upside down? Who relaxed the rules? Is it really safe to look like Carlton Banks?

It certainly appears that way.

Carlton Banks wore his polo shirts, khaki pants, and cardigans tighter than a young black kid would dare in 1990-anything. The joke was that he and his two sisters were culturally white, and the secret of Carlton is that he began to see himself the way both his hip-hop cousin, Will, and the show saw him; and as he began to gain a black consciousness (like when he discovered Public Enemy), he gradually came to resent the laughter.

Carlton was something new for TV. The Huxtables of The Cosby Show were upper-middle class. The Bankses were rich. And Americans weren’t used to seeing rich black kids, which is why we were asked to watch The Fresh Prince through the eyes of a poor black one, and, in his discombobulation, Will saw in the Bankses what an indigent black kid from West Philly might: cartoons. Turning Carlton and Hilary into jokes made success look silly. The story of black men on television in the 1980s was always lightly Dickensian — upward mobility in the hot air balloon of rich white guilt: Benson, Webster, Arnold, Willis. The Fresh Prince was the same formula but with intraracial chafing.

All the interesting comic tension of the show was in how long it would take until Will got Carlton to do something black. How long until he, say, wore a track suit or stopped dancing like Belinda Carlisle and started doing the running man. This, of course, is also what people spent Sammy Davis Jr.’s entire career hoping they’d see, that he’d replace the skin he’d seemed to shed, that he would change back. The tragedy of Davis is the triumph of Carlton: Neither did. You know who changed on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air? Will. Carlton got Will educated, enlightened, prep-schooled, and blazered. It’s only a mild overstatement to say that Carlton changed us, too.

There were other black nerds — the Derwin of De La Soul’s first album, the Poindexter mentioned in Young MC’s “Bust a Move,” Steve Urkel, Spike Lee’s Mars Blackmon — but Carlton was the most pernicious because he was with us the longest. At its best the Carlton character embodied things that gave some black people pause — enthusiasm, knowledge, diction, all that’s symbolized by a sweater wrapped around your shoulders. If you saw a little of yourself in Carlton or a schoolmate saw a little Carlton in you, you probably felt unlucky, since being a Carlton became synonymous with aspirational whiteness and selling out.

What’s most surreal about what LeBron James and Dwyane Wade are wearing is that the clothes are versions of what, in the late 1980s, 1990s, and early 2000s, got kids terrorized. Black youth culture was so steeped in hip-hop and monolithic ideas of what and who black people should and should not be that in order to incorporate a tie into your daily wardrobe, you had to walk a kangaroo court of Karl Kani hoodies and FUBU jeans. Black love once seemed more conditional than it does now. In 1991, Kanye West might have been too much of a weirdo to be a star.


But 21st-century blackness has lost its rigid center, and irony permeates the cultural membrane. More than kids knowing they can be president of the United States, it might be more crucial to the expansion of black identity that — thanks to, say, N.E.R.D or Odd Future — they know they can be skate punks. Kanye West can release an album called The College Dropout, then run around the world dressed like an Oberlin junior. (The backpack craze was popularized by him.) West had done what 15 years of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Family Matters could not. He ushered in the chic of the black nerd. He cleared a safe space for narcissism and self-deconstruction; for singing rappers with names like Drake, J. Cole, and Tyler, The Creator; for the Roots to be Jimmy Fallon’s house band; for the threat in the music to move from the street to the psyche. Hip-hop had already begun to splinter into a land of a million mixtapes before West’s arrival. And with that shattering, black male style was transitioning away from Sean Combs’ “Puffy” era gilded age, with its plushness, flamboyance, glamour, and actionable danger.

If you were black, liked hip-hop, but also liked the confessional dimensions of the singer-songwriter, West was an alternative you could relate to, and you could see the change in NBA press conferences. Once upon a time — about two or three years ago — these same players greeted the press and stepped onto buses awash in big, creamy sweaters, roomy leather jackets, and substantially karated wristwear. Then, suddenly, that was switched for less urban, more meticulously groomed style. You can still find baggy denim shorts, long white T-shirts, sideways baseball caps, and platinum ropes with a diamond-encrusted crucifix. But it’s Allen Iverson in the time of Blake Griffin, Gucci Mane in the moment of Drake. These men aren’t dressing for A-T-L pool parties. But they’re not wearing the clothes of the streets, either. Durant and James and Stoudemire are wearing what black kids are wearing in the suburbs, where white kids’ belief that the racial grass is greener applies to black kids.

If there were a tagline for the change, it would have come from Jay-Z’s melodic admonition “Change Clothes”: “Y’all niggas acting way too tough / Throw a suit and get it tapered up.” So the big stars arrived at press conferences looking like the executive Jay-Z suspended his rap career to become, looking, well, like the president of the United States.

In a sense, the shift is also a snapshot of how stylists continue to remove Darwinism from sports style. There’s very little natural selection now. And yet, no matter who dressed him, it’s fun to see Amar’e Stoudemire, in those Foot Locker ads, walking past NBA aspirants as some kind of instructor, like he’s the Tim Gunn or RuPaul of the NBA. The cardigans and black frames, the backpacks and everything else: It’s all as overdetermined as what happens on Project Runway with Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj, and with the drag queens. “Nerd” is a kind of drag in which ballers are liberated to pretend to be someone else.

When David Stern imposed the league’s reductive dress code six years ago, all this role-playing, reinvention, and experimentation didn’t seem a likely outcome. We all feared Today’s Man. But the players — and the stylists — were being challenged to think creatively about dismantling Stern’s black-male stereotyping. The upside of all this intentionality is that these guys are trying stuff out to see what works. Which can be exciting. No sport has undergone such a radical shift of self-expression and self-understanding, wearing the clothes of both the boys it once mocked and the men it desires to be.

It’s not a complete transformation. Being Carlton wasn’t just code for nerd, it was code for gay, and the homophobia these clothes provoked still persists, even from their wearers. Once last year, Dwight Howard, of the Orlando Magic, wore a blue-and-black cardigan over a whitish tie and pink shirt to a press conference. When a male reporter told him it was a good color on him, instead of asking the reporter “Which color?,” Howard spent many seconds performing disgusted disbelief: Whoa, whoa. A moment like that demonstrated how hopelessly superficial all this style can be. The sport can change its clothes, but, even with Dan Savage looking over its shoulder, will it ever change its attitude? If Howard thinks compliments about his cardigan are gay, he probably shouldn’t wear one.

Still, something’s changed in a sport that used to be afraid of any deviations from normal. That fear allowed Dennis Rodman to thrive. Now Rodman just seems like a severe side effect of the league’s black-male monoculture. The Los Angeles Lakers officially recognize the man who was involved in one of the most notorious fights in sports history as “Metta World Peace.” Baron Davis, of the Cleveland Cavaliers, spent the summer in a lockout beard that made him look like a Fort Greene lumberjack. And Kevin Durant wears a safety-strapped backpack. If Stern was hoping to restore a sense of normalcy to the NBA, he only exploded it. There no longer is a normal.

Holy Shit, Jerome Simpson!

December 24, 2011

A guy flipping into the end zone happens 3 times a year. A dude landing it? One in a million.

Tim Tebow?

December 24, 2011

So you want to stop Tim Tebow? 



December 23, 2011


Nothing can help me care about soccer. Oh, ‘it’s the most popular sport in the world.’ Probably because it’s cheap to play. It costs a ball. Once every four years, America pretends to care about it. And yes, I call it ’soccer.’ Don’t correct me because I don’t care what they call it in other lands — I speak America. Sorry world, we already have football and it’s way better. It’s supposed to be played by 300 pound men eight seconds at a time, not five-foot, six-inch fairies lightly jogging for three hours, or however long your game is…buy a scoreboard! It’s hard for me to get into a sport that I mastered at the age of seven. Excuse me for not being able to get revved up for this corner kick that never works. Hooray! The game ends without a single goal. I want to kill myself when an NBA team doesn’t break a hundred.

1 Year Prison, For Wolverine?

December 21, 2011

JobloThe pirate in question, Gilberto Sanchez admitted back in 2009 that he bought the film on a street corner near his home in the Bronx. In March, Sanchez plead guilty to one count of uploading a copyrighted work being prepared for commercial distribution. He went on to state that he spread the file to and various other sites. In the prosecutors statements, they spoke of the “damage” that was done in such a short amount of time, “Although Fox was able to get defendant’s Wolverine workprint removed from his Megaupload account within approximately one day, by then, the damage was done and the film had proliferated like wildfire throughout the Internet, resulting in up to millions of infringements.” Sanchez was sentenced to one year in federal prison by sentenced by U.S. District Judge Margaret Morrow, who described his actions as “extremely serious.”


If I got one year in federal prison for uploading X-Men: Wolverine onto the internet I would fucking murder somebody.  At least get my money’s worth.  I mean a fucking YEAR?  For Wolverine?   Wolverine was one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen in my fucking life.  Saw it in theaters too.  Yup I spent 13 bucks to see that pile of garbage on the big screen and have hated myself ever since.    It’s like when you were a kid and got in trouble for sneaking out to a party that you didn’t even have fun at.  Like if I knew I was going to get grounded and lose car privileges for a month I would have shotgunned beers and fucked somebody instead of sitting in the living room playing Kings.   If this dude knew he was about to spend 1 year of his life in pound me in the ass prison he probably would have gone with like Godfather 2 or Usual Suspects or something.  At least enjoyed his 2 hour movie watching experience a little bit before the cuffs went on.

Worst Date Ever?

December 17, 2011

DECEMBER 16Meet Michael Pratt. The 27-year-old Floridian was on a movie date last week with Sarah Bush, 35, when he asked for her car keys so that he could retrieve something from the vehicle. Bush gave him the keys and went back to watching “Immortals” (Pratt had paid for the movie tickets, while Bush shelled out for a nacho combo). However, Pratt–who had been dating Bush for two weeks–never returned to the Cobb Theater in Wesley Chapel. When Bush departed, she realized that her rented Ford Focus had been stolen. When she called Pratt, he left no doubt about the whereabouts of her wheels: “Ha ha I stole your car,” he said, according to a Pasco County Sheriff’s Office report.


Hey just wanted to drop off a quick tip for Sarah Bush assuming she’s reading this.   Just a heads up sweetheart if you’re dating a dude with

1) An orange mohawk

2) 3 piercings on his face in random places that don’t usually get pierced

3) A fucking tarantula tattoo on his neck


1) Takes you on a date to see “Immortals”

chances are like 350% he’s going to dip out of the movie theater before the end of the previews and steal your Ford Focus.  It’s like the sun coming up or water being wet.  Keep that in mind for next time.



PS-  “Ha ha I stole your car” is such a fucking domination move.  Thanks for the nacho combo and the free wheels honey.  Hope you enjoyed the Greek myth of Theseus though.

Jerry Sandusky Just Teaching Kids How To Shower?

December 17, 2011

Jerry Sandusky’s new lawyer claims that Sandusky may have just been teaching kids how to shower in the Penn State football locker room, and not sexually assaulting them.

In an interview with abc27 news, new Sandusky lawyer Karl Rominger – who was added to attorney Joe Amendola’s defense team – floated the theory while insisting that numerous allegations in the grand jury report could actually have other, innocent, explanations.

“People who work with troubled youth will tell you that there are a lot of juvenile delinquents or people who are dependent who have to be taught basic life skills like how to put soap on their body,” Rominger said.

Sorry Jerry, I’m pretty sure that teaching a kid how to put soap on his body and fucking a kid in his ass are two completely different things.  Worst. Excuse. Ever.   Unbelievable. 14 year old troubled youths don’t know how to do a lot of things. They don’t know how to avoid violence and they don’t know how to stay away from drugs. But I’m pretty sure they know how to take a fucking shower. And I am absolutely sure that having sex with them in the shower is not teaching them the proper way to bathe. I wonder if he was just teaching them the proper dinner manners when he locked them in his basement and fed them down there. And maybe he was just teaching them proper spinal alignment when he used to make them lay on top of him so he could “crack their back.” Hey for all we know the Second Mile Sandusky Kids are the cleanest, most proper, polite kids around!