Love-A-Bull

The 2007-2008 NBA season is right around the corner. I've had a touch-and-go relationship with the NBA. Growing up, I watched a lot of the Spurs because of David Robinson (he was in the Navy, my dad was in the Navy, so I made a connection) and I was one of the 85% of the nation who rooted MJ on in his first three-peat. I also followed the Celtics and hated the Bad Boy Pistons (sorry Dobry & Maryann). I loved the beauty of Bird's jump shot and the stoic nature of Robert Parrish. I was enthralled by the "Showtime" Lakers of the 80's and dug the Kurt Rambis look.

But over the past 10 years, my relationship with the NBA has been luke-warm at best. After the first Bulls three-peat, I began to cool on them. Between them and the Rockets, I just didn't give a damn. I loved Charles Barkley, but after the near-miss in '93 against the Bulls, he began to fade a bit, though he did a great job with the Rockets, just nearly missing the Finals in '97. The Spurs won the title in '99, but it was a strike-shortened season. After that, I watched solely out of hatred for the Lakers and hoping to see them lose, but neither the Trailblazers or the Kings could ever put them away. I just hated the whole "Dynasty" aspect of the league, mainly because I didn't have a team I was emotionally invested in.

I followed the Spurs when I could, rejoicing in their 2003 title, but then Robinson retired and I was left without a favorite player. The Hornets had moved to New Orleans and I did my best to follow them, but they were kind of bad in a highly competitive Conference and I never really followed the Mavs because I can't stand Nowitski, though I love Nash.

In fact, my association with ALL basketball waned, as I began following college basketball less and less. I always loved March Madness, but I also loved the regular season as well. Even though the SEC didn't dominate and Auburn was always mediocre and over the years, I just found it harder and harder to care.

Even when Chris Paul joined the Hornets, I couldn't get back into basketball. The quality of NBA play became atrocious (for reasons I can't describe because I am unknowledgable because of said lack of following the game) with teams scoring 70-80 points a game, especially in the Eastern Conference, and, being based in the east, these are the teams I saw more coverage of.

In the summer of 2004, I joined Pete and Misko in rooting against the Lakers and actually FOR the Pistons during the Finals, watching every game at the recently rehabbed and reopened Rendezvous Tavern on Magazine St. While New Orleans isn't a huge NBA town, it was great sitting there with 15 other people, all of whom were rooting AGAINST the Lakers more then FOR the Pistons.

My move to Chicago in the fall of 2006 did little to rekindle my interest in the sport outside of following the playoffs and tournaments. Even the George Mason cinderella run didn't do much for me.

What finally got me back into the sport was the duo of Greg Oden and Kevin Durant lighting up the NCAA last year. Watching Oden just dominate the Big 10 with his quiet, stoic manner and then seeing the opposite of that, the young, flashy Durant, they were both so much fun to watch. For the first time in years (and by years I mean at least 10), I was actually checking basketball schedules to make sure I saw every Texas and Ohio State game I could, particularly the Longhorns. I even followed the Lottery for the first time in the same time span, curious to see where Durant and Oden would end up.

Now, they're both in the NBA, even though Oden is tragically done for the season before it even began. But Durant is still in Seattle and even though they're a west coast team and destined for many a 9:30 tip-offs on TNT and ESPN, I'll make a point of following him. There certainly aren't any players as electric as those two in the NCAA, but they've done the job: I'm hooked on basketball again.

I'm even beginning to get myself ramped up for the Bulls. Unbeknownst to me, the Bulls were apparently decent last year, as evidenced by their run in the playoffs. Not that I would have noticed because by then I was already into the swing of the Cubs season.

I'm also gearing up for another year of Fantasy NBA. I'm pretty excited about all of this. It'll be the first time in a long time I've followed the NBA closely and I'm pumped. We'll see how long I can maintain the momentum.

Little help...

So, anyone in the Chicago area want to give me a job? Preferably in the editing/writing arena? Because if I have to come in to this office for another week, I may stab myself in the eye with a rusty screwdriver. Or get fired. Whichever comes first.

Pictures, blurry ones, from this weekend forthcoming...

Gawking

Really interesting piece in New York magazine about the Gawker blog and web empire. Definitely worth a read if familiar with the site or many of their sites (their Deadspin sports blog is a daily read for me, a link for which is in my blogroll at the right). It's interesting the way a portrayal is painted of these bloggers as people who yearn for jobs in the industry they despise. Whether or not the portrayal is accurate is anyone's guess, but it certainly does bring up some salient points.

Click here for "Gawker and the Rage of the Creative Underclass."

On a related note is this clip of Jimmy Kimmel hosting the Larry King show from earlier this summer in which he takes Emily Gould, interviewed in the above piece, to task for the Gawker Stalker feature of their website. Pretty great stuff.

Mice, not Mouse

I have taken some flack from several people for my decision to drown Mordachi, as I mentioned in my last post. Some see this as a cruel act, something that makes me seem some kind of killer, an ogre. All I can say is that I actually did the humane thing by drowning Mordachi. I was not going to set him free anywhere close to my house because of the chances of him returning and to simply toss him in the garbage, still alive and stuck to the trap, would have been especially cruel, to allow him to starve to death.

Also, it should be pointed out that this mouse not only got into our food, causing us to throw out a large amount of food now spoiled by Mordachi, but also pooped all over the place. An insane amount, actually, for one goddamn mouse. And that's just not very nice. Now, put yourself in my position: an unwanted guest comes into your house and proceeds to poop all over the counter and in drawers and eat the food in your pantry. You might not drown them (unless you're Maryann and have a blood lust), but you're going to do everything in your power to remove them from your home. That's what I did. Simple as that.

This brings us to yesterday evening, when I discovered the reason one small little mouse was able to produce so much poop: there wasn't just a mouse, there were mice. And one of them was stuck in the other sticky trap. Smaller than Mordachi, I'm not sure how long this one was stuck. Beth swears it wasn't there in the morning. It wasn't moving much, but it was still alive. I had a rather bad afternoon, participating in another shouting match with my boss, so I left it there to die. Which it apparently did. By the time Beth got home and we tossed it (hence forth called "Nabisco" as decreed by Beth), death had made its visit.

So that brings the tally thus far to two dead mice, one alive Marcus. Nabisco and Mordachi are hopefully the only two mice in the house, but there's no telling, really. Beth is going to purchase more sticky traps tonight and we'll see if we net anymore in Operation: Secret of Nimh.

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I had been working on an entry about this weird issue I was having with leaving my current job and the guilt associated with it. Every time I thought about the resumes I was sending out, or my clandestine phone interview I conducted in the bathroom, I felt guilty, like I was cheating on a girlfriend or a spouse. I can't really explain why. I really dislike this job. I really dislike the boss. I get nothing out of working here. I wake every morning dreading coming into this office. Several times in the past few weeks, I've felt like getting off the train and blowing off work altogether (something I end up not doing because I possess personal responsibility).

So why not get a new job?

Maybe I felt guilty because, in a way, the boss took a chance on hiring a kid who hadn't even moved to the city yet. And I am grateful for having meaningful employment upon my move. Even if the health insurance offered is a joke.

But all that evaporated with the latest blow-up, the details of which I won't go into here. That pretty much caused any guilt I still had to evaporate into a cloud of "Fuck yall, i'm out of here ASAP."

Still, I'm intrigued as to why I would feel guilty in the first place. It's not like these people gave me a lung. Or a blowjob. Not that I would want either from the people around this office (no offense, Pete). I'm just intrigued how I can simultaneously despise this job and yet feel bad about trying to leave it. Maybe a sense of obligation? Growing too comfortable with the evil I know?

Irregardless, I've made my decision, and hopefully, someone realizes that I'd make a great addition to their editorial team.

And that I'm easy on the eyes.

Man vs Beast

It all started in Wisconsin. Sometime during my five-day stay at the excellent Life O'Riley Farm, a mouse snuck into my suitcase. I didn't really pay attention to my suitcase and, the morning of my departure, tossed a packet of oatmeal in there. When I returned to my apartment in Chicago, I opened the suitcase and unpacked my laptop so I could track my fantasy football team. Only later did I investigate and discover that the oatmeal packet had been chewed on and, judging by the presence of droppings, the chewer had been in the suitcase for the duration of the trip. I had transported a rodent across state lines.

Over the next two weeks, Beth and I began seeing evidence of our new, unwanted roommate. Things were chewed, poop was prevalent, and we began seeing him make daring runs across the kitchen floor. This pissed me off. How dare it run up on my counter and poop all over it. How dare it poop in MY apartment without my permission. This meant all out war. I was going to destroy this mouse. I was going to sever his head and impale it on a toothpick in the front yard to scare off other potential gate-crashing rodents.

Tale of the Tape

VS

Height: 6'1" vs 0'3"

Weight: 208 lbs vs 4 oz

Reach: 38 inches vs 1.5 inches

Seems pretty uneven, know? But the little bastard held his own. We put out sticky traps and he got around them with so much ease I swear I could hear him laughing.

Mordachi: 1, Marcus: 0

We put out poison that seemed to be devoured and scattered about haphazardly, the way a drunk treats the mininbar.

Mordachi: 2, Marcus: 0

I was beginning to think Mordachi (as we named him) was going to be with us forever, continually pooping in the corner behind the microwave.

He was brazen, I'll give him that. Wednesday morning, I came face to face with him. Twice.

Mordachi: 4, Marcus: 0

I caught him in the act of burrowing into some hamburger buns Beth had stored in the pantry. We exchanged that doomed glance, that glance in which we know that, in spite of the respect we hold for each other, it'll only end one way: with one of us dead. I may or may not have squealed like a 3 year old when Mordachi jumped down from the shelf and made for the nearest floorboard crack. A few minutes later, he bolted from the pantry to the stove and was once again gone.

Figuring that he was loving the pantry more than we had thought, we moved sticky traps to the bottom level of the pantry, just inside the door so he wouldn't realize what he was in until it was too late.

It took two more days, but this afternoon, I came home to find him stuck and struggling in one of the sticky traps. He had pulled a Fievel from Wisconsin, had negotiated the labyrinth of our kitchen, feasted on our hamburger buns and poison, refusing to give in. He defied logic and science. He seemed more machine than mouse.

So I let him sit in the trap for a few hours to live with what he had done, the way he had interrupted our lives and thrown them into a disheveled mess. He haunted our pantry and our dreams. I wanted him to reflect on that for a while. After watching the Red Sox game, I filled a garbage bag with water, wished Mordachi well, and told him I was sorry. He squeaked frantically and still tried to pry himself loose from the glue.

I'm sure there's a deeper meaning here, a life lesson to be learned. Something about the balance of progress versus nature. Maybe something about the environment, about man's affect on nature and nature being forced to do what it can to survive. One could learn a lot about symbiosis from this experience. After all, Mordachi wasn't bothering us THAT much was he? We could have set our food apart enough that we would have been fine, couldn't we? He didn't do anything directly to hurt us or impede our daily lives did he? We could have lived in harmony and fostered a connection between ourselves and the more primitive nature that we ignore and sometimes fear.

On the other hand, mice are fucking disgusting and carry the plague, so I drowned him and tossed the bag in the alley.

Mordachi: Dead, Marcus: Alive

...And we're back

It used to go like that, now it goes like this.