ChillSpot Online: Our Art is Life

Ah! How wonderful the weather is!
It seems to have gotten so pretty these last few days.
The sun has been beaming so brightly, the scent of the flowers so uplifting, I nearly found myself skipping down the street.
Things are so good, I didn’t even mute the mumblemouthed meterologist, who was (of course) talking about when rain would come.
Wanna know why?
Since the last post, the Cavaliers have managed to pull things together a bit, not only staving off elimination from the Eastern Conference playoffs, but tie up the series with two strong (if not totally convincing) performances. Yeah, the 3rd quarter still tends to be an exercise in futility, as if they all smoke pot and eat Thanksgiving dinner before coming back to play, and yeah, the Pistons are a bit overrated this year, but these Cavs - flaws and all - are giving me a reason to believe they’ll do better than any other Cavs team in the past 20 years I’ve been watching them.
I actually found myself excited at the possibility that they could beat the Spurs, who by the morning should be waiting for the winner of the East in the Finals. See, that’s how the Browns used to get me. I’d be thinking, “They should beat Denver this year!” Then some bonehead forgets to hold onto the football, as another one forgets to block, and PRESTO! Hopes dashed. Or, “It’s the 11th inning, all we gotta do is finish this one, and the World Series is ours!” Then some fielder boots a grounder and another chokes his own dip juice on the mound, and VOILA! Instant meltdown.
This is Cleveland, after all. Al Bundy was really living in Cleveland, but didn’t realize it. Lovable losers move here, look at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and believe they’ve arrived. But the Hall is an oasis of winnerdom, surrounded by the stench of close, heartwrenching loses, which smell a lot like dead, three-eyed walleye floating on the lake.
But that’s the past, right? We got a kid from round here, who don’t care so much bout that. In fact, he’s too young to have even personally seen the 1986 Browns play live. You say Mike Baab, he says “Does he sell suits for big and tall people?” And that might be what we need to get over this hump.
Or maybe LeBron will still end up playing for the Knicks…

Larry Hughes … HIT THE SHOT!!!
Sasha Pavlovic, JUST SHOOT IT!

ARRRGGHHH!
…
…
…
…
…
79-76.
Again.
Detroit did just enough, played just hard enough, waited out the Cavs just long enough, to win. Watching the first two games of this series has been like watching Serena Williams play badly. She’s strong, intimidating, and exciting, but she makes too many unforced errors. The Cavaliers are not Serena on a good day, but on a bad one? Well … not even then. This team has twice had a more cohesive unit begging for a reprieve, and twice, they’ve taken their finger off the trigger, only to have Detroit calmly pull their own gun and BANG!
79-76.
Okay, so LeBron gets the rock with 24.3 seconds left. After the skewering he’s taken in the media the last few days for passing to Donyell “No Thurgood” Marshall, who promptly missed a shot so open, cats in Convienent stores went home believing it went in, you know he’s taking this one to the hole. So he’s sizing up Rip Hamilton, goes left so hard, he leaves a shoe print on the floor, then cuts back to the right, time ticking down, less than 8, pumps, 7, clutches, 6, and is fouled! No whistle though. Larry “Seven Days” (get it, cause he weak!) Hughes, gets the second most open shot to win a game in this series - a 5 footer - and hangs it off front iron. Game Over. There were some Pistons free throws, and something about a tech foul on Cavs coach Mike Brown, but at that juncture, it was over but for the cryin.
Every game, someone on the Cavs seems to be signing his walking papers. “Seven Days” did it tonight, with the put-back that jumped back. It don’t matter in the end, though, because this team was never really ready to take the Pistons anyway. The Cavs are too young, too scared, too mentally-weak, too non-clutch to take it to the Pistons. My only hope was that they might pull it together to make things hot for Detroit. Instead, these were probably the least-challenging 3-point victories Detroit has had all season.
79-76.
79-76.

In the Blink: Watched VH-1’s special on Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes, a autobiographical documentary she was filming right up until the moment of her death. There’s something deep and melancholic in watching someone’s last moments, and seeing the light in their eyes as they hope for more, knowing that they never got the chance. I don’t know Lopes personally, didn’t really care for the music all that much, pop candy as it was (minus Baby-Baby-Baby … one of my personal sleeper favorites), yet can’t help but to relate to some of what she was feeling during the documentary. Sometimes it’s really easy to get lost in the world, caught up in the trivialities of daily life. No one really seems to be listening to you, only waiting for their turn to speak, and everything seems irrelevant. So, when she talks of purifying, and wanting to accomplish more, I can feel that, and in that moment, I miss her.

No Sly Didn’t!:

SYDNEY, Australia – Actor Sylvester Stallone was formally convicted Monday of importing restricted muscle-building hormones into Australia and ordered to pay $10,651 in fines and court costs. Stallone threw four vials of the male hormone testosterone from his Sydney hotel room when customs officials arrived to search it.

Stallone, 61, should be coasting into retirement, but instead, he’s juicing? Perscription or no, I’m sure he won’t get the same heat Barry Bonds is.

Random Thought: Shaved off half my moustache and none of my coworkers or friends said anything about it to this date. Wonder if people thought they’d hurt my feelings, or that I might get angry. Or maybe the perma-grim look I wear kept them away. The thing that gets me about it is that it’s gonna take about a week to grow the damn thing back! I’m not wolfman – my five o’clock shadow is usually about two days late. I was 26 before I grew what could remotely be called a goatee. So when something like this happens, it really messes up my style.

One other thought: I change my hair so much, maybe people thought I was making a new fashion statement: whatever that could be….

Big bald head, bigger black biceps, hammering homers into McCovey Cove - or whatever cove your National League team has sought fit to erect in their meager outfield - once every 12 at-bats or so.

Later, he’ll limp, ever so slightly into the outfield, where your $15 ticket buys you the privilege of throwing fake (or real) syringes at him, taunting him about his marital infidelity, alleged cheating in the game, potential jail time or whatever vile filth your mind and morals will allow you to spew.

But guess what?

Unless someone goes Lee Harvey on him, Barry Bonds is still gonna hit 756. And there ain’t nothing short of a rifle in the outfield likely gonna change that. So the question again is: Why hate him?

ESPN.com recently ran a story (May 6) about poll results which stated that blacks and whites differ on whether to support Bonds’ pursuit of Hank Aaron’s home run record.
While this may seem obvious to some, that blacks would be more in favor of Bonds - or likely to believe him innocent of taking steroids - than whites, the why is that dark path that no one seems daring enough to tread.

Is it race?
Barry Bonds is black. Blacker than a number of black people in this country. And he’s big. And, mainly, he appears not to give a crap about anyone outside his immediate family. Take away the fame, and he might be considered nothing more than a common thug. Which, in some people’s minds, he probably is anyway. But is that any reason for so many white survey participants to deny race plays any factor in why they hate him?

Is it money?
Bonds has a lot of it. He’s earning $15,533,970 million this year alone. That buys you a lot of silence, which (again) some people believe he may be doing, in the case of Greg Anderson, a friend of his who chose jail time rather than to potentially testify against Bonds. Who knows who else is sitting quietly, sipping a vintage Cabernet on Bonds’ tab? Is Bonds not spending enough to make people swallow the malice?

Those are questions best left to historians. But the fact remains: Barry Bonds is about to break one of baseball’s hallowed records. And he may hit 800 before he’s done. But many people wish he’d just retire. Just like many people wish Michael Jackson would vanish (he nearly has, judging by his appearance). Just like people wish R. Kelly would find his manhood at the end of a very sharp cutting tool, a la Bobbitt style. What do these men have in common? They’re black (at least genetically), they have produced at the top of their crafts, and they’re all villified, justified or not, for actions that have nothing to do with their ability to perform said craft.

Of course, in Bonds’ case, this may prove to be untrue. He may well have been on steroids for years, which many say would definitely aid in his craft. I’m not a scientist, so I can’t say for certain if that’s the case, even if he is on something. I’ve swung a bat at a ball, coming nowhere near 100 mph, and it’s hard! Knowing that, I believe that Bonds, even on the juice, is still one of the greatest baseball players of all time, and I’ll enjoy his career as such. I’ll be rooting for him, all the way to 800, if he chooses to go for it.

I suppose many people hate him because sport is supposed to be pure (although it never really has been). Sport is supposed to be the place where superhuman feats can be achieved by mere mortals. But mortals play these games, buoyed by the belief, sometimes gained from others, that they are super. So, in that respect, anyone who has ever practiced hero-worship is an accessory to the fact. And if you’re going to suspend belief for a movie, or for a book, then why should sports (which is merely another form of entertainment) be held to another standard?

Someone may read this, and hate Bonds even more.

But why?

500, 750, 1000.
Those aren’t high scores from a recently-played video game, fines from some extreme speeding tickets or even the numbers the Dow Jones has increased over the past few days (although you couldn’t guess by all the news coverage).
They’re the possible caloric intakes from meals at those popular purveyors of quick, easy, tasty grub. Fast food restaurants, of course.
Late night creatures – as I happen to be – are faced with the harrowing challenge of eating at odd hours, which pits us face-to-face with the “diet demons”: McDonald’s (which has made the fight even harder by keeping so many stores open all night long), Taco Bell, with their “Fourth Meal” campaign, and White Castle, whose slyders (160 calories with chesse and 9 grams of fat. Multiply by 10 if you’re really hungry) go down oh so smoothly at 2 a.m., even if you’re not intoxicated, or so I hear.
All I wanna know is: How is an (allegedly) metrosexual such as myself supposed to get his beach body on, while staring at the sign for two Whoppers for $3 (1520 cal./94 g. total)? It’s hard enough to keep my skin beautiful and my feet noncrusty without having to pine over the wasted time of doing all those crunches after having just ONE Big Mac (540 cal./29 g.).
But alas, this is the life we lead.
Not long ago, and maybe to this day, there was a movement to sue farmers for producing so much corn syrup – which is in everything these days. Tommy Thompson, then the Secretary of Health and Human Services, spoke of how ridiculous this notion was. He said it was up to us to make better choices, and not to be swayed by the massive amounts of unhealthy food in the grocery stores and eateries in America.
That sounds like a solid position to take, until one takes a look around. Bad food is EVERYWHERE! In my neighborhood, there are no less than five McDonald’s, three Taco Bells, two Wendy’s, an all-night Baskin Robbins/Dunkin’ Donuts and a Waffle House (mmm … cheese eggs!) within three miles of my house. And that’s the short list.
And don’t even threaten to say anything about exercise!
Do the math: an 170 lb man who runs an 8 minute mile – no easy task – would burn 150 calories over a 10 minute span, meaning he’d have to run at that clip for just less than an hour to burn off two of those Whoppers. A woman at 123 lbs would have to run another 15 minutes or so to burn them off. And who out there is fortunate enough to be those weights AND be able to consistently run an 8 minute mile? Exactly.
Then, just to mock us, there’s Shaun T., and his Hip-Hop Abs infomercial, taunting with his “Tone, Tuck and Tighten” method, as we scarf down a couple double cheeseburgers (880 cal./46 g.), two apple pies (540 cal/24g), some vanilla ice cream (130 cal/3.5g, whoo-hoo, I’m on a diet!) and a small fry (248 cal./13.1 g., for a grand total of 1798 cal./86.6 g.) off the Dollar Menu from our good friend Ronald’s place. Not that I know anyone who orders that or anything.
So, while we begin to enjoy the warmth, and start looking for ways to hide the exploits of our winters of overindulgence, remember this: Grocery stores and restaurants are in the business of making money, NOT looking out for our bulging wastelines. That distinction falls to us, the loyal order of calorie counters.
But those cheese eggs are so good …

Smallville crisis: I saw the numbers the other day, and one of my favorite shows on TV is plummeting into oblivion, where some people might believe it should have been a while ago, with the kung-fu Lana Lang and the Crystal Ice didos and whatnot. Omar G, this hilarious cat who writes the recaps on televisionwithoutpity, is the only thing that brings a little levity to a series that has been dying of kryptonite poisoning for at least two seasons (and really, most of the last three). It was always a soap opera-type of show, with long gazes, backlit beauties and plenty of bouncy … other things too. But it doesn’t even really resonate its intended purpose: which (I thought) was to show another side of Clark Kent, alter-ego of the Man of Steel. I’ll buy the entire series on DVD, and enjoy it, but I won’t be able to let go of the bitterness that comes when I think that the creators of the show had SO MUCH great material to work with, and after a healthy start, bent over and crapped out this at the end…

Silent, but profane?

NEW YORK – Facing fierce criticism of sexist and depraved rap lyrics, top music industry executives planned a private meeting. They would discuss the issue, they said, and “announce initiatives” at a press conference afterward. That was three weeks ago. The press conference was canceled, without explanation. And ever since, music’s gatekeepers have been silent. Leaders of the four major record companies, which control nearly 90 percent of the market, may fear cracking the door to censorship. Others say the record chiefs are “scared to death” of further damaging sales in an industry already hobbled by digital downloading – or that they choose to remain in the shadows rather than protect “indefensible” lyrics.

This story raises several questions for me:
1.) The reason music sales are damaged has nothing to do with digital downloading, which the industry would have you believe is potentially devaluing the total effort of artists producing albums as opposed to quick hit singles. People have turned to digital downloading BECAUSE the albums are so crummy. The running joke for years has been that most artists only produce one or two hits, while the rest of the album stinks like fresh rhino crap. So people found a way around it; and the execs are pissed! But whose fault is it really?
2.) Rappers aren’t the only ones out there producing what was referred to in the article as “sexist and depraved” music. Take a listen to some Rock ‘N Roll today. For real, listen. Hip-Hop gets a lot of (well-earned) flak for some basking in the glow of unflattering lyrics, but looking around, that heat should be spread. How is it that Don Imus’ remark somehow has become a rallying point against hip-hop? Since when do rappers flow about nappy-headed hoes? You never see ‘em in the videos? That hair is all straight, for sure … but I’m off track a bit. Objectifying women and spouting about violence are in other forms of music, so why aren’t the cannons pointed at all of it, instead of rap?

Random Thought: Remember I was ranting about White Castle? Well, I did have some, and it did me so wrong, I think I’ma hold off on going there again. I remember when I could eat anything, and not gain weight, or have to deal with the more immediate “consequences” of it. Now, my digestional tract is a revolving door, complete with a old cat to hand me a fresh hanky to wipe my brow after the effort. So, again the lesson is learned: Keep your ass away from junk food, or feel its wrath running through you … fast.

Random music note: Song of the moment – Got it Goin’ On by Steve Cole, off his album Between Us. If you dig smooth jazz, and are looking to listen to it, as opposed to going to sleep, then my man does a good job. His is an album worth more than a single download, for sure.

My apologies to those who have visited over the past few day. with nothing new to read … The following ain’t exactly new; it’s from the vault, but I llike it all the same…

Imagine us in a heated conversation,
discussing the emotional implication
of me and you in a serious relation,
thinking about the joy, the elation
of having a baby with you, our creation,
though God was the driving force,
I give all the glory to Him of course,
but I cain’t help but feel like I had some part to play in it
lay in it like a field of grass, I pass by the memory of who I used to be
and laugh at the absurdity of the boy from yesterday,
cause this ain’t nothing like yesterday
this ain’t nothing like Monopoly, or jumping rope
or getting braids and mixin two kinds of kool-aids
and eating Pixy Stix, or eating Kix with too much sugar on em,
drink the sweet milk then go play ‘any bounce’ with that one tennis ball
You know we always had a ball until grandma called us home
I wish my grandma would call me home
I wish my pops and I could talk,
Or just sit and watch a game
I wish my pops would call my name
And let me know I was doin alright
These things I pray at dawn and night while in between my dreams run hot
To crazy places like Camelot, and remind that utopia is nearer than I think
And what is just is and what’s not never was, because
it’s really just me and you having a conversation
discussing the emotional implication
of seeing the past disappear
and watching the future come so near
and seeing our child grow oh so dear
and helping us overcome our fear
and help us overcome our fear.

Where do you go when you feel like leaving a part of yourself behind,
Especially the part that says you not supposed to pay?

Lil bit shaky as I got to the double doors,
knowing what was behind them, and not wanting anyone to know I know,
so I creep up slow, anxious, feeling like a clown,
not sure how this is going down,
but pretty sure my dollar ain’t long enough to Keith Sweat it,
You know, make it last forever, whatever,
I’ma run up in here and sip a weak ass drink,
and try real hard to act like I don’t like it,
fake like seeing titties in real life ain’t tight,
front as I might, the alcohol kick in,
room don’t spin, but the music get real loud all a sudden,
thumpin in my head, then my wallet get real warm,
money growin wings, bout to fly,
before I even finish my second drink, two babes done ran up on me
talking bout a dance, for $25, not a chance, right?
Strobe lights whirling, smoke thick like niggas from way back,
say that part again about how your dollar ain’t long?
They take credit cards now, you know …
dollar dance, she nibbling on my ear,
telling me how good I feel,
telling me about using her phone number,
hell yeah, I seen your talents,
peeped you rise when you put that thang in my face,
2 for 1, then I’m done, but you won’t let me breathe, let me leave,
grabbin my man like y’all on a first name basis,
in case this go bad lemme get your real name,
the game is on, she teasin me now,
nipple in my mouth, hand up my shirt,
“do you want it daddy?” maybe now, maybe later,
said her name was Nikki, I bet you know what the heck I mean,
I’m too geeked up to make this up, cause this girl is a Nubian queen.
Light bill gotta wait, rent might be hella late,
It’s cool to be the fool when you got fresh meat on your plate …
The buzz fade, the cash run out, the memories remain,
The next day, ain’t no way I’ma hold my head in shame.

If only, if only I could remember her damn name.