"The Breaks of the Game" is universally known as "the basketball book about Bill Walton." Heck, the back of the book even refers to a "grim season for the legendary Bill Walton-led Portland Trailblazers." Did they even read the book? During the 1979-1980 season, Bill Walton was long gone from Portland, having been traded to San Diego after accusing the Portland team doctor of gross negligence.
Still, the shorthand description of "Breaks of the Game" as "the Bill Walton book" is not completely wrong. Walton hovers over the story like a seven-foot redheaded cloud. Sorry, that was a terrible metaphor. The ups-and-downs of the Trailblazers, with and without Walton, are a perfect example of, well, "the breaks of the game." With Walton on the court they were unstoppable. They won the championship in 1977 and looked to repeat until Walton broke his foot in the playoffs. Walton, Yao Ming before Yao Ming, spent the next season riding the pine in Portland before leaving for the sunnier climes of Clipperland.
David Halberstam's book follows Coach Jack Ramsay and his new-look Blazers as they struggle to cope in the year 1 A.W. If any team ever deserved the title "ragtag," the 1980 Blazers have a good a claim as any. Their starting forward, Kermit Washington, spent years wandering the NBA, not because he was bad, but because he nearly killed Rudy Tomjanovich with one ill-timed punch. Guard Dave Twardzik's crew cut and Polish heritage were both indicative of a playing style on its way out. And late-season pickup Billy Ray Bates was an illiterate sharecropper's son who spent time with a minor-league team called the Lumberjacks.
Halberstam, unlike some sports writers--I'm looking at you, John Feinstein--doesn't spend pages retelling the ins-and-outs of each basketball game. He isn't interested in telling you how Abdul Jeelani scored off a pick-and-roll from Lionel Hollins. If you want that, go watch the game tapes. Instead, Halberstam crafts a series of psychological profiles. Of course, his profiles explain why so-and-so is a great basketball player, and not why so-and-so is a serial killer.
A number of basketball icons make cameo appearances. Each one comes with his own brilliantly succinct summation. Bobby Knight is a "sensitive, volatile, deliberately and often shamelessly provocative and brilliant coach." Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is "hidden behind two layers of masks, first a protective eyepiece which was a mask to the face, and then the face itself which was a mask to the soul." The late, great John Wooden is recalled as "a little bit of an old lady."
One writer called "The Breaks of the Game" "pretty much every sentient basketball fan’s favorite hoops book." I agree. Conclusion: read the book.
Friday, July 2, 2010
My Friend TED
Ever heard of TED talks? Well, you have now, which means you no longer have an excuse for ignoring one of the coolest sites on the web.
Side note: TED somehow managed to get its hands on the wonderfully simple domain name www.ted.com. Somewhere, Ted Danson and Ted Nugent must be fuming.
Anyway, TED is an organization for science/technology types, the kind of people who eagerly await the day when they can legally marry their Blackberry. TED conferences usually feature a series of speakers from the realms of--as the acronym TED implies--"technology, entertainment, and design." The talks are recorded and posted free to the world on TED.com.
We are talking very cool stuff. Why, just today I listened to talks about suspended animation, the relationship between music and architecture, and the irrationality of human decision-making. Many thanks go to my friend Ben for turning me on to TED.
If you're looking for somewhere to start in TED's vast video library, I highly recommend these two talks from science-y arts-y guy Ken Robinson.
Side note: in the first speech, he is billed as "Ken Robinson." In the second one, he has become "Sir Ken Robinson." Obviously, that first speech went over particularly well in some quarters.
Side note: TED somehow managed to get its hands on the wonderfully simple domain name www.ted.com. Somewhere, Ted Danson and Ted Nugent must be fuming.
Anyway, TED is an organization for science/technology types, the kind of people who eagerly await the day when they can legally marry their Blackberry. TED conferences usually feature a series of speakers from the realms of--as the acronym TED implies--"technology, entertainment, and design." The talks are recorded and posted free to the world on TED.com.
We are talking very cool stuff. Why, just today I listened to talks about suspended animation, the relationship between music and architecture, and the irrationality of human decision-making. Many thanks go to my friend Ben for turning me on to TED.
If you're looking for somewhere to start in TED's vast video library, I highly recommend these two talks from science-y arts-y guy Ken Robinson.
Side note: in the first speech, he is billed as "Ken Robinson." In the second one, he has become "Sir Ken Robinson." Obviously, that first speech went over particularly well in some quarters.
The Birds
Whenever I walk to work, I pass by a certain building. It's nothing remarkable--a big glass-and-steel office building. There are probably a thousand others like it in DC. Maybe a million others.
One thing, though, makes this building special. Every time I walk past, I hear a loud caw, the unmistakable sound of some nasty bird with great sharp talons. This has been going on for the past three weeks, which leads me to propose three possible conclusions.
1. Some rare species of bird is nesting somewhere in the building
2. The building has a built-in electric bird call to discourage nesting pigeons
3. A while back, a bird flew into one of the windows, got stuck, and has remained there ever since, cawing its troubles to an uncaring world
In my opinion, all three possibilities are equally cool.
One thing, though, makes this building special. Every time I walk past, I hear a loud caw, the unmistakable sound of some nasty bird with great sharp talons. This has been going on for the past three weeks, which leads me to propose three possible conclusions.
1. Some rare species of bird is nesting somewhere in the building
2. The building has a built-in electric bird call to discourage nesting pigeons
3. A while back, a bird flew into one of the windows, got stuck, and has remained there ever since, cawing its troubles to an uncaring world
In my opinion, all three possibilities are equally cool.
We All Scream
Peanut butter is good. Curry is good. But peanut butter curry ice cream?
Bacon is good. Bananas are good. Peanut brittle is good. But bacon-banana-peanut brittle ice cream?
Corn flakes are good...ah, you get the drift. Now read the story.
Bacon is good. Bananas are good. Peanut brittle is good. But bacon-banana-peanut brittle ice cream?
Corn flakes are good...ah, you get the drift. Now read the story.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Mini-Review: Mrs. Warren's Profession
If you ever find yourself with an unwarranted sense of optimism, happiness, and contentment, hurry to the nearest showing of George Bernard Shaw's "Mrs. Warren's Profession." Rest assured, your happiness will vanish in a hurry.
So I didn't like the play? Not at all. As performed by the National Shakespeare Theatre--yes, I have truly become part of the cultured class--"Mrs. Warren's Profession" is brilliant. The acting is top-notch. The set design is breathtaking. And the dialogue truly crackles, and not in the Rice Krispie sense of the word.
No, the play was fantastic, but all the laugh lines couldn't cover the grimness at its heart. To briefly recap: Vivie Warren, a recent Cambridge graduate, has returned home for a brief visit before she begins her business career. While flirting with Frank Gardner, the archetypal dumb male blonde, Vivie begins to learn more about her mother's past--and the unseemly titular profession. Ah, titular. Writing that word makes me flash back to my Quiz Bowl days.
Uh, where was I? Oh yes, the profession. The profession is prostitution.
Posthumous kudos to Shaw for developing the entire plot without using the word "prostitution" once. Of course, we must remember the context This was a simpler time, a time when eccentric old men--like the character of George Praed--could ask a young woman "I hope you will be disposed to be friends with me" and not sound outrageously creepy.
Whoever designed the sets--Simon Higlett, according to the program--did a wonderful job. When the curtain raised on the first act to reveal a quaint English cottage in miniature, a small but distinct gasp ran through the crowd. And a quick-change between a church courtyard and a London office triggered a burst of spontaneous applause.
This review has by far exceeded the limits implied by "mini." In closing, I would like one more thing noted. The young woman who played Vivie had a very peculiar way of pronouncing the word "you." She turned a perfectly decent one-syllable word into a three syllable tongue twister: "Yaouuuuu..." She sounded frighteningly like pop-rapper Soulja Boy.
With that deep thought I leave you.
So I didn't like the play? Not at all. As performed by the National Shakespeare Theatre--yes, I have truly become part of the cultured class--"Mrs. Warren's Profession" is brilliant. The acting is top-notch. The set design is breathtaking. And the dialogue truly crackles, and not in the Rice Krispie sense of the word.
No, the play was fantastic, but all the laugh lines couldn't cover the grimness at its heart. To briefly recap: Vivie Warren, a recent Cambridge graduate, has returned home for a brief visit before she begins her business career. While flirting with Frank Gardner, the archetypal dumb male blonde, Vivie begins to learn more about her mother's past--and the unseemly titular profession. Ah, titular. Writing that word makes me flash back to my Quiz Bowl days.
Uh, where was I? Oh yes, the profession. The profession is prostitution.
Posthumous kudos to Shaw for developing the entire plot without using the word "prostitution" once. Of course, we must remember the context This was a simpler time, a time when eccentric old men--like the character of George Praed--could ask a young woman "I hope you will be disposed to be friends with me" and not sound outrageously creepy.
Whoever designed the sets--Simon Higlett, according to the program--did a wonderful job. When the curtain raised on the first act to reveal a quaint English cottage in miniature, a small but distinct gasp ran through the crowd. And a quick-change between a church courtyard and a London office triggered a burst of spontaneous applause.
This review has by far exceeded the limits implied by "mini." In closing, I would like one more thing noted. The young woman who played Vivie had a very peculiar way of pronouncing the word "you." She turned a perfectly decent one-syllable word into a three syllable tongue twister: "Yaouuuuu..." She sounded frighteningly like pop-rapper Soulja Boy.
With that deep thought I leave you.
Random DC Incident
While walking to work today, I heard the unmistakable sound of "Taps." Someone, somewhere was playing it on the saxophone, and playing it pretty well. Who knows why? As I listened, "Taps" eventually faded into "The Star-Spangled Banner." Who knows why? DC has a sometimes-deserved reputation for blandness. But at times it can be a wonderfully weird town.
Goodbye and Good Riddance
Dirigibles. Smell-O-Vision. New Coke. Now Chatroulette joins them on the junk heap of history. It will be missed, but mostly by weird guys who enjoy exposing themselves to complete strangers.
Also, in light of this recent development, this New Yorker article reaches a new level of tragicomedy.
Also, in light of this recent development, this New Yorker article reaches a new level of tragicomedy.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Now That's What I Call Literature
For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss--a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil.
This and other classics from the 2010 Bulwer-Lytton contest can be found here. Another favorite:
The dark, drafty old house was lopsided and decrepit, leaning in on itself, the way an aging possum carrying a very heavy, overcooked drumstick in his mouth might list to one side if he were also favoring a torn Achilles tendon, assuming possums have them.
This and other classics from the 2010 Bulwer-Lytton contest can be found here. Another favorite:
The dark, drafty old house was lopsided and decrepit, leaning in on itself, the way an aging possum carrying a very heavy, overcooked drumstick in his mouth might list to one side if he were also favoring a torn Achilles tendon, assuming possums have them.
Da Bomb
We had a bit of fun this morning. "Fun" in the unpleasant, sarcastic sense, of course, not in the actual meaning of the word. When I got down to the dorm lobby a little before 8, there was a cop waiting at the door. Hm, I thought, this seems a little strange, but maybe he's just checking in on his morning rounds.
Wrong! Turns out somebody found a "suspicious package" right in front of our dorm. Suspicious package--I imagine a shady looking box with dark glasses, a greasy coat, and a sleazy mustache loitering beneath a streetlight. Ah, DC, where there's a surprise around every corner and a suspicious package on every street!
God knows who put the box there, or why. But if their goal was to cripple the federal government, they succeeded, albeit in a very small way. The police put our building under lockdown--nobody gets out unless they want a bullet in their leg. Thus, dozens of congressional interns were cooped up in the dorm. For one day, their bosses experienced the agony of brewing their own coffee and opening their own mail.
Time ticked away. 8:01...8:02...skipping ahead a bit...8:07...skipping ahead a little more...8:09...damn, this skipping business is tricky. Let us simply say that it was a long, long wait. I honestly felt very sorry for the policeman assigned to guard our door. He had to deal with a horde of disgruntled think tank researchers, congressional PR interns, and newspaper factcheckers. Plus, what if he had to use the bathroom? If he left his post, somebody would try to escape. Perhaps they had snipers on the building across the way for that very purpose.
One peculiar thing about the whole kerfluffle. I never felt a bit worried. At no point did I think, "Holy cow, there might be a bomb out there capable of blowing us all into the bite-size chunks." I only thought, "Damn, I can't believe I'm missing a free breakfast." Either I'm very courageous or very shallow and unreflective. Given past experiences, the latter seems more likely.
Also working in favor of our survival: this dorm was seemingly built to withstand a hydrogen bomb detonated five feet away. Godzilla couldn't knock it over with a...uh...um...building-knocker-over.
By the late morning, rebellion was setting in. Remember that scene in "Mutiny on the Bounty" where the people on the Bounty mutiny? Me neither, but it probably looked a lot like the dorm lobby at 11. Somebody approached the cop every five minutes with an impassioned plea: "But Congressman Smith can't survive without my help!" Others slumped against the wall--utterly sapped of all their energy before tea-time. Full disclosure: I was one of them.
Still others took the opportunity to socialize. I hope against hope that at least one marriage will come from the connections made during this bomb threat. It will be wonderfully awkward whenever they get asked, "So, how did you two meet?"
Rather than waste my free time doing nothing, I wasted it by thinking up elaborate escape plans. Perhaps the police could provide us all with "Hurt Locker" style suits. Or maybe they could roll a Humvee right up to the door and drop us off a few blocks away. Or maybe they could let us make a run for it. The bomb can't get everybody, right?
The story's ending is anticlimactic. They let us out at 12:49 EST. No idea what happened to Mr. Suspicious Package. One person said that they "detonated" it. And I did hear a short, sharp Bang! around noon. It sounded like somebody had stuffed a tin can with M-80s. Maybe that's what they did. M-80s: not just for blowing off your fingers anymore!
What did I learn from the bomb threat? First, always carry a book. You'll never know when you get trapped somewhere and need something to read. Second, you can rearrange the letters in Adam Smith to spell "Admit sham." Remember when I said I didn't waste my free time? I lied.
Wrong! Turns out somebody found a "suspicious package" right in front of our dorm. Suspicious package--I imagine a shady looking box with dark glasses, a greasy coat, and a sleazy mustache loitering beneath a streetlight. Ah, DC, where there's a surprise around every corner and a suspicious package on every street!
God knows who put the box there, or why. But if their goal was to cripple the federal government, they succeeded, albeit in a very small way. The police put our building under lockdown--nobody gets out unless they want a bullet in their leg. Thus, dozens of congressional interns were cooped up in the dorm. For one day, their bosses experienced the agony of brewing their own coffee and opening their own mail.
Time ticked away. 8:01...8:02...skipping ahead a bit...8:07...skipping ahead a little more...8:09...damn, this skipping business is tricky. Let us simply say that it was a long, long wait. I honestly felt very sorry for the policeman assigned to guard our door. He had to deal with a horde of disgruntled think tank researchers, congressional PR interns, and newspaper factcheckers. Plus, what if he had to use the bathroom? If he left his post, somebody would try to escape. Perhaps they had snipers on the building across the way for that very purpose.
One peculiar thing about the whole kerfluffle. I never felt a bit worried. At no point did I think, "Holy cow, there might be a bomb out there capable of blowing us all into the bite-size chunks." I only thought, "Damn, I can't believe I'm missing a free breakfast." Either I'm very courageous or very shallow and unreflective. Given past experiences, the latter seems more likely.
Also working in favor of our survival: this dorm was seemingly built to withstand a hydrogen bomb detonated five feet away. Godzilla couldn't knock it over with a...uh...um...building-knocker-over.
By the late morning, rebellion was setting in. Remember that scene in "Mutiny on the Bounty" where the people on the Bounty mutiny? Me neither, but it probably looked a lot like the dorm lobby at 11. Somebody approached the cop every five minutes with an impassioned plea: "But Congressman Smith can't survive without my help!" Others slumped against the wall--utterly sapped of all their energy before tea-time. Full disclosure: I was one of them.
Still others took the opportunity to socialize. I hope against hope that at least one marriage will come from the connections made during this bomb threat. It will be wonderfully awkward whenever they get asked, "So, how did you two meet?"
Rather than waste my free time doing nothing, I wasted it by thinking up elaborate escape plans. Perhaps the police could provide us all with "Hurt Locker" style suits. Or maybe they could roll a Humvee right up to the door and drop us off a few blocks away. Or maybe they could let us make a run for it. The bomb can't get everybody, right?
The story's ending is anticlimactic. They let us out at 12:49 EST. No idea what happened to Mr. Suspicious Package. One person said that they "detonated" it. And I did hear a short, sharp Bang! around noon. It sounded like somebody had stuffed a tin can with M-80s. Maybe that's what they did. M-80s: not just for blowing off your fingers anymore!
What did I learn from the bomb threat? First, always carry a book. You'll never know when you get trapped somewhere and need something to read. Second, you can rearrange the letters in Adam Smith to spell "Admit sham." Remember when I said I didn't waste my free time? I lied.
World Cup Wish
I have one wish for the 2010 World Cup: that Paraguay and Uruguay meet in the championship. We could finally determine the guayest nation of them all.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Vamping
Vampires: discuss. Before you start, though, read this nifty little piece about the real-life origins of the vampire legend. It'll take you back to a time when vampires weren't thought of as sparkly, effeminate men with faces as inexpressive and colorless as a porcelain urinal.
Whither the Weather
Good gosh almighty, but it is hot in DC. The weather forecasts have given up on predicting the exact temperature; the answer is always "too hot." Now, they're just trying to say that in new and interesting ways. Yesterday, the newspaper said it would be "frog-boilingly hot." The forecast for tomorrow is "Hell warmed over." Oh boy...
Names Considered for My DC Bar Trivia Team
The Declaration of In-Your-Face Dependence
Killary Klinton
The Tricky Dicks
Double Strasburger With Cheese
The John Wallbangers
AIPAC Shakur
Killary Klinton
The Tricky Dicks
Double Strasburger With Cheese
The John Wallbangers
AIPAC Shakur
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Mini-Review: The Making of the Atomic Bomb
When the first atomic bomb exploded in the New Mexico desert at Alamagordo, nuclear scientist Kenneth Bainbridge congratulated Robert Oppenheimer by saying "Now we are all sons of bitches." Richard Rhodes's "The Making of the Atomic Bomb" explains how the world's greatest scientists willingly transformed themselves into sons of bitches while pursuing an atomic dream.
The atomic bomb had no mother or father. Instead it had an extended family, a thousand aunts, uncles, and cousins, each partially responsible for raising the little monster. Ernest Rutherford discovered the nucleus--and made it possible to dream of splitting that nucleus. Robert Lawrence invented the cyclotron--which became an invaluable tool for harvesting valuable uranium 235. Leo Szilard conceived of the idea of weaponizing the energy radiating from a broken nucleus--and it was his letter that convinced Franklin D. Roosevelt to create the Manhattan Project.
Rhodes gives each of these characters their due. Even relatively minor figures like Paul Tibbets, commander of the Enola Gay, receive a concise biography. Major players like Neils Bohr and Robert Oppenheimer receive chapter-long treatments. The young Oppenheimer is described as "a Goth looting Rome," obsessed by the feeling that "Nothing was yet his, nothing was original." Szilard, writes Rhodes, "made dull men uncomfortable and vain men mad."
The remarkable thing about the making of the bomb is that much of the project was driven by a completely false idea. The Americans were terrified of being beaten by the Germans, who, they imagined, held an insurmountable lead in the race to build a bomb. Nothing was further from the truth. By the war's end, the Nazis had managed to make a few paltry nuclear piles. They had nothing close to the industrial capacity of American facilities like Hanford and Oak Ridge.
"The Making of the Atomic Bomb" closes with an extended epilogue, in which Rhodes argues that the "republic of science" offers the only alternative to the militaristic nation-state. The republic of science is founded in openness, transparency, and the free flow of ideas, all concepts antithetical to the closed and paranoid nation-state. Science, Rhodes believes, has the potential to liberate us from the endless squabbling of nations. It is an optimistic and perhaps overly hopeful dream, but certainly a dream worth having.
Also, it's a good book. Read it.
The atomic bomb had no mother or father. Instead it had an extended family, a thousand aunts, uncles, and cousins, each partially responsible for raising the little monster. Ernest Rutherford discovered the nucleus--and made it possible to dream of splitting that nucleus. Robert Lawrence invented the cyclotron--which became an invaluable tool for harvesting valuable uranium 235. Leo Szilard conceived of the idea of weaponizing the energy radiating from a broken nucleus--and it was his letter that convinced Franklin D. Roosevelt to create the Manhattan Project.
Rhodes gives each of these characters their due. Even relatively minor figures like Paul Tibbets, commander of the Enola Gay, receive a concise biography. Major players like Neils Bohr and Robert Oppenheimer receive chapter-long treatments. The young Oppenheimer is described as "a Goth looting Rome," obsessed by the feeling that "Nothing was yet his, nothing was original." Szilard, writes Rhodes, "made dull men uncomfortable and vain men mad."
The remarkable thing about the making of the bomb is that much of the project was driven by a completely false idea. The Americans were terrified of being beaten by the Germans, who, they imagined, held an insurmountable lead in the race to build a bomb. Nothing was further from the truth. By the war's end, the Nazis had managed to make a few paltry nuclear piles. They had nothing close to the industrial capacity of American facilities like Hanford and Oak Ridge.
"The Making of the Atomic Bomb" closes with an extended epilogue, in which Rhodes argues that the "republic of science" offers the only alternative to the militaristic nation-state. The republic of science is founded in openness, transparency, and the free flow of ideas, all concepts antithetical to the closed and paranoid nation-state. Science, Rhodes believes, has the potential to liberate us from the endless squabbling of nations. It is an optimistic and perhaps overly hopeful dream, but certainly a dream worth having.
Also, it's a good book. Read it.
It's Thriller!
Michael Jackson was weird. Of that, there can be no doubt. But how weird was he? Read this lengthy--but good--description of the making of "Thriller" to find out. And if you don't have time: the answer is very, very weird.
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