Dr. Robert

Just like the Miami Heat, I might disappear for a day or two here. Devin the Dude is coming to town.

...chilled out fellow, smokin' out kindof dude.

Tomorrow I gotta get up early, go to work, come home, shake out the doobie ashtray, and get real breezy real fast, because I'm gonna be (along with every other blogger in NYC) in the LES wondering who that man onstage with his dick in his hand is. Don't expect much of a report unless something really wild goes down. There are plenty of other folks better equipped than I to deliver in that whole setlist/digi-pics of semi-celebrities area.

Although several unconfirmed reports say that's the Soup Nazi up there turning Salma Hayek out, our sources say it's actually Borat.

What the fuck is the flying shit?

Great news for all you LOST junkies jonesing for next season. Oceanic-air.com appears to actually be made by the producers and features all kinds of hidden crazy tid-bits and cryptic hints and whatnot. Supposedly there's a way to bring up the seating chart for flight #815 and if you punch "the numbers" in order you get a teaser video for Season 2. Also you math obsessives need to check The Numbers, for all LOST/#s-related conspiracy/ heroin. Someone with a desk-job figure this shit out and report back.

Bonus Long Weekend 'Scrips:
My man John Inverse is just now getting his nolege-dropping blog on. I expect blig things.

Star Wars catches a bad one from Anthony Lane. Fucking hilarious. If, however, like me, you often lack sufficient attention span for the New Yorker, O-Dub runs down the highlights here.

Sleepnotwork is back.

It's two screen-captures from the boob-tube.


Defense wins championships, the Suns do not.


Hurley! For godsakes! Put your shirt back on!

Bonus 'Scrips:
-Matt from Instant Replays on the Cubs' conspiracy to subtly undermine fan-support for pitcher Carlos Zambrano by spreading veiled hints about his debilitating porn addiction.

-Crying While Eating. The guy with the buckwheat noodles and the cat ("why is he crying? he ruined passover") is the best. Why is this so funny?

I missed this last night...


Because I was at Lincoln Center watching "We Jam Econo," the Minutemen documentary.


Sasha Frere-Jones recently wrote on-line that that the movie's first five minutes are the saddest of any rock movie ever (he also used his platform at the New Yorker to promote the screening - causing my ass to have to wait outside in the freezing-ass pissy rain in the stand-by line for over an hour before I got in.)

Anyway, he's right. Although sad might not be the best word. I'd say more like poignant or bittersweet or something. (Then again, what do I know? I'm not the one writing at the New Yorker.) It's just so obvious what a beautiful person D. Boon was and what immense love Mike Watt had for him, and, to resort to cliche, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

The movie is a mix between all kinds of amazing archival live footage and dozens of recent interviews with everyone from old Pedro punks to the guy from Wire to Thurston Moore to a morbidly obese J. Mascis (whose mere appearance garnered the biggest laugh of the night), and of course - the centerpiece - Watt himself.

I can't recommend this movie enough. The makers were there and said a DVD should be out this fall (including a bonus disc with three entire live shows,) but see it in a theater if you get the chance. It's better loud.

La Fin Du Monde under the 'scope


Spaten


Liberty Ale

As both a man of science and a barely functional alcoholic, I'm utterly engrossed by these microscopic views of beers from around the world.

I'm Always the Last to Know 'Scrip:
CAPS over at TheStencil.com is the hippest DJ/designer/blogger/Bills-fan in all of Brooklyn.
Don't They Know? 'Scrip:
This snarky list of early-entrants into the NBA draft is good for a chuckle or two.
Something You Don't Know 'Scrip:
My sources* inside the Dekalb County Court (that's pronounced "coat") House tell me Gucci Mane is in even more trouble than the press and others are letting on over this Young Jeezy-beef murder rap. The thing is, Gucci's self-defense story (that dudes ran up in the set-up girl's crib with guns and duct-tape and he had to do what he had to do) makes perfect sense until you take into account that the body was found, hidden, over two miles away.

*I'm serious. Ask me about TI's recent crackin'-some-guy-over-the-head-with-a-bottle-of -Crys appearance.

Queensbridge's finest, in happier times (and longer shorts).

If it hadn't been for the brawl and the subsequent suspenisions (and injuries,) the Pacers would have won their division, beat the Pistons, and Reggie would still be running fools off of screen after screen, pushing off and nailing clutch Js. Too bad. I'll get over it, but it looks like Ron Artest isn't taking things quite as well. That's right, Ron Ron is off his meds again.

Bonus Worse Even Than Greg Anthony 'Scrip:
I don't know if this poor kid is illiterate or agoraphobic or on LSD or what, but he is by far the worst sports reporter in the history of television. Boom Goes the Dynamite!
Bonus Super-Focused On His Blog Grind 'Scrip:
I've been a big Chris Lemon-Red fan ever since he April Fools-ed everybody with some "New M.I.A. feat. David Banner!" jive, and the dude continues to regularly deliver the mp3 heat.

Litterial Green meets the man he cannot jump over

On the eve of the start of the NBA Conference finals, I thought it might be a good time to revisit my Shaq theory, originally proposed last July when the news of Diesel to Miami first came out. Back then I wrote:

I like Shaquille O’Neal. Yeah sure, he commits an offensive foul every time he drops that big shoulder, and yeah, his rap career has been less than stellar (although heads are whispering that he’s winning this whole beef with Madd Skillz!) but the man is hilarious. Intentionally so. He’s witty, and cocky, and charming. His press conferences are always a treat. I hear all the time what an idiot he is, and I’m always astounded. Don’t people listen? I guess it’s because he looks dumb (it’s the close set, semi-crossed eyes,) which is unfortunate, but the man is 7’2”, ungodly strong, quick, clever and sitting on millions, so I guess you can’t have it all.

Shaq’s on the Heat now, where according to prevailing public opinion, his presence, along with rising star Dwayne Wade, makes them an immediate contender out of the East. It’s possible, and would be even more likely had they kept Lamar Odom, who last year finally played like we knew he could, I don’t know though. I don’t really buy the argument that Shaq will be more productive and better rested because there are no centers in the East. There aren’t any centers out West either. Ben Wallace, Zydrunas Ilgauskas and Jermaine O’Neil will put up as much (or as little) of a fight as did Yao, Garnett, Duncan and… wait who are these big men the West is supposedly so loaded with? Olowakandi? Divac? My point.

Shaq’s getting old, though, and more importantly he’s been fat for a while now. So does he dominate? Yeah sure. Will he be MVP dominant? Will he take the Heat to the Finals? Nope, not if he keeps doing what he’s been doing the last 5 or 6 years. He will, though, if he follows my simple plan.

1.Get in shape. A little bit at least. The Big Aristotle is still quick, but dude used to be fast. He can’t get that back completely, he’s 34, but he can sure as Hell improve on where he’s at right now. Remember when Shaq used to run the floor and actually jump up off of it...

besides to dunk? Like for rebounds and to block shots?

Which brings me my next points:

2.Rebound. Shaq should concentrate his game on two things. The first of which is owning the fucking boards, every inch of them. With his quickness, height and wide, wide ass, he could average 20 boards a game easily. That would translate to a ton of easy points, with putbacks and outlets, for him and his teammates. He does this you don’t even need to run plays for him and he’d still score 25 a night. Run a few through him, and he’s averaging 30+ a night, easy, with less minutes than he’s been playing.

3.The second area Shaq needs to focus on is defense. Own the fucking lane, Shaq. Shaq is capable of doing every thing Ben Wallace does only more-so, he’s significantly bigger, and just as quick. He should be blocking or changing every single lay-up attempted in his vicinity, no problem. Again this leads to easy buckets for his team.

That’s it. Simple huh? Lose weight. Rebound. Defend. If Shaq did those three things consistently, and he’s certainly capable, he’d crush the League nightly. He wouldn’t even have to look to score (like I said he’d get his points Moses Malone style, off the offensive glass, and off the break,) thought there’s no reason for him to stop looking to post-up either.

Acceptance of this theory leads us back to the Lakers, where, if Shaq had followed my simple advice, he and Kobe squash all beef over who’s getting shots and win every championship for the next 5 years.

Am I saying this Laker debacle is all the Big Man’s fault? No, not really. Kobe may or not be a rapist, but he’s definitely an asshole, and that had to affect Shaq’s willingness to adapt his game and compromise his stats. Phil Jackson had clearly given up on this last season sometime around the Mailman’s knee injury, which didn’t help either.

All of which means this Miami thing is the perfect opportunity for Shaq to trim down and truly dominate, Bill Russell style, like we all know he could.

Not that I'm Negrodamus...

or anything, but I'd say that was pretty damn prescient. Shaq did get in shape, and he did dominate away from the ball, and he did lead the Heat to best record in the East, and he didn't win the MVP. His stats for rebounds and blocks were down slightly, but he played less minutes, and there's really no way to quantify his defensive presence in the lane or the way he opens up the offense for Dwyane, Damon, Udonis and the rest of the Furious Five.

I expect him to have a little something to prove against Chauncey and them after that MVP controversy and his disappointing non-performance in the Wizz series.

Bonus 'Scrip
Listen in as Larry David tries to figure out Nate Newton, a man of appetites.

This is not the Tim Duncan Robot you are looking for.

Have I mentioned what a freaking Jedi-stud Manu Ginobili is?

Willie Nelson's new record is a reggae-themed disc called Countryman, just like the badass Jamaican movie...

about these douchebag Americans drug-dealers who are being chased by the cops and get rescued by this super-mystical Rasta dude...

who kicks ass and controls lightning and catches fish with his bare-hands and rolls giant spliffs in his underwater cave.

Check out the the Redheaded Stranger's new cover-art:


Bonus Hydro Dank 'Scrip:
Beyonce in headband, Willie pigtails, and a tight little Willie Tee is a good look...

Woah Gotdamn!

...but now it looks like when he come out man I'm goin in.

Gangsta:
Stephen Jackson is from Port Arthur, Texas, and like fellow Port Arthur natives UGK, the Underground Kingz, he lived in the game. Before slipping away to Prep-School/McDonalds-All-American-Breeding-Ground Oak Hill Acadamy,Steve was straight thuggin'. He skipped school. He sold that crack, or as Pimp C would spit it, "[his] boulders smolder[ed] on the PA pipes." He got a tatoo on his forearm of someone firing an automatic weapon. He claimed Blood, and still does so today.

Bonus Gangsta 'Scrips:
Darth Vader has a blog. It's better than you think.

Some diabetic kid with a blown knee who played a little IM ball at LSU has declared for the draft. Knowing the Hawks, they'll probably trade down with their lottery pick to take him.

Go ahead, make fun of my man's Fruity Pebbles. Do it.

These Raekwon pics by Kenneth Cappello are pretty great. That machete photo reminds me of this ill crime scene.

Michael McDonald, Dipset-addiction specialist, travels the interinterent

I've spent all morning over at the best audio-blog ever downloading rare demos, mixtape cuts, and freestyle MPtrees, gleaning all kinds of mysticscientific knowledge, and fighting off seizure while peeping the vast array of informative-yet-disturbing animated gifs. If you are a fan of any or all things purple (Prince, Sizzurp, Dipset, these United States...) then 8+9+3 has that crack you need.

Also be sure to check Michael McDonald-Rehab approved 'Scrips:
Three For All a new basketball blog from Russ Bengston, former editor-in-chief at Slam.
Schizophrenic Tenant Number One from Emynd of the mighty Scrimp.

14 pts. 20 boards. Southwest Texas State represent.

Now that's what I call a "gameface." Lousy drunks.

This new Dwyane Wade/Grandmaster Flash Converse commercial is a great idea. If Michael Chabon or Robert Rodriguez had been in on it, it would have been genuis.

I thought #23 played outfield when he was trying his hand at minor league ball; apparently he's a pitcher. You best believe Sir Charles demanded reciprocation though - in the form of a Round Mound Reach Around.

Click here for a bigger image of the hot egomaniacal-gambling-addict-on-fat-drunk-guy action:


That's right, Michael Jordan was freaking Charles Barkley on top of a table at a dance club in Vegas. Spanking was involved.

Dr. Robert presiding.

After y'all are done proving how efil4zaggin you are by taking this NWA quiz (I missed three - "[I] must be straight outta Compton,) and after you've downloaded some of these hot shit "explicit only" NWA mp3s, then and only then will you be truly prepared for the magic that is the muppets doing "Fuck tha Police."

Inspired by this incredible blog, which sets out to prove - in a wonderfully purple prose - that there is more than meets the eye when it comes to Allen Iverson, I have put in writing my own AI story. It is the God's honest truth as reported by my mans Smith, Phil and Paul, one of whom was there, and neither of whom are liars.

***

I have a friend who played AAU ball with AI's club (though AI was slightly older and on a different team) back in VA. This friend of mine was a country boy, and honed his game in his back yard, alone, far out on VA's isolated Eastern Shore.

AI's high-school exploits were local legend. He showed up to every game late - cool, calm, and collected after cheefing out in his car in the parking lot. He began every game by stealing the ball from the opposing point guard, taking a couple of dribbles, and unleashing a thunderous dunk. He did this for the first few possessions of the game, and then, point made, refrained from playing defense of any sort for the rest of the contest, which he continued to dominate, due mostly to the fact that he was faster than everyone else - even when cruising around the court at half-speed. Once he deemed his team's lead insurmountable and grew bored he would proceed, to the crowd's delight and his coach's eternal consternation, to put on a dunk exhibition (windmills, 360s, etc...) on his own basket until he was finally removed from the game.

It must also be noted that in these games, as in his NBA games today in which he must exert a great deal more effort, AI does not sweat. Check it out next time you’re watching TNT. 48 minutes, OT, it matters not. Not a drop of perspiration may be seen on The Answer’s serious visage nor his slender, tattooed, frame.

My friend witnessed these exploits, and saw talented defender after talented defender get burned effortlessly by AI and his unreal speed. Out there alone on the Eastern Shore practicing for hours on end, my friend fantasized about guarding AI, about being the guy that would stay in front of him, about shutting The Answer down.

One day at AAU practice he got his chance. My friend’s team was scrimmaging with AI’s older squad, both young men were on the court, and Allen came off a pick at the top of the key and my friend rotated over to guard him. It was just like he had envisioned. AI dribbled at the top of the circle. My friend clapped his hands, bent his knees low, bounced on his toes, and concentrated on AI’s belt-buckle. He would not be mislead by fancy dribbles, jabsteps, or fakes of the ball or head. He would not be beaten.

AI continued to dribble. My friend continued to intensely maintain his textbook defensive stance. AI hesitated. AI crossed over. Bamf. AI disappeared. He did not “blow by” my friend. Nor did he “fake him out” or “beat him off the dribble.” He straight up ceased to exist and then reappeared at the rim laying it high off the glass over some poor big man foolish enough to jump.

My friend’s fantasy was not to be, but he was not ashamed. How could he be? He was but a man, AI was something else entirely.

A while back I accepted Adam's Sadistic Challenge. I wrote a poem about a drag-race. It stars a greasy asshole, a sweet little GA peach, and my man Howard, the only real Southern drag-racer I know. Shafer has it here.

This can't be real, but it's still cool as fuck. Better even than that Jordan vs. Bird "H.O.R.S.E." commercial. The deck-flip is a nice touch.