Too Much Time On My Hands

Maybe it was the Seattle Pride Parade yesterday. Maybe it was whimsy. Maybe I was just hella bored and needed something to do. Whatever the reason, I shaved my chest this morning and this is the lovely result!


This ad space could be yours!!

It was strictly a razor thing so it'll probably hurt like hell tomorrow or the next day when it gets all stubbly. No matter, though. This trial run of hairlessness went swimmingly on Day 1, and so far it's looking like it may become a regular thing. Who knows? A little more definition and maybe I could become a model for Abercrombie & Fitch American Apparel.

Finals Talk

Alright, congratulations to the Spurs for getting the Game 7 victory over Detroit and winning the title. San Antonio was the consensus favorite at the beginning of the year (especially when they got Barry) and they rolled fairly easily through the playoffs until they hit the Pistons.



Last year, the Lakers were also the consensus favorite because they had that dynamite starting lineup although, in retrospect, people seemed to forget that Karl Malone and Gary Payton were each about 20 years past their respective primes. Plus, they're both jackasses. Anyway, when the Pistons actually showed up to play the 2004 Finals instead of being starstruck, the Lakers folded; all of the Pistons victories were blowouts and they wrapped it up in five games. Astonishing. That series, I believe, marked a shift in the NBA that closed the era of the superstar and began the era of the team.

It's not so much a charisma or marketing thing, but rather a coaching and system thing. This year, Phoenix ran a system where everyone was involved and was a potential scoring threat (everyone has to be dangerous when your team combines to score 110ppg). Detroit continued their defense-oriented style, but they spread it around also, resulting in their leading scorer averaging less than 20ppg. And the Spurs, of course, have a superstar, but his job isn't to proxy for the entire team. Last year, Kevin Garnett played the role of the Minnesota Timberwolves in the playoffs. When Troy Hudson and Sam Cassell got hurt it was the 7-footer playing point guard, firing clutch 3s and willing the team through the game. I'm not criticizing Garnett, who plays with more heart and hustle than anyone this side of Allen Iverson, but it is a clear contrast in styles. The old style is to rely on KG or Shaq or Jordan or Sir Charles...the new style is that everyone does a little something.

I think this is why it was so difficult to pick a Finals MVP last year. Chauncey Billups kinda won it by default. This year it is a bit easier because Tim Duncan was the decisionmaker (though not from the point guard position). He scored those 12 or 14 in the third quarter and he found Bowen and Ginobili for those gamebreaking threes in the fourth. Add to that the automatic double-double and not choking at the foul line and the choice becomes clear. I still can't stand the Spurs and I can't wait until the GS Ruff Ryderz meet the Knicks in the Finals, but one must appreciate how they gutted through the seven-gamer where the Lakers fell apart. Detroit was incredible, also. If they keep it up, maybe they can pull a Spurs East and win multiple titles, just not consecutively. Absolutely no shame in that.

Visiting the Gurudwara

My boss asked me what event could possibly lure me to a Sikh temple in Renton, 25 miles from where we work and, in a stroke of good fortune, 0.5 miles from where he lives. An answer wasn't entirely clear, although because I've convinced myself that I'm not social enough, I never decline an invitation to go someplace new.

That policy has produced some duds like the frat house party full of kids -- drinking games aren't that fun when you've got six years on everyone else -- but it has also revealed some treasures. You know, like that dinner with the grilled salmon and the fancy cheese and those women I still haven't gotten back to (time's a tickin', WhatUpThen). As my boss and I rolled up to the gurudwara so he could drop me off, I shuddered at the thought of being stuck there for 3+ hours among dozens of Indians looking at me as if I were from Planet X (that, or trying to rob the place). By the end of the night, though, this invitation had fallen squarely in the "treasure" category and I feel incredible for having taken a slice of culture and learned from it.

If you missed it, a gurudwara is a Sikh temple. There's one in my hometown of Hayward, CA, on D Street although knowing that information surprises me because I've never bothered to take a second look. Outside, a couple of precocious 14-year olds instructed me to remove my shoes and showed me how to tie a scarf around my head. Indu and Harminder, I think their names were? It's amazing, even at that age, one can tell those two will be movers and shakers later in life. Those same kids laughed at me as I struggled for five minutes trying to tie the scarf behind my head but luckily, Sujot the Inviter came outside and knotted me up. Damn jackass kids. No, just kidding, they were really cool.

No seating in the main hall, just a carpeted floor for everyone to get comfortable. There was a giant shrine in the center that looked like an ornate casket sheltered by a canopy. I would learn that the shrine is essentially the word of the guru and each person, upon entering the room would approach the shrine and bow their heads in deference.

If you know me well, you know my eyes narrow when people discuss their spiritual beliefs. I'm probably oversimplifying it, but words such as 'god' and 'prayer' are like profanity to me. Sometimes I try to lend support to those of religious faith by thinking billions of people can't be wrong...but sure they can! (Please, oh please let the culinary institute be in Austin). Somehow, though, I must say that the principles of Sikhism seemed very basic and pure and even appealing. It could be that I just missed the objectionable stuff because it was spoken in Punjabi but I came away with a good sense that the people among me stood for equality, tolerance and, well...just plain grace.

The feature was an art exhibit created by Sikh youth about Sikh youth growing up in the U.S....which must be a BITCH. Between being teased for the religious headwear and being mistaken for Muslim or dealing with lowered expectations and being taken as a novelty and just not being understood, it's clear why the gurudwara is such a valued place. The main piece is similar to a cube unfolded with each panel showing imagery about school, immigration, duty and living simultaneously for oneself and for others. It's something built by adolescents so it's not a stylistic masterpiece, but one must appreciate the symbolism and messages; if ever something could explain the confusion and reassurance one feels during life, this would be it.

So, as tends to be the case, my fears were unfounded and I came out better for the experience. Who knows when I'll find myself as a guest of the Sikh temple again but this visit was enough to cement the beauty of my hosts in my mind.

Smooth Criminal

Michael Jackson leaving courthouse with unidentified body double.

I've gotta admit, I really thought Mike was going down this time. The behavior we've heard about him and the kids and families is just so outrageous. Also, I felt his fame had diminished to a point where it would no longer insulate him from the public desire to cut down a man who is no longer taken seriously, if he ever was. I hate to bring up the O.J. case, which has long since been overanalyzed and used as an allegory for seemingly all of our social ills, but there is one similarity which shines through. The primary cop responsible for much of the important evidence in the Simpson case was a racist, plain and simple, who had the opportunity to take down a famous Black ex-athlete and (for what it's worth) who was with a White woman. Couldn't you imagine the same type of person salivating over the chance to take down, say...Charles Barkley? The racist cop angle just couldn't be ignored...although O.J. did it. Same with Michael Jackson's (latest) case. Sure, there are Michael's admissions of incomprehensibly strange behavior and a less-than-sparkling image, but it just so happens that the families accusing Michael each time were total grifters and that can't be ignored. It could be that Michael was preying on the families, but for sure they were preying on him, too, and it raises just enough doubt that I think a jury could come to the conclusion that they did without having been starstruck or otherwise influenced.

In other news, The Closer was mighty entertaining. It's tough to beat the whole transgender lesbian plot twist.

The Reward is Worth the Effort

There are many things I want in a girlfriend and (presumably) many things I can offer. But with so much pickup basketball going on during the weekday nights and weekend afternoons, two things that are at once trivial and important have gotta be part of the deal: she's gotta hook up the back massage and she's gotta hook up the pedicure.

What's Shakin'?

Take a look around outside or think back in your mind's eye about how men under age 35 greet each other. Does a single ritual come to mind? To narrow it down, think of, say...any jock types or guys enmeshed in hip-hop culture. Their greeting and farewell is more than a wave or hello or traditional handshake; it 's the open palm clasp or handslap or clasp leading to a split-second hug or often times even a multistep handshake, the more elaborate signifying the closeness of the friendship or affiliation. I sound like a real graduate student when I break down everyday occurrences in that way but it's not to make fun of the way men greet. I have no evidence, but I know it's derived from people of color. Hell, you KNOW it's us. And it's really important; the act, I believe, has transcended the symbolization of brotherhood among Black people to now symbolize masculinity among everyone who uses it. Or maybe it's just been co-opted. Anyway, the physical contact and the act of sharing the ritual is unifying. And make no mistake, it's a masculine thing. Giving a traditional businessman's handshake to a 12-year old would seem patronizing, but raise your hand, look in the kid's eyes and clasp and it's a message of equality. I'm not sure how well I'm expressing it here but perhaps the sense of brotherhood can only be conveyed with the act itself. I've learned a couple of new handshakes from the kids at the ECC that I think would behoove my friends to pick up, if only to symbolize our friendship.

In other news, I'd like to submit Enigma's Return To Innocence as a dark horse entry for Most Ridiculous Song of the Past 20 Years. And yes, I'm listening to the 13 minute, 9 second extended version right now.

Audio on the Way

Damn Pistons. I swear, when Shaq hit those two giant free throws with about 3 minutes to go in the 4th, I had no doubt Miami was gonna win it. This would have been a career-shaping title even for a player who is already one of the all-time greats. Oh well.

Here at UW, there is a student-run production called RETRO: First Mondays. It's something of a spoken word chill out party that happens once a month at the Ethnic Cultural Theater (you know, where I work). Tonight's was the last of the school year and seeing all of those students doing poetry and MCing and comedy was a reminder that performance is really valuable...I mean, in one's personal development. It's good experience to be onstage; there are skills one practices while onstage that can be reapplied at work, in social situations or wherever. To get to the point, people are always telling me that I should be on the radio because of my deep voice. But I frequently mumble and stutter through my speech. Clearly, I need to practice...and what better way to do it than to use Ice Climber? Well, there are probably a ton of better ways, but fuck that! So, I've decided to go back into the archives and make audio posts for every blogger entry. Perhaps it's more for me than any readers, but it allows me to hear myself talk (ooh, I like that idea) while continuing to make little alterations to make this blog better.

How Many Days Until Halloween?

This photo is provided to you so that you can see my progress in trying to look like Green Lantern. John Stewart is the image that came to mind when I looked in the barber's mirror this afternoon, but I see now that I've got to let the 'stache drop a little more on either side and also shave my head and grow a strong goatee. It would also help to stop eating candy so that my face will be more angular, but hey, let's be realistic.




Betcha can't even tell who's who!

Ode of Sorts

Oh yeah. I for sure want to live in Seattle for a coupla years, at least. Start my career, make a little bit of $$, further establish my connections and just get to know this place more intimately. The subject comes up because soon I'll be at a crossroads, deciding what to do for a living and deciding where to do it. Of course, the location may be a factor I'm forced to look past...if there's money or stability to be had, it cannot be ignored. But if it's possible then Rain City (who knows if anyone really calls it that) demands a little bit more time.

Forgetting that most barbers are closed on Sundays (and on Mondays because they are open Saturdays), I walked up to hip-ass Supreme Cutz for a much-needed, uh...cut. It's far away from the apartment so when the closed blinds came into view there was just some urge to continue the trek and make it worth my while. I ended up going all the way past Green Lake and into Greenwood; it was a pretty decent walk (wait a SECOND...MapQuest is telling me that it's only 4.33 miles! Well, those are driving directions using the more direct freeway route. I was on foot. Still...I was thinking I'd walked my ass across the state or something). Thing is, Green Lake was beautiful on a sunny Sunday with all of the runners and dogs and tennis players. Even the 70-year old, shirtless, Speedo-wearing jogger brought a smirk to my face. And Greenwood was delightful with the cheerful independent cafe waitress letting me know how good the white chocolate chip brownies are at this place and repeating my order of "12-ounce black coffee and that brownie right there" as "Sure, a Caffe Americano, no sugar in the coffee, plenty of sugar in the brownie!" And basketball was a treat because I actually went with my roommate and he brought a not-totally-serious perspective to a game we all sometimes take a little too seriously. Incidentally, Shaq is gonna destroy the Pistons and then the Heat are gonna destroy fucking Duncan, fucking Robert Horry, fucking Parker, goddamn asshole Udrih, shit who else do I hate on that team? Oh yeah, HOLY SHIT! MOTHERFUCKING BRUCE MOTHERFUCKING BOWEN! I'm surprised some crazy person hasn't tried to have his legs broken already. And no one is gonna be humiliated more than Flop King freakin' Ginobili. Goddammit. So, anyway yeah, people get all worked up sometimes about shit that really isn't that important.

And then I met some lovely young women tonight at Bradford's dinner party (note to self: go to those salsa nights this summer), so that's probably the real reason I'm in this "can't leave yet" mindset, but I just got started with this city and really there's much more to be done. So, um...maybe I'd better get that whole residency application filled out, eh?

Ugh

Goddamn spitting toilets.

And the waterfree ones all over Seattle do nothing to eliminate the oppressive scent of urine. Or maybe it's just my imagination. There's gotta be a balance somewhere.

Resealable Bubble

Headed to Safeway after work to grab a sandwich for dinner. Safeway Deli is great; they make made-to-order sandwiches with all of those good meats and cheeses and sprouts and avocado and whatever-the-hell-else you want on it...and still for less $$ than Subway. Maybe it doesn't quite warrant such a high level of astonishment because it's not like delicatessens outside of the corporate umbrella haven't been serving up delicious sandwiches for hundreds of years, but it works for me.

There was a fire truck and an ambulance parked outside Safeway as I walked up. A young woman was collapsed in one of the aisles and...well, it didn't look too pleasant. I stole a bunch of furtive glances as I zipped around the store, getting water and canned fruit to go along with the sandwich. Two things: it was scary to see the woman so motionless; had someone attacked her or did she have a seizure or was she drunk, maybe? Second, it was a bit surreal (wait, lemme look that up and make sure I'm using it correctly...okay, yeah, that's close enough) to find everyone just going about their business. That's the only thing one can do, though, right? I suppose the situation was being addressed, but it just seemed like a little reminder of our impersonal society, you know? Anyway, as I left the store, the homeless man selling Real Change told me she had had a seizure. So, after that moment of concern I've returned to my selfish enclosure.

Audio bird identification exam at 7am tomorrow. Better start studying.