The Airing of Grievances

NBA Draft 2008

Yes, this is an NBA Draft journal. If you want an apology for being "one of the herd," read the one I wrote last year. All the same shit applies.

Now, let's not start dicking around so we can get directly into setting the stage. It's going to be a long night and I think this could get wordy. I'm at home, sitting comfortably in my man cave in Phoenix, AZ. If you're not sure why I chose to watch this in here or why I even have a man cave, then you're either:

• the type of woman that says "men don't make any sense" even though everything we do is obviously motivated by either a desire for convenience, sex or survival
• someone who doesn't have any aggressive toddler spawn running around his house 28 hours a day, purely in pursuit of his very last nerve
• assuming I mean "man cave" in the colloquial sense that translates to "gay man's anus." Which I'm not. Good lord, that'd be an uncomfortable way to spend a few hours.

This year's foreign beer of choice is Pacifico. (Hopefully, they've found a way to remove Montezuma's Revenge during the brewing process; otherwise, this draft journal may suddenly skip from pick 12 to pick 18 with very little explanation.) My team, the Indiana Pacers has found a way to get multiple picks in the first round (so I have motivation to remain relatively sober) and a way to rid our roster of Jermaine O'Neal without taking on an even more laughable contract in the process. If I wasn't so decidedly heterosexual, I'd be offering Larry Bird access to my man cave in celebration. Interpret that however you'd like.

Maria Hates The Brits

Okay, I have no idea whatsoever if that's true but one thing I know for sure is that the Brits are batshit insane. Actually, that may be a generalization as well. I'll just say that men are pigs. I think I'm safe there.

She's already been pissing off tennis people for years with her with her crazy grunting, but her latest transgression is far worse. You see, Ms. Sharapova had the audacity to show up at the All England Lawn Tennis Club this year wearing shorts. Apparently, this somehow makes that drop-dead gorgeous blonde pictured above look like a man.

The Sun has reaction from the local fans at Wimbledon after the jump...

Tiger

Insane. Just completely and utterly insane. The man is not human -- which may explain why he took that stupid shot on 13.

"... and you never will" is playing over and over in my head.

(Hate the 18-hole playoff.)

The Perfect Storm

Following Assman's AofG crew's rec league adventures lead ... so, last night in my hockey game there is a face off in our end with 7 seconds left in the period. Puck is dropped, clock apparently does not start and about 20 seconds later one of our studs -- an Irish-Asian kid -- is rushing the puck up ice. He's a right handed-shot, gets to about five feet inside the (left side of the) blue line and, with about 3 seconds left on the clock, unleashes and inside-out howtizer which he claims he was trying to bank off an Italian defenseman. The howitzer hit the Italian kid. The Italian kid went down. The Italian kid commenced to shrieking in pain like I have never heard a man shriek in my life. Broken bone? No. Deep tissue bruise? Uh-uh. World Cup audition? Nope, not at all. An about 80 mile an hour slap shot straight to the sack? Yup, you got it. Straight. To. The. Sack. Not wearing a cup. Left rink in ambulance.

Any sympathy? Comparable level of stupidity? Thoughts of franks & beans?

This Would Have Been Acceptable in the 80's

Possibly the biggest sports news story for the last few years is the story about how a crooked NBA ref got caught and has been singing his ass off about how all these games that people have been crying about being rigged were, in fact, actually rigged. For some reason, this hasn't been on the front page of the news every day for the last year, but it should be. What matters more? That a guy might shoot himself up with drugs so he can be a more effective ball player, or the fact that, despite the drugging, the people who run the sport decide who wins and loses anyway?

I mean, knowing what you know about the NBA's officiating now and David Stern's clear "I could give a fuck" attitude about the fans' desire for some upfront house-cleaning, can you watch the Finals and think that the result will be anything other than a 7-game money machine? Knowing how little contempt Stern has held for obvious corruption (I'm looking at you, Clay Bennett of Oklahoma City), is there any remaining NBA fan that can sit by and talk themselves into accepting that the game they are watching isn't in the bag?

More importantly, it's Thursday, so shouldn't this post be another self-indulgent update on my rec basketball league? Of course it should, but obviously I'm stalling. I need a moment before I can go there.

Since We're Talking Golf...

I gotta lot of problems with golfers.  Not all of them.   Maybe not even you, Joe Golfer. 

Let me put something out there so you don't take me the wrong way.  I love golf like few others I know.  I love playing it, reading about it, writing about it (shameless plug), talking about it, whatever.  I even enjoy watching it, and not just to let the dulcet tones of Jim Nantz lull me into a Sunday afternoon nap.  On weekend's of big tournaments, my wife is a golf widow and I never leave the house.

My problem isn't with the pros and there's a very simple reason for that , outside of their ridiculous skill: they count them all.  Granted, it's a lot easier to figure out if you had birdie or par than if you have to take one penalty stroke or two for grounding your club in the bunker -- it's two, or loss of hole in match play --  to see if you saved double-bogey or if you have to take the triple. 

Vongphoumy*

A local heart-warming story has raised the ire of a friend of mine so I figured I'd look into it a little. In a nutshell, this woman was caught trying to escape communist Laos when she was 16 and sent to a farm where I assume some sort of slavery was taking place. Two years later she escapes to Thailand and spends two more years in a Thai refugee camp before ultimately making it to the U.S., marrying and giving birth to four kids; one of who just became the first girl to ever win the Rhode Island Interscholastic League Individual State Championship in golf. Now that your soul is all warm and snuggly, the story does come with one small disclaimer...

Brown Out

I know next to nothing about horse racing and know just about the same about steroids, but I keep hearing everyone connected to the horse saying they have "no idea" what happened. Well, here's a wild guess: That utterly annoying smug ass trainer -- yeah, the chubby loud mouth guy pictured above -- decided he would prove to the world that Big Brown could win without performace-enhancing drugs and did not give his horse the montly steroid shot he had in the past (hat tip: El Presidente Cerrano) -- if everyone has "no idea," how can that not be your reason?

It Hurts My Soul a Little

There's a glaring difference between basketball played on the west coast and basketball on the east coast. And I'm not just talking about quality of play (Lakers in 5, by the way); I'm talking about the general approach to the sport altogether.

As a lifetime east-coaster, I've learned to play a certain way. Do certain things. Approach the game with a certain mentality. And that's always been normal to me because everyone I've ever played with has been raised to play the same way. Since I just moved to the west coast last year, this basketball season is the first time I've been exposed to this new type of game. I'm all a-twitter and whatnot.

Hindsight is, like... 20/60 at best

All of this AOFG political talk is fantastic, but it gets old, man. Every morning, I wake up and read the internet to find out which political idiot said what idiotic thing, then read all the idiotic opinions of the idiot pundits so they can re-affirm my somewhat idiotic belief that Idiot A is an idiot while Idiot B is not. It's a nice way to start a day, but it really takes the focus off of the fact that the real idiot in my life is me. After all, I'm the one that signed up for another rec basketball league with my co-workers.

Let me go back for a second. You may not remember this, but, I decided sometime last year that adult, responsible life isn't hard enough as it is, and that having my mind, body and soul soddomized on a basketball court would be the perfect complement to a crap existence, similar to the way butter goes great on a muffin. The results were not pretty. And they never got pretty. I mean, we tried our asses off, but it just stayed ugly. And I think I publicly said "fuck you" a bit more than is commonly acceptable as a result. Bad scene, man. The only winner in the transaction was the chiropractor that can drive to work in a Hummer and leave the engine running all day thanks to my financial contribution to his business.

Yet, when a co-worker asked me a couple of weeks ago if I'd consider signing up with his team and getting my proverbial throat crapped in like a stunt double from 2 Girls 1 Cup, I couldn't help but get on the stick. Genius.