I didn't start out a Lebron hater. When I was in high school I enjoyed keeping up with his journal entries that he would publish for SLAM magazine about his summers palling around with Jay-Z and playing scrimmage pick-up games in Chicago with Jordan and other pro's. It was kind of cool to see this kid around my age succeeding.
I even watched his first ever professional game against the Sacramento Kings and cheered for him. He put on quite a show, his numbers were pretty good by anybodies standards let alone a kid just out of high school playing his first game in the NBA.
But then it all sort of started changing.
For me the crest broke on my Lebron James fandom when I heard him say during an interview that his ambitions where to be like Muhammed Ali. So here I am about to give this guy all the praise in the world thinking that the brother is about to say some profound shit, when he follows with, "I want to be a global marketing icon".
Now, call me crazy. But when I think of Muhammed Ali I think of him for his refusal to join the military and commitment to the Nation Of Islam at a time when it couldn't have been any more damaging to his image. Not for his loyalty to selling sneakers and car insurance. I also put Ali on a pedastal that very few can stand on, that of a great champion who was devoted first and foremost to being the best. It's guys like him who made pop culture in the United States the envy of the world and was not only a profound entertainer but a leader that any citizen regardless of class, gender, ethnicity could find inspiration from and apply the principles of hard work and achievement to their own lives.
Lebron James has virtually no redeemable qualities. He has achieved almost nothing because everything has been handed to him since day one. Yes, he wins games. Yes, he has alot of money. Yes, does this or that. But at the end of the day history will forget all of those things if the man retires from the NBA minus a handful of championship rings to accessorize with his classy wardrobe. And even then I have a hard time believing that he will retire with the same level of respect as the legendary players. The guys who were devoted day in and day out. Who never accepted failure as an option and took it personally. The kind of guys who could lead and win. Bird, Magic, Jordan, Kobe, these guys are legends. As of right now Lebron James despite all of the hype manufactured by apparell companies is not even close to being in the same category as these guys. Nobody is scared of him.
This offseason instead of practicing his dance moves, hosting events at trendy night clubs and getting tattoos, maybe he needs to put in a few extra hours of work each day to get to the level his talents demand of him.
Otherwise, he will go down as not only the most disappointing NBA star in history, but a guy who could have been a star during a time when the world needed one the most. Or, he can just keep getting wealthier. Whatever works for him.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Who or What is a Kanto?
"Ow-ange Chick-n lonch spech-ill fa-nine-nine($4.99) you tie sampa."
That was a pretty damn good piece of orange chicken, I thought to myself. My stomach twisting and turning anxiously with agreement.
Sold!
"I'll have one of those and a medium Cherry Coke with no ice please."
"If I order my drink with ice these clever Koreans may try to pull a fast one on me and fill that whole damn cup to the brim", I thought to myself. Leaving me with three-maybe-four gulps of foamy Cherry Coke to slurp down and a whole cup of ice for a whopping 1.85!
After waiting nearly five minutes behind somebodies soon to be dead grandfather, wondering how this corpse managed to escape from the confines of his nursing facility and venture to the mall, I was given my order. The elderly gentleman was still counting his change trying to pay the tiny korean girl at the counter.
-Five cents-
-Ten cents-
So on and so fourth.
I retired over to the quiet corner of the food court, a section away from the crowds and a good view of all of the scantily clad baby-mamas of drug dealers. The ones with nine kids tend to be the best kept and sleaziest.
After chowing down my delicious orange chicken, I caught the bus outside and headed to Williams Park with a few detours through some of the cities less desirable communities. Never one to pass up the opportunity to browse a good thrift store I stopped at the Central Ave Goodwill and like a punch to the throat I was attacked from within by something demonic. That delicious orange chicken from the mall wasn't agreeing with me. Maybe the Koreans were harboring some long held resentment over a war that happend decades before my birth and here I was now, the victim of some sort of pay-back through a orange chicken lunch special.
Not now, I kept reminding myself. The bathroom of the Goodwill is not the time nor the place. I caught the next bus to Williams Park, hoping to catch another bus that would deliver me to my doorstep in a hurry.
The next bus wouldn't be for another fourty-five minutes and the last possible option was to use the facilities at Williams Park. One night I wondered in there to find a half naked derelict undressing and piss all over the floors. No thank you. It's the kind of pulic restroom where vagrants go to smoke crack and fuck, it's dark and the lighting is some bright flourescent green color. It looks more like the setting for a Saw movie then a sterile place to take a shit.
The monster in my belly was growing meaner by the second.
I hightailed it in a jiffy to the nearest public restroom I could find, the one in the court yard at Baywalk. These days Baywalk is looking like one of those propped up ghost town sets they would use for old time western films. If the wind blows the place looks like it might fly off and the illusion that a poorly planned family friendly entertainment complex marketed towards the rich may be gone forever.
With only one business open besides the movie theater and virtually no Saturday afternoon foot traffic I decided that this was the ideal spot to exorcise this demon.
The bathroom at Baywalk isn't much better then the one in Williams Park. The floors are wet and covered in sand like the ones you find on a beach. The doors are stripped off of the handles, theres open wires and beer cans. Somebody had themselves a wild time in here the night before.
No sooner as I sat my naked ass down on the toilet seat, the entrance door swung open and some belching tub-o-lard came scuffling in. I imagined him as a unshaven mutanoid that farts at the dinner table or pee's in the family pool. The kind of guy who grabs the ass's of waitresses and stairs like a creep at his daughters friends. Whatever he was I needed him to leave the room asap so I could unload and get the hell out of that stink trap.
Here I was, my stomach burning and my bowels clinching, trying to remain as silent as a church mouse. The man finally left without washing his hands, ofcourse.
Just as I had assumed the coast was clear, some other smug Guy Harvey wearing sailor wanna-be came strolling into the stahl next to me. His hairy feet, unkept dirty toe nails and dollar store flip flops were a disturbing site.
All I wanted was to peacefully take a dump, how is it that the mens restroom at Baywalk can have more foot traffic then the entire rest of this empty complex has had in the last decade of operations? I hate eating infront of people, holding private phone calls infront of people and even worse using the restroom around other people.
Just as I had given up all hope for a moment of privacy, I looked up in prayer and was distracted by a air vent somebody had tagged with the word, "Kanto" on it. I imagined some angry youth who had taken to a life of crime and poverty on the mean streets of downtown St. Petersburg, who decided to lash out at the establishment, his drunken abusive father, George W Bush, former school teachers and the girl who dumped him to fuck some guy who looked like lame rapper OJ Da Juiceman the only way he knew how, by writing his name in pink paint pen on a air vent in the mens restroom at Baywalk. That'll learn'em.
With the room cleared out, I finished my business and booked.
That was a pretty damn good piece of orange chicken, I thought to myself. My stomach twisting and turning anxiously with agreement.
Sold!
"I'll have one of those and a medium Cherry Coke with no ice please."
"If I order my drink with ice these clever Koreans may try to pull a fast one on me and fill that whole damn cup to the brim", I thought to myself. Leaving me with three-maybe-four gulps of foamy Cherry Coke to slurp down and a whole cup of ice for a whopping 1.85!
After waiting nearly five minutes behind somebodies soon to be dead grandfather, wondering how this corpse managed to escape from the confines of his nursing facility and venture to the mall, I was given my order. The elderly gentleman was still counting his change trying to pay the tiny korean girl at the counter.
-Five cents-
-Ten cents-
So on and so fourth.
I retired over to the quiet corner of the food court, a section away from the crowds and a good view of all of the scantily clad baby-mamas of drug dealers. The ones with nine kids tend to be the best kept and sleaziest.
After chowing down my delicious orange chicken, I caught the bus outside and headed to Williams Park with a few detours through some of the cities less desirable communities. Never one to pass up the opportunity to browse a good thrift store I stopped at the Central Ave Goodwill and like a punch to the throat I was attacked from within by something demonic. That delicious orange chicken from the mall wasn't agreeing with me. Maybe the Koreans were harboring some long held resentment over a war that happend decades before my birth and here I was now, the victim of some sort of pay-back through a orange chicken lunch special.
Not now, I kept reminding myself. The bathroom of the Goodwill is not the time nor the place. I caught the next bus to Williams Park, hoping to catch another bus that would deliver me to my doorstep in a hurry.
The next bus wouldn't be for another fourty-five minutes and the last possible option was to use the facilities at Williams Park. One night I wondered in there to find a half naked derelict undressing and piss all over the floors. No thank you. It's the kind of pulic restroom where vagrants go to smoke crack and fuck, it's dark and the lighting is some bright flourescent green color. It looks more like the setting for a Saw movie then a sterile place to take a shit.
The monster in my belly was growing meaner by the second.
I hightailed it in a jiffy to the nearest public restroom I could find, the one in the court yard at Baywalk. These days Baywalk is looking like one of those propped up ghost town sets they would use for old time western films. If the wind blows the place looks like it might fly off and the illusion that a poorly planned family friendly entertainment complex marketed towards the rich may be gone forever.
With only one business open besides the movie theater and virtually no Saturday afternoon foot traffic I decided that this was the ideal spot to exorcise this demon.
The bathroom at Baywalk isn't much better then the one in Williams Park. The floors are wet and covered in sand like the ones you find on a beach. The doors are stripped off of the handles, theres open wires and beer cans. Somebody had themselves a wild time in here the night before.
No sooner as I sat my naked ass down on the toilet seat, the entrance door swung open and some belching tub-o-lard came scuffling in. I imagined him as a unshaven mutanoid that farts at the dinner table or pee's in the family pool. The kind of guy who grabs the ass's of waitresses and stairs like a creep at his daughters friends. Whatever he was I needed him to leave the room asap so I could unload and get the hell out of that stink trap.
Here I was, my stomach burning and my bowels clinching, trying to remain as silent as a church mouse. The man finally left without washing his hands, ofcourse.
Just as I had assumed the coast was clear, some other smug Guy Harvey wearing sailor wanna-be came strolling into the stahl next to me. His hairy feet, unkept dirty toe nails and dollar store flip flops were a disturbing site.
All I wanted was to peacefully take a dump, how is it that the mens restroom at Baywalk can have more foot traffic then the entire rest of this empty complex has had in the last decade of operations? I hate eating infront of people, holding private phone calls infront of people and even worse using the restroom around other people.
Just as I had given up all hope for a moment of privacy, I looked up in prayer and was distracted by a air vent somebody had tagged with the word, "Kanto" on it. I imagined some angry youth who had taken to a life of crime and poverty on the mean streets of downtown St. Petersburg, who decided to lash out at the establishment, his drunken abusive father, George W Bush, former school teachers and the girl who dumped him to fuck some guy who looked like lame rapper OJ Da Juiceman the only way he knew how, by writing his name in pink paint pen on a air vent in the mens restroom at Baywalk. That'll learn'em.
With the room cleared out, I finished my business and booked.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Lampin Goes...IN SEARCH OF!
Guitar legend.
Comic book super hero.
Literary genius.
International ladies man.
These are just a few of the titles given to local yokel and global internet phenomenon Nolan B. Canova who was reported missing roughly a month ago by fans of his online fanzine Crazedfanboy.com.
"He was a quiet boy, except when that filthy polock whore would come around! They'd stay holed up in that shack for days at a time just a hootin and a hollarin. One day the deputies had to beat the doors down and spray them out with fire hoses", claims 84 year old neighbor Marianne Hoover, who has lived next to Canova for nearly three decades.
Some have suggested that Canovas hearty appetite for cocaine binges and routy prostitutes are to blame for his disappearance. Others claim that he was secretly a worshipper of "Rahl 7", a satanic cult based in the belief that aliens visited the Britton Plaza in 1984 and prophesized to a popcorn vendor at the shopping centers theater the secrets of life and death.
So convenced was Canova that he denounced his Catholicism and gave up a lucrative career as a trial lawyer in favor of working as a clerk in and out of local shops where he could freely prosthelytize to the high volume of customers he mingled with on a regular basis.
"He was a good ol boy, one of us. But man, he could really wig you out if you came into one of his shops on a bad acid trip. This one time he started preaching some mumbo jumbo about hell really being outer space or something or another, and man, by the end of it I swear the taco on that Taco-Bell sign over there was comin over here to eat me! I woke up the next day naked in a dumpster snuggling with a blow up doll out in Plant City, still can't figure out how I got there or where the doll came from. Canova saw me about a week later, winked, and said Rahl Bless You, whatever the fuck that means!", says Joey Trippoli, friend and customer for over a decade.
While some argue that Canova's devotion to "Rahl 7" caused him to pack up and leave in favor of life at a mountainous combine retreat in Tennessee, others paint a much different picture.
Pamela Leung, who neighbors refer to as the "dumb polock whore" has known Canova for six years and has this to say about his disappearance and possible whereabouts.
"Rahl 7?", "Pshh, anybody that knew Canova knows that it was all just a gag to pick up lonely women, he didn't really believe any of that bullshit. What happend was one night we're all hangin out at his pad doing blow and guzzling Bacardi, next thing we know this fat bitch walks in the house. We didn't think anything of it. People would walk in all the time and we'd just keep on doing whatever. So anyways, this bitch walks over to the toilet, knocks out what we thought had to have been the meanest turd ever laid in the history of mankind. I mean, she's over there just a squintin and a squeezin, stompin her muddy boots on the tile. Finally she wipes off, get's up and leaves. We go over there because we have got to see what this monster looks like and what the hell is in there but a little damn baby squirmin around in the toilet water!"
According to Pamela the mystery woman was a former lover of Canovas who he had failed to recognize in his inebriated state of mind.
"Oh yeah, they were pretty hot and heavy at one time. But the craziest part was that she left a note behind at the door that said something to the effect of, watch the baby please I'm going to the bar, be back at 3 or something like that. He couldn't face the possibility of raising this womans baby and having to pay her child support so he just fled, simple as that."
When pressed about possible locations regarding Canovas current whereabouts Pamela could simply say, "Largo, yeah, definitly Largo. He loved the scene over there."
Lampin investigators followed a series of leads and picked up several clues that led to a dive bar that has witnessed a sudden surge in late night calls to the local sheriffs office.
This blurry photograph, is perhaps the closest our investigators could come to cracking the case.
If you or someone you know has any information leading up the whereabouts of Nolan B. Canova please contact Lampin immediatly, fans of Crazedfanboy.com are awaiting his return to relavency.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 7: Black Magic Voodoo Chicks From Church Street
Despite the ritual of individualism and machismo that goes into a man's night out on the town, nothing is lonelier then the experience of waking up the next day by your cot damn self, clinging to a lifeless hotel pillow. You spend the whole night feeling empowered by your lack of attachments and the entire next morning resentful towards the lucky bastards waking up next to a person they love.
It's 9:30 am and I awake still in my street clothes, shoes on my feet, watch on my wrist and chain around my neck wondering how the fuck I wound up here alive.
After a few minutes of trying to gather my thoughts I stepped infront of the mirror and stared for a while. I'd always been told that my eyes were green but this was the first time I had ever noticed them.
My self worship was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Room Service", the voice said from beyond the door.
If memory serves correctly the body attached to the voice was named April and she was a sexy paper thin little number, black, but more of a Teresa Graves then a Pam Grier.
One of the many things I appreciate about Hennessy is that the next day as opposed to being hung over with a splitting head ache, you awaken with an uncanny sense of clarity and confidence. All of the positive effects of being drunk but with none of the weaknesses.
With my nerves temporarily comatosed I found myself first thing in the morning picking up where I left off the night before, but instead of hitting on a wanna-be welfare queen in the cab I was flirting with the hotel help. April wasn't really having it and I wasn't trying to agressively push the issue so we just wound up having a few laughs and she was nice enough to point me in the direction of the local "hood" mall. Where she assured me that I would find what I was looking for.
So, I through on my grey, black and green Nike Dunks that had no business matching with the orange and blue New York Knicks hat I was wearing and set out by foot on a journey to find Regency Mall.
Just across the bridge I somehow wound up right back at the same stupid intersection where I left off the night before. There was a bus stop but for some reason in Jacksonville either all of the maps and schedules have been stolen or whoever runs the buses is just to cheap to post them.
When I asked an old man who looked like Al Jolson in blackface but minus any teeth where the schedule was he just laughed and mumbled something.
From out of nowhere this girl popped up from out of nowhere and said, "follow me if you're trying to go to the main station". Chick didn't have to ask me twice. Standing roughly five-foot-three with a flemsy anorexic frame that was anchored by a thick ass and some monster titties, she was a bangin redbone that seemed like some stereotypical gold digging stripper type from the ghetto cut straight out of an episode of the Jerry Springer Show. "Grab my shit, nigga" she demanded before we headed off.
We walked through the city chit-chatting about random subjects, mainly me trying my hardest to convence her into coming back to my hotel room for the afternoon as I carried a bag full of odds and ins, mainly a hair drier that kept slipping out.
"So, where's your girlfriend at?" she asked, "Oh, her, well, she died trying to treat polio patients on a missionary trip to the Amazon a few weeks ago. Terrible tragedy." I replied.
And...That's where things turned south.
"Was she black?", she asked. "Yeah, that's really the only type of chick I can get down with, why you ask?" I responded.
"I can tell, you're to much like a nigger. I don't like niggers. My baby ain't going to be born a black nigger, you're to black and will put a nigger baby inside of me. I want a real white boy that isn't a nigger and will give me an all white baby." She told me.
I scratched my head, paused, staired at her ass and titties again, then back at her eyes before she could catch me peaking. We continued walking. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to that?
"I'm thirty six years old and sexy as hell, I have really big titties." She told me. "Interesting, I didn't notice that until you mentioned it", was the only competent thing I could espouse in response to the bizarreness of the conversation I was currently holding.
"All these young boys keep trying to fuck me and put nigger babies in me, all I want is a real white boy that's not a nigger." Point taken. This was the one day in twenty seven years of my life where wearing an American Eagle outfit would have beneffited me. Not my style but damn would it have been worth it just to sell out one day for this chick.
"I was born cursed with this scar" she told me. I had seen a scar on her forward so I cleverly responded with, "Oh that thing on your forehead?", "No nigga, I mean this skin! Somebody put a voodoo curse on me as a baby and made me black with a mental illness!"
According to her, most people, especially black ones were cursed with blackness and mental illness as babies by those practicing voodoo.
As we approached the bus station things had gotten to weird, even by my standards.
"Well, hey, check it out. I'm going to go over here and check on what time this other bus leaves", I excused myself and boogied away as fast and as far as possible.
It's 9:30 am and I awake still in my street clothes, shoes on my feet, watch on my wrist and chain around my neck wondering how the fuck I wound up here alive.
After a few minutes of trying to gather my thoughts I stepped infront of the mirror and stared for a while. I'd always been told that my eyes were green but this was the first time I had ever noticed them.
My self worship was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Room Service", the voice said from beyond the door.
If memory serves correctly the body attached to the voice was named April and she was a sexy paper thin little number, black, but more of a Teresa Graves then a Pam Grier.
One of the many things I appreciate about Hennessy is that the next day as opposed to being hung over with a splitting head ache, you awaken with an uncanny sense of clarity and confidence. All of the positive effects of being drunk but with none of the weaknesses.
With my nerves temporarily comatosed I found myself first thing in the morning picking up where I left off the night before, but instead of hitting on a wanna-be welfare queen in the cab I was flirting with the hotel help. April wasn't really having it and I wasn't trying to agressively push the issue so we just wound up having a few laughs and she was nice enough to point me in the direction of the local "hood" mall. Where she assured me that I would find what I was looking for.
So, I through on my grey, black and green Nike Dunks that had no business matching with the orange and blue New York Knicks hat I was wearing and set out by foot on a journey to find Regency Mall.
Just across the bridge I somehow wound up right back at the same stupid intersection where I left off the night before. There was a bus stop but for some reason in Jacksonville either all of the maps and schedules have been stolen or whoever runs the buses is just to cheap to post them.
When I asked an old man who looked like Al Jolson in blackface but minus any teeth where the schedule was he just laughed and mumbled something.
From out of nowhere this girl popped up from out of nowhere and said, "follow me if you're trying to go to the main station". Chick didn't have to ask me twice. Standing roughly five-foot-three with a flemsy anorexic frame that was anchored by a thick ass and some monster titties, she was a bangin redbone that seemed like some stereotypical gold digging stripper type from the ghetto cut straight out of an episode of the Jerry Springer Show. "Grab my shit, nigga" she demanded before we headed off.
We walked through the city chit-chatting about random subjects, mainly me trying my hardest to convence her into coming back to my hotel room for the afternoon as I carried a bag full of odds and ins, mainly a hair drier that kept slipping out.
"So, where's your girlfriend at?" she asked, "Oh, her, well, she died trying to treat polio patients on a missionary trip to the Amazon a few weeks ago. Terrible tragedy." I replied.
And...That's where things turned south.
"Was she black?", she asked. "Yeah, that's really the only type of chick I can get down with, why you ask?" I responded.
"I can tell, you're to much like a nigger. I don't like niggers. My baby ain't going to be born a black nigger, you're to black and will put a nigger baby inside of me. I want a real white boy that isn't a nigger and will give me an all white baby." She told me.
I scratched my head, paused, staired at her ass and titties again, then back at her eyes before she could catch me peaking. We continued walking. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to that?
"I'm thirty six years old and sexy as hell, I have really big titties." She told me. "Interesting, I didn't notice that until you mentioned it", was the only competent thing I could espouse in response to the bizarreness of the conversation I was currently holding.
"All these young boys keep trying to fuck me and put nigger babies in me, all I want is a real white boy that's not a nigger." Point taken. This was the one day in twenty seven years of my life where wearing an American Eagle outfit would have beneffited me. Not my style but damn would it have been worth it just to sell out one day for this chick.
"I was born cursed with this scar" she told me. I had seen a scar on her forward so I cleverly responded with, "Oh that thing on your forehead?", "No nigga, I mean this skin! Somebody put a voodoo curse on me as a baby and made me black with a mental illness!"
According to her, most people, especially black ones were cursed with blackness and mental illness as babies by those practicing voodoo.
As we approached the bus station things had gotten to weird, even by my standards.
"Well, hey, check it out. I'm going to go over here and check on what time this other bus leaves", I excused myself and boogied away as fast and as far as possible.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)