- Athlete Christmas Lists: Barry Cofield
- Athlete Christmas Lists: Tyson Chandler
- Athlete Christmas Lists: Roger Mason Jr.
- Sunday Afternoon: I Gets Deep
- Au revoir, childhood love of Lenny Dykstra
- Explaining Knicks fans in 100 words or less
- Athlete Christmas Lists: Darko Milicic
- Athlete Christmas Lists: Daniel Murphy
- Athlete Christmas Lists: Louis Amundson
- Athlete Christmas Lists: Mike Bibby
- Ball Don’t Lie
- Born Under Punches
- Devine on Ball Don't Lie
- Devine on Tumblr
- Devine on Twitter
- Devine's Shares on Google Reader
- E-mail Devine
- ESPN.com: NFC East Blog
- Free Darko
- Goodnight to the Rock & Roll Era
- Hardwood Paroxysm
- inane musings
- It’s Our Way or Norway
- Jordan, Jesse, Go!
- Kissing Suzy Kolber
- MySpace: Kevin Devine
- On the DL with Dan Levy
- Some Songs Considered
- Talk Hoops
- The Adam Carolla Podcast
- The B.S. Report with Bill Simmons
- The Basketball Jones
- the Blowtorch
- The Sound of Young America
- You Look Nice Today: A Journal of Emotional Hygiene
Tag Archives: twitter
Schadenfreude is now following me on Twitter, which is creepy and exhilarating. I can’t wait to lose it all as you explore explode with glee. (For the purposes of discussion, let’s say “it” = a can of generic minestrone, a four-year-old iPod, a pair of busted NASCAR brand Duane Reade sunglasses, and a legit-ass Saunders clipboard.)
That’s not strictly true, but for the past two and a half weeks or so, it might as well have been. Heavy deadlines at work spirited me away from everyone’s favorite municipality for a bit. Then, after having been gone, having immersed myself in Y: The Last Man (which is effing amazing) and having felt somewhat separated from what was going on in sports, I had a minor crisis-of-interest — do I really love this stuff enough to write with the kind of passion that could lead to jokes that people might enjoy? (Assuming, of course, that I was doing that to begin with.)
Thanks to a great day of Twitter conversations with (somewhat) like-minded individuals during the Sunday slate of playoff hoops — which you could have followed by checking out my Twitter feed here — I feel pretty confident that the answer’s yes. You people are just too much fun; with what other group of absurd sporting life-lovers could #JVGisHipHop have happened?
I’m still not 100 percent sure what I want this place to be, but I know I want it to be something. So let’s make like Lowe’s and try to build something together, with jokes as our 2x4s, Hacksaw Jim Duggan as our foreman and Mark Eaton soliloquies as our grout. And you can never have too much grout. Thanks, as always, for visiting my little collection of ephemera.
I know, I know, the number of off-topic posts today (two, for those keeping score at home; here‘s the first) is at least one more than the number of on-topic posts I typically write in a day. But I just saw this track via The Smoking Section‘s Twitter, and though I’ve not yet been able to listen, I felt compelled to post it up with a brief note. First, the track; if you’re so inclined, the note follows.
As you know if you’ve checked out this site’s about the author page, I was born in Brooklyn and grew up in Staten Island. Upon moving to New England in 2000 to attend college, I often told people that I was from Brooklyn. There were two main reasons for this:
A) Whenever I told someone who wasn’t from the New York metropolitan area that I was from Staten Island, the chances were excellent they’d never heard of the place I’d just referenced; often, they just kind of stared blankly at me and said, “You mean Long Island?” That grew tiresome quickly, and way more people had at least heard of Brooklyn, so I stuck with the fact of my Bay Ridge birth, cut out the middle part and left it at that.
[SIDEBAR 1: This was mostly effective, except for the one time I was waiting for a bus and making small talk with one of the several non-scholarship-athlete black kids at my school (lily-white Northeast liberal arts colleges, FTW). He asked where I was from, so I told him "New York City," emboldened by months of people not questioning my pedigree.
To my surprise, he said, "Yeah, me too. I'm from Harlem -- what part are you from?" At which point I kind of sheepishly said, "Bay Ridge, then Staten Island." His reply: "Oh. ... Don't sweat it, man. I won't tell anyone."]
B) Because I was mostly ashamed of calling Staten Island home. I worked my ass off in high school to get out of there, dude, and at first, I definitely tried to leave all traces of it behind.
Despite the fact that I made some great friends there, I always felt like a square peg in the round hole of the overwhelmingly traditional outerborough. The culture shit I liked (at that point, mostly indie rock, comics, IFC and stand-up comedy — I know, not exactly futuristic shit, but still) was very different from most of the kids my age there.
I didn’t go tanning or spend time in the gym, blow out my hair or wear velour sweatsuits. I didn’t get faded 24/7 or pop ecstasy like Chiclets when I was 17. I didn’t pretend that my dad’s brother was fuuuuckin’ connected and that I could have you batted out in a fuuuuuuckin’ second. I didn’t ask people who the fuck they thought they were, or if they knew that my cousin will KILL you for disrespecting me like that? Maybe more importantly, I didn’t think that not doing any of those things made you a “faggot.” I wanted something more out of my life than growing up to become a Staten Island guy (or, failing that, at least something different).
[SIDEBAR 2: It was very difficult at first to explain my view on Staten Island living to outsiders; a lot of them only knew one person from there (me) and couldn't quite picture it. It became much easier when MTV aired "True Life: I'm a Staten Island Girl" a couple of years back.]
Of course, that was the way I thought when I was 18; eight years and change later, I’m way less raw about it. I was lucky enough to grow up surrounded by warped, dysfunctional, demented, hilarious and loving people in a place that shaped my sense of self, priorities, aspirations and humor in deep, sharp, lasting ways.
As much as it introduced me to douchebags of all shapes, sizes and colors, Staten Island was also the place that introduced me to the freedom of punk rock music, the brilliance of lowbrow wit (and on a good day, the mostly-equal brilliance of its opposite), the wonder of embracing a fanatical love of sports, the exhilaration of seeing something you wrote published, and so much more.
I spent the formative years of my life there, and it’s taken me a long time to realize that pretending I didn’t, or that doing so was necessarily a bad thing, would be ridiculous, counterproductive and ultimately false. Nearly a decade after I left, part of me still swells up when I listen to Monty Love sing about it being “do or die up in S.I.N.Y.” I suspect that part of me always will.
Plus, we got the fucking Wu-Tang Clan, bitches.
OK, that’s it for me for today, for real. About to leave the office, head home in advance of my brother’s arrival and get ready for tonight’s Celtics/Cavs matchup. As Skeets would advise, “Embrace the weekend, people” … and if, like me, you’re still sort of holding out, embrace your past, too.
Who’s got two tickets to Celts/Cavs tonight and is honoring the bravery of Tommie Smith and John Carlos?
The job is often soul-suckin’, but sometimes it comes through with the perks. Case in point: Tonight, me and fam-lay will be taking in our second Celtics game of the season, as LeBron James somehow squeezes his 10’8″, 971-pound frame (dimensions estimated) through the gates of the TD BankNorth Garden to lead his Cleveland Cavaliers into battle against the world champeen Boston Celtics.
The C’s will be without Kevin Garnett, meaning we’re likely to see an assload of Big Baby 17-footers, which is less than pipe, and the Cavs welcome back Joe Smith tonight, which adds another potent big with the potential to exploit a depleted green front line. The math don’t look great for the champs.
Still, a Boston win would put them in a virtual dead heat with the Cavs for the 1 seed in the East (the Celts would be up one in the win column, down one in the loss column), and beating Cleveland without KG would be a monster statement heading down the stretch. I, for one, can’t think of a better way to spend my Friday night.
Well, fuck it — you never look gift tickets in the mouth (especially excellent ones — Sec. 8, in the letters, FTW), you get to watch the most beastly athletic specimen alive up close and personal, you get to spend time with the fam and you can always see the movie tomorrow, right?
If you’re at the Garden tonight and down by where the fancy bastards sit, please join me in partaking of a snifter of brandy. Come by and say, “DEVINE, I DON’T MUCH APPRECIATE YOUR FOUL-MOUTHED NINCOMPOOPERY, AND I’M PRETTY SURE MARK EATON NEVER SAID THAT.” That way, I’ll know you mean me.
I may or may not be live-live-Tweetin’ the game over at my Twitter feed (to which you should totally be subscribed), so keep an eye out for my particular brand of worthless sports commentary occasionally dressed up in dick jokes.
Ah, Mclusky. We hardly knew ye.
Sadly, I am coughing and sniffling like a pixelated soon-to-be casualty on “The Oregon Trail,” so the drugs I’m going to spend today taking won’t be nearly as fun as the ones these fine Welshmen were talking about. Here’s hoping sheer Cardiff-based rockness (and an overdose amount of Emergen-C) will be enough to get my ship righted again. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t partake of a little of the narco-Fun-Dip. Hey, as long as you can wake up for work, it’s no big deal, right? It’s not a habit, it’s cool. I feel alive.
Back tomorrow, gang. Stop by the Twitter page to see my intermittent comedy stylings. Enjoy the veal.
Who’s got two tickets to Celtics/Lakers tonight and a douchey look on his face as he drinks a cappuccino?
Merry Christmas, Devine [via fiancee]. Sec. 326. Come by and say, “DEVINE, YOUR PHOTOGRAPH IS STUPID AND YOU’RE NOT FUNNY.” That way, I’ll know you mean me.
I’ll probably be Twitterin‘ during the game, so keep an eye out for some real piquant observations garnished with unbridled hilarity.