Tag Archives: don’t quit yer day job devine

Taking stock of a herky-jerky, in-between-hop kind of week

It’s been a weird week here at the friendly confines of this is the city line., and I’m honestly not real sure what it all means.

I started out by trying to shake off illness with drugs and Welsh rock music, then got the surprise blessing of basketblog raconteur Tom Ziller selecting my dumb variant on a pretty common joke for inclusion in Monday’s NBA Essentials link roundup over at FanHouse.  Then the worksplosion started, which sidetracked me pretty significantly, pushing me into throwing up a placeholder post that actually generated a little bit of interest (at least among my friends).

Once safely past Tuesday, I learned that Dominant Team Pringles sucked it up against the Warriors, a team they’re theoretically better than (by the way, my Doomsday prediction of a winless February — click STOP after the link opens to read mine prophecy — remains intact), got sick wistful on the Eddy Curry tip and came late to the Deadbeat Plax party with a Wimpy GIMPoshop.  Then I decided I was going to get drunk while watching a shitload of sports on Wednesday night to get some blog fodder and scrub the detritus from my already-off week.

Except I didn’t.  I wound up watching a bunch of Eugene Mirman videos while drinking/unwinding from work, then going to a good sports bar/bad restaurant, drinking a couple more beers while watching the first half of Celtics/Hornets, during which I took the following notes:

  • Hilton Armstrong looks like he could be Ron Artest’s son;
  • Kendrick Perkins needs to read goathair‘s hook shot post, because his form is often abysmal;
  • Two fouls on Chris Paul four minutes into the game at home = shocking and not good for N.O.;
  • Much like former Providence College scrub Leland Anderson, who my friend Chris and I nicknamed “Trainwreck” for his ball-handling “skills” (and who is apparently an aspiring professional wrestler), Hilton Armstrong should never be allowed to trigger the offense from the high post, ever, under any circumstances.  This is why Chris Paul getting two fouls four minutes into the game is bad; it allows Hilton Armstrong to be in a position to make decisions, which will result in him throwing the ball out of bounds at roughly 201 miles per hour;
  • David West = David Banner? I couldn’t figure out who the Hornets’ power forward looks like, so I threw down a name with a question mark.  My memory was wrong; see here and here for proof.  But still, I’m vexed that I know David West looks like someone, yet I can’t figure out who.  I’ve Googled it, but can’t find a consensus; DimeMag.com commenter “LakeShow84” says he “looks like Columbus Short from Stomp The Yard,” which is false. Another commenter at DimeMag.com, which is apparently the home of  people who want to figure out who David West looks like (a.k.a. my new homepage 4 life), says he “looks like the persian general who gets his head cut off by the fat guy with knifes on his arms in the movie 300,” which may be true, but I’ve never seen 300, so that can’t be who I think he is.  And some commenter on http://www.moviesnaps-tv.net (which totally doesn’t sound like a real thing, which is why I’m not trying to link there) suggests that he looks like Master P, which, again, is false.  Any help in resolving this conundrum would be greatly appreciated.
  • Lando = Doom? The U.S. v. Mexico World Cup qualifier was on, and I kept thinking that Landon Donovan looks like Julian McMahon, the guy that played Dr. Doom in the Fantastic Four movies.  This may not be true, but it also may not be false.  I award me one point.
  • Marks = BSkts? This, of course, is Sean Marks = Big Skeets.  I think I win this.
  • Paul Pierce is electric early (he wound up being that good throughout, scoring 30 on 19 shots in an 89-77 Celtics win);
  • Rajon Rondo giving up his dribble while being guarded by Big Skeets at the three-point line so he can get Ray Allen a contested 21-footer = NO;
  • Big Skeets getting alley-oops will always surprise me;
  • Which is worse: Rondo’s Rondo-fake into a stepback J/airball or anything Anderson Varejao on offense?

And that’s it.  My fiancee met me out at the bar, we had a drink, I suddenly got very tired, she ordered loaded nachos to go, we went home.  I worked from home yesterday and decided not to write anything; I’m working on a few things now, but nothing’s ready, and I kind of more wanted to use this morning to try to work through why I felt so disconnected from the Internet/had so much trouble getting my head on straight to post over the past few days.

I think I felt weird inside my own skin because my immediate reaction to not getting something substantial up on Tuesday was, “Fuck, I didn’t capitalize on whatever look-in audience might have come from FanHouse.”  Which was weird, because it was the second time in less than a week that I’d had a thought like that (check out the second-to-last paragraph in last week’s “Week in Review” post).  My follow-up in the internal dialogue was, “What the fuck do you care?  You’re just doing this thing for fun, right?”  And the inevitable answer was,  “Because I want to get more readers,” and the inevitable corollary to that is “Because I want this thing to get big,” and that’s when I started to get a little sick inside.

Doing this thing has been remarkably fun and rewarding, and I don’t want to psych myself out of doing it by thinking about it like a small business that’s competing in some kind of depressed sports-joke economy.  The only thing that’ll do is shut this shitshow down on the quick and drive me nuts.  So let’s take this back a step:

Hey there.  I’m Devine.  This is a place where I write dumb shit.  Thanks for reading.  Here’s an unintentionally funny photograph of Jorge Garbajosa and Andrea Bargnani trying to look tough in front of what appears to be a junior prom backdrop. I might write some stuff this weekend; I will definitely write something on Monday.  One post a day, every week day, to distract me and you from our jobs.  Sound fair to you?


Eight things I learned while attending Celtics/Lakers last night

  • According to one horrendous drunk I met on the beer line who was “heah fah sum seminaaaaaaaaaaahs,” local scalpers had nosebleed seats going for upward of $200 a pop yesterday. And you wonder why there are so many pissed-off dudes calling for a foul on Gasol’s game-ending alteration; not tyte in this economy.
  • When it comes to “delivering penetrating analysis of live sporting events gleaned from the northernmost regions of Section 326 of the TD BankNorth Garden,” I = fail … or at least, I do if you’re looking for, y’know, actual sports information.

Seriously — almost nothing of value through my intermittent Tweeting last night. Check for yourself if you don’t believe. In my own retroactive defense, though, I do think that if I’d been able to receive @replies/messages from the folks I’d OK’d device updates for — still not real sure why the hell that didn’t work — I might have been in position for more legitimate ball talk. But even if I was, there probably wouldn’t have been much to it, because …

  • I have a much harder time assessing plays/seeing off-ball action live. I suspected this would be true, especially since I haven’t been to a live game in a while, but last night proved it.

My brother and I had a great view and we were able to diagnose some things (personal favorite: the way Ray Allen runs off screens like a slot receiver running an option route — sometimes continuing the curl to the cup, sometimes stopping dead and going right up with the J, sometimes starting to sell the curl before fading to the corner — and running each option at the same speed and without too discernible a pattern, so that when the shot’s in the air, you always find yourself saying, “How the hell did he get so open?”), but I’m positive that I missed a ton of stuff that more astute observers would have caught. That’s in part because …

  • I am a fantastic conversationalist who can make friends with all manner of semi-docile drunks in my vicinity. A fine skill, to be sure, but one that can cause you to miss shit.

For example, when all it takes are a few well-placed jokes and slight prods to get the dude next to me and his ladyfriend to divulge that there are five empty seats in the row in front of us because a whole crew of kids were talking during the National Anthem, then “got kicked out or whatever,” but really didn’t get kicked out they just went somewhere to try to find a spot to safely “blaze an L” in the Garden, and the reason that only one of the girls in the group came back three quarters later was because she had “ratted out all of her friends because ‘The Wire’ got them,” and it’s all a shame because “you’d have think she’da learned by now to stop snitching” … I mean, that’s more interesting to me than Doc’s substitution patterns. And speaking of Doc …

  • The man apparently crafted last night’s necktie entirely out of the Power Cosmic. Check it out:

It looks like something off a goddamn Joe Satriani album cover. Really enjoyed that. I also enjoyed …

  • The pounding, pulsating hatred Boston fans have for Sasha Vujacic. He got more boos than anyone not named Kobe Bryant last night, which blew me away.

Dude next to me repeatedly called Machine a “terrorist.” Guys behind me kept yelling, “WASH YAAAA HAAAAAAAIHH!” Every time he entered the game, my section seethed. Seems like a pretty disproportionate amount of hatred for the guy, but then again, he is a dirty, greasy terrorist, so I guess it’s all fair game. It really did seem like the entire case to be made for hating him more so than, say, Josh Powell is that he’s A) foreign and B) dirty-looking.

Um, Celtics fans? If those are your criteria, and you want to be spewing hatred on someone who is actually dismantling your team, how’s about spitting some venom on the dirty-bearded 7-foot Iberian who threw up 24 and 14 in your mugs and kept Ray from getting a clean look at the final shot. And speaking of beards …

  • Boston’s fanbase has a higher percentage of mad-thin chinstrap beards than any other NBA fanbase. For those unfamiliar with the style, a visual aid:

Also see Love, Kevin.

I would certainly be happy to be proven wrong, because that would mean there are exponentially more chinstraps being rocked out there than I would ever have anticipated, but Jesus Christ, dude. Twentysomething electrician’s apprentices from Framingham work hard on their facial grooming. That must be why they’re so confident, an attitude exemplified by …

  • The speed with which the fans heading toward the exit switched their style up from furious at the way OT ended to eager for a chance to right the ship come Finals-time.

As soon as we started filing out, you could hear the chatter: Bullshit call on KG, if he’s there for the last four minutes instead of Big Baby, it doesn’t go to OT; they had the inbounds play locked up, but Doc won’t let that happen again; we had ’em the whole way, just some fluky stuff down the stretch, etc.  (Of course, Lakers fans could say, “If we just hit our free throws, this game’s a 10-12 point breeze,” but whatever.)  There was a lot of confidence in the loser’s parking lot after the game, which was cool to see.  There were also, however, even more chinstraps, which were not.