49ers VERSUS BLAZERS.

PRE-GAME.
He settled into his third level seat, looked down at the Moda Center court, and announced dramatically,

"I think I'm going for the Jazz."

Shhh!
I shushed him.
This is where the Blazers play! This is our team!

I know,
he said,
grin engulfing his elfin face.
But I like the suits the Jazz are wearing better. They're black.

Okay.
I said.
Makes sense. But at least keep your voice down, okay?

He didn't.

1st QUARTER.
I think number 41 is my favorite,
he loudly announced.

Why is that?
I asked.

Because he has cool hair and it doesn't look all fancy. So he's my favorite.

Okay.
I said.
How about a favorite on the Blazers? On the team you might consider cheering for?

I MIGHT be going for them too.
he said.
I'm actually going for both the Blazers AND the Jazz.

Alright.
I said.
Traditionally, basketball games don't end in a tie, so there is a high likelihood that one team will have more points than the other at the end. Which means that that team will win and the other team will lose.

Oh.
he said.
Then I might still go for both. And why is is it hard to see some players' tattoos? Because I can't see some of the tattoos very well on the big TV up there. Is it because some of their skin is darker and the tattoos are harder to see?

Interesting,
I said.
That is not something I had thought about a great deal before. Do you have any tattoos?

No!
he said.
I'm never getting any tattoos! They're hard to get off! Do you have any?

Not yet,
I said.
I might get one when I turn sixty.

2nd QUARTER.
What do you think of Damian Lillard?
I asked.

I don't know who that is.
he said, absorbed in -

- what are you doing?!
I exclaimed.

He looked up from his sketch pad.
I'm drawing a Star Wars basketball game. Emperor Palpatine, Darth Vader, and Jango Fett are the Jazz.

Who is that?
I said, pointing to a figure in the middle holding what appeared to be a large stick.

That,
he said, furiously coaxing black ink into mutant-ish shapes with his gel pen.
is Darth Maul. He's a Blazer. That's his light saber he's using to knock the ball down.

Oh.
I said.
Not a bad idea. They could use some more muscle.

Is it halftime yet?
he looked up again.
Do we get food at halftime?

Yes.
I said.
We'll get a veggie burger.

Or...
he suggested.
we could get ice cream.

No.
I said.
We'll get a veggie burger.

HALFTIME.
Can I get a veggie burger?
I asked the lady.

Do we have those?
she asked me.

Umm...
I said, pointing at their menu.
It looks like you do.

Oh yeah.
she said.
We're all out.

You're all out?
I said.

Yeah.
she said.
We're sold out.

Thanks.
I said,
and we shuffled away.

It's really hot in here.
he said, gripping my hand as we circumnavigated the 3rd floor food offerings.
I bet I know what would make us feel less hot.

I can't wait to hear.
I said, waiting for what I knew was coming.

I bet,
he said.
that ice cream would help us be less hot.

It's January.
I said.
We are not getting ice cream.

QUARTER 3.
Why do you have to pay to join the army?
he asked as we ate our ice cream.

You don't.
I said, trying to steal a bite.
They pay you to join.

What!?
he said, laughing.
I always thought you had to pay to join the army.

Nope.
I said, watching Portland pull ahead.

Well,
he said.
How much do you get paid if you're in the army?

It depends on factors like what rank you are, how long you've been in, and what it is exactly you're doing,
I said.

Oh.
he pondered.
Like...would you make about a hundred dollars?

Yep.
I said.
Most people in the army probably make more than a hundred dollars.

Oh.
he said, as CJ threw an errant pass far below.
What if you don't do a very good job in the army? Would you make like one dollar?

I don't know.
I said.
You'd probably still get paid the same, you just wouldn't get any raises, and if you did really bad, they'd kick you out.

Oh.
he said.
So you'd make like two dollars.

QUARTER 4.
Why are people leaving?
he asked.

Well,
I said.
the Blazers are ahead by enough with three minutes left that a lot of people probably think that they've already won.

But they haven't!
he said.
They don't KNOW that the Blazers are going to win! So why are they leaving?!

Excellent point.
I said.
One reason we're not leaving yet.

Yeah.
he said.
I think that number three is my favorite.

Why is that?

Because I like his hair the best. It's not all fancy and it's short.

Right,
I said,
glancing over at his lion's mane of locks spilling around face.
You like the shorter hair?

Yeah.
he said.
I don't really like the Crab* guy's hair because it's longer and it's sort of like a mohawk and all fancy and I don't really like it.

You like CJ McCollum's hair better?
I asked.
Number Three?

Yeah, he's my favorite.

The buzzer sounded.

POST-GAME.
Well
I said.
What'd ya think? Good time?

Yeah.
he said.
Pretty fun.

It's two and a half hours after your bedtime,
I said,
looking down at his beaming, caffeine-ish face grinning under the street lamps.

Oh.
he said.
Maybe I'll take a nap on the way home and that way when we get home I can just stay up the rest of the night.

No.
I said.
Not how it works.

Fine.
he said.
I'll take a tiny nap now and then I'll just stay up until two o'clock when we get home.

No.
I said.
But I am hungry for a veggie burger.

Yeah,
he said.
I really wanted one. How come you didn't let me have any supper?

____

*Allen Crabbe

MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. AND STREET SWEEPERS.

“If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as a Michaelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, 'Here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.”
Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Ahead and together we bumble forward and sideways into the unknown.

People talk about what a big deal courtside seats are, but personally I think there's plenty of charm to a bird's eye view.

— with Matt Nutter at Moda Center at the Rose Quarter.

FIVE: GIANTS, EVIL, SUN, ENTROPY, AND NORWEGIAN BRAGGADACCIO.

I don't think there's a cockier person in the world than my wife when she's playing basketball. A sampling:

"Yep, like molasses," 
as she miraculously sinks a shot.

- What does molasses have to do with basketball?
I ask reasonably.

"Cause I'm smooth, like butta*, and I got the touch, so take THAT, Tim Duncan!"
As she throws up another shot; defying most physics laws, it drops through.

- I still don't get it,
I say.
And I don't.

*butter 
____

FIVE THINGS: 
1. 
If you have kids, or don't have kids, and you have a loathing of dumb music, and you're looking for wonderful all-ages melodies to round out your Pink Martini and Lori Henriques collections, than you certainly might not go wrong giving They Might Be Giants "No!" a spin. Catchy, crunchy, and meant to be played loud over and over again throughout the summer.

2. 
I was good-naturedly making a series of repetitive and deprecating remarks concerning the basketball prowess of my wife, which was counterbalanced by her very Ali-like satisfaction with her ability, when our son stepped into the fray and immediately chose a side:

"Daddy!!"
He shrieked with calm hysteria; splitting the difference between Ving Rhames and Fran Drescher:
"You're being AWFUL, like slavery!"

For only the 700th time in my life, I was speechless. We have spent a great deal of conversations discussing slavery and its evils, though I still struggle to understand his analogy, and consider it to be simultaneously inaccurate and melodramatic. I am, however, proud of him for at least three things in the situation:
A) that he sticks up for his mom, which he should usually do, even when it is simply friendly marital sparring and trash-talking.
B) that he abhors slavery, in both its historical and contemporary contexts.
C) that he has a flair for the theatrical and recognizes the value of a show-stopping analogy.

III.
"Daddy,"
my daughter said.
"It's such a beautiful day outside; do we HAVE to be inside?"

- Well,
I said.
Perhaps we could all have some breakfast and get dressed first, considering it's still quite early?

"Aww..."
She threw up her hands with a patented move her sibling and fellow melodramatist would be proud of:
"This is one of the worst days of my life!"

- I know.
I responded.
But it could still get better. Or, it could get worse. Or...it might even stay the same. Typically though, things fall apart and disintegrate, which is the process of Entropy, which is a very exciting topic I'm eager to discuss with you, so just in case the rest of your day is horrible, you'll be able to look forward to a delightful conversation with me this evening about...entropy! Yay!!

I am certain she was enthused, but her thespian's face disguised it well.

04.
I am only 30 pages into Ann Patchett's Bel Canto and already immersed in the story and words. Will keep you posted. Magnificent.

05. DEJA VU, AGAIN.
I looked up at the marquee and then down at the temperature gauge registering 80+, and longingly imagined, out loud, myself inside the cool theatre watching Wes Anderson's latest.

"Daddy!!"
My daughter shrieked, snapping my reverent daydream.
"Why on earth would you want to be inside on a beautiful day like this!"

I had no answer, so I hung my head and turned up They Might Be Giants.

5b.
I tend to get lost a lot, which is one of my strongest qualities, and in the midst of one of these episodes I stumbled across a lovely little park in Vancouver not far from my wife's work. 

Fir Crest Park off NE 120th Ave. & SE 5th St. Nothing fancy, just a big playground with swings, a balance beam, and a grove of giant shady trees. And plenty of sticks for my son to collect while my daughter finds tall things to climb.

Enjoy it. Winter is coming.

ROALD DAHL FIGHTS THE BLAZERS VS. SPURS.

“We have so much time and so little to do. Strike that, reverse it.”

At the Moda Center, where there is literally hundreds of people (if not more) cheering and even sometimes yelling in support of the Blazers. I feel we shall prevail in the match tonight, but the path to victory will be wrought with hardship, blood, and possibly sweat.

Go Blazers.

____

GAME SPOILER AHEAD.

At the Moda Center, where there is literally hundreds of people (if not more) cheering and even sometimes yelling in support of the Blazers. I feel we shall prevail in the match tonight, but the path to victory will be wrought with hardship, blood, and possibly sweat.

Go Blazers.

____

60-40.

On the downside, the Blazers have just played one of the ugliest, most disappointing halves of basketball I have ever seen.

On the upside, a buddy just gave me some red licorice, which I have not had in 12 years, and I fell in love with it and would like to start eating it daily now. Not those Twizzlers, which my dental hygienist alleges are bad for you, but the old school, rope vine kind that certainly has to pack some level of nutritional value.

Go Blazers.



File under: people who have been there for me and my siblings our whole lives.

And are now important figures in the lives of their grand-niece and grand-nephew.

WHITE SWAN HOOP DREAMS.

Living room basketball on a soaking Friday afternoon with Pet Shop Boys cranked, and my preggo wife seems to have forgotten that not only should she maybe not be a) aggressively playing basketball Rick Mahorn style or b) intensely performing ballet* and c) ESPECIALLY not combining the two simultaneously. 

*also Rick Mahorn style 

RIP CITY VIOLET.

I miss the days when I would wrestle with the children and my wife would be concerned for their safety, as I strategically used my high percentage of muscle fat to gently pin them to the ground until they surrendered and acknowledged my superiority:

"Careful with the kids, Josie!"

Now, it is them she gives the admonishment to, as I am piledrived by at least eight knees and elbows flying at my face from nine feet in the air:

"Careful, kids - he's fragile!"

Which is not entirely true or untrue.

Another thing I miss is seeing the Blazers win. If they can take the intensity with which my children annihilate my body into submission and direct it at the Spurs, then tonight should not be a problem. Victory is assured. Also, my wife has been playing basketball with the children all afternoon, and thus I was excited to join in when I returned.

I was greeted by my wife:

"I am VERY good at basketball,"

as she flippantly tossed the ball toward the hoop six feet away, where she pulled off the stunning feat of missing by approximately seven meters.

I disagreed publicly with this statement, and was assaulted with shouts of: "Mama's a way better basketball player than you, so we're not going to play with you!"

Which made me long for the days when I was better than her at basketball, and better than them at everything. Let's go back to last week, please.

Go Portland.

Also, if they really want to win, they need to be cranking Hole's "Violet" from 1994 in the locker room, which was also a good year.

Hole
Violet
Live Through This
1994

HEGEL (THE SUN SETS TONIGHT, WARREN MOON).

Sometimes, it's really hard to be happy for someone when something good happens to them.

At least to be GENUINELY happy. And if I can't be genuine, then my fake attempt would be a transparent fraud and an affront to human decency and the pursuit of truth, which is the main reason I'm going for Portland tonight because if Houston wins, I can just not be genuinely happy for Dwight Howard. Therefore, go Blazers. Close the door, guys. It's time.
____

Post by Joseph Long.

RISE.

We believe.
Go Blazers.
May the spirit of Jerome Kersey be upon you. 

TOUCHÉ.

Daddy?
She asked.
Can I stay up and watch the Blazer game so I can learn how to play basketball?

Long pause.

You DO want me to learn how to play basketball, right?

Chekhov, Blazers, People

Just got back from the Blazers game. Went at the last minute, thanks to Becca. Parked at Lloyd Center, hopped the Max to the Rose Garden. Missed the first quarter.

Got Blazer tickets for Christmas a while back. Thirteen-ish. February matchup with Dallas. My experience with professional basketball was mostly radio legend Bill Schonely calling games on KTIL 104.1. Going to an actual game was a big deal. Difficult to emphasize the sense of importance I felt my physical presence would be to the team. Me, Josh, and Chief. Won by 30 or so. Clyde the Glide Drexler made a lotta buckets. They were all amazing, and I knew them all, and their heights and favourite music...

If I Could Be with You (One Ho...

Anton Chekhov wrote a short story. The Bet. A young lawyer and rich banker make a bet over what is a worse form of punishment: capital punishment or life imprisonment. Deal is that if the lawyer lasts fifteen years in solitary confinement, he will get two million dollars. Can have all the books, music, wine, and pleasures he desires. But no human contact.

Read the story. It's a good one. Won't give away the ending. But it's a marvelous piece, for both personal reflection and conversational entertainment. I love books, film, music, learning, art...used to think I'd be fine in a little snowlocked cabin with a bottomless generator, grizzly skin rug, and library of reading material. Surround myself with stuff that brings me pleasure.

So the game tonight was fun, and being in an arena with billions of screaming fans does make you feel part of something bigger than yourself, though I can't shake the nagging feeling that the fates of my professional sports teams are not quite as big a deal as they were a few decades ago. There is certainly something liberating about screaming at sweating gladiators, with bouncing balls and angry countenances, and feeling good about doing it as a community. Nothing quite bonds people like a common target for vitriol. Which is a little sad, looking at the hairless faces of those boy-warriors. Then, I look at their tattoos (Seriously Mom, each of these means something super important to me, and it's really important that they be in Chinese or Sanskrit...). And then I remember that they make a lot of money to play a game. Which is cool. Just not quite as important to me these days to define my identity by the fortunes of my team.

So the Max ride. Nine minutes, each way. Crammed in, jammed up, sweat and smell and perfume. And noise. Jostling and snippets of conversation, and banging elbows, and Becca holding my hand. And I'm smiling. Because I like being around people. And I couldn't give that up.

Spent the day with Magdelana. In all of her inimitable and mischievous glory. Read stacks of books. Completed multiple art projects. Did some spying. Loads of laundry and dishes. Danced to Benny Goodman and The Rapture. Glorious and exhausting. Didn't necessarily feel like heading into Portland at the end of the day for a raucous feast of sweaty men throwing balls around (yes, driving that into the ground).

The Coming Of Spring - The Rap...

Can be isolating, and draining up on the mountain sometimes. Dad: long days. Work: late nights. I love my time with Magdelana. But tired though I was, it was invigorating to get out and be part of people en masse, to soak up the personalities and clashings of a crowd. Some people lose energy from being around people, others gain it. I'm not in the middle: I just erratically bounce back and forth between two extremes.

I like people.

Oh, they won. Now my week's not ruined.