Being in New York City, I decide to make a major statement and buy a Bulls cap!
I know what you’re thinking. How many Bulls caps does one guy need, especially when he already owns at least three and he’s not getting a slice of the sales action?
I mean, I’m paying them for the right to advertise their product.
Think of it as my way of helping the Bulls cover the cost of Jimmy Butler’s new contract.
Into Modell’s I go. That’s the big sporting goods store on Flatbush Avenue, right across the street from the Barclay Center, home of the Brooklyn Nets.
That’s right–I’m in the belly of the Brooklyn beast. Like I’m saying–Yo’, Brooklyn, I’m wearing my Bulls cap right in front of your face!
Everyone on Flatbush wants to know about Derrick’s knee…
“I’m here to buy a Bulls cap,” I tell the saleslady.
“Okay,” she says.
Maybe she didn’t hear me.
“That’s Bulls as in Chicago Bulls,” I say.
I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that no one in NYC gives a shit about me buying a Bulls cap. Especially, the folks at Modell’s, who obviously see it as more money for them!
There are many hats to choose from. It comes down to black cap with white brim, or red cap with black brim.
I turn to Brian, my fashion consultant, who knows a lot about sports caps cause he comes from Milwaukee. Not sure what one has to do with the other, but whatever…
“Go with the black cap,” says Brian.
Brian `n me show off our hats!
So I buy it. And off I boogaloo down Flatbush to Lefferts Garden–where all the cool people live.
Here’s the stunner. Everywhere I go people want to know about Derrick’s reconstructed knees.
Who knew D Rose had so many fans in Brooklyn?
I guess they think I have the inside scoop on D’s knees since I’m wearing a Bulls cap.
Fast forward to the next day…
I’m standing in the Target, across the street from the Barclay Center, waiting for my wife and younger daughter to finish shopping.
This Target is no joke. First of all, it’s packed–you can barely move there are so many people in the aisle.
Second of all, people are crazy. Probably cause it’s so hot in the store. Hey, turn down the heat!
I watch a woman in an motorized wheelchair cut off a woman with two kids.
“I know you didn’t just cut me off, bitch!” says the woman with the kids
I’m telling you–they’re tough in Brooklyn!
Bored out my mind, I start counting basketball caps to see which team is most popular: Bulls, Nets or Knicks?
Final score: Bulls caps 4, Nets 3, Knicks 2. Bulls win!
Let’s hope it’s just the start to a glorious season.
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Jon’s still goofing around somewhere in Argentina, so here are a few of our recent favorites…
Wrigley at night…
One way or another…
A Chicago fisherman…
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There’s a scene midway through Michael Cuesta’s great thriller–Kill the Messenger–that sort of sums up the reality of my existence.
This action-packed flick tells the tale of Gary Webb, a crusading investigative reporter, who paid a very high price for exposing some pretty grimy secrets about the shitty things our government is capable of doing.
It’s well worth watching, if only for Jeremy Renner’s sensational performance as Webb. So, naturally, it’s only on about four screens in Chicago.
Apparently, they still want these things to remain a secret.
The connection to my existence most definitely does not come when Renner’s whipping around town in his super-cool British sports car, sneaking into a Mexican prison by paying off a guard or doing other swashbuckling things that I’ve never done in over 30 years of journalism. And am not likely to be doing anytime soon. Though I am working on getting that sports car.
No, it comes when he’s ready to write his story, having completed his investigation. He enters his office, turns on his computer, stares at the screen and has this brief moment of terror where he realizes: Holy shit, I gotta fill up this empty screen!
It’s a dreaded moment of panic that’s probably confronted every writer from Shakespeare to Mickey Spillane. Minus the computer, of course.
I believe Stephen King wrote a whole book about it–The Shining–which Stanley Kubrick turned into a pretty good movie.
Not to equate myself with Shakespeare, Spillane or Stephen King, but this moment confronts me every day. It’s confronting me right now, as a matter fact. It’s like you have to peel back your skull, scavenge around your brain and find something useful you can yank out and use superfast–before it disappears.
For some writers–like Roger Ebert–this is not a problem.
For other guys, it’s an ordeal.
This empty screen confrontation is, I believe, that make-or-break moment when thousands of people realize they’re never going to be a writer. Sort of like first year bio makes thousands of college freshmen realize they’re never going to be a doctor.
A realization that–for me–came with third grade earth science. That shit was hard, man.
If you can believe the movie, Gary Webb had a ritual to get him through the moment. He put on some rock `n roll–preferably, The Clash–did stretches, breathed deeply and took the plunge.
The good news is that he finished his story and filled the screen.
The bad news is that the story he finished pretty much finished him.
Anyway you look at it, there’s got be an easier way to get that sports car.
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A few months back, I read an obituary about William Greaves, a filmaker who died at the age of 87.
Of all his movies, the one that caught my eye was Ali, the Fighter. As the title suggests, it’s a documentary about the great Muhammad Ali.
Naturally, I had to order it up on Netflix.
What a treasure. If there are any fight fans out there, I urge you to watch it.
The film’s as much a tribute to Joe Frazier–Ali’s greatest fight foe–as it is to Ali.
This goes back to the early 1970s, right after Ali had been banned from boxing for refusing to be inducted into the Army.
He was trying to win back his heavyweight title, which Frazier had “won,” during the time Ali had been in boxing exile. So to speak.
William Greaves with Steve Buscemi…
On March 8, 1971, they met at Madison Square Garden–two undefeated heavyweight champs–for what was billed as the Fight of the Century.
In the first half of the documentary, we see a lot of Ali, hilariously talking shit about Frazier.
Who just isn’t witty enough to keep up.
But once we get to the fight–which takes up about 45 minutes–well, let’s just say Joe Frazier puts on a world-class athletic performance.
I mean, the man was relentless–from the opening bell to the closing–15 rounds later.
Trying to use his longer reach, Ali launched one booming blow after another. And still, Frazier advanced.
He hit Ali again and again and again with brutal blows to the chest, neck and head.
How Ali sustained this beating–much less, went on to fight for another ten years–I’ll never know.
It was a brutal fight…
Greaves not only captures the violence of the fight, but draws back at crucial moments to show the audience. Mostly white people, including all sorts of celebrities: Frank Sinatra, Burt Lancaster, Woody Allen, etc.
So the film’s also about rich white people watching two black guys beat the living shit out of each other.
You might call it a parable about, oh–everything.
At the climatic moment in the final round, Frazier stunned Ali with a vicious left hook. Knocked him to the ground. Give Ali credit for getting up to finish the fight.
For the record, Frazier won this bout. But Ali won their next two.
The power of Frazier’s left hook stayed with me long after the movie had ended. I was still thinking about it a day or two later when I bumped into my neighbor, Sam the firefighter.
One of the wisest men I know.
Of course, I told Sam all about the fight. And how horrible it is that Ali and Frazier pretty much had their brains beaten out.
And Sam said–look on the bright side. Those epic bouts gave Ali a platform to crusade against war and racism.
I guess he took what he got and made the best of it. Just like Joe Frazier and William Greaves.
While Jon’s away on important business in South America, we’re publishing some of his greatest hits…
You talkin’ to me?
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I admit I was late to the James Gandolfini bandwagon.
The great actor was dead for at least several weeks before I jumped aboard. As I’d never watched The Sopranos when it was the rage of the nation.
This was the summer of 2013, when my wife and I saw Enough Said–one of the last movies he made.
Great romantic comedy, by the way. It’s got a lot to say about the rivalries women have with each other.
Written and directed by Nicole Holofcener, who’s become one of my favorite directors.
Anyway, Gandolfini’s character commanded my attention. And I said to my wife…
“We should probably out The Sopranos. At least rent a disc from Netflix — just to see what all the talk’s about.”
“Why not,” said my wife.
“We’ll only watch one disc,” I said.
Well, one turned into two and then three and so on and so forth until that show consumed my home movie watching life.
Eventually, over six months had passed and I’d watched every episode.
But even then I wasn’t through with Gandolfini. To really appreciate his work, I realized I had to see his movies. So I organized my own James Gandolfini Film Festival–right in my own living room!
Gandolfini was great in The Drop…
I watched three Gandolfini movies in a row: The Incredible Burt Wonderstone, Romance & Cigarettes and Cinema Verite.
It was sort of disappointing. Wonderstone really wasn’t a Gandolfini movie at all. More like a lame Steve Carrell comedy in which Gandolfini had a bit part.
And Romance & Cigarettes was this truly bizarre musical featuring actors who can’t sing. Like Mr. Gandolfini.
Cinema Verite was OK, but nothing to write home about. All in all, the Gandolfini film festival was sort of a bust. Good thing I was the only one who watched it.
Of course, that didn’t stop me from rushing out to see The Drop, just as soon as it opened.
That’s apparently the last Gandolfini movie to come out. But I thought that’s what they said about Enough Said. So, you never know.
I got to the theater early and watched as one guy after another walked in, dragging his wife or girlfriend. That’s when I realized there are lots of guys my age who have this thing for Gandolfini.
Not sure why. Maybe its cause hes’s a schlumpy-looking guy who still gets the chicks.
By the way, The Drop was sensational.
I plan to watch it again–when it comes to the Red Box.
And so my James Gandolfini Film Festival continues.
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While watching Sunday’s Bears game, I had a profound revelation!
I’ll get to that later.
First, let me tell you about the setting…
I was watching in a Lincoln Avenue bar that bills itself as a home-away-from home for displaced Atlantatonians, like my good friend Adrienne.
What up, Adrienne!
She roots for the Falcons cause she was raised in Atlanta. So we can’t hold it against her. Besides, it’s not like she’s rooting for the Packers.
A few months ago, Adrienne suggested we watch the Bears/Falcons game at this bar so I could see how the Falcon half lives.
At the time, it seemed like a good idea, but now I’m not so sure. For one thing, everyone’s decked out in Falcon red and black. I was going to wear my Bears T-shirt. Except I don’t have one.
I decided to bring my 1985 Bears Super Bowl coffee cup. Then I realized all the lettering had faded, so, really, what was the point?
Jared Allen looks like…
Instead, I grabbed my trusty Bulls baseball cap to at least represent something Chicago. But when I got to the bar, I discovered that, in my haste to leave my house, I’d grabbed the wrong hat.
The hat I was wearing had no logo at all. So when I made a big deal about putting it on, Adrienne and her friends politely smiled as if I were some lunatic drooling in the alley.
By the way, these Falcons fans are no joke. When the Falcons scored, some guy ran up the aisle of the bar, waving a Falcons flag.
Plus, another guy was wearing a T-shirt featuring Samuel Jackson’s character from Pulp Fiction, under the banner: Rise Up!
That’s the Falcons logo. Apparently, Jackson picked up an affinity for the Falcons during his days at Morehouse.
But don’t quote me on that–I’m just telling you what Adrienne told me. Though she should know.
The trumpeter–Joey `the Lips’ Fagan!
The climactic moment of the game came when Jared Allen, the Bears defensive end, sacked Matt Ryan, the Falcons QB. That’s when I had my revelation.
Ever since the Bears signed Allen as a free agent, I’d been looking at his picture and wondering: Who does he look like?
And right there in that Falcons bar on Lincoln Avenue, it hit me. He looks like Joey “the Lips” Fagan, the trumpeter from The Commitments. One of the great movies of the early `90s.
I was set to share this factoid with Adrienne and her friends, when I realized–they’re 20 somethings. They probably never saw The Commitments, much less heard of Joey” the Lips” Fagan.
Alas, some revelations cannot be shared, as great as they may be.
Good news–the Bears won!
Maybe next year, Adrienne.
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