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My new psychic technique is unstoppable

To quote my own NBA preview:

The Pacers believe they were one knee-tweak to Jermaine O’Neal away from getting to the Finals last year, which avoids the reality that Ron Artest is a freaking maniac whom David Stern would’ve given his left arm to keep out of the NBA’s biggest stage.

And [Artest is] the #2 guy on this squad, although he contends that he’s the MVP of the league. Great talent, no head: the Jeff George of the NBA . . . I still don’t trust [the Pacers] under real pressure, because I think Artest will explode, and O’Neal’s too in love with his jumper (and a little too fragile).

So I was partly wrong. Jermaine O’Neal might not face much wear-and-tear this season, since he’s suspended for 25 games.

It was wrong of the fans to throw stuff at the Pacers. It was wrong of Artest to race up into the stands. It was wrong of Ben Wallace to keep trying to incite Artest by throwing a towel at him.

But it was really bullshit of Artest to lie back on the scorers table, put his feet up, cradle his head, and preen for the opposing crowd, after he and Wallace were separated. That must’ve burned his general manager’s ass (some guy named Bird) to no end, to see his player dump that much disrespect on the game.

I agree with the season-long suspension that Artest’s been handed. Given his history of wig-outs, he needs some massive penalty to show him that it’s time to start taking those meds.

Oh, and nice job selecting Dennis Rodman’s number for your jersey this season, dick.

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Weather With You

A year ago today, I embarked on a 15-day trip to New Zealand (click over to the 11/03 and 12/03 archives for the wacky details). At the time, I was struggling pretty badly with a broken heart. During my two weeks on the other side of the planet, I discovered how the memory of joy and love can make a person whole. Before then, I’d always been the type to fixate on the past, on absent loves and blown chances. But 32 years of looking back was giving me a crick in my neck.

So, for two weeks, I got to rebuild love without having to center it on another person. It helped that I was in a different world, doing crazy-ass things — jetboating through a river canyon, helicoptering onto a glacier, table-dancing to AC/DC’s Thunderstruck, taking The Leap off a 160-foot platform with a rubber band attached to my chest, drinking Flatliners with Australians — that I never would’ve done in my familiar environment. Since then, just about every day’s been a wonder, a constant miracle.

After re-finding love in myself, I found it in someone else.

I’ve made great friends (but seem to have lost some others).

I’ve seen more of the country and the world than I expected to in the year since that trip: Las Vegas, Charleston, Orlando, Annapolis, Boston, the San Francisco-San Diego drive, Budapest, Stockholm, Copenhagen, London, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and numerous trips to NYC, with Brussels and Amsterdam coming up next month. Sometimes the travel wears me down, but I’ll take it over sitting at home week after week.

Sorry to sound all boring and unsnarky. The anniversary of the trip (which was really the first trip I ever took that didn’t involve family, friends, or work) got me thinking about all that joy, so I figured I’d share it a little.

Drink a Flatliner for me this weekend.

On second thought, don’t; you’ll just curse my name for the rest of the week.

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I’m not fat, I’m just big skeletoned!

How could you not read an article that includes the line: “Davis still believes in innovation. As one example, the company recently started making a folding coffin bed”?

Coffins for fat people. From a company called Goliath Casket. I can’t make this stuff up.

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Cheech and Chong were pikers

Nice try, but I hear that you can’t get the squid smell outta your nose for weeks . . .

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Try my Wu-Tang style

Ol’ Dirty Bastard died last night. His “taking a limo and an MTV News crew to the welfare office” shtick was pretty funny. I never listened to his solo stuff or the Wu-Tang Clan till a few months ago.

He was only 35. For some reason, I thought ODB was, well, a bunch older than I am, but he was only two years up on me.

Heaven knows how many kids he left behind.

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Jewish holiday

From Judith Miller’s obit for Yasser Arafat:

In the 1960’s, he pioneered what became known as “television terrorism” – air piracy and innovative forms of mayhem staged for maximum propaganda value. Among the more spectacular deeds he ordered was the massacre of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics. In 1986, a group linked to Mr. Arafat but apparently acting independently seized the Achille Lauro cruise ship and threw overboard an elderly American Jew in a wheelchair.

Yeah: “spectacular”. I know it’s got a range of meanings, but that might not’ve been the best word-choice. But “massacre” was pretty appropriate.

Here’s another.

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The Block

Just finishing up a pharmaceutical conference down in Baltimore today, before heading home to the palatial VM estates.

I went to a hospitality event at the Maryland Art Place last night, which was fun. Problem was, the directions to the event just consisted of a map, not a “stick to Pratt St. and then turn left” set of directions. So I made an early left, so as to get to Baltimore Ave. and reach the site pretty quickly.

Unfortunately, I had no idea that this would put me on The Block, which is populated entirely of porno joints and strip clubs, and is situated one block over from the police station. The locals were pretty friendly, inviting me into all of their establishments, but I declined their hospitality, even at the offer of “6 to 8 pretty girls”. And then I passed a police officer handcuffing a gentleman on the street corner, shouting, “I have it on tape! Don’t LIE to me AGAIN!”

And I thought, “Maybe there’s a reason they set those crime shows in Baltimore . . .”