Let me apologize for the intrusion, the inconvenience, the inconsistency, the malfeasance even! It appears that I left a few items off the list of easy distractions from blogging duties. It seems that I am also easily swayed by: shiny ribbed leggings, The Chronicles of Narnia, unavoidable naps, nail lacquer and ugly Christmas sweaters.
I did manage to watch the ugly shouldnta-loss to the Pistons last cold Thursday night, in the dim and, once again, soundless surroundings of a neighborhood bar. I may have been alone while Quadzilla got superdrunk with The Boys, but have no fear, I had the excellent company of $0.25 wings and 2fer taps and my still beautiful and shiny new lappy. Only for the second half, though, the first was spent running around like a chicken with my head cut off…pretty much the only way I can be persuaded to run around at all.
Just enough of a rather sloppily played game to feel pretty dismayed about the recent run of my dear, beloved Nugs. And I ain’t talking the kind you can get at any of the single medicial marijuana shops that have sprouted in L.A. so frequently that now they outnumber Starbucks and McDonald’s there…combined! (Thank you, NPR, this mention of how clearly you have enriched my life is my donation.)
According to a NBA.com interview with the holiday-appropriate-portly Karl, the Nuggets are “a good team. Not a great team.” That may be Georgey Porgey, but it’s news to me. I recall a pretty great team last year. Now all you smarty, farty, basketball gurus can bite me. I saw them play, we were a rockstar second half team that new when it had to get it’s shit together and clinch a moral-boosting win in the end. That is just not what went down Thursday.
Shouting like a Mad Madame Mim in a bar that couldn’t have less to do with basketball, I made friends with Greasy Stranger At the Bar and he really like it when I called us a Second Half Team. But it’s true, we just need a good kick in the pants. But this go round, all we did was follow Melo around like tired, Billups-shot missing puppies. Spesh disappointing was the lapsed lay up by Mr. So-Called Big Shot. Pfff. Maybe the man just couldn’t quite stomach handing it to his old team the way he really needed to. Certainly not Mr. Big Chops. (We heart you Chauncey.)
Naturally, I missed that silly game against Phoenix, which we managed to actually win. I was too busy wearing shiny ribbed leggins, a glittery shirt and pearls to fall down on 7th and Clarkson. Best. Day. Ever.
I’d like to say that the following game that sport and it’s magnificent athletic specimen–spesh the glorious return of my be-tatted and beautiful favorite: Kenyon, pinky in tact–had all the attention and affection due their magnificent selves. However, in the interminable search for a bar that will allow me to have sound on what they see as an unimportant, insignificant game in a gagillion-game season, I ended up, shoes two feet from the edge of a bed-couch at a Polish bar/restaurant a few blocks from home with Boobs pretending to pay attention to the thrashing we were dealing OKC.
Now this was to be expected, as Boobs is one of my besties and we hardly see one another now that we are both busy and all married up with men folk. I think it says everything that needs to be said about this uneven match-up when Boobs said, “Since when did Oklahoma City get a basketball team? What, you just buy a team and then…you just have one?” And it’s true, I do not know how the magical birth of a basketball team comes to be. If i had a billion dollars could I buy a bunch of beautiful black men and a few lonely white ones, give em a snappy name like THUNDER and send em off to River City, IA, where I would plan to sustain their financial needs with spectacular displays of musical song and dance named after other small towns (Gary, IN, por example) and selling things off the Wells Fargo Wagon, since there wouldn’t be anyone there to go see my small-town wonders play roundball. They’d all be busy at the Hoosiers game.
But really, it was a game of little flair and much distance, for me. Literally, the television was hiked way to the high corner away from my red bed-couch. And I will leave you with this: