Let's get ready to rummmmmmmmmble.....

My boy Imani Groce likes to pose a question a day on his Facebook page to solicit opinions from his group of friends.

"Who has the better falsetto: Curtis Mayfield or Philip Bailey?"

" Better rapper: Jay-z vs. Nas?"

"East San Jose vs. South San Jose?

"McDonald's vs. McDowell's?"

You get the idea. 

Most days, I might weigh in with  something very brief. "McDowell's. Definitely McDowell's, because of the Big Mick. Sesame seeds on a bun are highly overrated." But every once in awhile, his inquiry requires so much more depth of explanation that I have to really commit to it. Some subjects require a legitimate discourse as they aren't adequately investigated in a line or two.

Such was the case with the following topic. Imani dared to ask "What's the better album: Thriller or Purple Rain?" After getting over the initial reaction ("Now why'd he go and do that???) I had to resist the urge to make an emotional decision. Make no mistake about it, both of these albums played a pivotal role in my personal history. Events and happenings of my youth took place with these two classics providing the soundtrack. Phrases like "I remember where I was when..."  are spoken often about one of Michael Jackson's videos, or key parts of Prince's movie. Both of these musical efforts transcended all other things that were happening during that time period. Everything stopped for these two. Yes, it really was that major. To think that one could actually quantify these albums and be so bold as to put the comparative adverb "better" in front of one of these is almost mind boggling in itself.

Having given you the proper context by which to consider this bold question, I can actually share with you now how I chose to approach the matter at hand.  Enjoy...

I chose to break it down track by track. Curiously, both albums had only 9 tracks. THAT'S ALL THEY NEEDED! There are no interludes, no skits, or random conversations. This is not a Juelz Santana album. This is serious business.

TRACK 1- its very important to get outta the gate strong in my humble opinion. Both the purple one and the gloved one clearly agree as both first tracks are super high energy dance classics that were hot singles in their own right. Let's Go Crazy actually charted at #1 while Startin Somethin' peaked at #5. However, Startin Somethin' gave us the unforgettable "mama say mama saw mama cu saw". I want to call this one even, but we'll give prince the nod for reaching #1.

 TRACK 2- Baby be Mine vs. Take me With you. This is Prince by a landslide. Baby be Mine was a very danceable track as was pretty much everything Quincy Jones produced, and was listenable (i.e. you don't have to FF past this track), but it was mediocre in the grand scheme of things. Prince went with a string section for his music and Appolonia in the video so he wins easily here. 

 TRACK 3- The Girl is Mine vs. The Beautiful Ones. Advantage Prince. This is starting to look like that bad first couple of games that the OKC thunder came out with vs. the Spurs, or a boxing match in which prince and his purple high heeled boots has Mike's ass moonwalked up against the ropes in the early rounds and its looking grim. So Paul McCartney is seen by some as one of the greatest musicians of all time and is equally as famous as both Prince and Mike, I never really cared for this song. Prince's guitar work and transitions from falsetto to his deep voice put this one way over the top. If you're keeping score at home, this is Prince in a 10-9 round, and after 3 the judges have it 30-26.

 TRACK 4- Thriller vs. Computer Blue. Mike's got the jab going now. In fact, he may have even scored a knock down here. Computer Blue is one of my favorites, but this is Thriller we're talking about. Not convinced? Okay, we're playing a pickup game at Cherry Park and I have first pick. Chris Webber is available for that first pick, but so is Michael Jordan. Umm....I'm taking Jordan. 10-8 for MJ. 

TRACK 5- Beat It vs. Darling Nikki. This is a tough one, but then again, not really. Darling Nikki would've made one of the slow jam tapes back in the day, but Beat It is maybe one of Mike's 2 or 3 best songs ever. Definitely a great video. Although, I wonder what kinda XXX ratedness Prince's crazy lil' a$$ would've come up with for a Darling Nikki video. Hmmm. It really should be 10-8 here, but we'll call it 10-9. 

TRACK 6- Billie Jean vs. When Doves Cry. Maybe the toughest battle of the whole album here. Billie Jean IS Mike's best song ever. Video nod goes to Mike.

   

 But this is a great Prince song. I mean GREAT. This is two GIANTS at the peak of the powers going toe-to-toe, throwing their best punches and landing them from start to finish.

 I wish i could give a tie here, but that would sell somebody short, so I gotta go Mike again here. After six rounds, we are tied at 56! 










TRACK 7- Human Nature vs. I would Die 4 U. Another tough one. We'll give Prince props for his hand signals (you know you can still do it). Another great one with alot of energy from Prince, but Mike's Human Nature was soo sooo sooooo smooth that its actually a song that you like better and better as the years go by and it has had tremendous Remixability. (Chris Brown, SWV...Miles Davis cover...yeah...I said remixability). Almost too close to call here, so we'll go the charts. Human Nature peaked at #7 and IWD4U peaked at #8. 10-9 to Mike on this one. 


 TRACK 8- PYT vs Baby I'm a Star. Another super close one. About as Close as Ryan Bailey and team USA to Usain Bolt and Jamaica in that relay.
Mike wins this one, but not by much. Both really solid efforts, but c'mon! This is PYT we're talkin about. 10-9 Mike. Okay, one round to go...Prince needs a knockout here. (You can't win a decision over the champ, right?). 

TRACK 9- Lady in My Life vs. Purple Rain. Oh my Goodness! This is absolutely ridiculous. We're talking Irish Mickey Ward vs. Arturo Gatti ridiculous.  

Lady in my life is soo strong that if you ever hear an instrumental version you  STILL love it.

 "And I Will Keep You Warm
Through The Shadows Of The Night
Let Me Touch You With My Love
I Can Make You Feeeeeeel So Right"

against Prince's

 "Honey I know, I KNOW, I know..times are changing...."
Prince performs the hell outta this song! Actually, this is like Rocky vs. Apollo Creed and they both knock each other down

 ......but Purple Rain gets up just before the 10 count!

Who's got it better than us?

I like a little playful ribbing as much as the next guy, so when confronted with this rather unflattering representation of my team I couldn't help but hit back. Of course, the fact that a member of haider nation posted this on my Facebook page added a little extra incentive to retort (and that's why it's written "to" a hating raider). First, here's the article. (Go ahead and right click and open in another window so you flip back to my musings for the last word.) http://deadspin.com/5930455/?utm_campaign=socialflow_deadspin_twitter&utm_source=deadspin_twitter&utm_medium=socialflow

 So here's what I had to say... To the writer's first point, Palmer will break your heart again as he completes more and more passes to the guys in the other colored jerseys. Shoulda sacked up and kept your boy Jason Campbell. Smith will dump off to Gore, James, Davis and will do so long enough to lull you to sleep for a bomb to Moss. Alex threw long strikes last year, guys just dropped several of them. The west coast office is not sexy like Air Coryell . Similarly, the triangle offense is not as fun to watch as Lob City but it makes guys like Armstrong, Kerr, Longley, Cartwright, Caffey, and Paxson look pretty damn good while they're making major contributions.

To his second point, yes, poor Kyle Williams has to get over that mental hurdle but short memories are key to every great athlete. Just ask your boy Sea Bass of Wide Right U. http://www.foxnews.com/sports/2010/09/26/cardinals-finally-play-home-face-gradkowski-led-raiders/.


  Our defense IS that good. The NFC West offenses do leave something to be desired but the QB play in the AFC WEST isn't exactly likely to produce many hall of famers either. I bring that up to say that you guys STILL couldn't stop any of those *cough* gun slingers. Philip Rivers is the only decent one in the division and he wasn't scared as he dropped 38 pts on y'all fearsome frontline. Oh and at least we didn't get Tebowed. Giving up 38 to Rivers is understandable, but Tebowed? Really??? And you don't stop the run. What do you stop other than serving beer after the 3rd quarter?

 I'll concede the point about shopping at farmer's markets and antique stores on Sundays while sipping wine and eating artisan cheeses. Touché . Some of our fans are kinda wack and don't love the raiders more than they love their own mothers like your silver and black bandits. For that matter, you have s better song, a better poem, and better tailgates. Keep your poetry. We'll take the W's.

Thirty days to Enlightenment

I became a Spanish teacher today. No, really...I did. Well, sort of. I am covering the classroom as a substitute teacher for a high school class of Spanish students. Yes, me, Mr. Sometimey-Spanish. Sure, I got A's in Spanish class in high school, but I've skated by on a very crude understanding of the language ever since, often drifting in and out of being able to form intelligible sentences depending on my necessity to use the language. I always promise myself that I'm going to practice and make dramatic improvements but it has yet to happen.

I've never tried teaching Spanish though. Perhaps that is the key to my getting over the proverbial "chepa". I would've thought this a ridiculous plan for improving my Spanish language skills, but desperate times indeed call for desperate measures. Stay tuned for the next 30 days as I chronicle this experience and please do wish me luck. Well, I'll wish myself luck because I'm not convinced that anybody reads this except for me.

Letting the air outta Jordan

Like most other kids I knew, I wanted to be a professional athlete when I grew up. I guess my parents didn't see anything terribly wrong with this, even playing enablers to some extent by satisfying my desire to wear whatever Dr. J or Magic was wearing on their feet. I always did all of my school work first, so I guess they figured that I had my priorities in the right place. Besides, they were educators and anything short of that wouldn't have been acceptable. Unlike most of my friends, however, I refused to utter this aloud after about the age of 12. A very confident child, I fashioned myself on being more rational and complete in my thinking, realizing that I would indeed need a “real” profession to hang my hat on in addition to that pipe dream.

I wanted to dribble like Isiah dribbled, run like Edwin Moses ran, and say “Hi, Mom!” at the appropriate time when the camera panned over to me on the sideline. The walls of my bedroom were covered with posters of Doc, Magic, Kareem, and even Bird. I played all the sports, so Dwight Gooden and Joe Montana also had their place as well. About the time I started to replace some of these with a picture of Ola Ray, or Janet Jackson that I clipped out of Right On or Jayne Kennedy out of Ebony, along came a guy named Mike. He changed everything.

That guy was must see TV. This was back when Sportscenter was only on late at night, and only for those that had cable. The rest of us would have to check for his highlights during the sports news on channel 2, then 5, then channel 7 and channel 4. (You had to memorize the order to make sure that you didn't miss anything amazing that he did). He came to town only once per season and even though he was on a bad team, the tickets would still sell out. Luckily for me, my hometown Golden State Warriors weren't any good so with some planning it was pretty easy to be one of those in the stadium when Jordan and the Bulls came to town. At $15 per ticket for GOOD seats, my parents didn't mind taking me either. During one spring break while visiting an aunt in Chicago, I got to see him score 61 points in old Chicago Stadium. They were playing the Hawks and Dominique Wilkins had 34 points and the game winner. Losing a game like that was typical of the Bulls during those years.

Off the court, anything he touched turned to gold. He could make you buy burgers at McDonald's. He made Gatorade a drink that you actually wanted and not just when the doctor suggested that your mom get it for you to keep your fluids up after a bout with the flu. But where he really cemented his iconic status was in the sneaker game with Nike and the creation of his Air Jordan brand. For fifteen years straight, my wardrobe contained at least one article of clothing donning this winged logo. I finally came to my senses around 2000 when it occurred to me that paying $185 for a pair of sneakers was absolutely absurd. At 28 years old, already having reached my basketball mountaintop, I had come to the realization that they would not make me jump any higher and that I was only putting more money into his already very full pockets. I haven't bought any of his stuff since. This was about the time when he decided that he wanted to be a Washington Wizard. Even he wasn't magical enough to make that situation a winner. In fact, the only unbelievable thing that he did in that uniform was to fail to be unbelievable, showing that even Superman loses a step and gets old.

I really wish he would've stayed retired after that famous shot against B-Russ and the Jazz in the 1998 NBA Finals. It doesn't get any better than that. All of us, in all of our driveways as kids, made that shot as we counted down the imaginary clock audibly, falling out of bounds, jumping over the bushes and falling on to the lawn as we made the buzzer sound and the ensuing artificial crowd noise. You make that shot and you go in the house. Game over. His coming back with Washington was like me missing my next 5 shots after the out-of-bounds, over-the-bushes shot and then going in the house and you KNOW that's against the rules.

Add a bitter and downright pompous acceptance speech to the Basketball Hall of Fame last Friday night to that list of things that I wish he hadn't done. Keep in mind that in addition to that Wizards washout, this man also had a very lackluster stint with the Birmingham Barons of the Chicago White Sox farm system. He was grieving the loss of his father and had just won his 3rd championship in a row, so I gave him a pass for this. Besides, dropping 55 on the Knicks at the Garden about a week after his return to basketball made for good theater and forever cemented his legend, or so I thought. Following inspiring and impassioned speeches by fellow greats John Stockton and David Robinson and legendary coaches Vivian Stringer and Jerry Sloan, Michael Jeffrey Jordan once again left me looking at my television screen in utter disbelief when he took the podium. This time, however, that was not a good thing. Where they were gracious and humbled by the honor, he was arrogant and bitter. All that preceded him had something complimentary to say to or about their mentors or coaches that may have challenged them and forced them to overcome adversity. Michael all but chastised the high school coach that cut him from the varsity team as a sophomore, saying “I wanted to make sure you understood. You made a mistake dude.” Not that it's 30 years later and you're a 46 year old man or anything, Michael. Whereas John Stockton thanked his wife and kids, saying something nice about them and highlighting what made each of them special to him, His Air-ness could only muster “I wouldn't want to be you guys” to his.

I've seen my share of retirement speeches and been to countless awards dinners in my short time on this earth. Michael's remarks will not be in the conversation of “greatest ever” speeches that I've ever heard, as would be fitting a legend of his stature. Unfortunately, his will more likely be stored along with the regrettable ramblings of drunken best men and maids of honor, slurring embarrassing and unintelligible gibberish to the masses during the slot on the program alotted for tributes to the bride and groom.


We all knew you were the greatest, Michael, and since you have not yet stepped in the ring as a professional heavyweight boxer, there is no need for you to alert us to that fact. I was embarrassed for you up there. I wished that somebody would laugh with you when you attempted to be humorous, but then I realized that humor was not your intent. I daresay that the outspoken Muhammad Ali would've been infinitely more humble than you were. But then again, he is truly the Greatest.

Last to know

Ever feel like everyone around you knows something that you don't? I've been dogged by this troubling feeling for a few days now. I can't quite put a finger on it, and no one has said as much, but still I am uneasy. I guess it's more what they are not saying that has been eating at me.

I feel like my life has been one big question that everyone else seems to know the answer to, and has taken the liberty to act accordingly, neglecting to inform me however. Meanwhile, I run around like the hamster on the wheel thinking that I'm going to make progress. Like that hamster, I fear that I will discover that no progress at all has been made despite my best efforts. Chapter 9 of my beloved Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison comes to mind. The main character, who by Ellison's sheer genius shall and does remain nameless throughout the entire epic, is finally enlightened by some sympathetic soul that is incensed and disgusted by the atrocity that has been committed against this man. The man presents our hero with the very letter that said hero had been carrying around and presenting to prospective employers, not at all knowing its content. To make a long story short, the letter detailed a rather discouraging account of how our hero was to be made to think he would be working toward making his way back to finish his studies, and to becoming successful when in actuality, the letter's recipients were commanded to see to it that our hero never made it to the end of his rainbow and furthermore that he must never be made aware of the impossibility of his reaching that goal. Could that be me? Is the current rut in which I'm residing an exercise in futility that all of my close confidants have come to terms with in their own way? Is their silence their way of concealing their pity?


Not too many things in life are more disconcerting than feeling that others know your fate and won't share with you, but that those trusted individuals in your camp hold out on you. That's how I'm feeling. Loneliness is not nearly a strong enough word to describe the void in the pit of my stomach. Is it that I can only truly trust myself and my maker?

My Element

It's a bit disconcerting to think about the fact that the desk in my room seems to have become the kryptonite to my writing creatively of late. The last 3 things I've written have been at locations other than said desk. As I type this right now, I am lying down on my bed to the right of that desk. I just can't quite figure out why.

Oh sure, the fact that my desk is covered in a mountain of mail, random papers, and some CDs among other things is the obvious scapegoat. I don't buy it though. I've penned some of my best work under much more wretched conditions at this very desk. However, the content and personal action items contained in this random paperwork might be a bit daunting. Maybe my desk is becoming too much of a handle business or face reality place. I sit there and I inevitably pick up the phone and start to make some sense of things like my finances (or lack thereof).

I called myself getting my so-called mojo back last week at Starbucks. There's something about that place that has historically made me write. I might not write the most coherent things but I write. Maybe I feel a kinship with the other writers (i know that...that's so cliche!) and coffee shop types that are there. The music is always good and despite all of the people coming and going in and out of the door, I manage to maintain focus. Perhaps it's a concentration thing. At home, being focus takes discipline the way shooting 1000 jumpshots in a gym by yourself does. You can shoot 675 and nobody will know but you. Being at Starbucks is like being in a noisy arena and heading to the free throw line with :02 on the clock and you're down by 1. You focus on that spot on the back of the rim, block out the crowd and calmly knock down the shots. I guess I'm not so coherent here either. Maybe I am. I'll read it again tomorrow to be sure.

But back to the matter at hand. My desk just doesn't seem to be "where the magic happens" anymore. For that matter, not much magic has happened anywhere lately. Just for the sake of science, I vow to clean that desk and make it functional again. Maybe that will allow me to get organized. If you had asked me last week, I would've probably given you some excuse about how being too organized will make my writing too methodical and less creative. That would be precisely the antithesis of what I aim to do. As they say, though, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I ran

As soon as my eyes opened this morning I already knew that today was going to be one of those days. Just what “those” would exactly encompass would not be immediately revealed, but my funky attitude was poised to take the reigns and lead me down a path. It wasn't at all a we-want-the-funk-give-up-the-funk-gotta-have-that-funk type of attitude. There was no real type of thing going down nor any getting down. There surely was not a whole lot of rhythm going round. There would be no images of Soul Brother #1 and the JB's dancing at the foot of my bed, Maceo belting out the first few bars of “Make it Funky”. Not even a more cooled out, Pop-Top-40, R ‘n’ B,Urban-Contemporary, Easy-Listening, Funk Love. Mine was more of a toxic leak, contamination, foulest stench in the air so thick you can cut right through it with a knife kind of funk. There was nothing positive about my funk.


I most definitely had a scowled countenance. Pretty foul indeed. I know. Especially given that my morning rise-and-shine ritual starts with “Thank you, Lord for waking me to see another glorious day....” Foul. Try as I may to shake this off, I hoped that He couldn't sense an ounce of disingenuousness in my mental recitation. (I don't do the 8-year-old-now-i-lay-me-down-to-sleep-kneeling-next-to-my-bed-out-loud-prayer...do you?). Omniscience is a funny thing and yet I dare to wonder. In the words of the immortal Marvin Gaye, I woke up with that “make me wanna holler, throw up all my hands” (all 2 of 'em) type feeling, and it was all because I got up late. Seriously. That's all it was.

It was as if my whole day would be ruined, and subsequently the whole balance in the universe would be upset because my clock showed 8:19am. I didn't have anywhere to be. No meeting. No interview. Nothing. I was instantly Mr. Doom and Gloom all because of this notion that I have developed that my days are all down hill if I haven't finished working out by 8am. That's what I get for going to bed at 130am. The theory goes that if I don't get it done by then, something will undoubtedly come up and as the day drags on, somehow I won't get to work out and in addition to a dark cloud following me all day, parking tickets being placed on my car, and the IRS sending me a notice of their intent to audit me, I'll feel like a slacker for having missed that day.

I dropped to the floor and did 25 push-ups, as if that would lessen the impact. I turned on the television and every news outlet was all abuzz about Iran and the demonstrations that were going on over there due to some suspect dealings surrounding the results of their presidential election. Tens of thousands of people marched down Tehran's main thoroughfare in a show of their dissatisfaction with the outcome. Incumbent President Ahmadinejad would remain in power. Well, sort of. There's still the Supreme Leader or Ayatollah by the name of Khamenei who is commander in Chief of the military among other things. Who's really in charge? Through my democratic-republic goggles, it seems a tad confusing if not thought provoking. I listened as some CNN talking heads referenced a quote from President Obama that suggested either choice would probably have the same sort of policy toward the U.S. In other words, Iran is still gonna do what they're gonna do. Without getting too deep into thought about the political ramifications of the situation, I started to think about how it would affect me. Is this going to put a damper on any plans to cross Iran off as a place that I've visited on our planet? It's been tenuous at best these last few years as it is. I still tell myself that I'll go anywhere (with the exception of any war zones like Baghdad or Fallujah) despite the crazy facial responses and otherwise negative reactions that I get from friends and loved ones when I say such things. No, I'm not really that shallow. I'm aware of the tremendous civil rights gains that are potentially at stake for the first time in that country, especially for women. Recall that I'm still sitting at the edge of my bed at this point, in my boxers. Deep thoughts are not exactly raging through my mind yet.

As fate would have it, I managed to salvage the day. Not only did I get through a couple items from a very ill-conceived to-do list, but I ran. Forgive me for the shameless play on words, but this was actually a big deal. I haven't run in a year. What turned out to be a much more major knee surgery (September '08) than previously thought has not only kept me very far removed from the basketball courts that I love to roam but has also made me seriously consider taking up another past time like water polo or becoming the black Michael Phelps. (Why do WE always have to become the black-something? Do you think the folks at Harvard are calling themselves the Morehouse of the North? Food for thought for another time...). Yes, I've spent a lot of time in the pool when I'm not at a physical therapy session. I like swimming a lot but not being able to run has made me feel rather confined. Shoot, sometimes I feel downright invalid.

I love to run. I always have. There have been times over the last 10 months that I didn't know if I'd ever be able to run again. Running has always been such a big part of my life. In addition to being a fairly necessary part of all of the sports that I've played my whole life it has often been quite therapeutic. It has the power to clear my head. It has the unique ability to allow me to find out what my physical limits are like no other exercise can. I don't know what it is , but I haven't often been able to get the desired amount of intensity in my workouts when they don't include some running. The void left by running has indeed been tough to fill.

How ironic it is that the long dormant spirit of revolution in a people long kept under wraps by their circumstance and societal norm is emerging on the same day, at the same time that my long (well, not quite as long, but it seemed like it) unfulfilled desire to lace up my Nike's and blaze a trail down the street would be satisfied. Iran. Hmmmm? I think I'm ready for that deep thought now.