The week of my first NBA Draft, the battle at the top of the pop charts was between “I Wanna Sex You Up” by Color Me Badd and “Rush Rush” by Paula Abdul. Which is to say I ain’t no greenhorn. Which is to say when I say the Knicks and the draft go together like bleach and vinegar, I knows of whats I speaks.
The simple story of why the Knicks never won a title during the Patrick Ewing era is that Michael Jordan was just too good. These sorts of narratives spread like viruses because, like viruses, they’re simple. So the story is that cocaine ruined Doc Gooden, and not the Mets pitching him 742.2 innings by age 21. The truth is, as ever, more complex than the lie. The Knicks never beat the Bulls because the front office screwed up almost everything after Ewing fell in their laps in 1985. Continue reading
Things I’ve Learned In The Two And A Half Weeks Since The Breakup:
–I like sleeping in the middle of the bed, rather than clinging to one sliver of the end like I’m Bishop at the end of Juice.
–I never remember what day it is, or date.
–I am not a neat freak. But I do like me some order.
–My hair is kinda out of control. I like it this way. But when I go out to the grocery store or take a walk, people stare at me. A lot. Maybe they stared before, too. But now, the world seems smaller, somehow.
–Every single person I see out and about is holding hands with somebody.
–Time & distance make breakups easier.
–Facebook does not. Continue reading
NOTE: This piece is by a former student, (hopefully) lifelong friend and (undoubtedly) future superstar/force of nature. The best writing is a mix of truths, symmetries, reflections, and newness. The best writers sift through rivers of shit to find gold that would otherwise be lost to us. “Dear Baby, Love, Mom.” by Chela Tree Novak is all this and more. I could not be more proud of the scale of her courage, the advanced level of her articulacy, and her devotion to her art. Follow her creations at http://chelatreeart.wordpress.com/
“Theres a whole lot of singing that’s never gonna be heard, disappearing every day without so much as a word somehow. I think I broke the wings off that little songbird, she’s never gonna fly to the top of the world now.”- Landslide, The Dixie Chicks
I must have apologized to you a hundred times during the hour I sat by myself in that white walled room.
I held you, hands over my stomach, the only way I ever would be able to.
You were only an inch long, but you already had eyelids and a nose, and if your nose was anything like your fathers, I would have loved to drop little kisses on its tip.
Both sides of your brain were growing.
You could have been anything you wanted to be.
You would have had military blood in you, and I would have made sure that you were stronger than me, and to the dismay of your father, I would have made sure you were louder than me, too.
You would have called me mommy, him daddy, and our best friend uncle.
We would have, we could have, made a good family, the four of us with our laughter, faults, and old soul wisdom.
I wished that I relished throwing up after my morning coffee.
I wished I couldn’t sleep because the pain in my back made me dream about your little gloved hands as I pushed you in a stroller down Randolph Street.
I wished that I did not feel an obligation and a responsibility not to have you. Continue reading