Antigirl Update

I need to stop being such a fan, but tonight there's no getting around one simple fact: I'm in awe of Tiphanie's work. I have three prints on my wall and one of her books in my collection, and going through the new catalogue just now I almost lost it. The stuff is that gorgeous.

It's going to be hard to exercise some restraint.

Garnett is a Celtic!

For the past four years I've defended Danny Ainge against a sea of criticism. I defended the first Antoine Walker deal. I defended Raef Lafrentz and Ricky Davis and Gary Payton. I justified Delonte West playing out of position, Gerald Green' limited basketball IQ, and Big Al's injury-plagued second season. Danny talked about accumulating chips so he could acquire a veteran all-star to play alongside Paul Pierce. All these moves seemed to be setting the stage for something big. I waited. Meanwhile the Celtics lost. Finally this past season I saw a light at the end of the tunnel in the form of Greg Oden and Kevin Durant. Since we couldn't get a legitimate star through free agency or a trade, I assumed, at least we could do it through the draft. May 22nd crushed that dream, and once again, I defended Ainge, saying we could still turn this thing around, hoping one more year would allow the talented kids to finally mature, especially if we added one of the Florida stars. I wanted Al Horford.

Needless to say the 5th pick wasn't going to get us what we really needed, a dominating big man, one that could contribute immediately, and it definitely couldn't bring us Al Horford, who was a lock to go at number three, so I justified the Ray Allen move by saying, look, we now have three legitimate all-stars, and one more minor deal for a back-up center and a back-up point guard could really give us a shot in the East. Of course this was wishful thinking but at least I had some hope.

This all changed last night when the Celtics acquired Kevin Garnett. At first I didn't want to trade Al Jefferson. Then I didn't want to include the draft picks, or Gerald Green. Now I'm hearing Ryan Gomes and I don't like that either. But let's step back for a second. We just traded for one of the premier players in the league, a beast in the paint, and perhaps the most versatile power forward in NBA history. He's a guy who can will his team to victory in the 4th quarter. He will lead us the way Paul Pierce has always been unable to, by getting in the face of guys who don't play defense, who don't block out, players who accept mediocrity. KG won't tolerate that nonsense.

A lot will be said in the next few days, how we gave up too much, how Ainge panicked, how Pierce orchestrated all this with his incessant whining. But you can't argue with what the Celtics have done. In four years Ainge took a flawed, boring, offensively challenged team, one that was old and stuck with Vinny Baker's horrible contract and Antoine Walker's superficial talents, and now has them on the brink of the Eastern Conference Championship, barring injury.

Ray Allen is the best pure shooter in the game. Paul Pierce can get into the lane as well as anybody. KG is KG. The Celtics will be on TV more this year than they have been the past four. They will win more than they did the past two combined. They are relevant again, and for someone who has waited twenty years, all I can say is, finally.

Good is Dead

Trying to save money for my friend Eric's wedding in Santa Barbara next month, I dropped $70 on Chip Kidd's Book One:Work 1986-2006, one of the most beautiful books I've ever seen. For the past week I've lugged it back and forth each day from work, justifying the expense by using it as a resource for my own print projects, but really, deep down, I just had to own it, regardless of cost.

Then Friday night I spent another $130 on dinner and drinks with my high school buddies Matt and Joaquin in town, and when I woke up Saturday I was like, dear lord, where'd all the money go? Then I remembered how epic the Filet was at Joe D's Chophouse (the manager coming over to chastise us for Matt being face down on the table during the whole meal), and there were a ridiculous amount of Asian nectars at the dive bar on Bush Street (an appropriately named street if there ever was one), and we did get Folson to come back from retirement to sing a brilliant rendition of "Ebony and Ivory" on the way to the restaurant, and the 2:00 am heart-to-heart in front of the Radisson was hilarious, but still, it worries me how I was able to go through so much and not consider the consequences.

You'd think by the time a person reached 33 they'd have learned a little fiscal responsibility. You'd think.

Pretty Girls Make Graves - Selling the Wind

William Elliott Whitmore

Saw him play last night at The Great American Music Hall. He was the opening act, and man, he just broke it off to a full house, many of whom were there to see the headliner but came away big fans. Check out tracks like One Man's Shame or Dry (see below) to see how beautiful everything is.

No Good Trying

This morning I was standing in front of the gallery with two co-workers when this crackhead walked by, asking for money. When I said, no, sorry, dude, he darted across the street - right into traffic - without even looking at me. Then a few minutes later he was back. He walked behind us, right in the doorway of the gallery, shielded on all sides, and pulled out a glass pipe. He was reaching in his pocket for some matches when I realized what he was up to. Right away I said, hey, man, don't do that shit here, and before he had time to explain himself, he dashed away again, ducking in the first open doorway for another try.

For some reason I was amazed by this quick little exchange. I mean it really was bizarre. This guy had thousands of spots to go to, to get away from everything, to not be seen doing something illegal, and he decided to hide by three perfectly respectable adults, on a busy street, people who were just waiting to be let into work.

This isn't about morality or class or how to go about dealing with the homeless population in San Francisco. I'm just saying this guy was spun out, and it was fucking sad and horrific and a bit funny too, just the absurdity of telling someone not to smoke crack next to you.

On a seemingly unrelated note, this is a clip of Civil rights activist Petey Greene - who Don Cheadle plays in the new film Talk To Me - discussing the art of eating watermelon.

And you wonder why I sometimes get cynical.

July 2007

Simulacrum

A marching band just came down the street. I have no idea who they were or what the occasion was, but boy were they loud. They were playing "When the Saints Go Marching Home" right below my window - the same number my old housemate in Sac used to sing with his German mother while they neurotically scrubbed the shower together.

In case you're not familiar with this bit of my history, the bathroom shared a wall with my bedroom, so I could hear everything that went on in there. Everything. (I still don't know why people whisper Jesus when they're getting squirrelly on the toilet, but then again, why would I even take it there?)

Anyway, I used to like the song when I was kid, just the festive quality of it, but now, if they make another lap around the block and are still playing it, the eggs are coming out of the fridge, and the sniping will begin.

I don't care how well the past few months have gone. I don't care that I'm regurgitating old stories. My arm is feeling loose, and this second floor window is prime real estate.

Bring on the night.

El Pirata

This is one of my favorite dive bars from grad school. Great blue-collar vibe, cool bartender, tasty Italian food in the adjoining room, a huge back patio, red lighting, and beautiful old Spanish checkered floors, reminiscent of the police station from The Shield.

The Crew

On the Chin

I'm not gonna lie. The past few days were hard on the body. I had a blast but now it's time to slow down a bit. Read some books, watch some documentaries, finish a few projects. Lay off the sauce for a while. It's the ebb and flow of life, and each new phase helps the next story. It's the way it's always been for me.

I just feel better equipped to deal with the muck.

Bought a friend a book tonight at Border's, one I had recommended a long time ago but know she hasn't picked up yet. I hope she's as stoked as I am about it. Of course, I always feel required to purchase something for myself too, so the trip wasn't purely philanthropic. Luckily, I remembered to get Miranda July's new book, No One Belongs Here More Than You. One of my favorite short stories ever, The Shared Patio, opens the collection. I'm trying not to get too excited but I can never contain myself.

Been listening to William Elliott Whitmore all night. Just sad, beautiful stuff. A friend from art school designed his first album cover, and one day he just handed it to me in the hallway, saying, you'll love this, and every so often - when I'm just in one of these moods - I bust it out, usually coming off a bender, and it resonates with this amazing clarity. If I could take you to the place this album has taken me tonight, I'd die a happy man.