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  • NBA Second Round Update Thread

     

     Celtics-Cavs Update: Squared series after 88-77 Cavs win last night.

     It is always so easy to blame the coach, but I don’t see how Rivers avoids castigation here. He has decided that veterans new to the team are more reliable than the guys who got him 66 wins. Last night PJ Brown had a stellar game flashing out for that sideline pop shot, and he wasn’t too shabby on defense either. But having PJ on the floor enabled Mike Brown to keep Joe Smith on Brown and Varejao on KG, meaning, as Levi astutely pointed out in the comments below, he was the go-to guy in the low block at crunchtime. Bad idea.

    But the killer for the Celts is this Sam Cassell fixation. It gets a little wearisome listening to folks blaming Rondo for all the shots he has taken (Magic Johnson, with his predictably stupid, star-centered analysis, hammered this point) without noticing that Rondo made half of his 14 attempts in 33:47 and was a minus -5 while the Celts as a team made 38.6% in 48 minutes and were a minus -11. Cassell, by the way, was 0-5 FG and minus -6 in just 14:13, while Boobie Gibson ran circles around him–a mismatch so blatantly obvious I was hollering for it in the stuff I wrote before the game.

    Levi is also right that Ray Allen is co-goat in that he is not being aggressive at all in terms of looking for his shot, and with Rivers stupidly leaving Eddie House on the bench in favor of Cassell, the Celts only have a midrange game versus the Cavs.

    Last but certainly not least, how good is Lebron James in the postseason? As his encore for dismantling the Pistons last year, he’s pretty much single-handedly winning this second-round. He had 21 points last night–nobody else on the floor had more than 15. He had 13 assists–nobody else on the floor had more than 4. And during the 3:43 he sat at the end of the first half, Paul Pierce shot 2-4 FG. Pierce also scored two buckets in the brief time Pavlovic was on him when the Cavs went small, meaning that the vast majority of Pierce’s misses in a 6-17 FG night came with LeBron on him. Got that? The leader in points and assists by a huge margin and the shutdown defender on the other team’s top scorer. Bravo.

     

    "And we’re baaaaaack!" as the Jimmy Fallon character Joey Mack used to say on SNL.

    With a game on every night, the dilemma has been to put something up that isn’t immediately dated. At the risk of disrupting some really insightful comment threads that occur when I let things languish, my solution is to update my content as we go along (for example, I’ll only post about the Eastern Conference on this first go-round then come back and add the West after today’s games) and then post every two or three days. So let’s get to it.

    Detroit-Orlando: An unmagical bore

    There is a glaring difference between the caliber of play in the two conferences in this second round, with the intensity and ability of the two Western series utterly compelling, while the East is clearly least, a maddening array of missed opportunities, a pair of skirrmishes of strategic ineptitude and dysfunctional execution. And the Pistons-Magic matchup has thus far been worst of all.

    With 7:42 left to play in the third quarter Saturday, the Magic were up by 15, 63-48, to a team obviously missing the injured Chauncey Billups at both ends of the court. The Pistons proceeded to go on a 28-7 run that had them up by 6, 76-70, with 8:40 to go. During that 10:58 of action, Orlando went 2-17 from the field. Clueless Jameer Nelson led the squad in shots during that woeful stint, making one of five and missing two free throws. Nelson’s missed free throw with 44 seconds to play also spelled the difference between a loss and overtime in the 90-89 defeat. True, Nelson generally had his way with Rodney Stuckey, but when Detroit subbed in defensive specialist Lindsay Hunter, why did Nelson keep chucking?

    Nelson is just one of many goats here. Fresh off his being named to the All-NBA First Team as center, Dwight Howard was horrible, shooting 0-9 from the field in the final 43 minutes of the game, a period that saw him grab 6 offensive rebounds without converting a single one into any points–three missed putbacks and misfired jumpers by Nelson (twice) and Keyon Dooling ensued. Meanwhile, SVG clung to a crunchtime matchup of Dooling on Rip Hamilton, against all evidence that it could succeed. This was manna from heaven for matchup maven Flip Saunders, who posted Rip up on Dooling about a half-dozen plays in a row. Yes, Hamilton missed a couple of j’s over Dooling, but Van Gundy’s refusal to utilize the double team and to leave Dooling–who is four inches shorter than Rip and had four fouls at that point–out to dry was idiotic, especially after Hamilton fouled Dooling out (the frustrated Drooling picked up a T as he exited) and hit those free throws down the stretch.

    Understand that this was a game Orlando had in its hands. All they needed to do was play fundamentally sound defense and move the ball on offense. Instead, they let Detroit beat them in transition off the turnovers (something that simply hasn’t happened as often in the Utah-LA and SA-NO series, where transition D is a priority), refused to run any plays into the post for their lone All Star, let Jameer Nelson imagine himself as the catalyst of the offense rather than a fourth option in the half-court, and had Hedo Turkoglu burn all kinds of time off the clock so that when his terrible scoop shot off the drive barely grazed the front iron at the end, Orlando couldn’t even desperately foul in time to save the game for another possession.

    If I were Detroit, I’d leave Billups on the shelf for the next two games (if it comes to that) against the Magic, give him time to fully heal. Because either the Celts or the Cavs are a significant step up from Orlando, and the Western champion will be at least a step up from there. Put simply, Detroit doesn’t need Billups to close this out–in fact Hunter got better as the game went along, a nice little dividend for the Pistons if the gritty vet can find a rhythm with these extra minutes–but if he isn’t mostly healthy in the matchups after Orlando, the Piston have little or no shot to advance.

    Celtics-Cavs: Still Waiting on LeBron

    Oh how the national network audience wanted to canonize LeBron James last night, declare him fully back in all his glory after his putrid 8-42 FG flop in the first two games of the Boston-Cleveland series. And one could convincingly argue that LBJ delivered, stuffing the stat sheet for 21 points, 8 assists (half of them dazzling), 3 blocks (all of them dazzling), 4 steals, the snuffing of Paul Pierce on defense (Pierce had more turnovers than field goals) and a game-best plus +29 in 40:15 of play. What more could anyone possibly want or expect out of the 23-year old superstar?

    Scoring off dribble penetration, that’s what. The Cavs would be up 2-1 instead of the other way around if LeBron had been able to finish at the rim in Game One, and they won’t win this series if he can’t get to the cup and either convert the layups or the free throws the rest of the way. The only blemish in James’s game Saturday night was his 2-11 bricklaying from inside the arc, giving him a horrendous 10-43 FG total on non-3-pointers in the first three games. That’s 23.3% shooting on two-pointers for arguably the best penetrator in the NBA.

    Fortunately, LeBron has gotten to the FT line 35 times in the three contests thus far, and made 25, or 71.4%. What that number tells you is that the Celts, much like the Wizards in the previous series, are determined to make LeBron "earn it at the line." That’s code for "beat the shit out of him."

    Yeah, I’ve heard all the old-timers talk about how the game isn’t as tough as it used to be, that the flagrant foul rules have sissified things and that back in the day–when men were men and wore shorts so tight they got hernias when they saw a pretty girl in the stands–players could administer a proper beatdown in the
    paint without worrying about those nanny refs butting in.

    Well, like most occasions in any arena where old-timers are talking about their prime, it’s about four parts bullshit (due to exaggeration) and one part truth. I’m old enough to give the old-timers a run for their fading memories, starting watching hoops in 1959 at age 6, and I can tell you that there is more gratituous pounding and takedowns now than there ever was. First of all, the athletes are bigger, quicker, jump higher, and head to the hole more fearlessly, meaning the potential for injury is greater. Second, all the contemporary players have heard and bought in to the bullshit about how the vintage NBA was tougher. It wasn’t.

    Yeah, maybe you had more burly white guys slugging each other with elbows–call it joustling with a vengeance–down in the low block. But the infamous Kevin McHale takedown of Kurt Rambis back in the 80s is so widely remembered precisely because it was relatively rare and particularly violent. You didn’t see guys clotheslined and cross body-blocked nearly as often as you do today–and, to reiterate, when it did happen, they weren’t moving nearly as fast, jumping as high, and being finished off nearly as thoroughly. How many of you old-timers remember Dr. J getting clocked the way LeBron has gotten clocked in the past couple of years? Or what about other erstwhile high-flyers like Elgin Baylor, or even Michael Jordan? The Pistons had a deserved reputation as Bad Boys, but watch them try to intimidate the Bulls and compare it to the way the Wizards went after LeBron in the first round this year. They are very very comparable, and yet Washington’s Brendan Haywood can actually call LBJ a crybaby, even as his punk-ass gets schooled by Ilgauskas for most of the series. The old timers are spooling out self-aggrandizing nonsense and the young’uns full of testosterone are gobbling it up and turning hoops into something as stupid as hockey.

    Unfortunately, that’s what it has come to. It turns out that yesterday I was switching channels between baseball, hoops and hockey, and saw the end of the Red Wings-Stars hockey game. The goalie cheap-shoted a Stars skater right at the end of the game, the player retaliated with a swung-stick spear into the goalie’s chest, where all the padding is, and the goalie went down like he’s been tasered. After seeing the replays it was clearly all an act. So later in the day I’m watching LeBron drive and James Posey–a player I like and respect–cheap shots him with a hand across the neck off the drive. It was properly ruled a flagrant foul, but James, like Detroit goalie Chris Osgood, played it to the hilt, going down and grimacing like crazy, rolling in agony. So what we’ve got now is alternately more cheap shots–just off the top of my head I can think of Jason Kidd’s takedown of a Hornet player, Marvin Williams horse-collaring Rondo, Raja Bell doing his thing on Manu Ginobili, the Stevenson clothesline and the Haywood push on LeBron, and I’m not even counting Boozer knocking out Landry’s tooth because that really was accidental–and more ostentatious acting, of the sort made famous by the flopping Spurs. These two things beget each other, and it is time to call bullshit on the whole thing, increase the penalties for flagrants, institute a foul for flopping, and tell the senile braggarts that they really didn’t eat nails and the daughters of their opponents for breakfast.

    But back to LeBron: I think the punishment has had an effect. I think the Wizards did rough him up and that the Celts are doing the same thing. And when you get called a crybaby anyway, maybe the best course of action is to zip it to the open man and find your long-range jumper rather than put up with all the abuse. In any event, I repeat, the Cavs don’t win without LeBron scoring enough off the dribble to collapse the Celtic D for Z’s short pops, Szczerbiak’s long-range catch-and-shoots (and if Mike Brown doesn’t bench him every time Wally puts the ball on the floor with a defender on him, I’ll start believing all the terrible things people say about his coaching), and Ben Wallace’s wide open layups and putbacks on the weak side followups.

    As for the Celts, I’m delighted to report that KG is having a monster series. His aggressiveness toward the hoop sealed the deal in crunchtime of Game One and he alone came out ready to play in Game Three. Meanwhile, what has happened to Ray Allen? Paul Pierce understandably has his hands full, but if Allen can’t make the likes of Szczerbiak or Boobie Gibson pay on the offensive end, Doc Rivers might as well go with Eddie House to spread the floor.

    Bottom line, this is still anybody’s series. I thought the energy that Ben Wallace, Delonte West and Joe Smith brought to the floor in Game Three was as important as LeBron’s regal peformance in securing the victory, and think that every time Rivers relies on Sam Cassell to get things rolling he is gambling mightily. Mike Brown needs to make Boobie Gibson a permanent matchup for Cassell, then instruct him to never leave his feet when guarding Cassell and to put down the throttle every time he has the ball with Cassell on him. If the Cavs win Game Four, we’re going to get pounded by that home/road split for the Celts until we all turn the sound down. BTW, Boston doesn’t have to win one damn road game to capture the trophy, so let’s give that a rest, eh.

    Besides, just watching the way these series have unfolded, does anyone seriously think the eventual champ is coming out of the East?

    First Road Win Captures the Second Round in the West

    As I was saying about ugly takedowns…

    Actually, I honestly don’t think Ronnie Turiaf was trying to pound Price; at least not as blatantly as has occurred a dozen other plays in this postseason. It was just an unfortunate landing that had Price’s arms unable to protect his head from splitting open on the floor. It deserved to be a flagrant, of course, but I think if Price gets his hands down and there isn’t blood everywhere, Turiaf stays on the court instead of getting booted. On the other hand, Turiaf obviously hit Price hard enough to spin him; that and bumping against other players going down is why Price could break or brace his fall. And after calling for tougher penalties on flagrants, I can’t really rebut Turiaf getting tossed. But all things being relative, the actual hit Turiaf laid on him doesn’t even rank in the top ten goon moves for this postseason.

    As for the game, well, the issue here is how long do you or should you ride your stud superstar when he clearly isn’t the best option for your ballclub? This is what I knew would happen to the Wizards when Arenas came back–Agent Zero has enormous ability and an even bigger ego, and his desire to make an impact screwed up the pecking order that has served Washington well in his absence. And you could see it coming a mile away–I called it in the Cavs-Wiz series preview.

    Now Kobe Bryant is a different story. The flare-up of his back obviously rendered him into an ordinary athlete, but what makes Kobe Kobe isn’t just athleticism, it is great court vision, his wiley ways when he has the rock, his insatiable competitiveness, and ability to come up big in the clutch. So if I’m Phil Jackson, yeah, I probably call Kobe’s number in the huddle during the crunchtime timeouts–but I stipulate to him that if others are open, check those options too. I leave Kobe at his rightful place atop the pecking order, but plant the seed that the way to win when your back is ailing and the brutal Jazz won’t let you get a clean look even if you are healthy and quick is to find the open man and let him take the shot. Which is exactly what happened on the drive and kick out to Lamar Odom for that tying trey near the end of regulation, a perfectly called and executed play.

    But too often, Kobe tried to do it on his own. Odom bailed him out once with a great follow after Kobe blew the layup, and Derek Fisher was the hero of the dozen-point comeback in the final few minutes of regulation, yet Kobe kept trying to summon
    all the physical gifts normally at his disposal, long past the time when everyone watching knew he couldn’t. Hey, the refs even bailed him out on that Kirilenko "foul" right in front of the Jazz bench.

    No, the Jazz deserved to win this game, and if they designated the game’s number 1, 2, and 3 stars to come out and take a bow like in hockey, the top guy would be Deron Williams, who has pretty much demonstrated that nobody but Fisher can guard him effectively on the Lakers–LA fans will be throwing things at their TV sets the next time Jordan Farmar is assigned to Williams. In a contest loaded with tremendous crunchtime shots, none was better than Williams moving to his right after nearly losing the ball at half court and then launching over a looming Pau Gasol. You also have to give a curtain call to Mehmet Okur, whose reputation for coming up big when it matters most was burnished a little further today with his step-back treys and that immensely important offensive rebound he pulled down.

    But do the Lakers win this game is Kobe is healthy? Yes, I think so. You can’t keep Kyle Korver on the floor as often, for example, and AK-47 doesn’t get to swoop behind Kobe for that block off penetration–how often does a healthy Kobe lack the quickness to get his shot blocked cleanly from behind? For that matter, how often does Kobe get his shot blocked five times in a single game? But it isn’t Kobe’s injury that should have Laker fans kicking themselves; it is Kobe’s refusal to do what was best for the team. If you are beseiged by back spasms for the last three quarters plus overtime, do you really want to jack up 33 shots, especially when Odom and Gasol combined for 21-34 FG? Odom in particularly looked ready to take over a few times (he would have been the third guy called out to take a bow afterward), and having him get the chance to secure a 3-1 lead heading back to LA would have been a boon for the Lakers regardless of how it turned out today.

    Instead, Kobe overreached. Even the fact that he got 10 assists isn’t all good news, since it was half of the Lakers total in 53 minutes of action, demonstrating how little anyone else was allowed to create. The ostensible point guards Fisher and Farmar had *zero* assists in a combined 37:08, and only two turnovers combined, meaning their role in igniting the offense was minimal. Now, Fisher got in early foul trouble guarding Williams and Farmar was waaay overmatched–he was minus -19 in a scoreless 18:43–but the Lakers’ forte is ball movement. All five of their starters can sling the rock. So why is it that only Kobe, Gasol (4) and Luke Walton (3) had more than 2 assists, while every member of the Jazz starting five posted at least three, led by Williams’s game-high 14 dimes? Ball movement leads to high percentage shots and forced fouls by the opposition. Well, the Jazz shot 52.6% from the field and went to the line 45 times. The Lakers shot 47.4% from the field and went to the line 25 times. Kobe and Gasol combined for 49 FGA and 12 FTA.

    I still think the Lakers are going to win this series, provided Kobe’s back improves enough for him to play without martyrdom in Game Five. But Williams and Okur have both proven to be tough matchups. Odom can’t guard both Okur and Boozer, unfortunately, which means Gasol has to step up–his defense remains one of the Lakers’ few obvious weaknesses going forward. Of course Turiaf may get suspended for his takedown of Price, further complicating things. In the backcourt, I’d think about Walton playing some point on Williams. In any case, this series is better contested than I envisioned when I called it for LA in 5 or 6 at the onset.

    Did anyone really expect the Spurs to roll over and let the Hornets run them off the court in San Antonio? Tonight’s thrashing was surprising only in how little resistance New Orleans provided, and demonstrated a few things that are obvious enough to be conventional wisdom by now. One is that Bruce Bowen was always a better matchup on Peja than on Chris Paul. Just because Bowen had some success on Steve Nash in the past doesn’t mean he could stay with CP3. Paul is quicker and a better dribbler under seige. Nash excels at dishing in the open court on the fly; take away that space for him to survey the terrain and his effectiveness diminishes much more than it does for Paul under the same circumstances. You pressure Paul when he has the ball and it is far more likely he breaks you down, and then contently chooses between shooting the open jumper or drawing opponents and feeding the bounce pass or alley oop into the paint. Nash is probably a better shooter when he’s being contested (he’s three inches taller than Paul), but Paul is better at getting uncontested, especially when it is an older, rugged-but-slower guy like Bowen doing the checking. By contrast, Bowen’s in-your-jersey approach really bedevils Peja, who was magnificent not only on the catch-and-shoot during the two games in New Orleans, but in running the floor, taking people off the dribble, and crashing the offensive boards. Now that Bowen is putting the clamps on Peja, Paul and Parker are both running wild, and thus essentially cancelling each other out, a situation that very much favors San Antonio.

    Which brings us to the power forwards. After a simply stupendous first three games against a Spurs team that plays postseason defense as intelligently as any franchise in 40 years, David West was due for a bad game and perhaps not coincidentally it came on a night when Tim Duncan seemed to shake off the aches and illness that have plagued him the past week. The two don’t guard each other much, of course, but each anchors the low post offense for their team, and to the extent they successfully draw the opponents’ attention, the wider the lane gets for their teammates on penetration, and the easier the putbacks for the big men on the weak side. West is a deadly midrange shooter and a joy to watch spinning off his baseline shoulder for left-handed shots in the low left block. I’ll bet tonight is his lone stinker of the series, particularly if he can keep his temper totally under control, which apparently was no mean feat this evening.

    For Duncan, well, what can you say? He looked old and slow in the two tilts over in the Big Easy, but particularly tonight Popovich seemed to bring him out a little further away from the low block and toward the sideline, so that the inevitable double-teams created more ball-swings to the weak side, creating more running for the opponents, and many many more open treys in the corner and at the top of the key for the Bowens, Finleys, Ginobilis and Udokas of the world. The Spurs weren’t exactly marksmen on all those wide open looks–they shot 8-26 from beyond the arc–but they both wore the Hornets down with all that chasing, and also generated a helter-skelter chaos that deprived New Orleans of defensive rhythm. Right about the time the Hornets were instinctively flying toward the perimeter, Duncan decided to spin to the hoop (he was an efficient 10-13 FG) or Parker penetrated the open lanes (8-12 FG). New Orleans was working harder and less effectively.

    The final indignity was Duncan (twice) and then Ginobili drawing three fouls on defensive stopper Tyson Chandler in the first 3-plus minutes of the third quartrer. Suddenly with 8:39 to play in the third, Chandler had five fouls and the Hornets were down 19. It was right around then that New Orleans mentally threw in the towel, along with everyone but the most Hornets-addled fan watching at home. Byron Scott emptied his bench shortly after the 4th quarter and the older, slower Spurs had their garbage time to relax and ready themselves for Game Five.

    It should be a tremendous game. Even after San Antonio won Game Three, the fight staged by the Hornets–they pushed the Spurs to the brink a few times in the third and fourth quarters–had me rethinking my pick of the Spurs in 6 or 7. But San Antonio kept refining and came out in Game Four playing that incredibly well-spaced and unselfish ball movement offense that de
    stroyed the Suns in Game Three of their first round series. Can San Antonio impose their enormous will on the Hornets on the road? Paul and West both seemed a little pissed and twitchy tonight, an ire that could go either way in their motivation for Game Five. When the Spurs are annoying, they are almost always winning. On the other hand, Chris Paul and David West are bona fide NBA stars, right now, despite their youth, and Tyson Chandler should be in the conversation with Dwight Howard (and some would say Yao Ming) for who is the best center in the NBA. Yeah, I know Chandler didn’t even attempt a field goal tonight. But he is the chip Byron Scott has to play to avoid the disastrous double-team schemes on Duncan that the Spurs have clearly parsed out. And that matchup, perhaps more than any other, will detemine how this series is decided.

  • Leave me alone… I am trying to sleep

    I used to think that when I was up at night and my hubby was snoozing, rubbing his back was a nice thing to do.

    Guess it’s not only not nice, but it’s annoying.

    All this time I thought I was being little miss affectionate, but instead… I have been waking up my partner when he is just trying to get some deep sleep.
    I never knew this until today.

    Also I never realized that when I am in a deep sleep and my husband does not WAKE me up to kiss me goodbye, he is not doing it to be mean. He is just trying to let me stay in that pleasant, peaceful world where we sleep like babies.

    Who knew? I didn’t, but I do now.

    All of the people that advise you before you get married to never
    go to sleep angry and always kiss your partner before YOU fall asleep, they got the first part right; but if your partner is in a deep, peaceful sleep and you don’t wake them up for a big smooch, this doesn’t mean you don’t love them. It just means you are being considerate — at least in OUR case.

    There is nothing like affection from your partner (when he or she is awake). I was on the receiving end of that deal this morning, and even though it’s cloudy and cold outside, I feel very warm and fuzzy on the inside. 🙂

    Good luck with the golf game, Honey. I promise from here on out to only kiss you when you are wide awake!

    Hey, you asked for it, Mister, and I KNOW whether you are really sleeping or you’re faking it.

  • momoughttamobiles

    (pictured: the AMG R-class Mercedes. 502HP, 0-60, 4.7 seconds. Meet the Mom who owns one–lives in Excelsior.)

    Mother’s Day manipulative?

    Not for Road Rakes.

    I have always found, for example, that Mimosas pair nicely with a late model Mercedes and/or Maserati. For this reason, you ought consider taking your mom car shopping. Women buy more cars than men anyway (a fact that seems lost on most dealers.)

    May I suggest you sprint over to Sears in that Mercury you only think Mom likes and replace it with something a little more "Momma." The Maserati dealer is just down the street, and if you Mom is a real Foxy Brown then window shop the F-150 Crew Cab Harleys on the Ford lot close by. (Frontage road across the highway from Ridgedale.) 

    I’ve
    clipped some pics of what the most important woman in your life really
    should be driving. She’s probably already flagged these cars, so I’ll
    help you avoid embarassment. Take a peek.

    This is the new Benz on tap for 2010. If your Mother is German (as many Minnesota Moms may be), she’ll love this little coupe.

    This is post is to be continued…just saw my own Mom pull up in the Viggen (two new hips and she still drives a stick.)

    These flowers look puny.

  • Mother's Day: A Stupid, Manipulative Holiday

    I think we’re all in agreement (aren’t we?) that Mother’s Day as it is currently practiced is by far the most commercial, needlessly costly, guilt-induding holiday of all time. For years, I’ve insisted it was begun by a consortium of greedy florists and greeting card manufacturers, and I’ve told my children. . . .please. . . .never to observe it.

    Here’s the truth, sappy as it sounds: Being a mother is a privilege every day. Even when it sucks. Even when you’re punishing someone or cleaning puke out of the carpet or — and believe me, I know whereof I speak — picking up your little darling one after he or she has been caught doing something off limits by the local police. Doesn’t matter. Being a mother is better than anything, and we don’t need some utterly irrelevant day in May for children everywhere to stop and salute, sending flowers that cost 40 percent more than they would any other time of year and sitting through tedious, mediocre brunches where everyone eats too much.

    How, I ask you, does that celebrate the miracle of motherhood?

    But it turns out I was wrong about one thing (ONLY one, mind you): Mother’s Day was not a product of Hallmark. Its roots go back to ancient Greece where people paid tribute to Rhea, the Mother of the
    Gods, each spring. Then in 1872, some weirdo named Julia Ward Howe — who also wrote the words to the Battle Hymn of the Republic, which explains a lot — suggested the idea of an actual, official Mother’s Day. Something tells me if Howe were alive today, she’d be a rabid supporter of George W. Just a hunch. . . .

    Still, even though the history goes way back and has to do with something cool like a Greek goddess, I’m still against any kind of celebration. Particularly the ones that involve everyone getting dressed up in pastel costumes and taking photographs in which babies are squeezed until they smile, then sitting down to some putrid multi-generational meal.

    That said, if you MUST go out for Mother’s Day — and according to the restaurateurs I’m talking to who say this non-holiday is routinely their single biggest day of the year, many of you cannot quell the urge — then try Morton’s. At least they’re doing something different. Something cool. Something outrageously expensive, but not in a scam-like way.

    They’re serving a prix fixe menu, priced at $59 per person, that includes a salad, a choice of entree (beef, salmon, shrimp, or chicken), a side dish, and a gooey dessert. Plus — and this is the beauty part — you can get Mom a champagne cocktail with a hibiscus flower in the bottom of the glass that ACTUALLY BLOOMS (their emphasis, not mine) as the champagne is poured over it. If you don’t believe me, just see above. And this rare and delicate drink can be had for only $16.

    Now, forget everything I said before. This is your mommy. C’mon. Doesn’t she deserve a wet flower and a good hunk of meat?

  • Special 40th Anniversary of 2001: A Space Odyssey

    In celebration of the 40 years since Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, the Heights Theatre is showing the 1968 masterpiece, digitally remastered in 70mm, a project of Kubrick’s before his death in 1999. This historical depiction of the future raised many questions as to the existance of life and the mysteries of science and space. And who doesn’t love a bunch of monkeys dancing around a mysterious monolith? Follow man from his pre-historic ape-man status, when he first uses tools to conquer his environments — into the present day (the future, at the time the film was made), when man has set out to conquer space, and perhaps even life itself.

    May 9-15, Heights Theatre, 3951 Central Ave. NE, Columbia Heights; $8.

  • There Is Music in Northfield Women Poets’ Anthology, Penchant

    Eleven truth-telling women passionately grieve and celebrate the myriad facets of their complex lives in the new Northfield women’s poet anthology, Penchant. The title implies an inclination, and the title poem, by Karen Herseth Wee, explains that each of these poets possesses a drive:

    "An uncontrollable urge to write, reveal, chant
    aloud that which otherwise stays hidden in the body or mind-"

    But this is not a book merely of blatant or trite self-confession—although it is often personal and intimate. This is a book of many themes. One of the themes is poetry itself, the music of words, and the ability of that music to fill us with emotion. This is a Pen-chant, beginning with the poetic act of observation in Beverly Voldseth’s poem "Her Bath," and ending with Andrea Een’s invitation to "sing as if your life depended on it." If it is true that the audience for poetry is made up mostly of poets, then this volume encourages readers to examine the world with their own eyes and, through the incantatory power of language, to make of that examination, music in their own voice. But more than that, this anthology is a work of art, a concert of voices rich with lived experience, voices practiced in the craft of poetry.

    These women have all lived through decades. Every one of them has been writing for longer than a quarter-century, and they employ their craft skillfully to circumscribe experiences and insights in the way that only poetry can.

    This is a volume I will read again on a lonely evening when it seems no one understands me. For here I have found eleven women, all different from one another in temperament and in voice, who, for years, have nurtured one another’s love of poetry. They also have created a safe haven in which to honestly explore life through words. This long-lived community is a testimony of graceful acceptance. In this place where women gather around words, we, the readers, are welcome to enter in.

    Here we discover, as JoAnne Makela writes, "there is no other place that welcomes my words so…[and] the most important time is set aside for laughing." Tony Easterson, too, writes about this community in "Between Tuesdays," telling us that "at the game of careful stories, everybody wins." Susan Thurston Hamerski celebrates the birth of fellow poet, Mary Moore Easter, sharing the joy of successful community and inviting us to participate. She proclaims, with mirth, a delightful manifesto, imagining a world in which "we call out to each other more often in tenderness than in despair," a world where

    "…we stand before each other, willing to confess
    everything, and find it all reasonable
    if not even good, or
    at the very least, forgivable."

    The wide world, as well as the intimate, unfolds in this anthology. Karen Sandberg celebrates birth [of any child, whether mine or hers, or all of ours] in the poem, "Baby Emma and Baby Sophie Smile at the World." Marie Vogl Gery invites the reader to "open the long-closed door of your heart," reminding us that we are, and that so much of the world is, made to be loved. Mary Moore Easter guides us to understand connections- between past and present, between people who love words, and even between strangers on a bus in Africa. She knows that we are joined together in "all the dreams we carry with us / through the streets from one place to the next."

    This is a large world, emotionally and geographically. These poems deftly carry us from one place to the next. Riki Kölbl Nelson leads us on a journey into a cup of jasmine tea, which, through her memory, takes us to Shanghai and Beijing, Jogjakarta and Ho Chi Minh City. In following poems, she takes us to her birth land, Austria, then back to Minnesota to remind us of two important truths: "Travel is never easy;" and "home is where I am."

    Sigi Leonhard escorts us into journeys of profound emotional depth: first onto a frozen lake, where the black ice is like dark glass; and then into the world of grief, "walking from one room / to another, images attacking the mind…" Her poems line up to reassure us that while "there is no solution" we somehow make art out of our lives, and that the small things we managed to make of our experiences,

    "everything
    Played its brief melody in the concert of daily life, and the music
    They made together, including the dissonances, strange solos,
    Unasked for arias, the music was ravishing."

    The attribute, "ravishing," in its purest sense, applied to something able to fill us with emotion, particularly with joy, may be honestly applied to the poetry-music in Penchant. Scott King, the editor of this collection, believes these poets speak to the importance of history and community, that this is "a collection of poems that, despite the odds and against the rule of profit at all costs, attempts to make a difference." I am certain I am not the only reader who would affirm that the collection does indeed make a difference, as every word and deed and work of art, which move us to consider the multi-faceted truths of life and love, death and grief, make a difference by enriching us.

  • Chop It Off

    My squat little body houses a record number of physical calamities. If
    you have read my latest published story, "Pharma Chameleon," (in the
    March issue of The Rake) you already know that I’m pretty much a bubble
    boy. My latest impediment is a Pterigium (kind of like a nasty veiny weed) on my right eye. As the weird red growth pushes on my pupil, the formerly blue eye is now always bloodshot and weeping. The Pterigium was caused from my over exposure to sunlight. For
    the last fifteen years, I’ve worked outside in the raw elements of
    Minnesota and my eye has been sun scalded, sand blasted, and singed
    with diesel fumes and rancid blue collar profanity. If you are a stoner college kid named Scroggins perma red eyes are no big deal. But I’m 35, and a dad and shit. It isn’t cool to look "Cheeched" when you take your kid to the neighborhood park. I decided to have the growth cut off my eye and undergo ocular reconstructive surgery.

    On the day of my recent surgery, a chipper surgical nurse hooked me up to all sorts of tubes in the pre-op station. She gave me a quizzical look.

    "Are you from the Caribbean?" She asked me. I found the question dumbfounding because I’m as white as Larry Bird.

    "Ugh, no," I replied. "Why?"

    "Most people who have this thingy on their eye spend a lot of time on the ocean," she told me. "So you aren’t a surfer?"

    I assured the nurse that I was indeed no surfer, and that in fact, when it came to swimming, my body was an anvil in the water. A
    few minutes later, my stone faced surgeon breezed in, flipped through
    my chart, stared down at me, wrote the word "right" on a piece of tape
    and stuck it to my face to make sure he fixed the correct eye.

    Then the horror show started. After I was knocked out with anesthesia, I came out too early and awoke in the surgery room during the surgery! I couldn’t move a muscle, but I could see and feel the doctor poking around in my eye socket. My eye was held open with some sort of clamp and I watched the doctor use tweezers on my eyeball. I laid there limp but completely freaking out, anxiety surging through my limbs. I let out a low grumble. The surgeon heard it and snapped, "He’s up! Put him back down!" A medical team scurried around and soon drugs slowly trickled in and the lights began to fade. As I drifted off, I could actually see the surgeon gluing membranes onto my eyeball to help heal the incision. When I woke up in the recovery room, I had humungous white gauze over the eye that looked like the largest maxi pad in history. It was bad enough that I woke up Alfred Hitchcock style during surgery. But
    now I had a feminine hygiene product stuck to my face that my smartass
    brother Tony kept telling people was for my "vagina eye."

    I was blinded for a few days. As my surgically repaired eye adjusted to the new world, I could only keep my eyes open for short periods. My wife rented the hit movie "Eastern Promises" starring the Oscar nominated actor Viggio Mortensen for me to watch. But I couldn’t even see straight so I laid down at the end of the bed and listened to the movie as she watched it. When
    the famous "naked knife fight" scene (in which the hunky actor goes
    bare assed and fights two dudes in a sauna) came on, Sarah
    enthusiastically called out, "You’ve got to see this!" I
    opened my one good eye only to see Viggio Mortensen’s stubby little
    dick darting around on the screen about two inches from my face. It damn near blinded me for life. I shrieked away from the T.V., the actor’s hairy ball sack burning into my cornea forever.

    A month later, a fleshy growth appeared on the eye. It was so gross my wife wouldn’t even look at me. When we got married, apparently the whole "in sickness and health" part of the ceremony was optional. I went back to the surgeon and he reexamined the eye.

    "The fleshy deposit is due to the eye not healing properly," he told me. "But the good news is that I can CHOP IT OFF right here." Now those are three words no patient ever wants to hear. Chop. It. Off. He tilted me back and casually scraped off the growth as if he was using a deli meat slicer at Cub Foods.

    To protect my eye from any further sun damage, I now wear a white golf bucket hat and dark sunglasses. Sure, the surgery was great and it restored my vision. But
    now I look exactly like one of those perverts you see on that hit NBC
    show "To Catch a Predator" where sleazy incognito middle age men creep
    around suburban houses trolling for teenage girls.

    But at least I don’t have a vagina eye anymore.

  • The Neglected Breast

    He
    couldn’t help glancing at her legs. It wasn’t just that they
    were long and slender and perfectly tapered, or that she had swung one
    over the other and now tapped the air with a sling-back stiletto, or
    that they were smooth and tanned and flawless, but that they were bare.
    Like so many young professional women down here, she did not wear stockings
    and for a man of his age and tradition, he found that slightly crass
    and sexy as all get-out.

    She
    had dark eyes and olive skin and over-the-shoulder black hair — too long,
    he felt, for a marriage counselor, although she usually had it in some
    kind of bun or twist or something that held it up. Today, she
    was wearing a pencil skirt, navy blue, a white silk blouse, and
    black-rimmed glasses. He fancied her tossing those glasses on
    to her desk and in one fluid motion, reaching back and releasing that
    bounty of hair. But hell, he thought, even if she had, what would
    I
    do about it?

    "Mr.
    Raffort? Mr. Raffort, do you agree with what Mrs. Raffort just
    said?"

    "Art,"
    Mrs. Raffort said. "Doctor LaMetti is speaking to you.
    Arthur!" she jabbed him.

    "What?!"

    "Mrs.
    Raffort says your affection for her has waned."

    "Aw,
    Jesus. Do we have to talk about everything?"

    "I’m
    trying to help you understand each other, Mr. Raffort. I’m not
    asking these questions out of idle curiosity."

    "Right.
    How old are you, anyway?"

    "I
    don’t see the relevance of that."

    "What
    difference does it make, Art?"

    "I
    want to know. For the last month, we’ve been answering every
    little thing she’s asked about us. Can’t I ask one question
    of her?"

    "I’m
    thirty-seven."

    "See?
    I told you. She’s not even Mimi’s age. I’m not going
    to sit here and discuss our love life with a total stranger, especially
    one who’s not even as old as our youngest child."

    "Mr.
    Raffort," she said, taking a breath. "Is it true what Mrs.
    Raffort said about your affections waning?"

    "None
    of your business."

    "It
    is, Doctor. He hardly ever makes love to me anymore, and when he
    does, he never touches me. Not like he used to at least."

    "What
    are you talking about? Of course I touch you when we’re having
    s– Aw, geez, can’t we just get out of here?"

    "Mrs.
    Raffort, would you like to tell Mr. Raffort what you mean by ‘not
    touching you like he used to’?"

    "No,
    she wouldn’t."

    "Well,
    for one thing, he never touches my left breast."

    "My
    God, Helen."

    "Well
    you don’t!"

    "Do
    you have anything you’d like to say to that, Mr. Raffort?"

    "Yes.
    ‘Goodbye.’"

    "Please,
    sir. Sit down. Go ahead, Mrs. Raffort."

    "Well,
    that’s it, really. He touches the right one, but never the left
    one. It’s as though he’s intentionally neglecting it."

    "Oh,
    for Christsake."

    "Ever
    since I had that lump removed."

    "I
    didn’t want to disturb the sutures."

    "They
    were taken out over a year ago, Art."

    He
    glared at his wife, his face reddening.

    "I’ll
    be in the car," he said, and against their pleas, he walked out.

    The
    heat rose visibly from the blacktop as he crossed the parking lot, never
    mind that it was the dead of winter. This was Naples, Florida
    and if it wanted to be 85 degrees with 90 percent humidity in mid-February,
    then by God, that’s what it would be. He opened the car door
    to a plume of hot air, reached inside for his cell phone and saw that
    he had a message. It was the call he had dreaded, or at least
    it had been before he’d had these few days to try on the possibility.
    He pressed ‘call-back’ with an air of acceptance.

    "I’m
    sorry, Art."

    "You’re
    sure."

    "Yes.
    You’re free to get a second opinion, but–"

    "No,
    I figured as much. Well, shit."

    "We
    need to get you in for surgery right away. It’s just on the
    edge of the pancreas, so there’s a chance–"

    "No,
    I’m not having any surgery. No chemo either."

    "But–"

    "I’ve
    already thought this through. Look, my wife’s coming.
    I’ll call you later. Not a word of this to anyone, you understand?"
    and he flipped the phone shut.

    "Well,
    that was the rudest display of behavior you’ve ever exhibited,"
    she said as she approached.

    "I’m
    sorry, I just can’t– Why are we doing this anyway? All these
    years, we’ve been able to solve our own problems and now you want
    to share our most intimate moments with some kid who’s not even–"

    "She’s
    not a kid; she’s a woman. And she’s trying to help us."

    "She’s
    a kid. She says like all the time and sooo.
    ‘I’m like sooo proud to be like
    working with you.’"

    "She
    does not. She never talks that way, and even if she did, so what?
    Every generation has its idioms. God knows ours did."

    "I
    feel as though I’m talking to the grandkids, to Billy. When
    I disagree, I half expect her to say, ‘So sue me.’"

    "Quit
    being ridiculous. Besides, none of this excuses your rudeness."

    "I
    said, ‘I’m sorry,’ OK? Let’s just go home."

    "I
    have to pick up my medication."

    "All
    right. I’ll browse the liquor store."

    "We
    have enough booze."

    "I
    said, ‘browse.’"

  • W.I.F.E.

    "We would probably have a better shot of
    winning the Power ball lottery than having our wives wear this!"

    This was sent to me by my former boyfriend, who is now my good buddy, Rob Vinton. Yes, he is the son of Bobby Vinton, and we met here on a show about

    being the Child of a Celebrity—(Good Company) KSTP TV—in the ’80s.

    The interesting story about Rob is that he played his father Bobbie Vinton in the movie

    GOODFELLAS. Rob is now the Musical Conductor-Road Manager-and handsome bass

    guitarist on the Bobby Vinton Musical Tour.

    Small world in the creative field.

  • Duh. Duh. Duh, Duh Duh?

    If you are going to review films, as my USC intern used to say, then start at the top. So here is my review of Iron Man.

    Because Iron Man is more of a movie than a film, I am not sure what to say. Films engage you. Movies distract you.

    To be honest, Iron Man may well be a film if it weren’t for its one overarching distraction. I waited, as did others, for "the riff." The riff that could be the greatest in hard rock history (so some say). So why does John Farveau wait until the credits to hit us with Ozzy’s opus?

    Oh, and not to, like, totally spoil the fil, um, movie for you but there is one other distraction. Iron Man spends most of his time driving the same Audi R8 I covered in my "How Clinton Wrecked His Ferrari" post.

    Iron Man keeps a full house of cars that are far better than the R8. Try a Saleen S7 — 700 Hp and 750 lb. Or what is surely a replica 427 Cobra and something that looks like a bespoke British exotic (the Ascari perhaps…I’ll place it soon).

    You know, I really don’t know what else to say. Jeff Bridges is bad (as in good) and Iron Man’s suit is b-a-m-f-chillierthankatarinawitt.

    I am distracted.

    P.S. No, my blog picture (taken at the Akron OH public library) ain’t Robert DJ, but then it’s not Sabbath playing "duh, duh, duh, duh, duh" in the movie credits.

    Duh-A-AH-um.