Philosophy, basketball, & food. A day.

An analytical philosophical friend of mine, made a judgment about my decisions and judgments, so I will treat his thesis thusly:

1 - A person who would attempt to take a charge in a pick up game of basketball only if that selfsame person watches too much televised professional basketball.
2 - Sea-Dog attempted to take a charge in a pick up game of basketball.

Therefor - Sea-Dog watches too much televised professional basketball.

I argue against the first premise (1). My friend is failing to account for times when an overly aggressive individual necessitates such action due to the fact that they are ruining a perfectly fine game by driving and using physical intimidation, scoring every time. Even triple teaming this player would not deter him, and he would not share the ball with other teammates. Showing him one would stand their ground and stop the drive was the intent of the attempt. Therefor, I rule that premise one is false!

However I do credit my friend for one success. The conclusion is true. So the argument is trivially true. One would hit closer to the core of the issue if one said -

1 - a person who watches nearly every playoff game watches too much pro b-ball.
2 - Sea-Dog watches nearly every playoff game.
Therefor Sea-Dog watches too much pro b-ball.


In other news, I got in an argument with my boss at work. Those who have known me for a long time, should not be surprised at this. It is a foregone conclusion at this point that if Sea-Dog has to work for people who do not run a tight ship, treat Sea-Dog with the respect they would expect for themself from Sea-Dog, he will be barkin' and yappin' loudly and aggressively. Most likely this will be in an ostentatious manner with the flag of JUSTICE waving high and mightily above Sea-Dog's head. The true and bitter plight of this situation, is that a telephone call was screened on Sea-Dog's brick during this argument squabble. That call was a Temp-agency informing Sea-Dog of an opportunity for Sea-Dog to work a better, more professional job at higher pay than the one he's currently slaving under. By the time the contention ceased and Sea-Dog could contact his rep, the position had been given to another, likely less-worthy temp-for-hire. Many F-words were shouted during and after this altercation. I hate my job. I am in fact Sea-Dog, but the situation is so revolting I can barely bring myself to tell it in the appropriate first-person fashion.

So, I played lots of b-ball at the Sherman Oaks Van Nuys park. My team and I won the first game of 3-on-3, so we picked up 2 new-comers and ran 5-on-5, earning 3 more victories. Celebramos! I feel great. There is no end to the list of rewards from such a day well-spent. If you have to means to do so, I think you should. It is... so choice.

I miss Santa Cruz, CA. I miss many aspects of it, and one close to the forefront of my thoughts this day is a little place to acquire burritos called "los pinos." So, as I have done in the past, I purchased up all the ingredients of one of their veggie burritos and lived with a poor substitute for the real thing.
One good aspect of this venture is that you get to eat a nigh-limitless amount of burritos for the price of about two from a tacqueria. One bad aspect of this venture is that you buy in such bulk that you have to eat burritos 3 times a day, day in day out to make use of the perishable ingredients. One good aspect of this venture is that you are eating burritos 3 times a day, day in day out. It's a mixed bag. The bottom line is that I miss the old haunts, the old friends, and the memories that used to be my daily life.
Oh! I like when I am broke. Because it forces me to buy cheap ingredients, and I had forgotten that the really cheap, weird Mexican brands of salsa are always the most fantastic. The more non-descript or unfamiliar the label, the greater the likelihood of a thrilling surprise when you open up that jar.

This is what we do when we don't have to work.

My thoughts run wild as I stride back to the basketball courts after Friday's game-ending injury. Last Friday, I stood my ground, hoping for a charging violation, thus stopping the opponents' unstoppable offense, and getting a chance to drive the ball back our way. Well, when the collision came it wasn't my chest or shoulders as I'd hoped that bore the brunt of the impact. Instead, I was instantaneously dropped to the ground. My friendly teammates eagerly ran over to help me up, appreciating my efforts, but I waved them off, due to the realization that I had no sensation in my right leg yet. While sitting immobile upon the court, I felt the buzzing circulation find its way back to my knee and I realized I'd really gotten it good in the leg. That aggressive opponent had blasted me right in the knee with his knee to reward me for my tough D. I tried to walk it off. Instead, I'd spend nearly a week walking it off. It cost me nothing more than a limp and some on-and-off annoying pain, but it also cost me my daily trips to the basketball courts. That is frustrating, because now I have far fewer free days to make it down. So I wasted a good four days that could have been filled with basketball glory the likes of which can be found in films like Glory Road, Coach Carter, Hoosiers, and the Air Up There.

In preparation, I'm shaking off any lingering trepidation, and I'm standing on steady legs. To bolster my chances of success in today's games, I am sporting white shoes with long white socks that go well up my calf. It should strike an imposing image for anybody that fears white ballers with 70's era basketball fashion sense.

I wanna have blog fun too, guys!

I don't know if I'm going to have a clever theme or subject for my blog. It's probably going to be a waste of precious blog real estate, resembling 40,000 teenagers' worthless blogs. Only, I'm a twenty-five year old man, so I should have something better to do. I suppose it's largely to stop blowing up my friends' myspace pages so much. And I get to rattle off all the stuff I think and NOBODY has to read it if they don't want to! Blogs are the perfect cure for people who talk too fucking much.

I bet I will talk about movies and comic books in my blog. Often. Very often.

I looked over my shoulder to the left, and found that the Sherman Oaks branch of the Los Angeles Public Library (www.lapl.org), had removed the graphic novels section (graphic novel is a fancy word for J-books). Now it was chock full of Manga. Manga is a fancy word for J-books that are not as interesting, very popular, aimed at teens, and all drawn in the exact same annoying style. Apparently, they are all imports from Japan, too. I dunno, I hate that shit. Can't stand it. Luckily, I looked to my right, and my horror ended. They had chosen a more elite location for the graphic novels (J-books) in the teen fiction section. Which is great, except I'm a twenty-five year-old man rummaging in the teen fiction section of the library, looking like a Pederas (petter-ass?). They have the dopest selection of Essentials. I'm working my way through Ghost Rider Volumes 1 & 2.

I saw Rocky IV for the first time in my adult life. Now the hazy memories have been replaced with distinct, accurate impressions of the movie. I think I always thought Rocky III was the first one, and that the first two were horrid sequels. When I was a kid those first two films had it all wrong. Nothing fit! Apollo Creed was a bad guy... Rocky didn't get to wear the star-spangled boxing shorts... there was a plot involving character development and romance. None of the shit that a little kid appreciates about Rocky.
Let's talk about Rocky IV though. This was a strong movie. It opened without the distinctively large "Rocky" title-scroll and without the brass fanfare that the other films begin with. It gave us a taste of Rocky III's "Eye of the Tiger", and had a modest little title. I was beginning to wonder what was up with this Rocky. Luckily, that title sequence was about the only modest thing in the movie. Rocky has to train to face Ivan Drago, who just killed Apollo Creed in a round 2 victory. Rocky must be all torn up about this (Although Stallone does little to portray this). I suppose we were supposed to learn all we need to know about Rocky the character's motivations from the theatrical trailer.

"He could've stopped the fight. He could've saved his best friend. Now the only thing he can't do...



Is walk away."

So, Rocky goes to Russia and trains the old-fashioned way. By lifting wood, pulling a sleigh through the snow, ditching his Russian chaperones, running up a mountain, and growing a fearsome beard. In contrast, Dolph Lundgren is physically conditioned in a high-tech environment, using all types of scary Russian boxing-training computerized equipment, and does not grow a beard. I won't spoil the end for you.

Ah, fuck it. SPOILER ALERT - Rocky might not have won if Lundgren had grown a beard during the training. There's a lot of power in facial hair. What little I have leaves me feeling terrified of how powerful I would be if I could grow any more.