Moby Shaq, Part One
Friday, April 28, 2006
 
by pbdotc, with apologies to h. melville

Call me Gilbert. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my man-purse, and nothing particular to interest me at Golden State, I thought I would pimp it a little and see the capital of the free world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before Air Jordan billboards, and bringing up the rear of every shootaround; and especially whenever my iPod mix gets locked on slow jams, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get outside the Beltway as I can. This is my substitute for glock and switchblade. With a philosophical flourish Clyde Frazier throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the 'Benz and the Rock Creek Parkway. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the Dulles Toll Road with me.

There now is your insular city of Tyson's Corner, belted round by strip malls as Michael Jordan's fingaz by championship rings - commerce surrounds it with its endorsements. Right and left, the game takes you toward the cameras. Its extreme down-town is the Soufwest, where New York Avenue is studded by clubs and rife with hoes, which a few hours previous were out of sight amid the crushing commute. Look at the crowds of NBA star-gazers there.

Circumnavigate tha Districk on a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Democracy Blvd to ye olde Cap Centre, and from thence, by Takoma Park northward. What do you see? - Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in NBA reveries. Some in surburban McMansions; some chilling upon the Red Line; some looking over the Washington Post for news from Detroit; some high aloft in the nosebleed seats, others court-side as if striving to get a whiff of rubber on hardwood. But these are all fans; of week days pent up in cubicle and office park - tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the post-game analysis on TNT, and seemingly bound for $2 Pabst nite at the Sign of the Whale. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of three-point land; loitering under the shady lee of the herpes triangle will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the game of basketballs they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand - miles of them - leagues. Caucasians most, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues, - north, east, south, and west of the MCI Center. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of all those balling millionaires attract them thither?

Once more. Say, you are in the country; in some high land of Lakers. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is Magic in it. Let the most absent- minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries - stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you from Minnesota to Los Angeles -- or in my case, from Golden State to DC -- if hoops there be at all in that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment; yes as every one knows, balling and the big city are wedded for ever.

...............................................
posted by pbdotc
3 Comments | Permalink | Wizznutzz.com | RSS Feed

3 Comments:

very nice, i always imagined gil as the ancient mariner complete with brendan haywood hanging from his neck...water water everywhere but not a drop to drink

tonight gilbert shall drink the tears of the moose

By Unsilent Majority, at 3:40 PM  

high quality stuff, you've somehow distilled the crazed, brilliant essence of the wizznutzz site yet still made it your own.

By hans q. bungle, at 7:44 PM  

That's a hell of a circumnavigation that takes you from Democracy Blvd to Cap Centre and then back to Takoma Park.

By Anonymous, at 8:22 AM  

Post a Comment




Cortisol