And You Didn't Look Under The Bed 'Cause . . .

No laundry today. Just some extra socks . . .

- Coach is a Mountain Dew freak? And he hates the Diet shit? File information for a meaningless rant with the man, should the need ever present itself. Logistics of life in Dallas are difficult for Pepsi drinkers, especially so for fans of the supersaturated sugary green goodness. And for the record, Surge did nothing for me.

- You mean someone besides me reads this ridiculous waste of my employer's computer time? Hi Jake! His blog, NBA On The Brain, is an ongoing story of the regular season with a Real Person Fic twist. I like the metaphors he's come up with for each of the teams -- the Spurs as a Skynet-esque Machine force, the Suns as a legion of the undead, the Nets as a caporegime that can't wait to get the hell out of Jersey, the Pistons as workingmen at a production plant out of Detroit, etc. In particular, thank you for the mental image of Dirk on horseback. That's going to make me smile for weeks.

- It's unfair but inevitable that any pro sports endeavor within the DFW Metroplex should be judged by the impossibly high standards of the Dallas Cowboys. In Cowbow fandom . . . you know that Calvin and Hobbes panel, the one where Calvin raises his fist and yells, "Happiness isn't good enough for me! I demand euphoria!" It isn't enough to win, the Cowboys have to utterly destroy the competition and do so easily and with style. Athletes are fantasies, not role models; the franchise is set up as an extreme case in point and has gone out of its way to cultivate extreme expectations. So when the Mavs became serious contenders after a decade of epic yuck it tapped into the flat insanity of Sportus Fannaticus, Dallasi, the fanbase that demands six impossible things before breakfast and gets really fucking nasty when they aren't delivered.

In other words, can't you guys express disappointment without being evil? Questioning manliness, love of the game, worth as a human being? I mean it, some of the remarks I heard on the way home Tuesday night were really awful. Next person looks at me askance when I yell "FUCK!" after a blown layup gets an earful, I swear.

- For Painted Fan Nite -- which I am going to do at least once this year -- I've got some ideas. The trick I'm going for is a costume sufficiently Goth so's I can go straight to The Church from the game. Or maybe I should go punk. Punk has more flexibility, and is more forgiving of badly made clothes. Fifty safety pins? No problem.

- The Macrophenomenal Pro Basketball Almanac looks like something I should keep an eye out for at the Half-Price Books in a few weeks. Fascinating.
-BJ