Washington, D.C. (Feb. 28, 2012) -- To understand exactly why one of the most entertaining things going on in my life right now is the miserable Washington Wizards basketball team, we must first talk about two things – the novel “Henderson the Rain King” by Saul Bellow and the song “The Rain King” by the Counting Crows.
Counting Crows lead singer Adam Duritz sang his ode to “Henderson” the novel on the band's first and best album, “August and Everything After.” I'm not sure exactly what the song is about, only that it's equally depressing and longing, and it's very representative of the entire album.
I first heard the song in a smokey room in a college dorm room and commented to someone how much I liked it. A friend of mine then explained that the song was about a book that Duritz had read called “Henderson the Rain King.”
The book, by Saul Bellow, was supposed to be a comedy, my friend explained, but Duritz had instead read it as a tragedy. This was revolutionary to me; the fact that a person could watch something with a different mindset than the creator had intended. I tracked down “Henderson” in the college library a short time later and read the book with Duritz and his song in mind. I enjoyed the book and I still page through it occasionally, but I like it better as a mildly humorous novel that takes a bitter and childish view of this life and the commitments that are required of us.
And so when I moved to Washington a few months ago to begin a job hunt I began watching the Wizards' games on TV most nights they were on since it was a cheap way to spend the evening.
I even started going to the games occasionally if I thought that the scalpers would be desperate and willing to sell their seats for next to nothing. I'd usually wait until the game started to start talking prices with them since their desperation level increased with each minute of game time that passed.
The first games I watched were terrible, of course. The team started the season by losing their first eight contests. It felt like more than that. They finally beat Toronto to get into the win column.
Then they lost their next four.
At some point they fired their coach, Flip Saunders. I have no idea why they did this. It's tough enough to come in and coach a decent team out of a slide – so I doubt that anyone (dead or alive) could take this group of jokers above .500. But Randy Wittman, the new coach, is trying his darnedest. The team is 5-25 or something like that as I write this.
It wasn't long into the season when people in the city began laughing at them. It was going to be a long season, it was clear from the start. They might be the worst NBA team ever. This is actually being discussed. Toronto loses to them on a regular basis, so they might be worse. And lest we forget about the Charlotte D-leagers.
Meanwhile, my devotion has grown over time to this team of lovable losers because I changed the way that I watch the Wizards. They are no longer a basketball team in my eyes. They are more like a cutting-edge performance art troupe that is forcing both Washington and the world to question the entire “reality” that we think of when we think of success in the NBA. They are out there having fun together, score be damned. Isn't that an alternative definition of “success”?
I changed my mindset one night a few weeks back when I was watching yet another loss unfold. John Wall, the No. 1 draft pick in 2010 who does not have a jump shot to save his life, was driving to the basket as he usually does. But instead of chucking up a blind scoop shot like he always does, Wall this time tried to dish it off to a team mate. I didn't notice which team mate he was passing the ball to because whoever it was had decided to cut the other way, leaving Wall up in the air with no one to dish to. Hanging in the air in the corner of the court with his back to the basket, he had little choice but to throw it out of bounds.
One of the Wizard commentators said something to the effect of, “Wall drives...and...dishes it off to apparently no one.”
I burst out laughing as he said it and I finally understood.
The joke is on us!
The commentators know it. The players know it. This is all just a big sham. Everyone knows that they can't win against the level of skill in the NBA that most other teams pay for. Why get upset? It's just a game.
Knowing about this farcical situation all too well, the players have reacted with easily predictable indifference. One player, JaVale McGee, took a great deal of grief when he decided that he would bounce the ball off the backboard and dunk it during a recent game. The team was down a couple of baskets at that point in that game to the Houston Rockets and they ended up losing.
McGee had to apologize for his actions after the game. But he protested first, and I understand him completely, by telling the Washington Post that “Apparently, if you get a fast break and throw it off the backboard in the third quarter, and you’re 1-11, you’re not supposed to do stuff like that.”
How can you not love a team with players like that?
Besides McGee, the Wizards have John Wall, who I mentioned as not having a jump shot. He is quick as lightening and he does score a fair amount by driving to the basket, getting contact and usually getting the bucket.
But other times he brings the ball the down the court, only to pass it away and then he goes and hides in the corner. He never calls for the ball and he's apparently over there only to drag a defender with him in order to clear out the lane. He's often left wide open because opposing teams are sure that he either won't shoot or that he'll miss the jumper if he does shoot.
It's kinda sad for me, as a Kentucky boy, to see a former Wildcat so far out of his element. Wall needs to get a jumper soon or I don't think he's going to amount to much in the years to come. His speed is only going to take him so far and then even that's going to leave him eventually.
Another notable player for the Wizards who I find endlessly entertaining is the shooting guard, Nick Young. Mr. Young seems oblivious to the team's record as he laughs and jokes on the sidelines before, during and after games. I wondered about this behavior for a few games before I did a Google search on Young. A standout at the third high school he attended, Young was not that great of a student, but he somehow passed the required tests and he played college ball at USC for three years before joining the Wizards in 2007 after they drafted him 16th overall. He'll be a free agent next year and I doubt he'll be back. I think this explains why he doesn't seem to care about the season. I won't blame him if he wants to leave.
The other players all seem just like a supporting cast to Young and Wall. I don't mean that they aren't important. They very much are. What I mean is that they too seem to act in a manner that's consistent with being an idiot and not all that smart on the court. The subterranean basketball intelligence of this team is just as detrimental as the lack of depth and skill.
Besides McGee, there's Jordan Crawford, a man with a confused look on his face most of the time. He seems to be the backup shooting guard/point guard and looks like he's ten years older than he is.
The most recent game I attended was on Monday, February 6th, when the Wizards played Toronto, the only team they seem to be able to beat. I left my apartment in Adams Morgan fifteen minutes before tip off so that I would get there after the start and, as such, the scalpers would be hungry as fiends to get rid of their potentially useless tickets.
I got mine for $30 in the 113 section, which is the lowest level, from a black guy named Sandy who said that he would lose money if he sold the ticket to me for $20. I believed him and figured that it was a good deal at $30. He said that the business isn't all that bad and he added that he was excited that the Miami Heat were coming to town on Friday. Several other workers at the arena that I talked to also said this about Miami coming to town. You have to prepare and savor your time in the spotlight, I guess.
The seat that I bought from Sandy was excellent. It was about 20 rows back in the corner of the arena on the opposite side of the player's benches. I sat right in front of three teenage girls and overheard one of them say that it was her first time to a live basketball game. I felt kinda sorry for her until I thought that at least it will only get better for her.
The game this evening, as with most NBA games, was boring at the beginning but the Wizards did jump out to an early lead. It was quiet in the arena. At one point I could clearly hear the ref yell, “Offensive foul!” He was on the other side of the court from our section. The cheerleaders by the court and at the end of our section looked bored and you could hear them shaking their pom-poms quite clearly. Also audible were the players on the court. They didn't seem to be talking as much as I imagined.
The organ played a bland version of “We Will Rock You” that left me more depressed than fired up. This is what basketball looks like in Eastern Europe, I thought. Out in the hallways when I went to get a beer, it was devoid of people and almost empty.
At halftime the Wizards were up by 15 but I knew that they would let them back in. Partly because I go to games alone most of the time, I always stay in my seat for the halftime show. The acts are always truly amazing to me. The previous game, when the Knicks were in town, there was a young lady from China who rode a unicycle and caught plates with a metal pole. This time it was a group of acrobats from Washington who jumped rope and did other tricks. The amazing part of this particular act was that they jumped on one another to form human collections.
The game got back underway and I moved down the row to sit four rows from the end of the section. The cheerleaders were right in front of us and I was not too impressed with most of them. They looked heavily made up and the signs of surgery were clear. I changed my mind later when a different squad came over to cheer in front of us and one of the cheerleaders, a red head, was drop dead gorgeous. I couldn't stop staring at her and I convinced myself that she was looking at me before I noticed her. I've had a few beers by this point.
In the seat next to me during the second half is an usher who thinks I'm far brighter than I am because I've correctly predicted several events during the game, such as the Wizards giving up their lead. I'm a genius!
Of course the Wizards have let the other team in the game and Toronto ties it up at 105 at the last second with a dunk. The Wizards, of course, failed to go ahead as Nick Young got his shot blocked. You often hear people say that “Everyone in the arena knew that (name of player) was getting the ball for the last shot.” But that really is true. Everyone knew that Young was getting the ball, including the Toronto defense.
The overtime was ugly but the Wizards won in the end, but not before Toronto nearly won the thing with a last-second shot by a Spanish player named Calderone.
I watched the shot miss the basket on the TV on my way out the door. I usually walk for an hour or so to get home. It's safe these days in DC and it's been a mild winter, so the stroll is nice.
The next game after that Monday night debacle was against the Knicks. They got crushed.
I was planning on watching it but got tied up out on the town with some friends watching the UNC-Duke game. But before I left the house I watched the Wizards pre-game show.
The commentators are opening the program and John Wall is visible in the background. I can see him throw up what looks to be a very short shot. That's not good, I think. But no, he runs toward the basket, jumps, catches the ball and does a 360-degree dunk. I laugh out loud. Of course he didn't practice a jumper. Why would he do that? Some dunk contest practice is much better.
The Wizards ended up losing that game and then they played the Miami Heat. They lost that game and then they headed out West for what is sure to be a terrible trip.
But then they will be back here in DC and I'll be there cheering for them. Partly because the tickets are cheap and partly because I don't have anything else to do these days.
But I also cheer on this group of guys because I know what it's like, in this Great Recession, when the management gives you nothing and expects everything in return.
And I understand what it's like to feel like this whole show rides on you, yet you don't have much of a say. That's the way life is sometimes. There are bad seasons, no matter what your career might be, and there's nothing we can do but struggle our way through them, into the oncoming current, with as much dignity as possible.
Live to fight another day, as they say.
And with that I say, Go Wizards.
Take care,
Brett
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The Couch-Surfing Dispatch
Washington, D.C. (Nov. 3, 2011) -- Nearly eleven months living out of a suitcase. That's what I've been through.
It's been almost one full year of constantly looking ahead to the next stop, planning the next jump, like the famous photograph of the guy out in the bay, ten feet above the water, jumping from piling to piling.
That's what it's felt like and that's what came to an end for me the other night as I hung up my clothes and unpacked my suitcase in my very own apartment here in the capital of the United States of America.
It all started in mid-December when I was already on the road -- in Miami -- when I learned that my time was finished at the newspaper over there in Paris.
Not wanting to go back to "The City of Light" to be alone over the holidays (yet again), I delayed my return to Paris a few weeks, to mid-January.
Even though I was unemployed, my new job was figuring out how I was going to transition back into life in states.
It had been easy moving across the Atlantic, with only two suitcases full of clothes, no friends, no commitments and no idea how to speak the language.
Coming back the other way would prove to be much tougher.
After the holidays I hung around Paris for almost all of January, cleaning out the apartment while also trying to get the cooperation of "the Velib people" as they would come to be known.
My idea had been to get 20 or so rental bikes, known as Velibs, and then station them around France. I would then ride these terrible and bulky rental bikes, which have essentially no breaks, along the 2011 Tour de France route -- and then, if I lived, I would write a book about it.
I approached the city hall about it and they loved the idea. Great publicity, they agreed.
But, they said, the problem is that we don't actually own or operate the bikes that are scattered all around the city. A major corporation, called JC Decaux (similar to ClearChannel) owns the bikes and they would have to sign off on it.
So I approached JC Deceaux with the same pitch; crazy American rides the 3,400-kilometer Tour on a bike that is designed to go about one hundred miles during its life span.
The wait for an answer lasted about a week before they came back with a firm 'no.' Their explanation was that they have lots of trouble with people taking the bikes and selling them out of the country or just plain stealing and vandalizing them.
No matter. Having never been to Asia before, I set off for a one month tour of South East Asia (not on a bike), visiting Vietnam and Cambodia between the middle of February and the middle of March.
All went well except for the return part of the trip. On my way back I changed planes in Moscow between Hanoi and Paris. I didn't have my French work visa with me and so I looked to the customs officials like I was going illegally to France for more than six months without a job. That's not really allowed.
I had a problem with this when I was leaving Vietnam. They almost didn't let me go. They finally relented, telling me that I could fly to Moscow but they might stop me there.
I had a bad feeling that the strict Russians were going to take my mistake and punish me for it.
In an effort to avoid that from happening I skipped a customs desk in Moscow where they were checking for work visas and documentation. Then I somehow blended in with a group of Asian tourists that the Russians didn't want to bother processing and I raced to my plane. Well, actually I stopped at the bar and had two beers and three cigarettes to calm my nerves and celebrate my having had thwarted a Russian victory.
Then I raced to the plane.
I wasn't entirely sure that I succeeded until our plane was floating safely above the frozen soil far below.
Once back in Paris I had a few days to shake off the jet-lag before my parents and sister arrived to attend my going-away party that was on a boat by Notre Dame. The party was a blast. We sang "My Old Kentucky Home" and we thanked all my friends for being my friends.
Then mid-April came up and, for the first time, I purposely closed the door to my apartment with the keys still inside.
So long to all that, I thought.
Never again would I stand on the balcony in the morning and look at the Canal St. Martin while drinking coffee.
Never again would I throw an egg from that same balcony late at night, aiming for the bright yellow mailbox down below and about 30 yards away. (I never did hit that damn thing.)
I would, however, return to 31 Rue Beaurepaire late one night in the summer. Bored and restless, some friends and I climbed up the ladder and onto the slick tin metal roof and into the cool night air just one more time for good measure.
The new tenants of my old apartment heard us up there and they came out and chased us off. "You're life here is over," one of them shouted at me as I came down the ladder. He was mad that I had left the apartment in a condition that required some cleaning up.
Fair enough.
As Hunter S. Thompson once said, “I knew it was wrong. I did it anyway."
But I digress. From Paris that morning in April I flew off to Kentucky for the Derby. I was only there a for few days before I flew to Washington, D.C. for a short stay. Then it was back to the Commonwealth just in time for Derby. Everyone is living out of a suitcase at Derby. That weekend is a journey for all, and much is learned along the way.
Then, a week after Derby, it was back to France to once again work on closing up the shop. But this time the goal was to find a job on a super yacht down in the south of France and work as a deck hand, swabbing the deck, witnessing sordid behavior, meeting famous people and whatnot. And then I'd write a book about it.
Surely mopping can't be that technical of work.
As it turns out, working on a yacht is in fact its own little industry and it requires certifications and CVs and confidentiality agreements. If you're name pops up after a Google search as a journalist, for the New York Times no less, then the odds of you getting a job are not very good.
But I had traveled down to Nice in search of my white whale of a job and so I figured that I might as well give it some time. "Some time" turned out to be a lovely and almost dream-like month or so in southern France.
The couple I stayed with, Jenn and Andi, were kind enough to let me hang around and sleep on their spare sofa for only the small price of Jenn getting me hooked on "The Bachlorette" reality TV series. (dot, dot, dot)
Andi worked early each morning and Jenn made her own schedule at her start-up company and so we would often spend afternoons taking drives along the coast to scenic villages or just to a wonderful French fry stand on the side of the road.
The road, keep in mind, plunged right off into the navy blue waters of the Cote d'Azur. And we would sit there and look at the yachts on the water and laugh about all the problems they must have with all that money.
But that all ended in mid-June when I decided that seeing my favorite band, The Walkmen, play in Paris was more important than working on articles about the super yacht industry.
And so I said my farewells to Jenn and Andi and their brilliant son, Coach Henry, and flew up to Paris.
I spent the summer there in Paris, living with my good friend Etienne, while I wrote a book about my time in Paris and some other adventures. To write the book in such a short period of time (about a month and a half) I used several volumes of journals that I had kept during my time in France and I also used lots of Red Bull and many cigarettes (I've since quit smoking).
I knew that I had to finish at least a good version of the book while I had the time, the setting and the ability to concentrate. My usual routine was to rise from my slumber at 10 or so, drink a Red Bull a little before noon, then get to work and continue as such (with maybe another Red Bull in the late afternoon) until Etienne arrived home from work at seven or so. That was my finish line.
From there I would call it a day and we would usually drink beer and play chess and listen to Led Zeppelin.
The book was done in by mid-August and I was left wandering around Paris feeling like I was overstaying my welcome. I said goodbye one more time to that sultry and elusive mistress of a city.
So it was back to Kentucky in late August. The plan was to settle down in Louisville and work with my father as a financial advisor.
I got very close to this happening before I decided that I was game for one more roll of the dice.
And so it was across the river and through the mountains of West Virginia to the city where I've decided to roll the bones once more, here on the eastern shore of what was once the New World.
The past is prologue, as they say.
I guess that the future will be the judge of that.
All I know is that it's been an amazing year filled with wonderful times with lots of friends and family. That being said, I'm also happy to be somewhat settled at long, long last.
Take care,
Brett
It's been almost one full year of constantly looking ahead to the next stop, planning the next jump, like the famous photograph of the guy out in the bay, ten feet above the water, jumping from piling to piling.
That's what it's felt like and that's what came to an end for me the other night as I hung up my clothes and unpacked my suitcase in my very own apartment here in the capital of the United States of America.
It all started in mid-December when I was already on the road -- in Miami -- when I learned that my time was finished at the newspaper over there in Paris.
Not wanting to go back to "The City of Light" to be alone over the holidays (yet again), I delayed my return to Paris a few weeks, to mid-January.
Even though I was unemployed, my new job was figuring out how I was going to transition back into life in states.
It had been easy moving across the Atlantic, with only two suitcases full of clothes, no friends, no commitments and no idea how to speak the language.
Coming back the other way would prove to be much tougher.
After the holidays I hung around Paris for almost all of January, cleaning out the apartment while also trying to get the cooperation of "the Velib people" as they would come to be known.
My idea had been to get 20 or so rental bikes, known as Velibs, and then station them around France. I would then ride these terrible and bulky rental bikes, which have essentially no breaks, along the 2011 Tour de France route -- and then, if I lived, I would write a book about it.
I approached the city hall about it and they loved the idea. Great publicity, they agreed.
But, they said, the problem is that we don't actually own or operate the bikes that are scattered all around the city. A major corporation, called JC Decaux (similar to ClearChannel) owns the bikes and they would have to sign off on it.
So I approached JC Deceaux with the same pitch; crazy American rides the 3,400-kilometer Tour on a bike that is designed to go about one hundred miles during its life span.
The wait for an answer lasted about a week before they came back with a firm 'no.' Their explanation was that they have lots of trouble with people taking the bikes and selling them out of the country or just plain stealing and vandalizing them.
No matter. Having never been to Asia before, I set off for a one month tour of South East Asia (not on a bike), visiting Vietnam and Cambodia between the middle of February and the middle of March.
All went well except for the return part of the trip. On my way back I changed planes in Moscow between Hanoi and Paris. I didn't have my French work visa with me and so I looked to the customs officials like I was going illegally to France for more than six months without a job. That's not really allowed.
I had a problem with this when I was leaving Vietnam. They almost didn't let me go. They finally relented, telling me that I could fly to Moscow but they might stop me there.
I had a bad feeling that the strict Russians were going to take my mistake and punish me for it.
In an effort to avoid that from happening I skipped a customs desk in Moscow where they were checking for work visas and documentation. Then I somehow blended in with a group of Asian tourists that the Russians didn't want to bother processing and I raced to my plane. Well, actually I stopped at the bar and had two beers and three cigarettes to calm my nerves and celebrate my having had thwarted a Russian victory.
Then I raced to the plane.
I wasn't entirely sure that I succeeded until our plane was floating safely above the frozen soil far below.
Once back in Paris I had a few days to shake off the jet-lag before my parents and sister arrived to attend my going-away party that was on a boat by Notre Dame. The party was a blast. We sang "My Old Kentucky Home" and we thanked all my friends for being my friends.
Then mid-April came up and, for the first time, I purposely closed the door to my apartment with the keys still inside.
So long to all that, I thought.
Never again would I stand on the balcony in the morning and look at the Canal St. Martin while drinking coffee.
Never again would I throw an egg from that same balcony late at night, aiming for the bright yellow mailbox down below and about 30 yards away. (I never did hit that damn thing.)
I would, however, return to 31 Rue Beaurepaire late one night in the summer. Bored and restless, some friends and I climbed up the ladder and onto the slick tin metal roof and into the cool night air just one more time for good measure.
The new tenants of my old apartment heard us up there and they came out and chased us off. "You're life here is over," one of them shouted at me as I came down the ladder. He was mad that I had left the apartment in a condition that required some cleaning up.
Fair enough.
As Hunter S. Thompson once said, “I knew it was wrong. I did it anyway."
But I digress. From Paris that morning in April I flew off to Kentucky for the Derby. I was only there a for few days before I flew to Washington, D.C. for a short stay. Then it was back to the Commonwealth just in time for Derby. Everyone is living out of a suitcase at Derby. That weekend is a journey for all, and much is learned along the way.
Then, a week after Derby, it was back to France to once again work on closing up the shop. But this time the goal was to find a job on a super yacht down in the south of France and work as a deck hand, swabbing the deck, witnessing sordid behavior, meeting famous people and whatnot. And then I'd write a book about it.
Surely mopping can't be that technical of work.
As it turns out, working on a yacht is in fact its own little industry and it requires certifications and CVs and confidentiality agreements. If you're name pops up after a Google search as a journalist, for the New York Times no less, then the odds of you getting a job are not very good.
But I had traveled down to Nice in search of my white whale of a job and so I figured that I might as well give it some time. "Some time" turned out to be a lovely and almost dream-like month or so in southern France.
The couple I stayed with, Jenn and Andi, were kind enough to let me hang around and sleep on their spare sofa for only the small price of Jenn getting me hooked on "The Bachlorette" reality TV series. (dot, dot, dot)
Andi worked early each morning and Jenn made her own schedule at her start-up company and so we would often spend afternoons taking drives along the coast to scenic villages or just to a wonderful French fry stand on the side of the road.
The road, keep in mind, plunged right off into the navy blue waters of the Cote d'Azur. And we would sit there and look at the yachts on the water and laugh about all the problems they must have with all that money.
But that all ended in mid-June when I decided that seeing my favorite band, The Walkmen, play in Paris was more important than working on articles about the super yacht industry.
And so I said my farewells to Jenn and Andi and their brilliant son, Coach Henry, and flew up to Paris.
I spent the summer there in Paris, living with my good friend Etienne, while I wrote a book about my time in Paris and some other adventures. To write the book in such a short period of time (about a month and a half) I used several volumes of journals that I had kept during my time in France and I also used lots of Red Bull and many cigarettes (I've since quit smoking).
I knew that I had to finish at least a good version of the book while I had the time, the setting and the ability to concentrate. My usual routine was to rise from my slumber at 10 or so, drink a Red Bull a little before noon, then get to work and continue as such (with maybe another Red Bull in the late afternoon) until Etienne arrived home from work at seven or so. That was my finish line.
From there I would call it a day and we would usually drink beer and play chess and listen to Led Zeppelin.
The book was done in by mid-August and I was left wandering around Paris feeling like I was overstaying my welcome. I said goodbye one more time to that sultry and elusive mistress of a city.
So it was back to Kentucky in late August. The plan was to settle down in Louisville and work with my father as a financial advisor.
I got very close to this happening before I decided that I was game for one more roll of the dice.
And so it was across the river and through the mountains of West Virginia to the city where I've decided to roll the bones once more, here on the eastern shore of what was once the New World.
The past is prologue, as they say.
I guess that the future will be the judge of that.
All I know is that it's been an amazing year filled with wonderful times with lots of friends and family. That being said, I'm also happy to be somewhat settled at long, long last.
Take care,
Brett
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