Next time, try Dostoyevsky

Last weekend at a bar in the West Village, I managed to strike up a conversation with a gorgeous blonde from somewhere deep within the Soviet block.  From the start, I knew I was punching above my weight class, as she was clearly blessed with better genetics than her suitor - everything would have to break my way if I were to ensnare such an exotic temptress.  But despite my best efforts, the conversation fizzled as her limited mastery of English coupled with my less-than-stellar wooing technique sabatoged what could have been a promising romance.  Sensing that I was on the verge of losing my Kremlinite beauty forever, I made a desparate attempt to salvage the chemistry.

Me:  "You know, it's so funny that we met tonight.  I just started reading War and Peace."

Her:  "Oh really?"

Me:  "Yeah, I'm really enjoying it so far."

Her (looking away):  "Tolstoy is shit."  

Sadly, I did not secure a second date.    

"3:30 to 6" is the new "9 to 5"

When we last met our hero, his dignity and general psyche were left in tatters following anunfortunate incident involving self-defecation. But much can change within the course of a month, and though it is too early to say for certain, I believe that the earliest green sprouts of renewal may be sprouting out of the fertilizer streaked across my boxers.

Soon after that humbling day, I was hired (not through any merits of my own but through nepotism of the purest form) as a coach at a private school in Brooklyn. I've never been one to take any particular pride in titles, but just so we're clear: I am as of the 10th of April no longer a miserable layabout. I am, rather, the "Head Assistant Women's Varsity Softball Coach of the Packer Collegiate Institute." For simplicity's sake, I will forgo my right to re-name this blog accordingly, but I hope that the misleading nature of the title is dually noted.

Now to the point, which is brief and not in the least bit innovative. The commitments required by this new stead consist of showing up at a field for 2-3 hours a day, four days a week, excluding days of inclimate weather. All in all, a modest workload, even by my admittedly modest standards. However, the positive change in my self-worth brought about by such a meager undertaking has been nothing short of drastic. Organized around this brief period of obligation, my days have become more fruitful, my activities more useful, my sense of purpose more clearly defined and my appreciation for leisure sharper. In short, this 10 hour work week has satisfied all the intrinsic psychological benefits of labor without inflicting any of the psychological damage.

Meaning what? Meaning simply: my previous belief that I must find full time employment lest I go stark raving mad from boredom was completely misguided.... it was a bullshit conclusion that I'd convinced myself of based on a totally irresponsible study of myself paired with the naive views of those around me. I was comparing constant labor with NO labor whatsoever, which is like weighing the benefits of a dictatorship against those of anarchy without ever bothering to visit a democracy. The study was RIGGED from the start!

The unfortunate side to all this is of course that I have only accounted for one side of the work paradigm with this conclusion. The other side, the financial one, is infinitely more daunting, and solving it will no doubt take a combination of great resolve and even greater luck.

Still, I am gratified to pronounce with supreme confidence that psychologically, democracy is CLEARLY superior to the alternatives.

When is a man no longer a man?

A quick note on dignity and the loss of it.

This Saturday, following a particularly aggressive night of food and drink, I found myself in a friend's apartment discussing a serious issue that has caused me significant anxiety over the past weeks. At the conversation's conclusion, I attempted to infuse a well-timed touch of humor to lighten our collective mood - it so happened that I had been restraining a tremendous fart throughout the duration of our talk and judged this to be an opportune moment to allow for its triumphant release.

Unfortunately what was supposed to be a staccato exclamation point, proved far less tame, and when I released the valve, a seemingly endless, machine gun like series of perineal bursts shot out of my rectum. Clearly, had I accurately gauged either the toxins still in my system from the evening prior OR the dangerously high pressure level accumulated in my bowels, I would never have attempted such a high-wire prank.*  But hindsight is 20/20, the damage done... I had just shit my pants.

*Please note that to this day, I still believe whole heartedly in the premise of the gag. It was merely the execution that went a foul.

Now I don't want the imagery here to get out of hand, so let me note that we aren't talking about anything close to a full on dump here - it's not like I looked down and a semi-formed log had rolled out from beneath my pant leg. However, there was no denying that anal discharge occurred. Beyond that, the details are really irrelevant.

There is very little redeeming about this anecdote. And as for morals, they are no doubt absent. I think my intent here to generate a desperate self-motivational ploy more than anything else. Because to come to grips with Saturday's events means to look myself in the mirror and say, "George, I love you but you're a 26 year old man with no job, no dreams... and you just shit your pants. Please get your life in order."

Remember that experiment from 1st grade, where the teacher asks a volunteer to donate his recently lost tooth... then she places the tooth in a glass of Pepsi and the class watches as day-by-day, it slowly decays? Well over the past 6 months, my dignity has been like that tooth, quietly melting away into nothingness. Then Saturday, with one ill-fated decision in one disastrous moment, it's like someone pulled the last rotten core of tooth out of the soda-bath, placed it on the table and smashed it into pieces so tiny, that what's left is unrecognizable to the human eye. We are left with only the flat Pepsi.

Let's be honest, to search for a silver lining here is folly - today, there is nothing to be taken from this event but shame, both mine and that of anyone who knows me. However, I think what was intended initially to be lighthearted ends up being too gloomy if I don't make a quick addendum:

At the end of the day, you can't get much worse than shitting your pants... and half-intentionally shitting your pants at that. Most the people losing their homes to foreclosure across the country haven't shit their pants. Bernie Madoff probably hasn't shit his pants. In fact, I bet there are quite a few people who've allowed themselves to be sodomized in exchange for methamphetamines, but have never shit their pants.

"At least I never crapped myself for a cheap laugh."

When you think about it, there are very few places to dig lower than where I've dug. I'm staring into the abyss, and once you reach that point, it's probably about time to turn around and go the other way.

Down the road when I look back at this phase of my life, I bet I'll say, "Man, that whole pants shitting episode sure was critical to getting me to stand up, reclaim my self-worth and get my life on track."

Either that or I'll say, "Boy, that whole pants shitting episode really should have been a sign."

Wright place in the order?

Following up on the lineup talk from the other day...

I know David Wright hit some cleanup last year with mixed success, but I think the Mets have to figure out a way to get him back either to the 3 spot (ideal) or the 5 hole to maximize his production. There may be a perception that Wright can easily transition into more of a power hitting role, due to his strength and position. But putting him at 4 looks like a classic square peg in round hole situation from where I'm sitting.

Though he hit 33 dingers last year, David's at his best when he's driving line drives and going opposite field, rather than trying to pull the ball for power. In fact, the slumps David has gotten himself in over the past few years have in every case been a result of getting overeager to pull the ball resulting in a failure to stay back and drive it the other way. Asking for more power out of the guy is likely to exacerbate that issue.

David Wright gives you a lot offensively that many people don't realize. He hits to all fields, he moves runners over, he beats out double plays and he steals bases with great efficiency. In short, he's much better suited to a spot in the order that calls for a range of different situational skills, not one whose primary job is to swing for the fences. That role is more appropriate for Carlos Delgado, who's gonna give you more consistent power but far less consistent production in other departments.

But if it were just Wright hitting cleanup we were dealing with, I wouldn't be so concerned. The bigger picture problem here for me is that in Wright and Jose Reyes (slated to hit 3), the Mets are now set to have their best two players hitting outside their natural spots, and in Reyes' case, dramatically so. Throw in the idea coming out of camp that Carlos Beltran will hit 2nd and you've got the bulk of the Mets run production adjusting to uncomfortable roles.

I don't think I'm alone in being worried about the long-term ramifications - both on the field and off - of a decision to make your stars sacrifice for the good of your role players. Needless to say, that's not the way it normally works at the pro level of any team sport, let alone the most individually focused team sport.

We'll have to wait and see how this all plays out, but my guess is that the "turn everyone on their heads in the hope that we can squeeze a modicum of production out of Luis Castillo" experiment doesn't survive past Memorial Day.

Paging Benjamin Button to Second Base.

Given that the vast majority of big name free agents have landed in their respective new homes and Spring Training is well underway, I think it's fair to start talking a little baseball... or at least Mets baseball.

To me, its become increasingly evident that any serious playoff chances the Mets have in '09 rest on the rickety old legs of Luis Castillo.

If that scares you.... it should. After all, since his acquisition back in July of 2007 from Minnesota, Luis has given us mas-o-menos 20 games worth of major league caliber play. But despite looking downright ancient down the stretch that year, the hometeam rewarded him with a 4 year contract extension. To this day, I believe that's been one of the single most deranged moments of the Minaya era in Queens - almost Isaiah-esque. Luis rewarded Mets fans last year by spending most of his time on the DL, then making sporadic surprise cameos in which he absolutely stunk up the joint. And though the numbers were awful (.245 batting average, 11 TOTAL extra base hits), they don't begin to describe how painful it was to watch this guy gimp around like a washed up corporate league softball player. To describe this guy as decrepit at age 32 would have been charitable.

However, with a stubbornness that has become characteristic of this front office (*see their refusal to come to grips with the bullpen's terminal prognosis for a solid 2 years), the Mets are intent on squeezing some semblance of ROI out of this guy. There were other quality second basemen available on the market this year at relatively modest prices - Orlando Hudson being the most attractive - but Minaya and Co. didn't bite, instead forcing Jerry Manuel to get creative with what has been a human black hole in his everyday lineup.

And creativity is exactly what J-Man's given them, announcing at the start of Spring Training that he would experiment with a lineup featuring Castillo at the top and Jose Reyes in the 3 spot. Yes, that Jose Reyes. Arguably the best lead off hitter in baseball Jose Reyes. Willie Mays Hayes Reyes. I stole 80 bases hitting lead off in '07 Jose Reyes.

Give Manuel some credit here. This is a BALLSY move, and he knows it. This is not a move that he would have made, had he not thought it absolutely necessary. He's basically risking totally fucking up the psyche of most valuable (apologies to #5) player. Reyes is a prototypical lead off guy, and despite his youth, his charisma at the top of the Mets' order has really shaped the style and personality of this team over the past 3 years. Putting him at 3, where he is an awkward fit at best on paper, rightfully raises eyebrows among those that understand the unique demands of a #3 hitter compared with a #1 hitter.

Additionally, even at his most productive, Luis was a far different kind of lead-off guy than Jose. Though his speed wasn't terrible, he never was a big base stealer. And he certainly never went for a lot of 2+ baggers. He's pretty much been a singles guy his entire career, which puts a ton of pressure on the guys behind, namely Carlos Beltran and yep.... Jose Reyes.

Manuel is extremely popular in the clubhouse, so I don't foresee him having too big a problem pitching this shakeup to the players initially. The real risk is how Jose responds mentally to the transition. I don't think it's a stretch to say that this move seriously risks derailing Jose's progress as a superstar in the big leagues, both physically and psychologically. (Remember when Omar Epps starts trying to hit for power at the beginning of Major League 2?)

If it works, Manuel is a genius. If not, the fans and media are going to go crazier than that rabid chimp from Stamford. Right now, it's clear that he's not afraid to play the mad scientist. The question is whether that scientist went to MIT or ITT Tech. And all this just to find a way to keep Luis Castillo from completely sapping the team's run-manufacturing capabilities. It's indicative of just how awful Luis has been that J-Man would feel it necessary to take this kind of risk.

Now ALLEGEDLY, Luis looks healthier this year than he has since he came to New York. He's dropped almost 20 lbs and his knees have responded well to the extended R&R of that long, playoffs-free off season. J-Man is singing his praises for how spry he looks in the early going - like the Luis Castillo of yesteryear. But I'm inclined to believe that all that positivity is more likely part of an effort to buy Castillo some time over the first few months, rather than a reflection of genuine confidence on the part of the manager. If J-Man was confidence, Jose Reyes wouldn't be hitting 3.

So we're all just gonna have to hold our breaths and wait until we can see for our own eyes what type of player Castillo really is this year. If he can regain a semblance of his late-20s, Marlins/Twins form, when he hit .300 and could reach base consistently with bunts and slap hits, then I think the Mets lineup looks pretty functional - certainly functional enough to give the Phillies a run given our significant bullpen upgrades. But if the knees start wearing out again and he fails to give us anything offensively, then I have serious concerns, given the lack of punch from our corner outfielders, and the roller coaster production that Carlos Delgado brings.

I hope the former comes to pass, but given the track record, I think it's fair to be very nervous.

Oil and..... oil

Upon arriving back home to New York, I must confess that the idea of unemployment held a certain romantic mystique for me. After all, this is the city of Rent and unofficial capitol of la vie boheme. My lack of work presented a unique opportunity to enjoy the city without responsibility, while using my apartment as a personal zen chamber in which I could pass the days bettering myself through quiet, thoughtful introspection.

But as with so many plans that begin with "I'll just quit my job and hang out for a while...," there's always a rub. And in my case, it has come in the form of a 245 lb recovering drug and alcohol addict that has taken up permanent, half-naked residence in my living room. The human equivalent of the great Exxon Valdez oil spill of 1989, he sprawls out like a giant, harry tarp, rendering any hope of coexisting life futile. Not a moment goes by that he isn't posted up in the middle of my sanctuary, blaring noise at a near deafening pitch. Whether it's the most incoherent drivel that basic cable has to offer, or even better - an endless loop of electro-pop-rock crap: I can count on my daily auditory bombardment beginning promptly at 10:00 a.m and continuing on for the next 8 to 10 hours.

It's look of contentment as it flagrantly wastes its days - wallowing in its own sloth, oozing out a total indifference to any kind of self betterment or movement of any kind - never fails to shatter my chi in a million different directions, leaving me in a perpetual state of repulsion.

Do I resent it? HELL YES. This is my time - my opportunity to find clarity. And that time is being ruined day after day by a massive, omnipresent, inescapable blob.

But the worst part is that at the end of the day, there's really no tangible difference between the two of us, At the end, it... is ME. And regardless of how romantic my vision of my unemployment may be, when the cards are down, I am this human oil spill - no better. Its presence serves as a constant reminder of my own refusal to sack up and get moving. Because regardless of how I'd like to justify my lifestyle, every time I look down at that couch, I can't help feeling like I'm staring my alter-ego square in the eye. Like looking at one of those distorting mirrors at the State Fair fun house, it's difficult not to feel just a tad nauseous.

In the words of the legendary Snoop Dogg, "He is I and I am him."

And I fucking can't stand it.

You down with OPP?

A few too many drinks combined with the promise of riches beyond our wildest dreams set off a chain of events that ended with two upstanding young do-gooders being dragged from the jewel of New Orleans' downtown skyscape and crammed into a patrol car like evil spirits into Pandora's Box. It was the first time either Tammer or I had breached the doorway of famed Harrah's Casino Resort, but we never got the chance to lay eyes on the roulette tables that had called out to us with their siren song. Our removal was unceremonious, and by the time we reached the notorious Orleans Parish Prison (or OPP as it is less than affectionately known) our anebriation had long since plateaued and we were suspended in a state of groggy fear. It was around 5:30 a.m. when our personal effects were taken and we were led into what would be our home for the next 20 hours.

My first observation upon assuming a post in the corner nearest the cell exit was that this was no college drunk tank. I quickly scoured the room, looking for the requisite group of frat boys who had been picked up for being a little too forward with their requests of the Burboun Street ladies. Alas, none to be found and thus, no obvious candidates for commiseration. Instead, what my eyes found was a collection of about 60 men that looked like they'd been pulled straight out of central casting for "The Wire." Then there was Tammer, who like myself, was shaking like a pale, sickly leaf under the blinding fluorescent rays.

My second observation was that I was freezing my fucking scrotum off, and that if I didn't start making things happen in a hurry, I was going to have to be excavated from the cell. Most of the crowd had already attempted (with varying degrees of success) to tuck themselves into their tee shirts, rendering them as chattering amputees laying or standing in whatever spot they had convinced themselves was least susceptible to the industrial AC vents. Tammer and I quickly followed suit.

My third observation was that the man next to me had commenced masturbating and that I had better find a new place to shiver, should I value remaining out of the line of fire. At this point, I would have started to cry, but dehydration saved the day.

Seeing this spectacle, Tammer's survival instinct kicked in and he quickly slid along the wall to a spot underneath a bench, where he could watch the scene unfolding while hiding underneath the feet of a few unknowing inmates. Sharing his nook with discarded bologna sandwiches and stale urine, Tammer had the look of a lemur that had been smeared in fish guts and thrown into a polar bear cage. Watching him balling up into the fetal position, I was equal parts disgusted by how quickly he'd sacrificed his dignity and admiring of his will to live through the day. Regardless of which sentiment was most appropriate, the fact remained that I was left to my own devices for the next several hours.

Still freezing, still nearly blind from the intensity of the bulbs above, I commenced a feeble effort to play nicely with my fellow inmates. There was 'Spoon, the pocket sized thug who passed his time hurling half eaten sandwiches at anyone who dared fall asleep in his line of vision (each time squealing with laughter and then running over to comfort the disoriented victim). Then there was Shiloh, one of the few white inmates and a guy who was just a little too willing to recite his history of petty assault charges. All in all, a pleasant enough crowd, but not one that I was eager to make happy hour plans with upon our release. I couldn't speak for Tammer, though, who had now reached an uneasy sleep on his bed of soggy rainbow bread.

Over the subsequent 15 hours, I watched: a Korean American guard beat the shit out of a mentally challenged Mexican inmate for reasons unknown, a black inmate calling said guard a "chink faggot that should go eat a fucking egg roll," a female guard tell me that I looked like a deer in headlights and that I needed to "sack up," more men shitting than I wish to see in my entire life, a 300 pounder and a 150 pounder huddling together for warmth, a mad scramble for mystery meat and the total emasculation of my friend Tammer.

When we were finally released sometime during the middle of the next night, we kissed the free ground like we'd just escaped from Shawshank. After a 45 minute walk back to the parking spot where the car had been left 24 hours earlier, we two novice convicts made our way to the nearest all night diner. We then straggled back to our respective apartments, burned our clothes, showered... 4 times... and went to sleep.

Neither one of us plan on visiting to OPP ever again. For that matter, I don't think we'll be making a return visit to Harrah's New Orleans Casino anytime soon either.

Mt. Russ-more

I'm going to keep this short and sweet. The Tim Russert coverage has gone WAY overboard - not "a tad." Not "slightly." Not "moderately." And certainly not "understandably." It has bounced off a trampoline and done a full gainer off the edge of the ship into arctic water below and is now paddling frantically somewhere in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay.

Tim Russert was a good reporter, no doubt about it. By today's spectacularly low standards, he might even be considered a great reporter. And you know what? It sounds like he was a damn good guy too. His passing was no doubt a loss to the increasingly impotent television news industry. But Edward R. Murrow he was not. Not for one second.

You would never know that, though, from the nob slobbing festival that MSNBC and to a lesser degree, every other television news outlet in the country has engaged in over the past 7 days (and counting).

I for one have reached the point of nausea, dizziness and paralyzing fatigue as a result of this coverage, symptoms I normally associate with taking an over abundance of prescription male enhancement medication. Unfortunately, THIS nausea does not come complete with an erection lasting more than four hours.

I'm gonna be honest with you, Beltway media: After day 2, the barrage of funny Tim anecdotes, references to his "everyman appeal," and constant reminders of how much he taught you begins to grate on those of us who have watched your total emasculation at the hands of an extremist administration.

How dare you use Russert's death as an excuse for such blatant self-congratulation even as you're being exposed for failing to seriously cover the Iraq war, failing to cover climate change before hurricanes and tsunamis smacked you in the face with it, failing to cover the global oil shortage before $4/gallon gas sprayed up your ass, and failing to cover the sputtering economy before Europeans flooded over our borders to use our currency as toilet paper.

I hate to burst your bubble, BUT THERE ARE NO CONGRATULATIONS IN ORDER HERE. And quite frankly, if in all the infinite wisdom that Tim bestowed on his colleagues, he never taught you the value of serious, issue driven reporting during, then the praise should be muted for him as well.

At the end of the day, despite his clear knack for reporting the political game, Tim (like all the rest of you) failed to address any of the actual real-world issues at hand beyond a passing catch phrase. He, like the rest of you, was so obsessed with the political game that he lost sight of the fact that journalism means more than "We Report, You Decide," it means separating TRUTH from nonsense and reporting it to the people, regardless of whether the truth happens to be liberal or conservative.

In watching highlights of the funeral coverage (yes, you showed us highlights of the coverage after you showed us the coverage in its entirety), it was striking what a star studded affair it was. G-Dubya was there. Barack was there. McCain was there. I half expected William and Harry to show up. The event was a veritable who's who of Washington elites.

And then I thought to myself, "Why do all these politicians like this guy so much?" Should a reporter really be so beloved by the guys he is reporting, especially given that a number of them have gotten away with borderline felonious acts that have gone virtually unnoticed by the press? What does that say about the state of journalism when our most revered journalist is beloved by the people to whom he is charged with speaking truth?

Which brings me to another beef. In case you've forgotten, news media (and it wouldn't surprise me if you had, given your complete disinterest in covering it), there are still people DYING in Iraq today, and YOU were the incompetent boobs who have failed halt those deaths by refusing to hold anyone accountable for anything. Although that's really not fair of me to say - you did hold some people accountable. You held Al Gore accountable for saying he invented the Internet. (Even though he didn't.) You held Howard Dean accountable for going crazy after a primary loss. (Even though he didn't.) You held John Kerry accountable for being a phony war hero. (Even though he wasn't.) But you never held anyone accountable when it came to the war. And you still don't, even now that you've been called out by the President's own henchman.

You mourn for Tim. You talk about Tim the sports fan and Tim the family man and Tim the blue collar guy from Buffalo. Meanwhile, another soldier dies overseas.

But please, don't let that stop you from the LIVE funeral coverage. Because what could be more important than yourselves?

NBA Final....ly

Another NBA season mercifully concludes, leaving me to ponder yet again why I almost always end up sleeping through the last two rounds. It seems like every goddamn season, David Stern must be calling his deputies into his office and asking: "How can we make this one even longer than the last one???"

This year was a two month marathon that began in April with scintillating match ups like Celtics/Hawks (yes the Hawks team that fell well short of winning 40 games) and Lakers/Nuggets (yes the Nuggets team whose opponents averaged 237 point a contest against them). Ten years ago, when the first round was best 3 out of 5, series' like these would have been painful enough. Now, with every round featuring grueling 4 out of 7 marathons, they're downright unbearable.

Let's get one thing straight. These are BAD teams in the first round. Regardless of the rise of the Celtics in the East, that is still a horrible conference top to bottom, and things ain't changing anytime soon. We have reached a point in professional basketball - like in baseball - that expansion has diluted the talent pool beyond the tipping point. The difference with pro baseball is that they don't allow 16 freakin teams into the post season regardless of record, so there's a buffer in place to prevent fans from having to endure Red Sox/Royals in late September.

At the end of the day, there just aren't enough quality players to fill 16 playoff rosters. And with the increasing financial viability of the European leagues (plus the decreasing viability of the all mighty dollar against the Euro), the number of quality international players eager to jump the pond has likely plateaued.

The NBA's insistence on subjecting us to such a ridiculous post-season itinerary demonstrates a flagrant disrespect for the fans as far as I'm concerned. Yes, its about the money with any big time sport, but nowhere is such filatio of corporate sponsors so transparent as in the NBA playoffs. Even as a self-described sports aficionado, it would take a 60 day aderol binge for me to stay tuned in to this Batan Death March of a schedule.

Before

TNT boasts about its "40 games in 40 nights" (not including the finals mind you), but they fail to answer WHY?!?! WHY 40 GAMES?!?? WHY 40 NIGHTS?!?! This isn't fucking Lent!! Watching basketball isn't supposed to be equivalent to a prolonged period of self-deprivation! You don't even show 40 Law and Order episodes in 40 nights - why the fuck do we need 40 games, especially when half of these teams are reliant on Vladimir/Boris/Hanz/Uliaf [Fill in the Blank]ovichs that NEVER show up come playoff time anyway?!?! WHY DO I NEED THIS MANY GAMES?!?!?

After

And I don't think I'm alone in this sentiment, whether others chose to admit it or not. Consider the following:

David Stern is the only professional commissioner forced to perpetually pray to the heavens that he has big market franchises in the finals. Only during the NBA playoffs does talk surface of the "need" for LA or New York or Chicago or Boston to make a run. Only the NBA does one hear a barrage of speculation about the need for a clash of mega-cities to lift the nation's interest after from the Stage 5 disaster that was Spurs/Pistons in 2005. God forbid any mid-market franchise make a run, lest the fans lose interest faster than a black kid watching PHIL as the main attraction at the British next month.

At the end of the day, it's not because the fans don't want to see good basketball - its that they are so goddamn bored by the time the finals role around, that nobody has the energy left to pay attention unless their team or their favorite player is left standing. Of course, there's bound to be a fluxuation in ratings/interest in any televised sports tournament. (Nobody's disputing that Bud Selig wouldn't love to see Yankees/Dodgers or Sox/Cubs every year.) But we're not talking nearly the same extent as occurs in pro hoops. The NFL draws big numbers regardless of what teams play, as does the World Series, as do both the college football and basketball post season events. Only in the NBA is the entire viability of the playoffs determined by whether or not the big markets teams are involved.

The fact is that the NBA playoff format is just plain tiered and headed for a serious decline in relevance should the League not look to pre-emptively reinvent its post season.

I saw today that the Finals helped boost ABC above FOX last week for the first time in like twelve and a half years. Well no shit. It's easy to be #1 in the middle of June when your chief competitor is running "Malcolm in the Middle" marathons 3 days a week.

This is one of the single bleakest stretches in the sporting calendar: no football, baseball still months away from any having any import and no marquis college sports. Really we're talking basketball and hockey, and with the NHL drawing less interest than your average Bravo reality series, the Stanley Cup hardly qualifies as real competition.

Sports fans should be excited about the finals REGARDLESS of who is playing.

The NBA has got to tighten this thing up if they expect to maintain fan interest over the long term. At a minimum, the first two rounds should be reduced back to 3 out of 5. That's just a given. But if the commish had half the balls I do (even though we all know he does NOT), he would consider a more dramatic face lift.

That is why I am (stealing from those who have already voiced this idea) formally proposing that Mr. Stern take a page out of the NCAA playbook and re-structure the NBA postseason as a single elimination tournament. Invite all 30 teams, seeded according to regular season record, regardless of conference, and let the chaos begin! I mean, if you're willing to let teams like Atlanta into the playoffs, you might as well give them a chance to advance - otherwise not only are the early match ups horrible, but they are also irrelevant. The single elimination tournament gives every entrant a shot at moving on. (If you want, you could make the semi-finals and finals best 2 out of 3, but even that probably isn't necessary.)

Don't tell me this format wouldn't send ratings through the roof. If everyone made the playoffs, each regular season game would be critical to seeding, giving fans a reason to cheer all the way through the final buzzer of the 81st contest, regardless of a team's shitiness. Think of the boost this would give to lower-tiered teams, whose fans generally tune out after the all-star break. And what about the perpetual creation of new marketable stars through such a format. Who'd ever heard of Davidson's Stephan Curry before this year's NCAA tournament?? Probably Andy Katz and the editor of Colonial Hoops Weekly. Two weeks later, he was the darling of the basketball universe. A single-elimination round could have a similar king-maker effect on lesser known NBA standouts. And you wouldn't have to rely on a bankable Celtics/Lakers finale,because the underdog stories would undoubtedly be just as intriguing to fans.

As an added bonus, this format would take care of the league's concern about teams tanking games down the stretch to secure a higher draft pick, because regardless of their ineptitude, they would still have something to play for, even if it was only the remote chance of a first round upset.

So please, commissioner, take head of my plea. I cannot fathom the idea of another tortuously long NBA post-season. With the rancid taste of Tim Donaghy fresh our mouths, your credibility is hanging by a thread. What better way to put your enduring stamp on the league than undertaking an overhaul that would reinvigorate the teams, the fans, and even the bookies who your refs hold so dear?

I'd also like you to buy the rights to "One Shining Moment" and encourage ABC to bring on Patrick Raferty to replace the INANE Doug Collins on its broadcasts. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

An Army of One

A telling statistic about the Obama/Clinton primary race, based on a poll I conducted of one voter: myself.

When asked to name as many non-elected Clinton campaign advisors as possible off the top of my head, I was able to list the following:

Terry McCullough
Harold Ickes
Mark Penn
Howard Wolfson
Maggie Williams
Lanny Davis

Six. And to be honest, I don't even know what each of 'em do, I just know they were around, because I've heard about in one way or another every week since January.

When asked to rattle off the same list for Obama, I came up with the following:

David Axelrod

That's a grand total of one - his campaign manager.

What does this mean? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps it's just that Clinton's staff are more widely recognizable in the political world. But personally, I think it's more than that. I mean, seriously - regardless of how much CNN I watch, I should not be able to name 6 Clinton campaign advisers.

I think it's indicative of the contrast between these two campaigns. While the Obama team worked as a cohesive, behind the scenes unit dedicated to promoting their guy, the Clinton team was so wrought with self proclaimed big wigs, that the candidate often found herself sharing the spotlight with the very people that were supposed to be shining it on her.

Was this the difference between winning and losing? Who knows. But regardless, it's an interesting distinction and should serve as a lesson for future candidates assembling their teams.