Lost - "The Constant"

What Aaron Liked: Anytime we get a minimum of Jack/Kate/Sawyer/Locke and a maximum of pretty much anyone else, I approve. After last week's stinkbomb, Henry Ian Cusick's performance this week was an absolute joy to watch. I was pretty ambivalent towards the "sees-the-future Desmond" of last season (and I abhorred "hatch Desmond" from season two), but Cusick's back-and-forth between the past and the present actually had me rooting for a character on this show for the first time in forever. Favorite scene: Desmond trying to convince 1996 Penny (Sonya Walger, who was phenomenal in her short amount of screen time) to wait for his phone call. And, whaddaya know…some forward storyline progression on the island, too.

What Aaron Didn't Like: Time travel stories like this one rely heavily on the viewer to look the other way and not think too hard. Back to the Future and Terminator immediately spring to mind as movies that, with a few minutes of thought, completely fall apart at their premise. That said, the ridiculous "You can't change the future!" explanation used last night was weak. And, maybe I'm in the minority on this one, but stereotypically squirrelly scientist Daniel Faraday (played by Jeremy Davies) was an anchor whenever he was on-screen this week. Nervous tics and bed-head = unappreciated genius? Still? In 2008? Also wasn't feeling Fisher Stevens' "communications guy-gone-cuckoo" character, but his wild-eyed exposition was appreciated.

Verdict: Nitpickery aside, this was easily the best episode of the season. I can't squeal enough over Henry Ian Cusick's performance last night – just a superb turn that really puts Sawyer's troglodyte grunts and Kate's buck-toothed bravado in proper perspective. I kept waiting for Harold Perrineau's "Michael" to return as Ben's mole on the boat or the radio saboteur, but I'm happy to be wrong when the good is this good.

That Birthday Boy

I've got friends out there who have blogs. Their blogs are used for "family updates", photos, etc. These people sicken me. They're the ones who sent you the "Year in Review" letter inside their Christmas card back in December. Tell you what: let's stand unified in our hatred, while collectively looking the other way as I offer up this family photo update from my son's 4th birfday:

Daddy's matching shirt=not so cute and racially divisive

Forgot his birthday? You'd be surprised what kind of magic is made with junk mail envelopes and a stapler. Thanks, Grandma

Might be time to take these khaki slacks out in the crotch a little

See that little red car by Jalen's foot? Only birthday present he still plays with everyday. $3.99. Easily could've stopped there...


New bike. I think he's rode it once (and by "rode", I mean got on and fell off). Nice untucked shirt, no shoes look for me, though.

This Nick'a Did It First

Over the weekend, the always-awesome sports humor site, Deadspin, posted a link to an extended review of B-Ball's Best Kept Secret. It was the usual "OMG, look how bad it is when basketball players try to rap" piece written by someone who knows nothing about rap.

Now, I'm not trying to say the album was good, it's just that better, more knowledgeable writers have already covered this sarcastic territory. In fact, nearly four years ago, my Friday Music News co-conspirator wrote that this excellent piece (scroll down about 1/2 way through) celebrating the album's 10-year anniversary. The following week, due to some of the best feedback I'd ever received on anything Bootleg-related, there was a song-by-song follow-up (again, about 1/2 way through the column).

I just axe that you ignore ALL of the way-dated jokes that I wrote before and after the "Nick'a Please" segments. Hard to believe those Farnsworth Bentley, Kara Wolters and Cosby Kids quips of mine haven't stood the test of time.

On the other hand, my all-too-rare reference to the first of my three straight 411/Inside Pulse "Writer of the Year" awards is simply timeless.

Lost - "Eggtown"

What Aaron Liked: As has been the case since his debut in the middle of season two, Michael Emerson's manipulative spin on "Ben" is always a kick. His nitpicking indignation at the "$3.2 million" demand was terrific. John Locke seems to be falling apart, which is OK by me. How's it feel to not have any of your damn questions answered, Johnny? Kind of feel like you're entitled to the occasional revelation or two? Why don't YOU just "trust the writers", John?!

What Aaron Didn't Like: Sorry, kids, but this was one of those episodes. Kate-centric? Steee-rike one. Now, I'm not going to complain about being jerked around by the network, but didn't last week's teaser promise another "Oceanic Six" reveal? And, it's Kate…who was already revealed as such at the end of season three. I know the writers are really damned if they do and damned if they don't, but considering there are still unanswered questions being teased and hinted (yet, never resolved) each week, the whole Law & Order 30-minute trial of Kate felt like a whole lotta deus ex machina.

And, don't get me started on that big "reveal" at the end. I mean, sure, they played the standard "shocking" music and immediately cut away to the "LOST" screen as if it were a "Luke, I'm your father" moment, but no one was surprised by this, right? Someone online wrote, "I totally didn't see that coming!" Really? Then, you're an idiot. Strike Two.

Let's just lump "strike three" all together at the end. I'll give the writers credit for at least using some dialogue to acknowledge how ridiculous the concept of Kate, Claire and Sawyer sittin' on the front porch, sippin' coffee on a tropical autumn morn was to watch. I will now remove said credit for including it anyway. And, Ben's line (paraphrased) that everything is as it was before, except "he's just in a different room" was all too true.

Lightning round of rhetorical questions: How did Hurley go from ersatz bad-ass a few episodes ago only to u-turn right back into the buffoon who gets "Scooby-Doo'd"? How much longer is "Sawyer with his shirt off" going to be considered a viable plot-forwarding device? Which is the real Locke: the knife-throwing killer of mocha-colored chicks with cockney accents or the indecisive nancy who throws breakfast trays in frustration, while trusting bulbous loads like Hurley to keep a secret?

Verdict: Boo.

Michael Jordan Saves Black People From Themselves!

My new issue of ESPN – The Magazine arrived last week and I was jarred by the cover. Michael Jordan – the greatest athlete of our lifetime – looks old. His cheeks and jaw line are obviously softer, while the once piercing intensity of his eyes has been extinguished…replaced with the yellowing glaze of middle age mixed with nicotine.

Inside this issue, Jordan gives a first-person account on the state of the NBA. His is an odd opinion to seek out on this matter, since his last stint as an active player – with the Washington Wizards – was a fantastic disaster in no small part due to his failure to connect with younger, Hip Hop-centric teammates, opponents and fans.

Still, I'd probably have a lot less of a problem with this piece if Jordan had stayed on topic (the NBA), instead of trying to…well, you'll see. With apologies to FJM for the format theft…and, once again, Jordan is ostensibly the "author" of this article:

The NBA doesn't have an image problem.

It has young guys who have young ideas. Maturity comes later, and sometimes too late to realize you should've done this or you should've done that.

Last weekend's All-Star Game in New Orleans seems to have scared up all sorts of pro-NBA angles. And, whether it's from Michael Jordan or Bill Simmons or ESPN's other myriad of media tentacles, the obvious conflict-of-interest aspect can't be ignored. The league needs its signature brand (which could be either Jordan or ESPN on any given day) to sing the company line.

But, as long as the NBA is populated with large, tattooed Black guys in scary hairstyles, it'll always have "an image problem" with a large segment of the American population. Y'see, somewhere between Latrell Spreewell, Allen Iverson and Ron Artest is when every African-American in the league got painted with the ol' "thug" brush.

Kids shouldn't come out of school as early as they do. A year in college isn't enough. They shouldn't be allowed to come out until they are adults—21 years old.
Now, why shouldn't a black kid who isn't wealthy have a chance to provide for his family? That is an issue; I'm not walking away from that.

Check the article yourself, kids. Jordan walks away and doesn't offer up a solution. I don't pretend to have an answer, either, but I find it interesting that Major League Baseball has no qualms with sending a Spanish-speaking 17-year-old from the Dominican Republic to Rookie Ball in Idaho Falls (a city and state that I'd feel uncomfortable walking around at night).

I was a mature guy coming out of North Carolina, so when a negative thing happened—someone misinterprets what gambling means to me—it didn't stick. But I was a lot more mature when it happened. If I'd been in that position and had been asked that question at 18 or 19, I may have had a very different way of handling it.

By most accounts, the Jordan gambling stories didn't break nationally until the end of the 1992-93 season – when MJ was 30. I'm not sure what Jordan's point is here other than teenagers might not be able to deal with intense media scrutiny, but Jordan's example renders that point moot. Of course, players are more equipped to deal with similar controversies when they're older. And, one might argue, the sooner they came into the league, the sooner they could adjust to the bright lights and attention.

When I turned pro, the league was looking for a change. I had the personality and the game and a style of play, and all that came together at the same time. All the stars lined up and catapulted everything that came after—23 different shoes, Jordan Brand, everything. It's a phenomenon. How do you explain a phenomenon? You can't.

Ummm, it sure sounds like MJ did a decent enough job of explaining the "phenomenon" of himself. I'd take issue with a few points, though. Jordan really had no discernable "personality" during his playing days. He spat recycled athlete clichés in interviews and carefully used his hand-picked friends in the media to cultivate an image that he wanted us to see.

And, while it might seem unfathomable today, Jordan's "game and style of play" were openly criticized as selfish ball-hogging, before the Bulls put championship-caliber teammates around His Airness. Jordan oversimplifies how he got where he is when, in actuality, it was a meticulously crafted marketing plan by millionaires and billionaires including, but not limited to: NBA Commissioner David Stern and league ownership, Nike CEO Phil Knight, Coca-Cola, McDonald's, Jordan's longtime agent David Falk and Jordan, himself.

One thing to learn from me is that everything I've ever done has been me, not something that someone calculated me to be.

Four words, Mike: "Republicans buy sneakers, too."

It goes to my upbringing, my parents. I didn't grow up in the inner city. I grew up in a rural area, where values were magnified. You were taught how to operate in society, to be articulate, honest. Kids growing up in the city, they're more materialistic.

In summary: You Godless, amoral blue-state heathens should be more like Michael Jordan. And, if you f*ckin' spooks would pull up your pants and add "ing" to the end of your verbs, you'd be more about honesty and values than wanting to drop $200 on my new shoes…exclusively at Foot Locker!

I can wear a suit today and jeans with holes tomorrow, and yet people know they are seeing the real me in either outfit. I had cornrows when I was a kid, but it was before anyone knew who I was; would the public or corporate America accept me if I had them today? If I was willing to say, "This is who I am, I'm not trying to be so-and-so," maybe, but even then I'm not sure. When you see Michael Jordan today, you see Michael Jordan as a totally honest person, and when I say honest I mean real, genuine. I am who I am, and that's comprehensible to the masses and in many languages.

I wanted to break this up, sentence-by-sentence, but it holds up better all together. I mean, really…is there anyone on earth who knows the "real" Michael Jordan? His ex-wife obviously didn't and it's not a stretch to assume his kids didn't either. So, you'll forgive me if I don't believe that the "masses" know him any better.

And, his need to mention that he wore cornrows as a kid just kills me. "Hey, America…I was REALLY Black when I was younger. Would the public accept me if I grew up to be Allen Iverson?" I'm finna say "no", Mike.

It's a tough task for the league to create a similar image for itself. It has to find the right mix between corporate and street, believe in what it's doing and live with whatever the response may be.

The "response" is that the league has an image problem. Your entire article is a rebuttal to that opinion. The NBA has gone to great lengths to "clean up" the league in an attempt to make it safe and palatable for the middle-class white families and upper-class white sponsors who feed the league its revenue. No one – including you – is "living with whatever the response may be".

TBG Reviews: The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters

The ol' Netflix queue has become top-heavy with documentaries and an exceptionally fascinating one arrived in my mailbox over the weekend.

The King of Kong tells the tale of two men (Billy Mitchell and Steve Wiebe) and their respective attempts to defend and challenge for the title of "Donkey Kong World Champion". Of course, most of you are already making the same mistake Mrs. Bootleg made after catching two minutes of the movie from the corner of her eye – "They made a documentary about a video game?!"

The decades-old arcade game is merely the backdrop for this extended peek into the frighteningly insular world of two men who are obsessed with each other, while completely oblivious to how awesome their lives already are. Wiebe is a respected 7th grade science teacher, with an inexplicably understanding wife and two great kids. The mulleted Mitchell is a restaurateur and chicken wing sauce magnate, whose wife has huge porn star boobs. Why do these guys need video games?

The answer is a lot more complicated than you might think.

Mitchell, the reigning champion, revels in his ersatz stardom and rules his Donkey Kong kingdom with an aluminum-sided trailer park fist. The overt reverence that other old school gamers (and his parents!) hold for him is unquestionably pathetic, but there's never a sense that anyone realizes how absurd it all looks, which, believe it or not, is a big part of the movie's charm.

Wiebe is probably the more "normal" of the two, but his quiet, everyman aura belies an insanely obsessive need to beat Mitchell. Wiebe ups and flies off to gaming tournaments on the other side of the country at regular intervals, all the while trying to rationalize away his addiction with the same words heard from those who favor booze n' drugs. (In fact the movie's best line comes from Wiebe's young daughter, who casually mentions how often people "ruin their lives" to get into the Guinness Book of World Records).

Wiebe's sad-sack Wile E. Coyote chases Mitchell the Road Runner throughout the movie. At one point, Wiebe appears to have wrestled away the championship, only to be foiled on a technicality that could ONLY happen in a world inhabited by omnipotent, self-appointed commissioners and referees. In fact, the question of whether Wiebe and Mitchell will ever meet in an 8-bit mano a mano builds to the movie's somewhat anticlimactic conclusion.

Still, the ride to the end is helluva lot more fun that it had any right to be. Personally, I was mildly disappointed that the ending of the actual movie required not one, but two postscripts (the first in the form of on-screen text, the second as part of the DVDs "special features"), but I still didn't mind the 80-minute investment of time.

Must-see viewing for anyone who remembers the arcade craze of the early '80s. For the rest of you, it's easily worth a rental.

C-Webb Radio is Sic! (sic)

I've previously mentioned that I'm an XM Radio subscriber. It's cool, I s'pose. Mrs. Bootleg got it for me a few birfdays ago, primarily for the Major League Baseball. Unfortunately, that's a bit of a blessing and a curse, as I can no longer procrastinate on weekend errands with "I'll leave in 10 minutes. I wanna see Kurt Suzuki hit in the eighth." (Screw you, readers…my A's will be good again, someday!)

As for the music, I spend most of my time with XM's dual "urban" stations. And, this past Saturday, I was handsomely rewarded for my hood loyalty with the debut of "C-Webb Radio" on XM's Raw (Channel 66). Y'see, it's hosted by former good basketball player Chris Webber.

You know the routine: "celebrity" DJ promotes his new endeavor while spinning albums in a desperate attempt to remain relevant.

Well, the great thing is that C-Webb had nothing to do (this week's edition was recorded before he signed with Golden State Warriors a few weeks ago), so all we were left with was desperation!

Now, for the record, I listened to maybe an hour of his two-hour show. It was entirely on my way to and from the barber shop. I didn't jot any notes down, but the following were all random quotes and moments from Chris Webber, the host of "C-Webb Radio". (Most are from memory and, consequently, paraphrased, but it's all as close as I can get it…)

"When you talk about that old school West Coast gangsta sound, just one word comes to mind: Ice Cube." (Awkward pause as some producer's gotta be talking in Webber's ear.) "That's two words?"

"I'mma play something from m'man Common. But, I don't wanna play one of his songs that y'all have heard a million times. How 'bout this one…?" (opening notes of "I Used to Love H.E.R." hit…)

"You know what song I'm feeling right now? You know what song I wanna play for all y'all, right now? I wanna play that new one from Beanie Sigel featuring Styles P. Umm, I don't know the name of it, but it's HOT, though! C'mon, DJ…it's like track four on Beanie's last album."

"Aww, yeah…that was off that, uhh…Outkast…uhh…'Aqua-MAN-nee' album. 'A-QUEE-meen…' I mean, I can't pronounce it, but it was HOT!"

"That's my n*gga, Andre 2000…"

"We're nearing the end of the show, it's the ninth inning stretch…"

OK…I get that not all of y'all follow rap, so the above Ralph Kiner-isms probably went right by you. But, trust me…I just scratched the surface with C-Webb. Better than anything else I mentioned were the times (plural!) when he'd introduce a song, then proceed to spit an entire verse from said song before it began. And, by my count, he was getting every third word wrong. For f*ck's sake, who doesn't know the words to "Nuthin' But A G Thang"?!

Hello, weekly TBG feature!