Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Picture Me Bowlin (feat. The Hype) New Joint FROM THE RETAR CREW

Friday, June 14, 2013

Reggie Lewis Dies. Summer 93. (Young Guns)

Panic will trick you when it begins to auspiciously aid your existence. As I left my room before our first summer league game I looked in the mirror, “fuck,” once again speechless, our new uniforms were incredible. Like always my bright white sneakers are complimented by the traditional black band that we all wear around our left calf. The shorts were just a mesh of a delight. Seeing the black #22 embroidered on our shorts always lends a remainder as to exactly what it is that we’re trying to prove up in this peace. The spanking new blue and white reversible tank tops are easily the best looking in the league. My sly grin and petite face put me at a loss for words. My hair was styled with about two tons of mousse that provided a cool, hard spike to my short blonde hair.

Walking downstairs to my kitchen my mother sits stunned and has her hand halfway towards cupping her mouth. This typically precipitated awful news and I was alert to anything resembling anymore. As I think, “Ma what now?” “Oh hunny I can’t believe it.” “What?”

“I don’t know if its true but the newsman just said that Reggie Lewis died.” She points to the TV where it was being reported that Reggie Lewis has just died from massive cardiac arrest. “What?” The word jettisoned out of my mouth. My eyes darted in her direction. “Oh poor Reggie” my mother genuinely cries out. I cranked the television standing in disbelief. Last season was Reggie Lewis’s first as an all-star. A six-foot eight, shooting guard, a pure scorer, number thirty-five. Hanging out with him even for just an hour lent us an affirmation as to why we all liked him so much. It can’t be true but knew somewhere inside it was. I hugged my mother pondering our curse. It’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true.

I blocked it out. Repression is underrated. I gave my mother a smile and a kiss informing her that I have a very important game to attend. She told me she loved me the most as Magic finally after screaming at me to hurry up from the driveway walks into the kitchen and chills out instantaneously when he senses our exposed fragility.

“What now?” There was fire in his tone. “Oh boys I’m so sorry, please don’t do anything stupid.” “Ma shh!”

And just like that channel 7 news comes back on and confirmed that our hero Reggie Lewis had died hours ago at the Celtics practice facility on the campus of Brandies University. The same gym where just two years ago I landed my face on the cover of the town paper after winning beating Medford to advance the mighty Madison Minutemen along in the state tournament.

“Holy fucking shit.” Magic deadly states. I was unable to muster a sentence. “Holy fucking shit.” Magic repeated again, the second Boston Celtics to die in six years, and all-star and local hero having attended the remotely mentioned in big time hoops, Northeastern University. My mother had every right to panic. I’d seen the inside of a courtroom. “Oh boys, please give me a hug” crying she feels so awful as a mother that these things after everything else are happening to her boys, “It’s OK ma we’ll be OK, the game tonight will be good to us.” “We’ll be fine Ms. Makers, he’ll call later.” Magic always knowing the right thing to say and like that we drive off to our summer contest minus one hero.

Once we’re inside the field house we notice that a very nice crowd has shown for tonight’s, due to the rain, indoor contest. We roll up to the dawgs and I tell Goldy, his father and Spec about Reggie Lewis. The original Goldy snapped back informing me bluntly not to joke about something like that. Once Magic man compounds my sentiments as we all stand stunned. We inform the entire squad of the news and methodically begin warm ups. The final whistle blows before tip off and we bring it in as customary. With our hands high in the sky we ask Santo to watch over us and pray that Reggie has at least one admirer already present up top. Before we break huddle something stink’s hellish odor and Spec remarks, “somebody’s right guard took a left yo.” It destroyed me in a good way.

We were playing the only remaining undefeated team that summer. We shot 70% from three and destroyed the Blazers, years our elder. Our shooting performance was out of orbit. We put on a clinic.

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Weak in the Knees Summer 93’

“See you at Farias camp.” The one thing I wrote inside the flap of Magic’s 7th grade yearbook.

The school year ending was a true technicality. Numb, and dead to all that surrounded me, the good had petered out. Savagely I loved it, my life according to me, had not been fair. I’d lost the fight for family the Young Guns had furnished me with. Santo’s death only established how vulnerable I was without one. And besides as my mother in our weak moments had often pointed out, “all of those kids even the idiot’s on that team have families!” And she was right. For some sick reason history had run itself back on my mother, the orphan baby, and son.

I’d begun smoking cigarettes, and this was a shocker to everyone around me. I often as a kid tore up my mothers. I had the urge to begin breaking windows again like freshman year. I was primed to go the other way. I was still on probation and didn’t give a fuck. Family was a fa├žade but the mob wasn’t. And in Madison it was hard to believe beyond the bankers, lawyers, mansions and landscapes a wise guy was behind it all. The game never changed. And I played the game harnessing the leverage my wisdom cloaked but in my heart, I was no longer inspired. And that was dangerous. For me, I knew that was extremely dangerous. Without that inspiration I was just like every other never amount to shit far fetched fucko I was far too familiar with. I don’t give a fuck my once panacea to panic was now working against me.

I just want to mourn. I feel like telling my therapists in ACE that I endeavor to become a crime boss, live till thirty and then got mowed down by an Uzi coming out of a black tie affair. I want my chest to be rattled like a sharper image chair message. I’ll be wearing cufflinks.

The motions had gone through me. I was absent. The Young Gun’s a synagogue of energy and talent had been destroyed. We were all so lethargic. We’d lost our lion heart and perhaps our spirit. The energy, smiles, loyalty and passion that had attracted my only true family was gone. And school ended. And there was Monster, Hatty, Tick, Scully, Skeetah, B-Dawg, my boy C, Magic, Spec and Goldy we clung together isolated as the thing I sought so, attention craved us wantonly. Our tears were shed privately and together. No one on the outside deserved to see me like that after so many years of judging the trouble.

There were enough of us remaining having lost Black and Hank and unaware of their whereabouts to weather any breakdown from anyone including my own. And I was grateful for that. I was just sad and lifeless, sad for my lost inspiration and crushing of my hoops dreams an end to my stupid movie, real life never is one. And I hated that. At least Larry Bird visited me in intensive care. At least we just kicked it with Reggie Lewis. That was cool.

And suddenly one Sunday night that all changed. It never dawned on me people need something to do. I’d just turned seventeen. But it’s powerful, purpose, jobs. My mother reminded in a Sunday night fog. I’d suddenly had the ultimate in get out of free excuses I’d forever milk. My best friend just died. Get the fuck out of my face. I’m crazy.

“Bob’s camp is to tomorrow sweety, I won’t ask, just get some rest.” “tomorrow?” I went quickly to bed. It was the first time I’d smiled in months. I was a basketball instructor from 9-3 all week at the Big Guy’s summer camp. Hatching in to that memory vault I knew I’d soon be sound asleep.

Our childhood memories of summer camp with the Big Guy were as fond as your best 80’s Christmas morning, you know the one in which you got the most Nintendo games? Nintendo had a way during my three years of Junior High of monopolizing the holidays. When I was in sixth grade they renamed Junior High, middle school, and throughout “middle school” Christmas were judged solely on how many Nintendo games you received. Junior High was tough middle school was institutionalized puss.

For the wealthiest children in Madison it was common to heap double digits. I always got one. And it was all’s I was looking for. I had to be a good sport about it. Christmas was a huge deal in our house. My mother never had one. A Christmas or a family, she’d lost the one she married into. And now the one I’d founded on deny, deny and deny principals was falling apart. Blood meant nothing loyalty everything. Morning. No alarm. I jumped in the shower look in the mirror throw on some gear and broke. I peddle the less than a mile truck up to Hayden. My legs burned. I couldn’t get to The Big Guy’s summer camp fast enough. I was excited again.

Entering Hayden for basketball camp that first day and the usual “buzz” was adrift. One hundred campers, ten coaches, 2 leagues, guest speakers, trophies and competition were early seeds and exposure to the Big Guy his expectations and what it took to one day be apart of his mighty local program. It was my third year as a coach. And every summer the Big Guy raised you $20 up to $150 for the week. It felt good. IN a much different way than the three thousand I had stashed at my boy C’s did. Capitol reserves. What I didn’t figure out in trial and error I gleamed off the mountain of literary gems that spilled from the recently celebrated decade of greed and theft. Capitol reserves.

Just watching the campers eagerly enter and dribbling the ball effortlessly back in forth with hands behind my back, head up reminded me who we were, basketball players. God I love this game. But it was more. I was smiling. Campers were not. It was strange behavior for summer kids at the Big Guy’s Hayden basketball camp. It dawned on me, Santo

The Big Guy, “OK, welcome campers, to this years first edition of Hayden basketball camp. As many of you know the varsity kids, myself included and so many of you who knew him from the varsity camp and being one of more colorful coaches at camp over the past couple years, is no longer with us.” I kicked save a breakdown. Jesus fucking christ

As the week went on we became very close with all the campers. In a sense it felt like they were trying to be strong for us. I’d discover the best “stuff” inside of me and form powerful impressions, lasting goodness that would live with all of us in some small way for the rest of our natural lives. I felt alive again. I felt sorry for the kids that loved Santo, wore his jersey, looked up to him. In a way, I did too. Madison for so many was a charmed life a fairy tale where the world presented was something not scary at all. Not inside the borders. The last kid to die fell through the glass top of the field house in 1977.

At camp on championship Friday my team had won the title. It was the best. The Big Guy front-loaded my team. He wanted me to win. Santo’s team had won both camps last summer. He loved the coaching aspect with the same passion he brought everyday to his own position. It’s why we were good. We wanted it more than the next guy in the next town from the next crew. I’d become the Big Guy’s student as well as player. I wanted to coach, the more time I spent in ACE, I wanted to coach. He’d produced so many. So many captains, men that made their living off the game of basketball. It was a mental crossroads. In a way as a bookie I already had. Money was a sickness that in the aftermath of Santo was perhaps not the grand all panacea I’d always romanticized it to be for my mother, sister and I.

Since Santo was gone there was a void in who was the best coach. And between Goldy, magic, Wells and Spec the kids title was huge. My little rug rats crushed kids and marched triumphantly towards the title. On championship Friday we all (coaches) wore argyle socks and ties with shorts in honor of Santo. That’s what he wore on championship Friday’s. Championship Friday’s at the Big Guy’s, unbelievable. As a kid whenever I didn’t win a championship I’d cry on the lap of the Big Guy’s wife having played on a team coached by one of his daughters. His wife, his college cheerleader always came in on Championship Friday’s.

And peddling home that Friday I was on some levels back. The summer league was here and so were the Young Guns. Free from the constraints and rules of coaching it was our time to style us against them, them being the greats of the past that still played annually with a great deal of pride encompassing every championship era over the last twenty years. I was tall my braces were long gone and I wasn’t so skinny anymore. However there was a small part of me that couldn’t cajole of my chest this feeling of fact that I was cursed and therefore being so close to my family vision and ridiculousness notion of our movie had doomed the most spirited of us all in a bunch. I don’t give a fuck

But the days were now filled with kids and basketball as opposed to beer, weed and unanswerable questions being volleyed back and forth to a now even more confused set of, for the greater part violent kids. The morning set the tone, and basketball was pure, being inspired by the campers to again recognize what was in front of us parlayed nicely into our summer league evening contests. For some in Madison wondering what Santo’s basketball teammates were up to magnetized an overflow of spectators arriving to our summer league games. Our staple had always been swelling crowds and this added spotlight only proved to further heighten a retarded mystique I at the very least was always trying to develop and mold.

Entirely uninhibited and cutting the leash it was down at the center courts on these hot summer nights that we once again since Santo’s car wreck glowed. The games however were brilliant and instinctively succinct. The crowds were like outliers – unusual in scope but explained when trying to understand phenomenon. And as the crowds swelled even without Santo we couldn’t lose. We played with an even greater purpose. I couldn’t miss and was so good at stealing.

Sunday, June 09, 2013

The Big Guy used to say, “you can’t be a superstar off the court and one on.” April 30th, 1992 (Legendes) + Magic's Poetry, Jyeah !!! Nas Str8 CLassic ....

April 30th, 1992

The Big Guy used to say, “you can’t not be a superstar off the court and one on.” His mentor, Rollie the name of the basketball in Madison was his footnote. Another favorite of his along the same lines was, “you can’t fly with the eagles and walk with the Turkey’s.” I was a varsity basketball player in Madison MA. And therefore never used drugs. I openly spoke against them since the sixth grade in the fast times that made up our junior high. And the stories and legends that came just before us that grew in lore as we tried to figure out our bodies and what the hell to do with our time. I hated cigarettes. I’d often break my mother’s as well as my Muffin’s little sisters. They got understandably pissed. My mother thought of me, ironed my pants and shirts as if, I was all American. And that was the role I played. But I’d begun down a dark and dangerous path given my sister’s mantra given that “gene” my mother forever was warning us about.

I’d taken pills only for the cache that had been attached to it by the Brat Pack of Madison from the 80’s that had been thrust onto our laps. Brett the funeral home director, Lynx the legend of trading pits lore, Des, my sister’s boyfriend my older brother, my mother’s helper and surrogate father had brothers that were truly shady, FBI raids, incarceration and mental facilities. There was “happy” the crack addicted life of the party on a long sad decline, in Madison middle class was lower class and lower middle class was complete ghetto. And black was black, METCO were kids that were bused here out of the love of their Caucasian benefactors that feared only what the program was designed to upend. And thought of many in the upper crust of 1% land as monkeys, they were thought as inferior, savage, criminally corrupt and mentally inferior. Nice huh?

For years the kids in our kitchen mirrored what we had what we drove and the down the street to Chadwicks vacations we incurred. But with my sister’s stunning maturity into a knockout zilla slash skating star in a somewhat broken abode all of that changed. We suddenly were in the thick of the wealthiest, most well off most fucked up kids to ever come out of Madison blame the 80’s.

But I was the “Dream” a joke in truth but fake it till you make it my mother never would let me forget it. I had aces call me as such. It was true. I was a varsity basketball player in Madison, MA. And therefore I never used drugs. I’d spoken out against what I saw crippling my own mother, friends and “legends” around me. The term it seemed with our new cast I looked up to that provided everything a kid could’ve ever asked for was becoming diluted. The fact in my heart was I wasn’t a legend. I’d know it if it were true and it was not. I did use drugs. I took pills. And now I smoked pot. I drank and smoked cigarettes. I stole, took bet’s and never ever listened just so as long as I could bury ten in a row from anywhere on the arc of that mighty three point stripe at any point in time on any day any rim anywhere, I was straight, such faulty thinking.

I knew so many that got high for high school everyday and now I was one of them. Santo was dead stay blazed and with my ADD I’d begun a love affair I had no idea existed. Currently sitting up in the ACE program with the Big Guy on the coach things were as back to normal as they’d ever be. Finally with the basketball banquet all of the ceremonies, funerals, wakes and gatherings were behind us.

The Big Guy had been great this past week. He’d opened the doors of ACE for any basketball player on any level to come up during class and just kick out. Sitting on the big orange couch I’m high as orbit reading the sports page for the third time today. The widows were open. A steady breeze put me at ease. The phone rang as it always did in the ACE program loudly. A reporter from some paper somewhere walks into the “program.” Just another reporter that wants to talk to the Big Guy about Danny’s passing I supposed. “Hey coach Bug Tuggins, Middlesex Examiner. “So you say, what?” A question is asked. The Big Guy twists his massive gut to the right and appears perplexed. I’m pretending to be asleep. “Shit, I hadn’t thought about that yet. It’s going to kill us. I just hadn’t had time to think about basketball. But hey (raises both paws) it’s a big loss. We’re a different team. It really hurts us on the glass, on the press but yo, hey we got depth.” As the interview concluded and I wipe the salvia off my face, the Big Guy, says, “Unbelievable, you know Carl, I hadn’t even thought about the team with so much going on, but.”

He stops for a pause, “What.” “It’s a huge loss! He was tall, athletic, wanted it, could shoot a captain” “I know coach, its crazy.” An hour passed in the phone rang again. This sounded like better news. “Hey wake up you dope!” I shuffled my head, sat up alert, “what?” “That was the Boston Celtics on the phone. We’re going to meet them on their private plane tomorrow at the air force base. They want to make a donation to Santo’s scholarship fund. Hey, no big deal.” “What!” He let me run off to tell everyone. The Boston Celtics and us Young Guns, I had to use the Big Guys favorite word, “unbelievable.”

And meet the Celtics we did. There were cameras we were in our off the charts new Adidas warm up suits which I myself designed and picked out. Robert “Chief” Parish was our resident hero having recently been busted for possession of two pounds of marijuana he said was all for personal. Many a Madison bong had Chief’s mug taped to the side of it. We toured their plane. We met the chef heard what he was preparing here course and even saw Larry Bird’s private room. An aching back was soon to end his hall of fame career. We chatted it up with Celtic’s coach Chris Ford. And from that hearty conversation we got our picture in the paper. The team captain, and local hero Reggie Lewis presented a check to Santo’s dad for the scholarship fund. We were amazed that our starting center “Stretch” was the same height as the Celtics starting two-guard.

And soon April was gone. My recent assault of the school coke dealer hasn’t helped calm the quick nerves of our scared faculty. Consequently I was informed of an open therapy session for students in our grade a few of us would be forced to attend. It had been a long month. “Jesus are you serious?” “eh shut up, and go, or you won’t play a second next year.” Well that still works I had to report to the library at two thirty in the afternoon to meet with a panel of five shrinks. As I arrived I had the kernel of thought pop, I’m going to run this mutha fucka into the ground. I skipped my brand new white red and black adidas shoes into the assembly and instantly saw my whole crew, the entire cast from the first safe house the night of Santo’s death and many others. Magic reserved a seat for me right next to his half black ass in the front row next to Monster. Before I sat down all was just too quiet.

Before seating myself I gave special dawg like pounds to the cats currently chillen that deserved recognition. Finally after a very pretentious five-minute sweep, saying all sorts of mumbled and ridiculous words I was seated. The therapists didn’t intrude on my negligence because I was sure that they’ve already been privy to the file.

Once seated a final pound to my top dawgs Magic and Monster and a twirl indicated it was time to begin. “OK I think that we’re finally ready to begin and before we start I would just like to say that we are all deeply sorrowed for” Before the next word spout from her verbal trap I begin chuckling loudly. I do this purposely. The therapists have had enough, “Carl I think that we would all appreciate a little maturity as we’re all trying to deal with this, yeah. We’re here to help. Please allow us to try and do our job. We’re hear to help, you, yeah, we’re here for you guys.” I nodded and smiled, stupid fucking place sucks anyway.

“Yeah, kids now before we start let me again convey my sorrow concerning what has happened to all of you. This is the most difficult of situations, yeah and we are here to try and understand what you all must be feeling. We simply want to try hear what your thinking, give you some tools to manage those thoughts.”

Although I want to spit out laughing at the trite professional way these house hands were attempting to mandate a situation they in my mind knew nothing about, I stayed silent slyly grinning. She continues “To start we, I mean my colleagues and I, were hoping that you students could give us a compass, yeah. What have you been feeling? What have you been doing this last week? Please try and speak freely. It will only help you and your fellow peers.” And then as if troubled, I raised my hand. The therapist thinking that the biggest problem of this assembly has become a net asset in the fact that I’m the first willing to contribute. This was a great stage. I’m about to blow it by simply telling the ho to do so.

I’m called on promptly. “Carl, great would you like to start? What have you been thinking lately?” And in all seriousness, “Well I don’t know about me, I’ve just been contemplating this whole thing lately. I don’t understand anything, anymore, you know?” I flip my hands over across my chest. The therapist is immersed in my language and replies “It’s OK Carl! It’s confusing. None of us understand we’re here to help, yeah, yeah.” As I nod understandingly I proceed with my callow indolence, “It’s just that I haven’t done anything except cry like a bitch.” The therapist was about to cum her long pants after that one.

“It’s OK to cry Carl!” “Yeah I Know, OK, well I don’t know what any of us has been doing lately, but Magic (he shoots a uncomprehending glance towards my face), well Magic been writing tons of poetry lately, it’s totally touching.” The panel of therapists think that they have hit the jackpot. As all of their faces come to light the head bitch begins nodding uncontrollably and spits out “Wow, wow that’s just great, is it Magic? Is that what they call you? Would you like to share any of what you’ve written with us? Please share, share, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” Magic has a blank and terribly confused look on his face. He has no idea how to respond for there is no poetry (of course). I urge Magic to “Come on man don’t be shy, it’s really beautiful shit.” As the crowd all begins urging Magic the point guard de facto to share a side of himself that they hadn’t hitherto known existed, Magic snaps and shouts, “There’s no fucking poetry people, come on dude!” Now he’s laughing probably at my quick wit in making such an odd situation odder. And if touched by the hand of god, I farted. Coach Farias taught me this fall, comedy was all timing.

Magic’s face breaks out in hives, (jackpot) most of us lose it. The therapists back off and thinks that Magic is just scared to share his works with the rest of us. They want to move on but this session is already ruined. I just released gas. I love it and believe my work to be done here. I stand up and begin to shake my butt as the Young Guns begin clapping. As I prepare to walk out inspired I began acting really retarded. As I sprung up the therapist warns me that it’s not time to leave. I begin mumbling and rolling my fist in the air saying “yo, yo, yo, I’m out G. Fuck that shit, I’m bouncing, fuck this shit.” Before I leave I give selected smacks to the few folk present that I deem worthy of my exiting eternal attention. I walked out of the library and follow my nose to the student parking lot where my nasal cavity has detected the sweet smell of burning marijuana. I toke a joint, cracked a beer and feel myself to be back in my element. This was 1993. “Did you here about Magic’s poetry?” I say out loud to no one unparticular. “What?” A random delinquent responds having heard something from my direction, “Do you know Cuze in the 80’s, they drank more than beers out here, place was a fucking cocktail party.” “Dude, I know, trust me.”

April 19th, 1993 (Legendes) Sons Of Liberty Volume I. cont.......

Santo’s car wreck and subsequent passing had opened a windfall of emotion and everyone wanted a piece of it. The bigger the tragedy, the more stirring, moving and heart breaking the loss the bigger the windfall of warmth, sympathy and attention created a centrifugal force equal in it’s confusion and attention.

It had been two weeks since we lost our brother and I’d already had enough. And for the Young Guns and the hooligans that were our greatest fans, once apart of UNLV there was worry. I’d had enough worry. I hated worry. My mother worried. I laughed it off. I believed in me. Worry wanted to bring me down. Worry wanted to give the naysayer, the status quo, the rich kids immune to risk or charity a critical victory in the choices and views they upheld.

I hated worry. I I wanted change. But that was something valuable like stock options and it was not reserved for asshole maniacs. White kids that thought they were black. Utter confused laughable mall kids. One thing for sure was that there was a spotlight. And we had leverage. And two Friday’s after that fateful night in what seemed like years we were ready to take something for us. Lemonade. And thankfully I had down ass bitches in my grade. Girls that shared it all in that magic # of the year of your high school graduation to water down my instincts and allow some light to peer through. They had in idea. I was in. It was Friday. It seemed I hadn’t been in school for one since my freshman year.

The girls in our grade like all girls had grown up faster than us. They were advanced young and in some way enjoyed watching us catch up. These then were fast times for kids in Madison MA. And so when Kim told me her idea, I was in, in, in. It was to be a personal student sanctuary held by Kim’s parents for just us. And within a sentence I had the narrative I’d strike with my housemaster Mr. Robinson. The old what about Bob? It was ballsy enough to where Kim + E Double the authors of what amounted in my eyes to legendary shit believed principals WOULDN’T HAVE THE AUDACITY TO CHECK UP OR NOT BELIEVE US. I agreed. After all those are the best scams. The ones you don’t get caught, Santo would want us to do it.

This would be a theme I’d justify every retarded decision I’d make over the next twelve, count them, 12 months. I made my presentation, Kim handled hers and we gave names like a list @ PHD in the meatpacking district NYC on a Friday night. The only times I ever gave names. I cried. It was easy. And just like that I rounded Scully, Goldy and Magic and we made our ways over to my home girls Kim. A loving soul whom I shared my first song ever written in the 7th grade with, Keepen it Together.

There were about twenty of us there when it was all said and done. The first beer cracked before eleven AM. I was sixteen. And like always school remained an after thought. And the Doors played loudly on the stereo and we smoked weed and watched Waco Texas burn live on CNN. And we danced. I came home drunk and when pressed by my mother faked a panic attack. Just like basketball and the full court press, you panic a panicky squad! It was smart coaching. And I was ahead of my time sadly my education took yet another daily hit of nothing in such a charming zip code of academic elites I’d hear my Junior High art teachers voice in my sleep, “I hope you have a kid just like you.”

The following week as April hit mid month we had our forgotten basketball banquet. Coach Farias always reminded us that most teams didn’t have a nice banquet and get free team jackets. The Big Guy had come out of Fall River, a place where basketball was a religion. He’d taken Fall River and the lessons he learned from famous Rollie Massimino his understudy at Madison, and those relationships that formed the bedrock of the programs philosophy.

It seemed by 1993 Madison MA was getting tired of the basketball program and it’s successes. The town had too much money in a deep national recession to not have the local pie divided. It related to everything and not just tragic teenage death. And I had the disorder when it came to detention. I renewed my faith in spitting out my Ritalin everyday at noon. The banquet: I’d been released from school to help set up the shindig. It seemed I was attending just as many classes as last spring the reason however now the game was giving me credits instead of stripping them for being AWOL in regards to everyday class.

The Big Guy would join me after lunch to monitor our progress setting up the annual banquet. There was a piano at the church that had allowed us to host there free of charge. I played the entertainer he played the star spangled banner, “you just need one!” He laughed. “Just play one, and stop, people will think you can play. You got to no when to quit. You gotta leave them wanting more.” Back and forth it went we were on the same page. Firing on all cylinders.

And later that evening a tribute to Santo was played, a sad, sad reel of highlight’s from our past season set to Eric Clapton’s recently released, “tears in Heaven.” It was seemed so fittingly sad, “of course this song from this guy just dropped.” I’d say to Magic. Jay Lawson a former Madison basketball captain and collegiate coach of a regional powerhouse attended as a guest. He delivered a touching tribute to his former coach my current teacher. There was a standing ovation everyone except our current star Rashad Wilson who was seated next to me.

Friday, June 07, 2013

Lexington, Massachusetts Community Tour - We Run This Town (Still & Always) Great vid



2 many secrets.......

Follow GDD - as we grind through, Son's Of Liberty, Volume 1, "Legendes"  

and release our first movie set to premier laste this year.  Early 2014 Nantucket film festival entry.

Wednesday, June 05, 2013

White People Injuries Volume #2 - Chicago Bear in mind I was once run over by a tractor , white injuries 101



and the mother started a kick starter campaign to help with the medical bills.  UNBELIEVABLE.

Lay up jump as well.  her mom's plea was equally as engaging, enganging bowl movement and other indigestion associated with utter retardation.   She goes on to say, something about the un fairness of life, her first house since graduating HIGH SCHOOL??????  And the old HELP. 

If your going to rock the pink here at some point, the swag's gotta back it up.  WARNING:  the following is mad funny.  She's fine editors note.  2 broken feet.  Tough lesson nonetheless.