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What my musings are all about...

Blogging might well be the 21st century's form of journaling. As a writing teacher, I have always advised my students to keep a daily journal as a way of organizing their thoughts for future writing projects, a discipline I have unfortunately never consistently practiced myself. By blogging, I might finally be able to follow my own good advice.

The difference between journaling and blogging is that the blogger opens his or her writing to the public, something journal- writers are usually reluctant to do. I am not so reticent.

The trick for me will be to avoid cluttering the internet with more blather, something none of us need more of. If I stick to subjects I know: sports and literature, I believe I can avoid that pitfall. I can't promise that I'll not stray from time to time to comment on ancillary subjects, but I will make every attempt to be interesting and perhaps even insightful.

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Chinese New Year of the Monkey Warrior T-shirts and etc

Wouldn't it be great if the Warriors for Chinese New Years honored some of the great Chinese Bay Area basketball players such as Willie Wo Wo Wong (posthumously), Al Mock, Norm OwYoung Jang, and add Jeremy Lin to the list. Probably the time has passed for such a ceremony to happen, but maybe next year, huh? If any Warrior exec is reading my blog. How about it, Rick, Raymond?

I love irony. The 49ers give up on Vernon Davis, and he's back at Levi Stadium with the Denver Broncos competing in the Super Bowl. An aside: I had a good friend, now no longer willing with us, by the name of George Gutekunst, the garrulous owner of one of the great 4 star restaurants, Ondine, who used to host a Stupid Bowl party on Super Bowl Sunday. Always Osso Bucco and great conversation. Who attended? Socialist seamen, artists, novelists, poets, sportsmen, broadcasters, restaurateurs, journalists. No one watched the game.

My wife, Melanie, who fancies animal designs in clothing wants a pair of Cam Newton trousers. I love Cam's brash confidence, and I'd normally be pulling for him. But this year, I'm cheering for Payton Manning and the Broncos. Wouldn't it be superb and fitting for such a consummate pro to retire with a ring?

As much as the Warriors are lauded for their offensive skills, it's clear to me that their chances of winning a second championship rests with their defense. When they're playing lock-down D, they explode on the offensive end. Otherwise, they go a little "up and down" scoring in bunches, then giving up points so teams stay within striking distance. Not something they want to happen as they start the second half of the season run to the finish line.

I'm with Steve Kerr when he said of Draymond Green that it was great that Dray owned up publicly to being "selfish, unselfish," a nicer piece of rhetoric this old English teacher hasn't heard for awhile. Go Draymond! You slipped that screen nicely.

Back to the 49ers: Still on my "ticked off" hobby horse. When will San Franciscans finally vent some anger over the 49er team continuing to call themselves, the San Francisco 49ers, for God's sake? The team's stadium is in Santa Clara, built with San Jose taxes. The Super Bowl teams and media are staying in San Jose hotels and eating in San Jose restaurants. Media day and all its Hoopla taking place in San Jose. Come on! What does San Francisco get? A little "festival on the Embarcedero." Big Deal! Let's not kid ourselves Citizens of the City of Saint Francis, you are no longer starters, but relegated firmly to the bench, and don't think for a second that San Francisco will win a best 6th man award, you are way down on the end, picking splinters out of your butt. Sorry, I should have used a football metaphor, but I'm a roundball man.

I've finally decided to write a memoir. I'm at a point in the writing talking about some of the great players from my era. Here's a small poem written in the voice of Earl Monroe, the great Bullets and Knicks' guard of the 60s and 70s.

Earl "The Pearl" Monroe

In the rec leagues,
they called me Black Jesus.
When I walked onto the court
the crowed parted like water.
In college, someone found a rhyme
and I became a pearl.
I guess I've been a mixed
metaphor ever since. Sometimes,
when I backed a player 
down into the paint
and spun into my shot,
I knew before the ball left
my fingers it was going in.
At that moment
I could have healed lepers,
raised the dead.  

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