Giants of Basketball Style: Lawrence "Long Socks" Moten

I'd like to take a timeout from the usual subject matter of this blog to pay tribute to a true Giant of Basketball Style: Lawrence Moten. Despite barely making a ripple in the NBA, Moten still holds the men's Big East career scoring record. He poured in the points for the Syracuse Orangemen (now just the "Orange") from 1991 to 1995, inspiring an adolescent me with his unconventional game and fashion.

The early and mid-90's were not a time when those who wore knee-high socks were looked upon with favor. I faced this prejudice as a member of my 6th grade traveling basketball team in '89-'90. My refusal to push my socks down and meticulously shape them into a "casual" appearance isolated me from my peers. (Well, that and the total lack of confidence.) Still, though, I persevered in my lonely, principled stand until the following year, when I began middle school and immediately repressed everything that made me stand out.

At least I could take comfort in seeing Lawrence Moten on TV, rocking the knee-highs all alone and scoring with ease. He looked so cool with those long, white socks accentuating his slender, 6'5" frame. As a chunky, 5'11" white guy, I knew I would never look that cool in those socks, but still I kept a pair or two through high school. By the time I got to college, I had the confidence to regularly pull them all the way up and stand alone on the court (in style terms). Without the shining example of Lawrence Moten, I doubt I would've had the courage to make that bold fashion choice. So here's to you, Mr. Moten, and your amazing socks!

Near Misses

My back has been in revolt since yesterday afternoon. That's when the lumbar region tightened up, rendering moot the idea of doing yoga. I'd already done the full regimen of lower back stretches in the morning. Such are the dangers of lifting a lawn mower into and out of a car trunk about 20 times a week. (My only job right now is mowing lawns for seniors as a nominally independent contractor who gets all his clients from a non-profit.)

Since I can't work out today, I have more time to write, so I can fill y'all in on my latest romantic misadventures. The title of this post is a spoiler, though. These are only tales of blown opportunities, which have always comprised the lion's share of my love life. Hopefully, I'm learning from my mistakes, or this story will get old real quick.

The first incident was a few weeks ago at Galactic Pizza in Uptown. I rarely go in there, so I figured I'd check out their dining experience on a Wednesday evening. I sat on a padded bench with a bunch of tables along it, like an old-fashioned diner. A while after I arrived, a girl sat down at the end of the bench, two spots from me. However, almost immediately after sitting down, she picked up and moved to my other side, right next to me.

Instantly, I'm thinking, "Jackpot!" And, yes, that's because she looked very cute. What followed, though, was an extremely frustrating half-hour of near-flirtation. In my peripheral vision, she appeared to be glancing at me, but every time I turned to face her, she looked away. She was also very fidgety, which I took to be a sign of intense interest and also, perhaps, a shy, nervous disposition. Since this is a disposition to which I'm also subject, I tried not to count it against her.

I accepted the fact that I would have to make the first (direct) move. But there was a young woman and her mother sitting within earshot, and I was quite self-conscious about hitting on a woman in front of such an audience. (Maybe I'd be less hesitant to hit on women if it weren't called "hitting on." Why the violent imagery? It's hard enough to do without the implication of assault.)

The only line I could think of was the oldest one in the book: "Do you come here often?" That made me especially sensitive to the presence of the other people, but, even if I'd come up with a perfect line, I doubt I would've been anymore eager to use it.

After paying the bill, I lingered over my glass of water and notebook. (I'd been writing before my food came.) A burst of courage/desperation came on as I realized that the clock was ticking down, but I couldn't do it. I got up and left, turning to look in the window as I walked by. Of course, by then, when it was too late, she was staring right back at me.

Charlie Brown has a word for this feeling: "AUUUGHHH!!!" It was so frustrating, and she was so cute, that, for just the second (maybe third) time in my life, I posted a "Missed Connection" on craigslist. I even put a picture of myself with it. That's not an easy thing for me to admit, but, like all us confessional comedians, I'm hoping the humor of it will justify the public humiliation. (I also have to admit that I found many of the other Missed Connections hilarious, although those people seem to be in much more dire emotional straits than I.)

The second, and final, incident took place over Pride weekend in downtown Minneapolis. I decided to take in the Brave New Workshop's latest revue. Again, I was alone (a recurring theme in my work and life) and sitting behind a bachelorette party. However, this wasn't a stereotypical bachelorette party. The women were quite well-behaved. The only sign of rowdiness came during the improv set, when one girl made some loud (PG) suggestions for the performers.

One of the party girls caught my eye. I glanced at her throughout the show, but I never caught her looking at me. Afterward, I was walking along Hennepin and her party was behind me. In fact, the girl I had my eye on was directly behind me and accidentally (apparently) kicked my foot. She apologized and, without looking back, I brushed it off. We stopped at an intersection and she repeated her apologies. I turned around to reassure her and she gave me the arm-touch (by which I mean she touched my forearm).

That was the "Eureka!" moment. A few seconds passed while I contemplated my next move. Unfortunately, while I was contemplating, her group headed off in another direction. If not for that momentary delay, I could've easily attached myself to their merry band. But after that I would've had to give chase, a less-than-appealing proposition for a solitary man.

Discouraged, I continued to the elevators in Mayo Clinic Square (formerly Block E) to return to my car. Rather than take them down to the parking garage, though, I mustered the courage to go back out into the night in a long-shot attempt at salvaging something meaningful from that evening. There was a self-consciously unrealistic hope of tracking down the bachelorette party, but really it was just a way to convince myself that I hadn't totally wussed out (again).

I walked down First Avenue toward the Warehouse District, passing by the packed bars and clubs and the people trying to get into or out of them. Most of the people looked to be in their 20's and very physically attractive. But eye candy was all that scene had to offer me. Some casual sex would've been nice, but I had no interest in picking up any of those girls. The noise was deafening wherever I went, and few of the women looked like they were interested in the same things as me. (Of course, considering my preppie attire, I probably didn't look like I was interested in any of the things that I'm interested in. Except sports.)

I've never actually engaged in casual sex, and one of many explanations for that is the bullshit you usually have to go through to get there. Even at the end of the night when I'm usually wallowing in regret, I didn't feel that bad about missing the boat with the bachelorette party girl. She'd sounded a few sheets to the wind already, and drunk people are not my favorite people to be around. Also, "Bachelorette Party" is one of the deepest circles in my personal Hell, so I wasn't really chomping at the bit to hang out with them.

The first situation at Galactic Pizza was by far the better scenario. At least I've gotten to a place where I can accept the possibility that such a cute girl would be interested in me. Now all I need is the additional confidence (and wherewithal) to strike up a conversation.

Pumping Irony

I'm no Joe Piscopo, but I would like to be in shape (someday), so I work out pretty regularly. Recently, I've started using free weights. This would have the added benefit of making me look super-cool if I were lifting significant amounts of weight. Unfortunately, I'm not, so it has taken some guts (and humility) for me to move from the "machine zone" to the free weight area at my gym.

The Machine Zone is for the civilians, those people who want to be in shape, but don't wanna put a lot of thought into it. There's also the Cardio Zone for people who just wanna be skinny. The free weight area, however, is for those who are truly dedicated to the craft of body-building. Their level of dedication is sometimes frightening, but you can't question their commitment. (You can only question whether they should be committed.)

Through brute strength, they have "raised the bar" (get it?) for entry to the free weight area. Most people are too intimidated to venture into that "sanctum sanctorum" of physical fitness for fear of having their relative weakness exposed in public. But not this guy! I've proudly stridden into the domain of the not-at-all-doughy and displayed my lack of strength next to those brawny behemoths.

Seriously, though, it takes some gumption to do an incline chest press at the gym when you're only lifting the bar. Even on a regular bench press I've just been putting one 2.5-pound weight on each side. It's kind of embarrassing. One question for the equipment manufacturer: Why do you have to make the bars so freaking heavy?! I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation, but, frankly, I don't want to hear it.

So far, no one's made fun of me or kicked sand in my face and run off with my best girl. Therefore, I think it's safe to say that, like many of life's obstacles, this barrier is self-imposed. Nor is the free weight area an exclusive club that confers social privileges to its denizens. In other words, if I wanna get laid, I'm still gonna need confidence and social skills.

Delusions of Grandeur

In my youth, when inspiration struck me, when it really pierced me to the heart, plunging its spear to the core of my being, I was sometimes overcome by the feeling that God was speaking through me. "I am your vessel, O Lord!" I would exclaim (in my head). "Do with me what you will!" But then, a few days later, I would read what I wrote and think, "Well that sucks."

Such is the outrageous hope (and arrogance) of the young artist. Or so I'd like to believe. I'd hate to think I'm the only one who has harbored such extravagant delusions of grandeur. But these flights of fancy are necessary (fingers crossed) to give many artists the courage for the giant leaps into the unknown that great art requires.

My forays into the void have largely been fueled by that supreme (some would say "delusional") self-confidence. Of course, the grander my delusions, the more vulnerable they are to puncture. The work of which I'm most proud is also the work I can least bear to hear criticized. It's a paradox that has kept me from sharing much of my writing.

But what kind of confidence is popped by the tiniest needle? Not a terribly useful kind, that's for sure. It would be better to call it "self-importance" rather than "self-confidence." I invested too much of my sense of self-worth in my art. The truly self-confident artist would submit their work for review and use the feedback to refine their craft.

I just wanted people to tell me how good (and great) I was. The art was merely a device to cultivate external validation.

Funny how my insecurity manifested as an artistic Messiah Complex: "The world needs to hear this! No longer can I keep these works of genius to myself! I was put on this earth to share my vision with Humanity and lead Mankind to a glorious new Golden Age!"

Recalling the proportions of those fantasies, I wonder about the depth of my pain. Is that what inflated my delusions? Or was it just the arrogance (and ignorance) of youth?

The Passion of Don Draper

The end arrived right on time this past May 17th when Mad Men, far and away my favorite show of the past decade, concluded its 8-year run with a finale that tied up many loose ends in a satisfying fashion, but didn't tie up everything in a neat, little bow. The endings for Joan, Peggy, Pete and Roger felt right immediately. But the summation of the main character caused me some consternation.

Initially, I was very disappointed in how they wrapped up Don Draper's arc. However, as I ruminated on it and kept the finale "encores" running in the background (They were already on the third encore by the time I hit the hay.), I decided that Don's send-off was apropos. It may have been incredibly cynical, but it was in keeping with the character and, by extension, the American Dream.

Then I thought about it some more the next day and reclaimed some of my initial disappointment. It was a rollercoaster ride of emotions. Allow me to recount the tale.

Don is drifting aimlessly west across the U.S.A., presumably to fulfill his Manifest Destiny. He winds up at his "niece"'s house in California. (For the uninitiated, "niece" is in quotes, because, technically, she's the niece of the real Don Draper. Come to think of it, a lot of Dick Whitman's life could be in quotes. If you're wondering who Dick Whitman is, you probably shouldn't be reading this.)

Like all of Don's favorite ladies, his niece is troubled, which prompts their trip to what appears to be the Esalen Institute at Big Sur. (I only know that because I read Molly Lambert's review of the episode on Grantland.) By sheer serendipity, he stumbles onto the perfect focus group. Now that the mainstream has been discredited, admen no longer have to trick people into spilling their guts. The people will come to them, dying to unburden themselves, even willing to pay for the privilege.

It's in this setting that Don can finally identify with his audience, the man smack dab in the middle of his target demo. He's ready to receive the revelation: He and the Customer are One. By breaking down his own psychological barriers, he has tapped into the Collective Unconscious. He crosses the gulf between him and his audience and embraces his consumer doppelgänger, commingling their tears.

Next, we see Don greeting the sun alone on the cliffs. Then he's in a meditation class on those same cliffs, fully engaged in the group's "om"'s. His face blossoms into a serene smile. He's cured, right? Not so fast, my friend. Instead of fading to black, we cut to Coke's iconic "I'd Like to Buy the World a Coke" ad from 1971, made by (wait for it) the REAL McCann-Erickson!

Some people actually thought Mad Men might go out on that Coke ad, but I wish I'd seen it coming. It would've made Don's über-cliché emotional breakthrough much less annoying. In hindsight, the hackneyed voyage of self-discovery makes sense, but in the moment it rings horribly false. So false, in fact, that I could hardly believe my eyes.

I feel like I'm making excuses for the show by offering up this retrospective argument in support of Don's cornier-than-Iowa quantum leap of self-actualization. I'm sure I'm not the only fan of the show who scrambled for ways to justify the detour into Schlockville. In reality, they choked in crunch time, but their failure is so shocking, I can't help but rationalize it. It's as if Michael Jordan had air-balled his last shot as a Chicago Bull, the iconic '98 title-clincher in Salt Lake City.

The other source of my disappointment is much easier to explain away. It seems a terrible waste for Don to use his newfound serenity to dream up another ad campaign, no matter how sublimely successful and influential it might've been. But he is the American Dream, and he's only just reached the dawn of the Me Decade. He has a long way to go before he gets to Malaise, Morning in America, the Peace Dividend, the War on Terror and the Great Recession.

Throughout the show's run, Don kept lurching toward the conventional kind of enlightenment, away from the hollow promises of fame and fortune. But, like an addict, he kept relapsing to the creature comforts of big bucks, booze and booty. It reminds me of something Krusty the Clown once said: "It ain't comedy that's in my blood. It's selling out." Don has achieved enlightenment, but it's not the kind Esalen is selling. Instead of becoming One with the Universe, he's become One with the Customer. He's graduated from High Priest of Capitalism to Bodhisattva.

I couldn't have been the only viewer wondering: Why would he waste his otherworldly talents on hocking Coke? But the answer is simple: That's what his talents are best suited for. That's the industry that most richly rewards his abilities. That's where he can go furthest up the corporate ladder. He will continue to milk the cash cow for as long as he can, as if he's trying to get back at America for his shitty childhood. But the American Dream remains his psychological bedrock. His love-hate relationship with America is one of the show's main themes.

I wanted Don to be my fictional proxy, abandoning the morally bankrupt corporate world for spiritually fulfilling pursuits. But that's not who Don is. Like Peggy, Joan, Pete and Roger, he's a corporate animal. The real concern is that this "revelation" could hurt Jon Hamm's commercial voice-over career. To what extent will Draper's shallowness tarnish the actor's image? Can he remain an effective pitchman now that we know his signature character's motives are no nobler, deeper or more altruistic than any adman's?

I think we Americans prefer the pretense of authenticity over the admission of ulterior motives, although Don never has to feign his belief in the American Dream. Much as he (and we) would like to think that he's smarter than the consumers he panders to, Don Draper is at least as convinced of the power of material possessions as any red-blooded American. (If he's still alive, I'm sure he was first in line for the Apple Watch.) That's part of what makes him great at his job.

Of course, these days, it's not enough to be great at your job. As the economy picks up speed on its descent from the heights of the 60's, we're forced to find more meaning in other endeavors. Mad Men has a lot to say about contemporary life, but its characters aren't far enough along on the arc of American history to abandon the system that has since failed us. That's a leap we'll have to make on our own.

Back-Breaking or Soul-Crushing

I break down jobs into 2 basic categories: back-breaking or soul-crushing. That's a pretty good encapsulation of my attitude toward Capitalist labor. But I think it's also an accurate description of most career paths nowadays. There may be a pot of gold at the end of your rainbow, but you're either gonna hafta eat a ton of shit or break your back to get there.

I've gone the soul-crushing route for over a decade now, in the form of clerical jobs in the financial industry. But the material benefits of that course weren't enough to quiet my conscience. My mind was content to stay in the corporate rut until the end of my days, but my body was not. Insomnia and other physical symptoms forced me off those rails.

Now I'm giving the back-breaking route a try. So far, so good. Being physically exhausted at the end of the day beats the hell out of being spiritually exhausted. It's just a part-time job mowing lawns for people who can't do it themselves anymore, but it's been pretty rewarding emotionally. My "clients" are mostly very grateful for my work, and, honestly, I do get a warm, fuzzy feeling when they thank me.

The job has gone a long way toward clearing out the guilt that had been building up in my unconscious. It's been a sort of moral house-cleaning, with my unconscious playing the part of the attic. That's where I stuffed unpleasant thoughts about the consequences of my actions. But the "out of sight, out of mind" principle only worked for so long. The time finally came when I had to make room for good things.

When I was a kid, I was tormented by thoughts of the afterlife. I was afraid of being condemned to Hell for my inaction in the face of injustice. I "divorced" myself from the Roman Catholic church in high school, but Hell still loomed large in my imagination. More recently, I've realized that I needn't worry about St. Peter's judgment at the Pearly Gates. I only need to satisfy my own conscience. There's no point in trying to meet someone else's standards. You'll spend all your time just trying to figure out what their standards are.

But even my standards seemed impossible to meet. No corporate job satisfied my moral criteria, and I couldn't land the non-profit jobs I applied for. The only viable option seemed to be working on organic farms out in the sticks, but I couldn't bring myself to leave the city. Hence the lawn-mowing and, over the winter, snow-shoveling gigs.

I realize these aren't morally pure occupations. There's a lot of driving involved to get to the clients' houses. I tried to reduce my gasoline consumption by using a push reel mower, but that only lasted about 10 minutes before the aggravation of having to stop for every stick drove me back home to get the gas mower. For now, I'm squiring a gas mower around the Twin Cities in my parents' Honda Accord, inhaling fumes and slowly turning their car into a Superfund site.

The batteries they're making now for electric mowers might last long enough to get me through all 14 lawns on one or two charges, but their environmental benefits have been greatly exaggerated. The mining and manufacture have damaging environmental impacts, although those processes and impacts have been (mostly) offshored, so it takes some research to learn the truth behind their eco-friendly pedigree. No, it ain't easy bein' Green, especially when you're a member of the Global 1%.

However, considering that I was basically working in the Belly of the Beast before, this is a significant improvement. I still have a long way to go, but I'd be remiss if I didn't give myself some credit for getting as far as I have. It's no use focusing on what I've failed to do to the exclusion of everything I've accomplished. As long as I'm moving in the right direction, each failure brings me closer to success.

Detour: My Review of "The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift"

To no one's surprise, my Fast & Furious campaign has repeatedly crashed into Capitalist barriers, much like the concrete ones that continually confound Lucas Black's attempts to learn the Tokyo-based technique of "drifting." But before we get to the movie, I'd like to address the sorry state of our commercial video market yet again. I only managed to watch the first two movies before catching Furious 7 at the local cineplex on Thursday. As you can imagine, I was well and truly lost in the plot, although I might've been just as lost with the whole backstory fresh in my memory. (Following plots is not my strong suit.)

Thanks to what I have called (and many other people too, I think) Late Capitalism, my quest to rent or buy every DVD in The Fast and the Furious franchise (for a reasonable price) took on a character decidedly contrary to the series' overarching ethic. It was more "Slow & Stupefying" than "Fast & Furious," although there's something apropos in having to drive all over Creation to find a bunch of car-worshipping movies.

My journey took me to 2 pawn shops, 3 Half Priced Books, 2 Cheapo's, 2 Savers, 2 Salvation Army's, 3 libraries and several Redboxes (mostly online). I criss-crossed the North Metro and Minneapolis several times and flipped through thousands of DVD's. By Friday, I was exhausted, fed-up and desperate to hand over my money to a big-box retailer in order to relieve me of this task. I thought to myself, "You win, Capitalism. I'm yours, now and forever."

Thankfully, I only had one DVD left to purchase: Fast Five. (I'd given up on the fool's errand of finding a rental.)  Un-thankfully, my resignation to getting fisted by the Invisible Hand of the Free Market did nothing to ease my burden. I started in Uptown, crossing the lakes to check the Barnes & Noble and Walgreen's at one of the strip malls by the fork of Excelsior and Lake Street. Thence I continued west to a Target in St. Louis Park. It was here I first encountered a pack of all 6 films for $40. If I had known how long and torturous my expedition would be, I might've just gotten that. But I've learned a lot about my society and even a little about myself on this Magical Mystery Tour, so I don't regret my decision. After all, it's the journey, not the destination, right? (Right?)

I ventured farther out into the southwestern 'burbs, to a Best Buy and even into the belly of the beast: Wal-Mart. The alternately dread and dreary appearance of the patrons made me wonder if James Howard Kunstler's take on our culture isn't as pessimistic as I'd thought. Wal-Mart also had the 6-pack, but no stand-alone Fast Five. Best Buy had Fast Five, but only on Blu-Ray. As if by fate, my odyssey ended at Eden Prairie Center, the shooting location for Mallrats. The Barnes & Noble had a regular DVD copy of Fast Five for $15. A bit giddy from the rush of triumph filling the void created by my recently-fled despair, I gratefully swiped my debit card and took the DVD back to the car in a see-through plastic bag.

After all that drama and pathos, how could any movie possibly live up to the hype? I'd like to say that Tokyo Drift doesn't disappoint, but it really doesn't come close to the standard of entertainment excellence set by the previous paragraphs. The third installment looks like the series' tipping point, when the studio started investing serious money and talent, thereby making it more difficult to mock. But, somehow, I'll find a way.

Lucas Black is the star of this film, better known to me as Hollywood's go-to Southern White Kid in the 90's. He played SWK in Sling Blade and the criminally short-lived CBS show American Gothic, which IMDB calls a "horror/drama/thriller series set in South Carolina." From what I remember, that sounds about right. That show is also the reason (rather than Office Space) I get excited whenever I see Gary Cole pop up randomly in shit, like Talladega Nights or Pineapple Express. (Shout-out to my old pal Dan Warpeha for tipping me off to American Gothic when we were in high school.)

Lucas races a rich jock at his high school played by Zachary Ty Bryan, whom everyone in my generation should remember as the middle son on Home Improvement. Zachary's girlfriend has offered herself up as the prize for the winner, as third-wave feminists are wont to do. Unfortunately, both cars wreck and, with juvie the only other option, Lucas's mom ships him off to live with his dad, who's stationed in Tokyo. Things get off to a rocky start when Lucas shows up earlier than expected (due to confusion over the International Dateline), and someone who appears to be a "woman of the night" exits his father's hovel. But we all know things can only get better from there.

Against all odds, things quickly go from bad to worse as Lucas struggles to negotiate Tokyo's mass-transit system on his way to school and shows up late to class only to have his only-Japanese-speaking teacher frantically point at his shoes and eventually impress upon him the importance of putting on sandals before entering the classroom. Things start to look up at lunch though, when Lucas meets a fellow American, the unfortunately-dubbed Twinkie, played by Shad Moss, formerly known as Bow Wow, and before that known as Lil' Bow Wow.

Shad is one of many "raptors" (rapper-actors) in The Fast and the Furious saga, and he acquits himself well here. Lucas is also good, but they're often overshadowed by Sung Kang, who plays the cleverly-named Han Seoul-oh. Han dies in the course of things, but, thanks to the topsy-turvy chronology of the series, we'll see plenty more of him in later movies. In this genre, there's always a "Running Afoul of the Wrong Person" moment. For Lucas, it comes when he talks to Neela, the girlfriend of Takashi, aka DK ("Drift King"). In addition to being the acknowledged king of "drifting," he's also in the Yakuza, or Japanese mafia.

Takashi easily defeats Lucas in a drifting race in a parking garage. Lucas destroys the car Han lent him to race in, even though Han is Takashi's business partner. Fortunately, Han is fabulously wealthy and has many cars for Lucas to practice in as he learns the art of drifting. (For those who've forgotten this movie, i.e. the general populace, "drifting" is skidding around curves, surely a useful technique in a country as densely populated as Japan.) I don't know why Han is so nice to Lucas, but it kinda made sense at the time.

Suffice it to say, Lucas eventually defeats Takashi in a drifting race down a mountain and also manages to spring Neela free of the mafioso's violent, coercive clutches. I forget how Han dies, but I don't remember getting too bent-out-of-shape about it. By the end, Lucas is the Drift King and he's challenged to a race at the ol' parking garage by a guy who knew Han: Dom Toretto (Vin Diesel)! Where is this heading?!

Straight to Furious 7, as it turns out. The Dom scene is recycled early in the seventh installment to establish continuity. Otherwise, though, Tokyo Drift is the mostly-ignored, quickly-aborted detour in the series, like that season of The Dukes of Hazzard when Bo and Luke's cousins, Coy and Vance, took over. (I definitely had to look up the cousins' names.) Apparently, the studio thought Paul Walker was getting too old for the part, but they were desperate to shoehorn Vin Diesel in after poor test screenings of the movie.

Ironically, it's the first film in the franchise not to feature any gut-bustingly hilarious movie-making mediocrity. I was understandably disappointed by this, but I applaud the professionalism of the production. I even enjoyed seeing the seamy, Yakuza-run, pachinko-splashed underbelly of Tokyo. However, if the franchise continues in a competent direction, my enthusiasm for this project may waste away to nothing.