I'm not.
Really.
And as long as Zach Randolph is in blue and orange, I won't be a fan. That's right, I'm such a true Blazers fan that I'm spiteful against the Knicks for the sole reason that Randolph was the worst thing to ever happen to the Rose City. Ever. (Save perhaps the treatment of the Japanese during WWII.)
Anyway, now, I watch anywhere from one to three Knicks games a week as part of my job at the paper. Tonight they are playing Boston. It just so happens Boston beat the Lakers last year in the finals and now they are killing the Knicks. So far, Boston is the spiteful Blazer fan's best friend. Thank you Celtics. Thank you.
They might be growing on me. But I'm no fan.
Nate Robinson is impressive.
…
The other night, about a week ago, I was finishing up my weekly coffee with my friend Josh and I had about an hour to kill before work. I was on Fourth St. in the city and the paper is up on 34th St. The night was nice, I had my iPod and I needed some exercise, so I decided to walk the 30 blocks uptown. It was going very nicely, as I had a new This American Life to listen to and I was enjoying myself and taking in the city on a rare, bearable Autumn evening.
It was at about 25th or 26th St. where the bum enters the story. Now I had a friend in college who gave me a hard time about calling the homeless "bums." But here in New York, there are so many different types of homeless, you have to categorize them somehow and in this case, the fellow I'm going to introduce you to was, indeed, a bum.
He approached me as I was waiting for a light to change and motioned for me to take out my earphones. I obliged only because there was no way to avoid it. Rule No. 1 for New York street people: DO Not engage!
Anyway, as the earphones popped out, this is what I head:
I'm on the street and need to eat
that's why I'm talkin' to you.
So, if you like my rhymes
you have the time
just take a buck and give me some luck.
I thought Rappin' Jay was pretty cleaver, and after being constantly affronted for my pocket lint, I thought him giving me a little rap was worth something in exchange. Into my pocket I went. His eyes got excited. Shoot, no change. Well, a bill, then. I reached for my money clip and only found $20. No good. Not for a rap. And, certainly, I didn't want whatever he would offer for $20.
"Sorry Rappin' Jay, I only have a 20," I told him. At first, he was relaxed about it, telling me that was okay and turning to walk away.
Then no. He rapped for me. He should get something.
"Well, go in this store here, right here, and cash it. Change it out, they'll do that.," he motioned toward a store.
"No, I won't cash it," I told him. "But, I can get you some dinner. What do you want, I'll go in and get you anything you want to eat and drink." (This always worked wonders in Portland, save one angry drunk on 23rd one time.)
But Rappin' Jay was having none of it. He wasn't interested in dinner apparently.
"Well fine. I knew you would be a faggot. Faggot! I should just take it from you, you fago…" I put my headphone back on and walked away. Jay muttered to himself a little longer and then went off to rap to some other mark.
And thus, another nice evening out in NYC. Luckily, Josh and I had been talking about guy stuff and I was feeling like a man. So the whole homosexual slur part didn't get to me.
Stay classy Rappin' Jay.
…
Okay, the Knicks are about to be done losing. Work to do.