Monday, November 2, 2009
Quick thought
I just shot a june-bug sized piece of ear wax out of my ear with no more tools at my disposal than hot water, a small bulb, and my right forefinger. It begs the question: Is there anything more satisfying in life than the moments immediately following expelling something large and smelly from your ear? I say no.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Farewell to a faithful steed
"The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good."
She declined slowly, as many of us will. It had been touch and go for a while there, a few years back, but I thought we had pulled through it together. In fact, up until a few months ago, she seemed better than ever, running like she never had before.
But then these last few months...
First came the coughing and sputtering after a long trip to Vegas. I ignored it. She'd coughed before. She'd sputtered before. She'd gotten over both. My initial hope was that it was just a phase, that she would break out of it and move on as she had so often before. Soon after, however, came a worrying jerkiness to her movements. Still, I hoped. Much too strong, I thought, No chance this is the end. I dreamed and hoped, and in my dreams, I lost sight of reality.
Even the first time she stalled, I thought it was just another interesting quirk in a long line of them. But my 1994 Plymouth Voyager (automatic drive) had stalled while on a slight incline, and with time even I, besotted though I was with her, realized that there was a serious issue, and more to the point, that the end was nigh.
I took her to the mechanic a few weeks ago, and, while he was able to replace some fluids that would keep her running in a nominal fashion for a while, there was nothing he could really do to fix the beast without a new transmission. A new transmission that would be about three times the worth of the minivan.
(Fuck that).
So this is the end. I suppose, at a time like this, all you really can do is reflect, on the good times and the bad. On why whatever is gone was important. And why there will never again be something like it.
My first memory of that pristine piece of machinery is my parents bringing it home when I was nine. Our first road trip in the sweet girl was that summer, and my sister and I discovered something dreadfully wrong with the back windows of the van: they were tinted. No longer could we spend entire road trips getting truckers to blow their horns, or making weird faces at passing motorists. Tinting had robbed us of the number one way to pass the time while on the road to Medford. We began to the loathe the van.
Time passed...
When my sister and I got our licenses, respectively, our shared ride became the minivan. Soon after getting her license, my sister, while I was in the passenger seat, managed to wrap the sliding door-side around a concrete pylon in a movie theater parking lot because she turned just a wee bit too sharply. We never did get that fixed, so from then after, there was a constant whooshing of air from the right side of the car.
Later that year, I got my first ticket in the van, for making an illegal left turn out of a McDonald's parking lot. You would think that driving a minivan would make you immune to tickets, because, honestly, you're driving a freaking minivan, but alas, it is not the case.
The next year, I got in my first accident, when a guy decided he needed to get into my lane while the back half of my car was still present. He drove off, yet the minivan remained mostly unscathed. That was when I first began to suspect that it had superpowers.
I've bumped into walls, hit the backs of cars, gotten side-swiped, gotten the passenger side door entirely dented in, and taken her on more punishing road trips than any vehicle deserves- and still she rode on, for 15 beautiful years.
There were a lot of firsts with that car. I first learned to drive by braille when her headlights began to fail a few years ago. I learned how to manually shift gears with just my right foot and the gas pedal when her transmission first had issues five or six years ago. I learned that her idle actually can pick up speed on flat ground up to ten miles an hour, and she can actually get you from the bottom level of a parking garage to two levels above without you ever stepping on the gas pedal (true fucking story). I've learned that walls are always closer to the front of the car than you expect. I've learned that hubcaps, if you don't pay attention, just disappear, and if your car still has all of its hubcaps, you probably haven't done enough interesting things with it. I've learned that I am a true master of parallel parking, and even the best stunt driver is but a distant second. I've learned that if you have automatic locks but manual windows, people will invariably press the automatic locks for 20 to 30 seconds wondering why the windows won't go down.
But mostly, I've learned what it is to lose.
Goodbye minivan. You will be missed.
Unless I can get you scrapped for 400+ dollars. Then I'll be stoked.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good."
She declined slowly, as many of us will. It had been touch and go for a while there, a few years back, but I thought we had pulled through it together. In fact, up until a few months ago, she seemed better than ever, running like she never had before.
But then these last few months...
First came the coughing and sputtering after a long trip to Vegas. I ignored it. She'd coughed before. She'd sputtered before. She'd gotten over both. My initial hope was that it was just a phase, that she would break out of it and move on as she had so often before. Soon after, however, came a worrying jerkiness to her movements. Still, I hoped. Much too strong, I thought, No chance this is the end. I dreamed and hoped, and in my dreams, I lost sight of reality.
Even the first time she stalled, I thought it was just another interesting quirk in a long line of them. But my 1994 Plymouth Voyager (automatic drive) had stalled while on a slight incline, and with time even I, besotted though I was with her, realized that there was a serious issue, and more to the point, that the end was nigh.
I took her to the mechanic a few weeks ago, and, while he was able to replace some fluids that would keep her running in a nominal fashion for a while, there was nothing he could really do to fix the beast without a new transmission. A new transmission that would be about three times the worth of the minivan.
(Fuck that).
So this is the end. I suppose, at a time like this, all you really can do is reflect, on the good times and the bad. On why whatever is gone was important. And why there will never again be something like it.
My first memory of that pristine piece of machinery is my parents bringing it home when I was nine. Our first road trip in the sweet girl was that summer, and my sister and I discovered something dreadfully wrong with the back windows of the van: they were tinted. No longer could we spend entire road trips getting truckers to blow their horns, or making weird faces at passing motorists. Tinting had robbed us of the number one way to pass the time while on the road to Medford. We began to the loathe the van.
Time passed...
When my sister and I got our licenses, respectively, our shared ride became the minivan. Soon after getting her license, my sister, while I was in the passenger seat, managed to wrap the sliding door-side around a concrete pylon in a movie theater parking lot because she turned just a wee bit too sharply. We never did get that fixed, so from then after, there was a constant whooshing of air from the right side of the car.
Later that year, I got my first ticket in the van, for making an illegal left turn out of a McDonald's parking lot. You would think that driving a minivan would make you immune to tickets, because, honestly, you're driving a freaking minivan, but alas, it is not the case.
The next year, I got in my first accident, when a guy decided he needed to get into my lane while the back half of my car was still present. He drove off, yet the minivan remained mostly unscathed. That was when I first began to suspect that it had superpowers.
I've bumped into walls, hit the backs of cars, gotten side-swiped, gotten the passenger side door entirely dented in, and taken her on more punishing road trips than any vehicle deserves- and still she rode on, for 15 beautiful years.
There were a lot of firsts with that car. I first learned to drive by braille when her headlights began to fail a few years ago. I learned how to manually shift gears with just my right foot and the gas pedal when her transmission first had issues five or six years ago. I learned that her idle actually can pick up speed on flat ground up to ten miles an hour, and she can actually get you from the bottom level of a parking garage to two levels above without you ever stepping on the gas pedal (true fucking story). I've learned that walls are always closer to the front of the car than you expect. I've learned that hubcaps, if you don't pay attention, just disappear, and if your car still has all of its hubcaps, you probably haven't done enough interesting things with it. I've learned that I am a true master of parallel parking, and even the best stunt driver is but a distant second. I've learned that if you have automatic locks but manual windows, people will invariably press the automatic locks for 20 to 30 seconds wondering why the windows won't go down.
But mostly, I've learned what it is to lose.
Goodbye minivan. You will be missed.
Unless I can get you scrapped for 400+ dollars. Then I'll be stoked.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
How I spend my Sundays
I woke up this morning after about four hours of sleep, the goats having stampeded through my mouth, sucking it dry of moisture. I then sat down to watch the US do its best Rocky impression against Brazil, going the distance but ultimately falling apart in the end. And then, the following conversation transpired (unedited grammar debate, proceed with caution):
DANIEL: it pleases me that the announces use correct grammar: "Brazil ARE in the driver's seat." The subject, of course, irks me.
DANIEL: it pleases me that the announces use correct grammar: "Brazil ARE in the driver's seat." The subject, of course, irks me.
ME: that's not correct grammar
DANIEL: sure it is
ME: no
it isn't
DANIEL: yes it is
ME: brazil, at no time in its evolution, is a plural
the brazilians are certainly in the driver's seat
brazil, on the fucking other hand, IS in the driver's seat
DANIEL: Brazil, the team, ARE plural
ME: not is isn't
brazil has another name
which is its plural
DANIEL: you're wrong about this
ME: i was a sports writer for about five years
i'm so right it's almost insane
DANIEL: well then you were incorrect for five years
Sent at 1:17 PM on Sunday
ME: the rules don't change because it's soccer
you don't say "anaheim are beating the mets right now"
DANIEL: yes, you do
ME: NO YOU FUCKING DONT
go read sports articles
do it right now
DANIEL: because the CITY of anaheim is not capable of beating anything
no, sports articles are inane and poorly written
ME: it's a referent to the team, sure
but it's singular
DANIEL: no it's not
ME: you're supporting retardation right now
and it appals me
appalls too
DANIEL: a team is composed of multiple individuals. The operators of the act of winning are the individuals, collectively, NOT the brand name of the team, and NOT the city of the team
ME: i know what it means
i'm saying grammar rules don't change
DANIEL: true
ME: they're still fucking rules
and are generally based in the phonetics
DANIEL: and people usually misapply them
WRONG
ME: i.e. what fuckings ounds correct
DANIEL: wrong wrong wrong
ME: definitely right
DANIEL: "each one of them are" SOUNDS a lot better than "each on of them is", but that doesn't make it right
"THE RULES DON'T CHANGE"
ME: i disagree
each one of them is sounds wildly better to me
DANIEL: our disagreement over pleasing sounds is illustrative of the need for rules that transcend phonetics
ME: and we have a set of them
that these announcers are breaking with impunity
Sent at 1:23 PM on Sunday
DANIEL: wrong again. These announcers, unlike the majority of their bovine peers, are expert stewards of the codified English language
ME: i don't even know what to say to you at this point
i'm debating ending our friendship
Sent at 1:25 PM on Sunday
ME: how bout this
would you say the united states of america IS or the united states of America ARE?
DANIEL: depends on the situation. Am I referring to the Union, the several states, a team, a concept?
how about this. could we reasonably exchange "Brazil" to "They" ?
ME: only by then switching the verb
DANIEL: but don't you see, the operators in real life never actually changed
ME: if you can refer to a unit comprised of many different parts by the unit's name and still use a singular verb, then it doesn't change for soccer
DANIEL: so why would the singularity or plurality of the noun describing it change
ME: because the plurality of the word changed
brazil does not refer to many brazils
it just doesn't
it doesn't refer to many brazilians
it refers to a team
team is singular
regardless of its components
DANIEL: Brazil, in this context, refers to a team composed of who knows how many people on a soccer team
ME: a country is singular
regardless of its components
a country is comprised of some millions of inhabitants
should we just eliminate singular verbs since almost everything has an essential plurality?
DANIEL: a country is a plot of land, incapable of movement or action other than tectonics, volcanism, and plant growth
a country can never participate in a soccer match
only people can do that
groups of people
ME: ok, only groups of people can fight in a war, no?
America are losing the Vietnam War.
DANIEL: Americans
ME: i won
the brazilians
DANIEL: no
you didn't
ME: Team America
Fuck Yeah
DANIEL: I would grant that you can say "the US Army are losing the Vietnam war"
where US Army and Brazil are interchangeable nouns for the same form
ME: same function
different form
DANIEL: fine
ME: you're almost eliminating the purpose of form in grammar
DANIEL: i have to go do work now
I'm not totally sure I'm right. I'd appreciate it if somebody with something like knowledge could weigh in on this. And if anyone can name the logical fallacies I broke out, a cookie is in it for you.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Side Note
I have no idea why Tyson Any'tizers is the main advertisement on my page. But I think typing this has just given it more oomph to be the main advertiser.
A man of means by no means, king of the road
Wednesday, I began my reign as King of the Unemployed.
I began, like I have so many other mornings, in search of the world's largest glass of water and with a near-desperate need to urinate. The thought of killing two birds with one stone did not enter my mind. Instead, I opted for the urination station, followed by some cupped hand action in the sink to quench my thirst.
Then, I returned to my repose, and continued my early morning battle against what had the potential to be a mind-altering hangover. I eventually win every battle, but I can't quell the nagging feeling that I'm losing the war.
The night before, I went with my now-former coworkers to Father's Office, where I was presented with a plastic medal that said "teamwork" which came in the mail to one of my bosses earlier in the week. More importantly, and perhaps more to the point, I was also presented with several beers and mixed drinks. Being that I cannot refuse such generous hospitality (or free beer), I drank it all down and thus was left in the state described previously.
(Note: If you ever hear of something called "wine-beer", and think it sounds like something you should try, don't. It's not something you should try. It's not something anyone should try, come to think of it. In fact, the person who decided they could make something called "wine-beer", bottle it, and sell it as if it were a product people would actually enjoy drinking should be drawn and quartered. I would try to make some more specific comment about its taste, but the only allusions that are coming to mind involve a combination of used-tissue and used-toilet paper).
Finally waking with something nearing actual intent around 10:30, I stumbled into the kitchen, poured myself a bowl of cheerios and decided, then and there, that I was drawing a line in the sand: there would be no showering today.
Pleased that I was able to make such an important tactical decision on my first day without employment, I mowed through my cheerios and began to think of how I would spend my day.
The beauty of no longer having a job is that you have the luxury of spending your days however you would like. People get too hung up in the idea of a job search when they're out of work. Don't get me wrong- finding another way to make some scratch is probably imperative for anyone (and maybe even more so for me, considering I'm still paying for my fight with the law [the law won]). But, with the Interconnected Tubes and Webs being the amazing thing it is, a job search is as simple as dicking around on Craigslist for an hour or two. Any job you can't find within an hour or two of looking probably isn't too interested in hiring your ass anyway.
So, I spent an hour or two looking at jobs that don't involve copying and/or pasting. I applied to teach English to Asians, to teach the LSAT to college kids, and to write sports features for a website. From poking through Craigslist, it looks like the job market for people like me (single, no responsibilities of any kind, no dependencies) is still as robust as it ever was. People my age who are worried about job security worry me. Go do interesting things. Rack up enormous amounts of debt. Do not waste your best years killing your soul worrying about shit that just. doesn't. matter.
(Yet).
Basically, a long, drawn out tale of swords and sorcery; love and war; sorrow and joy short, I spent the rest of the day making fun of people who still had to work, and watching an obscene amount of ESPN. At no point did I do anything productive, and at no point did I begin to care.
Work sucks.
I began, like I have so many other mornings, in search of the world's largest glass of water and with a near-desperate need to urinate. The thought of killing two birds with one stone did not enter my mind. Instead, I opted for the urination station, followed by some cupped hand action in the sink to quench my thirst.
Then, I returned to my repose, and continued my early morning battle against what had the potential to be a mind-altering hangover. I eventually win every battle, but I can't quell the nagging feeling that I'm losing the war.
The night before, I went with my now-former coworkers to Father's Office, where I was presented with a plastic medal that said "teamwork" which came in the mail to one of my bosses earlier in the week. More importantly, and perhaps more to the point, I was also presented with several beers and mixed drinks. Being that I cannot refuse such generous hospitality (or free beer), I drank it all down and thus was left in the state described previously.
(Note: If you ever hear of something called "wine-beer", and think it sounds like something you should try, don't. It's not something you should try. It's not something anyone should try, come to think of it. In fact, the person who decided they could make something called "wine-beer", bottle it, and sell it as if it were a product people would actually enjoy drinking should be drawn and quartered. I would try to make some more specific comment about its taste, but the only allusions that are coming to mind involve a combination of used-tissue and used-toilet paper).
Finally waking with something nearing actual intent around 10:30, I stumbled into the kitchen, poured myself a bowl of cheerios and decided, then and there, that I was drawing a line in the sand: there would be no showering today.
Pleased that I was able to make such an important tactical decision on my first day without employment, I mowed through my cheerios and began to think of how I would spend my day.
The beauty of no longer having a job is that you have the luxury of spending your days however you would like. People get too hung up in the idea of a job search when they're out of work. Don't get me wrong- finding another way to make some scratch is probably imperative for anyone (and maybe even more so for me, considering I'm still paying for my fight with the law [the law won]). But, with the Interconnected Tubes and Webs being the amazing thing it is, a job search is as simple as dicking around on Craigslist for an hour or two. Any job you can't find within an hour or two of looking probably isn't too interested in hiring your ass anyway.
So, I spent an hour or two looking at jobs that don't involve copying and/or pasting. I applied to teach English to Asians, to teach the LSAT to college kids, and to write sports features for a website. From poking through Craigslist, it looks like the job market for people like me (single, no responsibilities of any kind, no dependencies) is still as robust as it ever was. People my age who are worried about job security worry me. Go do interesting things. Rack up enormous amounts of debt. Do not waste your best years killing your soul worrying about shit that just. doesn't. matter.
(Yet).
Basically, a long, drawn out tale of swords and sorcery; love and war; sorrow and joy short, I spent the rest of the day making fun of people who still had to work, and watching an obscene amount of ESPN. At no point did I do anything productive, and at no point did I begin to care.
Work sucks.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
For $17.95 plus tip, you too can buy peace of mind
A haircut is a man's time to reflect. To ponder. To sit and try to discern what the lady cutting his hair is trying to say as she holds the clippers close enough to his ear to not only cause temporary jamming of her vocal frequency, but to seemingly provide a tangible threat should his answer to her query prove unsatisfactory.
A haircut is a time of trial.
I went to Fantastic Sam's yesterday to get a haircut, it having been five months since my last, and me soon to be out of a job where the powers-that-were did not care how I looked. While I always go with an initial sense of trepidation, fearing a Samson-like power reduction, I ultimately am drawn in by the temptation of the unknown. A haircut is also a chance to change.
Haircuts are tough for me. I don't like the idea of paying anyone to do anything cosmetic to me, but I also decided a few years ago that my mom buzzing my head was not a long-term plan for the top of my skull. I experimented a few times with not cutting my hair for upwards of eight months, but along with fat, drunk and stupid, looking like a yeti is no way to go through life.
My haircut on Saturday began with the always-dreaded question: what would you like? I'm naturally unable to answer that question in any facet of life, but I'm particularly unable when it comes to this. I inevitably direct the lady to give me a 3 on the sides (no, I don't know what that means), and tell her to "trim" the top. If she asks for any further details (how short do I want it on top, how far down should she cut my sideburns, if I like it rounded or squared in the back, how do I typically wear my hair, if I would like a happy ending) I generally just shrug and tell her to do whatever she thinks is best.
I always end up with the same haircut.
The conversation you end up stalling and sputtering through with the lady servicing you is rarely memorable. It generally begins with an observation or question about the weather. Moving on, work is discussed and complained about (on both ends if you're feeling effusive). Occasionally, if you're particularly hairy, comments are made about your thick, lustrous locks. One time, the lady commented on, and then popped, a small zit located above my right ear. And that didn't seem even the least bit weird. I would stop well short of describing a haircut as an intimate moment, but there are certain things that go on between you and the lady cutting your hair that don't go on between you and the person changing your oil.
Then, when she's done cutting and trimming and in some cases popping, she asks you the question to which there is truly only one answer: would you like the complimentary shampoo?
Yes. Yes, you would. Because I will go to the grave with the belief that there is nothing in this life or the next that is as good as getting your head rubbed, whether it be with warm water or without. You sit in a chair that reclines, and for two to three minutes, you let a stranger go to town scratching and rubbing your scalp with warm water and soap. There's nothing like it.
When it's all said and done, you feel clean. Your head cuts through the air differently. Everything about your body feels more aerodynamic (including your wallet).
And then, five to ten months later, you do it again.
A haircut is a time of trial.
I went to Fantastic Sam's yesterday to get a haircut, it having been five months since my last, and me soon to be out of a job where the powers-that-were did not care how I looked. While I always go with an initial sense of trepidation, fearing a Samson-like power reduction, I ultimately am drawn in by the temptation of the unknown. A haircut is also a chance to change.
Haircuts are tough for me. I don't like the idea of paying anyone to do anything cosmetic to me, but I also decided a few years ago that my mom buzzing my head was not a long-term plan for the top of my skull. I experimented a few times with not cutting my hair for upwards of eight months, but along with fat, drunk and stupid, looking like a yeti is no way to go through life.
My haircut on Saturday began with the always-dreaded question: what would you like? I'm naturally unable to answer that question in any facet of life, but I'm particularly unable when it comes to this. I inevitably direct the lady to give me a 3 on the sides (no, I don't know what that means), and tell her to "trim" the top. If she asks for any further details (how short do I want it on top, how far down should she cut my sideburns, if I like it rounded or squared in the back, how do I typically wear my hair, if I would like a happy ending) I generally just shrug and tell her to do whatever she thinks is best.
I always end up with the same haircut.
The conversation you end up stalling and sputtering through with the lady servicing you is rarely memorable. It generally begins with an observation or question about the weather. Moving on, work is discussed and complained about (on both ends if you're feeling effusive). Occasionally, if you're particularly hairy, comments are made about your thick, lustrous locks. One time, the lady commented on, and then popped, a small zit located above my right ear. And that didn't seem even the least bit weird. I would stop well short of describing a haircut as an intimate moment, but there are certain things that go on between you and the lady cutting your hair that don't go on between you and the person changing your oil.
Then, when she's done cutting and trimming and in some cases popping, she asks you the question to which there is truly only one answer: would you like the complimentary shampoo?
Yes. Yes, you would. Because I will go to the grave with the belief that there is nothing in this life or the next that is as good as getting your head rubbed, whether it be with warm water or without. You sit in a chair that reclines, and for two to three minutes, you let a stranger go to town scratching and rubbing your scalp with warm water and soap. There's nothing like it.
When it's all said and done, you feel clean. Your head cuts through the air differently. Everything about your body feels more aerodynamic (including your wallet).
And then, five to ten months later, you do it again.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Not Here. Not Now. Not UCLA.
It's becoming commonplace every spring to watch the Bruins get the crap kicked out of them by a presumably more talented team to end their season. Like clockwork, UCLA advances just far enough to meet a team that is just better in every facet of the game.
Every year, the refrain is the same: it just wasn't UCLA's year.
Just to be a dick, this once, I'm calling bullshit.
UCLA, at present, has three guys who are locks to play in the NBA at some point: Darren Collison, Jrue Holiday, and Malcolm Lee, with a few other guys who also have a shot. All three of those guys will probably start NBA games at some point. The previous year, there were Collison, Russell Westbrook, Luc Richard Mbah a Moute, and Kevin Love. Two years before that, Jordan Farmar, Arron Afflalo, Luc Richard Mbah a Moute, Cedric Bozeman, Ryan Hollins- all of these guys started on that first Final Four team, all five of these guys have started NBA games.
My point? Each one of the Final Four teams had at least three NBA starters on the team. Even this past year's team, as young as it is, has at least three future NBA starters on the team.
For contrast, Florida- that most dominant of dominant teams that destroyed UCLA in two straight Final Fours- had four guys who have played in the NBA, one of whom (Taurean Green) has played a total of 17 games in his professional career. Horford and Noah are admittedly very good players, but UCLA was never even in it against the Gators in either game.
Against Memphis in the last Final Four, it was much the same story. Despite having two guys who went in the top 5 of the NBA draft, UCLA was unable to do much of anything against the Tigers, who were, of course, also talented, but not prohibitively so.
Of course, the point I'm leading up to is an almost untenable position for a UCLA fan, but I don't give a hoot and/or a holler.
Ben Howland is an underachiever.
He's not Steve Lavin-esque, but he's not making the most of his talent. He utilizes the same strategies against bad teams as he uses against good teams: double the post, hedge on ball screens, use clock on offense, dribble clock out with five minutes to go and the lead. This consistency, by and large, is great for the long haul of a season, and awful for the games against equally-talented teams in the NCAA Tournament.
His strategies are the strategies of an underdog. You double the post when you don't have an advantage in size/strength/individual post defense. You hedge on ball screens because your big men are not quick enough to switch onto guards. You dribble out the clock because you are scared of not controlling the ball and letting the other team's athletes get out on a break. You do these things when you are the less-talented, athletically-inferior underdog.
UCLA has not fit that description in any of the last four years. This is a program veritably overflowing with NBA talent.
Against Memphis last year, Howland, by his own admission, shit the bed. He shoulda had Westbrook on Rose, Luc on Chris Douglas-Roberts, and Darren Collison either riding some pine or matching up against Anderson. He knows this now. But he didn't know it at halftime of the game, and he didn't realize it immediately after the game (I asked). Everyone watching the game with half an idea about what the sport of basketball involves realized that Collison matched up against Rose was absolutely killing UCLA. Everyone except Howland.
Against Florida the previous two years, the post double teams were not working at all. Noah and Horford were good passers and every time UCLA ran a double, they either kicked it out to an open Humphrey or Brewer, or passed it off to their counterpart on the block for a slam. All game, both games, that's what happened. No adjustments were made.
I won't get into this past Villanova game, mostly because I think there were a lot of chemistry issues with this team that made Holiday play like a vagina, and Collison to play as if he didn't give the slightest fuck about the outcome (and I was extremely hung over while watching it in Vegas, so my recollections might be a bit hazy). I don't know what those chemistry problems were, but I can only imagine they will be helped by having Collison and Josh Shipp off the team.
But the disconcerting conclusions I'm drawing about Howland are that 1) he can't make an in-game adjustment to save his life and 2) he's not making the most of his talent.
UCLA should have beaten Memphis and should have been in the championship game against Kansas last year. Howland should have adjusted to the way Florida was playing in both of the previous two years and at least put the team in position to be in the games.
At UCLA, Howland can get the kind of athletes necessary to become a dominant team. Now he needs to adjust his strategies to suit that talent. Howland's been a fan of saying that his man-to-man defense breeds a tough mentality in his players.
Maybe using these underdog strategies does the opposite.
Making the Final Four is nothing to sneeze at, and doing it three years in a row is quite an accomplishment. Howland isn't exactly killing UCLA here. But he's not making the most of what he has, and until he can trust his talent and adjust his strategies, he might not do so.
Every year, the refrain is the same: it just wasn't UCLA's year.
Just to be a dick, this once, I'm calling bullshit.
UCLA, at present, has three guys who are locks to play in the NBA at some point: Darren Collison, Jrue Holiday, and Malcolm Lee, with a few other guys who also have a shot. All three of those guys will probably start NBA games at some point. The previous year, there were Collison, Russell Westbrook, Luc Richard Mbah a Moute, and Kevin Love. Two years before that, Jordan Farmar, Arron Afflalo, Luc Richard Mbah a Moute, Cedric Bozeman, Ryan Hollins- all of these guys started on that first Final Four team, all five of these guys have started NBA games.
My point? Each one of the Final Four teams had at least three NBA starters on the team. Even this past year's team, as young as it is, has at least three future NBA starters on the team.
For contrast, Florida- that most dominant of dominant teams that destroyed UCLA in two straight Final Fours- had four guys who have played in the NBA, one of whom (Taurean Green) has played a total of 17 games in his professional career. Horford and Noah are admittedly very good players, but UCLA was never even in it against the Gators in either game.
Against Memphis in the last Final Four, it was much the same story. Despite having two guys who went in the top 5 of the NBA draft, UCLA was unable to do much of anything against the Tigers, who were, of course, also talented, but not prohibitively so.
Of course, the point I'm leading up to is an almost untenable position for a UCLA fan, but I don't give a hoot and/or a holler.
Ben Howland is an underachiever.
He's not Steve Lavin-esque, but he's not making the most of his talent. He utilizes the same strategies against bad teams as he uses against good teams: double the post, hedge on ball screens, use clock on offense, dribble clock out with five minutes to go and the lead. This consistency, by and large, is great for the long haul of a season, and awful for the games against equally-talented teams in the NCAA Tournament.
His strategies are the strategies of an underdog. You double the post when you don't have an advantage in size/strength/individual post defense. You hedge on ball screens because your big men are not quick enough to switch onto guards. You dribble out the clock because you are scared of not controlling the ball and letting the other team's athletes get out on a break. You do these things when you are the less-talented, athletically-inferior underdog.
UCLA has not fit that description in any of the last four years. This is a program veritably overflowing with NBA talent.
Against Memphis last year, Howland, by his own admission, shit the bed. He shoulda had Westbrook on Rose, Luc on Chris Douglas-Roberts, and Darren Collison either riding some pine or matching up against Anderson. He knows this now. But he didn't know it at halftime of the game, and he didn't realize it immediately after the game (I asked). Everyone watching the game with half an idea about what the sport of basketball involves realized that Collison matched up against Rose was absolutely killing UCLA. Everyone except Howland.
Against Florida the previous two years, the post double teams were not working at all. Noah and Horford were good passers and every time UCLA ran a double, they either kicked it out to an open Humphrey or Brewer, or passed it off to their counterpart on the block for a slam. All game, both games, that's what happened. No adjustments were made.
I won't get into this past Villanova game, mostly because I think there were a lot of chemistry issues with this team that made Holiday play like a vagina, and Collison to play as if he didn't give the slightest fuck about the outcome (and I was extremely hung over while watching it in Vegas, so my recollections might be a bit hazy). I don't know what those chemistry problems were, but I can only imagine they will be helped by having Collison and Josh Shipp off the team.
But the disconcerting conclusions I'm drawing about Howland are that 1) he can't make an in-game adjustment to save his life and 2) he's not making the most of his talent.
UCLA should have beaten Memphis and should have been in the championship game against Kansas last year. Howland should have adjusted to the way Florida was playing in both of the previous two years and at least put the team in position to be in the games.
At UCLA, Howland can get the kind of athletes necessary to become a dominant team. Now he needs to adjust his strategies to suit that talent. Howland's been a fan of saying that his man-to-man defense breeds a tough mentality in his players.
Maybe using these underdog strategies does the opposite.
Making the Final Four is nothing to sneeze at, and doing it three years in a row is quite an accomplishment. Howland isn't exactly killing UCLA here. But he's not making the most of what he has, and until he can trust his talent and adjust his strategies, he might not do so.
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