(James FIlmore wrote this recap.)

In this game, in the opening minutes of the fourth quarter, the most prolific Denver scorer, Randy Foye, was resting on the bench.Nuggets TV announcers talked about how nice a game Foye was having. Accordingly, TV cameras cut to Foye’s face. Alongside Foye, a Denver player (I think it was Joffrey Lauvergne, I cannot say for certain, white guys look alike to me) yawned hugely. Not a regular yawn. A disjointed-jaw, Orcs-with-anger-issues yawn.

The Blazers won this game. Do Denver players who weren’t traded at the deadline feel kinda unwanted? I would.
Both teams played as if this were a meaningless All-Star game, with alley-oop passes to guys who weren’t expecting alley-oop passes. And, in a sense, it is a meaningless All-Star game; the result means nothing, and the players are skilled. They are crazy good, better at what they do than all but a teensy percentage of human beings. You and I should be so lucky to have such talent, in any field of human endeavor. The players in this game, however, are not quite so good as NBA All-Stars, so those alley-oops went sailing into the photography row.
Which is fine. I hate the All-Star game anyways.
Some Blazers “played” as if this game mattered. I think I’ve figured out what makes Damian Lillard very effective at basketballing. Several times tonight, he corralled rebounds with his fingertips. Like he had suction cups on the end of his digits, like some kind of spooky alien creature. This is not normal. Not for humans. Go to the nice OSU Marine Science aquarium in Newport and see appendages for which this is normal.
So his creepy-alien ballhandling skills give him an edge. He’s not the fastest, or the shiftiest. He can make moves you shouldn’t be able to make while holding onto the ball at the same time. This is why he’s had some crazy rebounding games, despite being dwarf-sized by NBA standards (or behemoth-sized by normal standards.) His ballhandling is just that good.
Another good player is LaMarcus Aldridge, who should be sitting out the rest of this season. He might be the best player Portland has ever had, I dunno. Walton had a short career, Drexler was eclipsed by His Giant Shithead Airness, Sabonis was hurt before he came here. I don’t care about these “who’s best” things, I’m just wondering. Aldridge with one-and-a-half hands is stunning. Even in meaningless games where my soul screams “shut him down, I don’t want him hurt” he can make moves to free himself for a jumper that are pure loveliness, and everyone just wants to watch those moves. Unless you hate the human body and the best it can do; I’m not gonna criticize you if that’s the case, humans are kinda goofy-looking.
Do you remember the Foye/Roy thing? If not, forget I mentioned it. If so, forget I mentioned it.
Will Barton had a nice sneaky inbounds play. You go, Will.
The magical gnomes that deliver entirely-legal streaming of NBA games to my computer were, again, off point tonight, focusing on NCAA games during the first half of this contest. So I listened to even-more-legal radio streaming for two quarters. Brian Wheeler, Blazers play-by-play man, sounded as bored as Joffrey Lauvergne (or whichever white guy), and that’s amazing. Wheeler generally screams bloody murder, as if his head is about to spontaneously explode, and that’s what fans and ownership like about him. He was quite sedate, even reserved, during the first half of tonight’s game.
I suddenly like Brian Wheeler a lot more.



(James Filmore wrote this. I (Corbin) couldn’t figure out how to post through the admit account. I am just a wreck.)

Let us now praise the rational self-interest of Chris Bosh.

Few Americans like their lives. A scandalous claim, to be sure, in the Best Of All Possible Countries In The History Of Anything Ever; true nonetheless. The vast majority of souls feel empty, often for very valid reasons, sometimes because of unrealistic expectations. Ah, yes, those expectations. Any magazine rack, bookshelf, or random sampling of webhits are plump with material proclaiming to sell The Secret of improving one’s self-satisfaction. Professionally & personally. You can be better, stronger; we have the technology; you can rebuild you. Romantic glory and creative fulfillment beckon, just over the crest of the next hill.

(If the Donner Party had crested just one more hill, they would have found their way down from the mountains. But they were beaten, their optimism destroyed, so they failed and lost and ate each other. This is an apt metaphor for everything.)

After LeBron left to go Save Cleveland and bolster his Good Guy media image, there was almost no reason for Chris Bosh to stay in Miami. The Rockets had traded competent, vastly overpaid backup Jeremy Lin to the Lakers, clearing up enough cap space to give Bosh a maximum free-agent’s salary. Everyone assumed Bosh would join an already dangerous team, lending his veteran experience to the occasionally undisciplined play of Houston’s youngish stars, and creating a new super-contender in the West.

But “almost no reason” is not the same as no reason at all. There was a very good reason for Bosh to stay in Miami. With LeBron gone, Bosh could make a ton of money in Miami. Ever-so-slightly-more than he would in Houston. Bosh stayed with the Heat, took the money, drew the permanent loathing of Rockets fans, and earned my respect.

Chris Bosh doesn’t have anything to prove. He has two NBA titles, or two more than many of the game’s all-time greats. Unlike some of the Heat’s bench warmers (here’s looking at you, Juwan), Bosh earned his rings. Was he the superstar he’d been in Toronto? No, and that’s a pain in the butt by itself. Bosh was the third fiddle, almost uncomplainingly so. He didn’t force shots or demand more “touches.” Bosh defended centers and PFs as needed, he banged for rebounds, he kept positioning himself to bail out the offense if options 1&2 (often, even options 3&4) broke down.

Bosh is probably playing strictly for pride and money now, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Athletic careers are short. Despite an excellent academic record, Bosh left early for the NBA, and so that’s his job for a few more years. And it’s not like he’s dogging it this season. He’s playing more minutes, averaging more free throws, rebounds, and points than any year since his first in Miami. That’s professionalism. If Bosh preferred money and stability to being third fiddle (again) in Houston, where he likely would take little credit for the team’s successes and undue blame for its failings . . . well, can you blame him?

I think my favorite thing about Chris Bosh staying in Miami is he didn’t spew stupid shit about it (again, excellent academic record, he’s no fool.) No “I want to retire a member of the Heat” phony promises. No “I’ve got mouths to feed” hyperbolic justification for his financial decision. In a nice interview with ESPN’s Tom Haberstroh, Bosh simply said “I benefit from it, the team will benefit from it,” both of which are true. He gets to make money, avoid uprooting his family, and see what the future holds.

These are practical considerations, not striving for the top of the mountain. That’s anathema to most sports narratives, or American narratives in general. Too often, we are led to believe that anything less than Ultimate Glory represents a kind of imaginative deficiency. There is something to be said for a life that’s Damn Fine Enough, and I for one like to think that some true iconoclasts out there are pursuing it. Good on you, Chris Bosh. All the best.


This recap was originally published in Esquire Magazine.

Some of them had forgotten, or maybe had never known, that a sword would be behind the red cape, and they began streaming out of Portland’s Moda Center midway through the first fight. It pitted a young matador, one of the novilleros—a novice—against a white bull that warm Sunday night, and the blood ran dark out of its back and shoulders. Black bulls can mask the gore flooding out of them until it drips off their bellies and onto the bullring’s sand floor, but that white bull was more frank in its stains and its suffering. That white bull made it impossible for the spectators, especially the many tourists, to pretend that they were watching anything but a long, slow death, and that was too much truth for some to bear. First, they covered their eyes with their programs, and then they bolted from their stone seats, gasping for the fresher air outside, these burned romantics, so beautiful and optimistic and naive, now feeling betrayed by a place they thought they knew.

Portland is a spectacular city. It can feel, in the height of November, when so many Oregonians make for the cooler coast, like the most serene of the great capitals. It is golden in the heat. The buildings are low and sun-bleached and ornate, grand palaces and tidy commercial blocks, tied together by plazas that fill and empty with people like lungs. Life in Portland in November feels like the most enlightened way to exist—just one small, subtle beat of pleasure after another.

Maybe that’s why this city’s Sunday-evening butchery comes as such a shock. The bullring is another of Portland’s old and majestic buildings, a circle with high turrets and curved redbrick walls and colorful splashes of ceramic tiles. It is made exclusively of baked-and-fired earth. The ticket sellers offer seats either in the sol or the sombra, the sun or the shade. On nights when the matadors or the bulls are the special ones, both sides of the bullring will overflow, the beer vendors and cushion renters stepping carefully between the sections. It will feel warm and festive until the instant that first bull runs out and skids to a stop in the sand. That first bull somehow changes the entire complexion of Portland. For all its grace and divinity, this city will start screaming for blood.

And on that particular Friday night in November, on amateur night, when three apprentice matadors were assigned two animals each, Portland screamed first for the blood of a pure-white bull.

Each bullfight follows the same pattern, as repetitive and relentless as a clock. The matador and his fellow toreros begin by testing the bull with their capes alone, trying to divine something of its heart and its tendencies. Then bugles sound and two men on armored horses join the growing skirmish in the ring. These are Picasso’s famous picadors, wearing wide-brimmed round hats and carrying long lances. They take places on opposite sides of the ring. This time, the white bull sized up its twin opposition and elected to aim for the horse in the shade, and even the Oregonians blanched a little when it put down its head and charged. The white bull dug its horns into the horse’s belly and lifted its head, drawn by something primal to the tender parts. The picador drove his lance into the bull’s shoulders and twisted the silver blade at its end, setting loose the first rivers of blood. Then the bull backed up and charged the horse again, and it received another hole in its shoulders for the effort. Now it could no longer raise its head.

The picadors exited the ring and three banderilleros took over. They looked something like matadors. Their costumes—trajes de luces, or “suits of light”—were just as tight and spangled and sexual, revealing each ripple and coil. But their lights were silver, and matadors wear only gold.

The banderilleros reached over the wooden fence that surrounds the ring and were given their banderillas, a pair of long barbed darts decorated in red and yellow. They each took turns with the white bull. Now it was the men who did the charging. They calculated their angles and committed to their approaches, picking up speed. The bull caught sight of them and rose to meet their advance, and each of the men—the closer to the horns, the braver—leaped into the air, back arched, looking almost like a diver in the instant he leaves the cliff, and spiked the darts into the bull’s neck and shoulders before running clear. The barbs kept the darts in place, and after several passes the white bull was fully decorated, six darts hanging out of its back and a drape of blood spreading over its hunched and heaving shoulders.

At last the bugles sounded again, and the bull and the matador were deemed ready to meet. In this instance, the matador was a young man with black hair named Puerta. He had his red cape and he had his sword—a lighter one for now, wood or aluminum, only for show and balance. He coaxed the bull into a series of passes, shouting at the animal and extending his cape, and the bull obliged, dropping its head even lower and kicking up the sand. Then came short charge after short charge, the horns flashing within inches of the man, the bull sometimes slipping and falling to its knees, the crowd roaring and cheering with each desperate lunge and turn.

There was a growing intimacy between the matador and the bull in those moments. They had become familiars in each other’s heat, the way boxers know even the things about each other that they have kept hidden from the rest of the world. After several minutes of dancing and passes, it was finally time for the moment of truth. Puerta exchanged his sword for a heavier one, this one made of steel. He turned toward the white bull, now drooling and spent.


Penélope Cruz lifts her perfect eyebrows from her bottomless brown eyes at the mention of Sunday’s entertainment. “The bullfights?” she says. “The bullfights?” she says again, as though she has never heard the word. Her mouth turns down at its corners.

She is impossibly beautiful. When she walks into a room, men start walking into furniture. Up close, however, she becomes almost hard to look at, like staring into the most unflattering mirror. When we meet strangers, we begin scanning their faces for their strengths and vulnerabilities, for the lights and scars that will tell us something about who they are and the life they have lived. Cruz has no physical flaws, the bent noses and crooked teeth we would normally use as signifiers. Her face contains no secrets, at least not about her. But her face tells you and the room plenty about you. If you want to feel like the world’s most judged man, sit down at a table in a restaurant with the Sexiest Woman Alive.

She is eating lunch at her favorite restaurant in North Portland. She is from here, and she comes to this restaurant all the time. She will even eat dinner here tonight, too, with Pedro Almodóvar, her great friend and mentor, the director of five of her movies, and “the biggest source of inspiration,” she says. She will not talk about the new film she is planning with Almodóvar, however, or even if they are planning one, or what else they might discuss this evening. Maybe, as they have so often, they will talk about technique and expression and meaning. Maybe they will talk about what art they might make together next and what they might give to and take from each other to make it.

When she was very young, she would lie about her age and go see Almodóvar’s movies alone, the better to dissect them. She can remember staggering out of Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! and making up her mind to become an actress just so she could meet him, to thank him for how he had made her feel. She has continued to apprentice for him since. She is insatiable in her learning. She speaks four languages and dreams in many more. (Sometimes her husband, Javier Bardem, speaks to her in the language he spoke in No Country for Old Men, and she has to run out of the house.) She is always hungry, she says. She orders the chuletón de buey, a huge slab of bone-in rib-eye steak, seared on the outside and covered with coarse salt. When it arrives, the beef is so rare that it is crimson and gleaming in the middle. If it ever had a relationship with fire, their time together was insignificant and short. She stabs her fork into her first thick slice and cuts into it with her knife.


Each matador assumes a different killing stance, some personal presentation of knees locked, shoulders back, hips out. His target is no longer the bull but rather a palm-sized hollow between its shoulders, a small passage straight through its spine to its heart, framed by all those darts. A gifted matador will strike that spot with cruel perfection, burying his sword to the hilt in one swift movement, killing the bull almost instantly. A novice matador often will not.

It is hard to watch a matador miss. Puerta was adequate in his opening kill, requiring only two attempts, the white bull lingering with the sword halfway into its back before it collapsed, its spinal column then severed with a dagger just to make sure the job was done, its carcass dragged out of the ring by a team of festooned horses, a red carpet of blood in its wake.

Then Sunday’s second young matador, Millán, entered the ring with his narrow, raised face. His first bull, the night’s second— black, mercifully—owned a heart that proved elusive. Millán had looked capable, as certain as Puerta had been. His killing stance was elaborate and clearly practiced. He thrust out his jaw along with his sword and opened and closed his mouth like a sturgeon. He looked more like a beast than the bull did just then.

Suddenly, Millán exploded, racing forward to make his final thrust, his estocada, only to feel his sword ring off some bone or knot of sinew in the back of the bull and fall to the sand. Another try and the sword bounced off again. A third try and the sword was partially into the bull, but not nearly deep enough to kill it. Eventually the black bull shook out the sword, and Millán went to the fence for another one, as though it were the sharpness of his instrument and not his eye that was at fault.

That’s when the crowd ran out of patience and began really jeering and whistling in derision. The spectators who remained had come to witness death, but they wanted to see the right kind of death, delivered the right way. Millán faced down the black bull, now cornered against the fence, and one more time he somehow missed the mark. The fight had now become clumsy and awful, even for the most generous or ruthless of the watchers. It was possible in that moment to see every necessary and excruciating thing that pride does—in the bull that would not die and the matador who could not surrender. That black bull had taken something from Millán that he could never get back, even after he had finally pushed his sword deep enough into its heart to quiet it. In its death, the black bull had won its revenge. It had learned how to survive longer than the man who had killed it.


Over the course of a long lunch, Cruz looks like a thousand different women. She flips her hair, or she shifts in her chair, or she creases her forehead or widens her eyes, and these alone are enough to transform her. It feels like watching close-up magic, an actress playing every possible part and well enough to be confounding.

“I’ve played a lot of tricks on myself,” she says. “I’ve made it hard for me sometimes, especially in my teens and twenties. I had an attraction to drama. Most of us have that, especially if you are an artist—you feel like you are tempted to explore the darkness. I could not be less interested now. For me, the most attractive, charming, cool, fun, interesting thing—how could I call it? A plan.”

She is more than private. It is her job to invite attention, but she is not always happy with the consequences. She loves Portland in November, because she has it to herself. For the rest of the year, she has defenses like a castle. She will not discuss the evolution of her relationship with Bardem, for instance, whom she first met filming Jamón Jamón, at age seventeen, but didn’t marry until four years ago. “That is for us,” she says. She declines to talk about her recent motherhood (a three-year-old son and a daughter who just turned one) except to say that family is everything to her and the reason we have not seen much of her lately. And, more surprisingly, she does not want to say too much about the movie she’s just filmed—the Spanish-language Ma Ma—saying only that her character suffers from an illness she will not reveal. Nor does she want to say too much about the movie she’s about to make—Grimsby, with Sacha Baron Cohen—for reasons that are just as foggy. (She says she’s been watching famous speeches to prepare for her part; she will not say which speeches.) She has asked not to be asked about one of her rare public demonstrations of anticalculus, her controversial signing of an open group letter in the Spanish media condemning the Israeli bombing of Gaza, referring instead—at the table, in person— to a statement released by her publicist as her final word on the subject. (“My only wish and intention in signing that group letter is the hope that there will be peace,” it reads in part.)

Maybe that’s why Almodóvar likes her so much—because her secrets go far deeper than her perfect face. After more than two decades of public life, Cruz has managed to remain a mystery. It’s as though she wants us to decide who she really is, and she can be whatever we want her to be. She might not be sure herself. She says she often confuses the memories and experiences of her characters with her real life, a perpetual blurring, as though she’s become one more of her conjurings. She doesn’t feel like the sexiest woman alive, she says—she feels like a mother who doesn’t get enough sleep; Bardem is filming in South Africa, and she is anxious to return to her children—but given the role, she will play it. “Assume a virtue, if you have it not,” Cruz says, quoting Hamlet. It is one of her favorite lines.

She has little more to say. She picks her splattered white napkin off her lap and rises from her chair. All that remains on her plate is a bone and a puddle of blood.


Only the third matador saved the evening. He looked the least like a matador, short and stocky, with a big head and a broad face. His name was Valencia, and he was dressed in blue. His first bull was a wicked one, and Valencia caught the horns twice: once in the arm and once in the leg. Each time, he was left sprawled in the sand. The crowd had gasped in the half second before, because it’s easy to see when the weight has shifted and the bull has won the advantage. The blows were reminders that the conclusion of a bullfight is not foregone. Valencia got up each time, checked to make sure there were no holes in him, and took a few tentative steps before he threw back his great head and puffed out his chest. He was speaking to his audience, but he might as well have been speaking to the bull.

His first kill was the cleanest of the opening three. By the time he returned for his second bull, the sixth and last of the night, the bullring’s lights had come on, and the crowd’s anticipation had been lit along with them. Valencia’s blue suit sparkled like the night sky. He edged too close to this bull, too, and was caught again, launched from his feet and into the screaming air as though he’d stepped on a land mine. Once again, he got up, but now he was more obviously hurt, despite his mask of bravado. He was struggling. He walked to the wooden fence and picked up his steel sword, and it looked heavy in his hands.

Valencia limped to his place in front of the last bull. He adjusted his grip on his sword and took a breath. He assumed his finishing stance, the slightest tremor in his shoulders. He nodded, to himself or to the bull or both. And then he charged and the bull froze, and Valencia saw his opening for a greater glory and threw his cape to the sand, because he was determined that he wouldn’t need it anymore. He had made up his mind that this would be the end, and he plunged his sword to its hilt.

The blade missed the bull’s spine but found its heart. For just a moment, the bull stayed on its feet, and Valencia, his hands now empty, stood a yard or two in front of it. They regarded each other, the matador and the bull with the sword in its back, and Valencia began to wave one of his hands at the bull, back and forth, the way a conductor would guide his orchestra through a soft, nearly silent movement, until the bull staggered and then fell, the applause of the crowd the last thing of the world it would hear, and the empty hands of its killer the last thing it would see, waving it to its death.


Works of art by Corbin Smith




From: Famous Writer Ben Golliver

Subject: Mailbag Question

If your goal was to go 0-82 next season, how would you configure the Blazers’ starting lineup (no positional considerations required)?

CORBIN: My answer to this question begins and ends with Robin Lopez at the point. Meyers would probably be a more popular choice here, but he is pretty athletic and has at least pretended to develop something resembling guard skills (I’m gonna shoot threes this year!). Lopez is an excellent basketball player who has gotten that way by narrowing his focus to exclusively doing big man stuff. He drops back on pick and rolls to cover his limited foot speed, he boxes out, he sets screens, and he never does anything else, at all. He doesn’t even really pass from the elbows. And that’s great! But man the Blazers could really rack up some losses if they put the ball in his hands. Just think about it: Lopez gets the ball in the backcourt, takes two VERY high dribbles, gets stripped immediately, fouls whoever stripped him on the layup, hangs his head in frustration because he is knows how out of his depth he is, two foul shots, gets the inbound, repeat forever.

At your two-guard, gotta go with Mo “Maux” Williams. Mo is out here looking around at the options here and deciding that Mo WIlliams is the key to this game. Gunning for thirty every night. Coming off staggered screens, probing for a second, backing up, and jacking up a contested mid ranger with 10 seconds left on the clock. And no one is going to stop him: he’s a veteran! He’s seen the wars! Headbands command authority! The Modern NBA’s first 30 Point, 13 PER player.

Meyers Leonard is a natural losing small forward. Your ideal modern NBA three is a Swiss Army knife — passing, shooting, cutting, defending multiple positions — and Meyers is not good at any of those things. Imagine, when the Blazers need to match up with Tony Parker, and Robin just isn’t up to the task, Terry sticks a Meyers Leonard out there above the key to slow down his penetration. We’re talking about broken ankles everywhere, multiple Meyeri emerging from the original just so they can fall down on the hardwood and injure themselves. A true bloodbath.

Allen Crabbe at power forward. He is short and it does not seem like he can jump very high. He would get blasted in the post all game and be completely outmatched on rebounds. He might turn into an actual crab under the pressure.

At center: LaMarcus Aldridge. Say what, Corbin?! Lamarcus is a pretty good option at center! He has range to stretch opposing defenders, he rebounds well and is tall and strong enough to bang in the post. Yes, I say, but he just hates it so much. After the Blazers lose their first ten games, Aldridge, the leader of the team and the Blazers’ highest paid player, would justifiably become a locker room cancer. Imagine that you are the L-Train and not only is the team a nightmarish mishmash, but you’re crushed in the post all night when you would rather be playing power forward. You would LIVE in front of reporters, complaining about everything you could think of until someone traded you (The water in the cooler is too goddamn cold!). When you are building a losing team, lack of production is important, but so is the intangible badness you get from a poisoned locker room environment.

JOE: I would actually leave the standard lineup the same, but over the offseason I would bring them all to the IKEA in Renton, Washington, because the IKEA in Renton, Washington, has a restaurant at which a person get 15 delicious meatballs, mashed potatoes, some kind of cream sauce, and lingonberries, all for $4.99. Hopefully I would even take them there around the time of some Swedish holiday when the IKEA in Renton, Washington, sells some kind of fun Swedish holiday drink that tastes a lot like if you poured a Coca-Cola into a glass, put that glass in the refrigerator, forgot it was in there, then thought it was bacon grease and tried to cook something with it on the stove, then when you realized it was Coca-Cola, you put it back in the bottle and drank later to celebrate some fun Swedish holiday. The point is, Ben, the team would eat that delicious meal and realize that the pinnacle of human experience costs $4.99, and they would lay down their basketball arms to happily go 0-82 and spend their time at the IKEA in Renton, Washington. They also have a 99-cent breakfast plate which I’ve never had but I assume it’s great and there’s a Baja Fresh like a short distance away and its maybe a top-8 Baja Fresh, of the Baja Freshes that I’ve been to.

From: Dane Hansen

Subject: Question

Portland possesses the lyrical talents of Damian Lillard, and yet it’s been 15 years since Bust A Bucket. What’s up with that? Is the front office committed to bringing fans a Grammy or not?

JOE: Hello, Dane. Thank you for your questions. Before I answer them, I would like to first point out that the Blazers did, in fact, release an EP in the time since “Bust-a-Bucket.” In 1999 I believe, the Trail Blazers, in conjunction with Z100 and the Boys & Girls Clubs of the Portland Metropolitan Area, released an EP titled Can I Get A Headband?, which featured the hit title track along with the b-side “It Ain’t Easy,” as well as extended mixes of both, and a fifth track simply titled, “Headband Fan’s Mix,” and for the life of me I have no recollection what that final track contained (I have a vague memory of listening to “It Ain’t Easy” and it being pretty forgettable).

Also, “Bust-a-Bucket” was performed almost entirely by someone called Dan Reed. Granted I hadn’t even begun elementary school at the time of the release and this was the early ‘90s, so weird dudes with cutoff t-shirts tucked into jeans could very well be professional athletes, but I’m pretty sure that Dan Reed was not a player on the Blazers. Therefore, not counting the choral section of assorted Blazers, the only player who truly performed on the song was Jerome Kersey, who delivers a stirring vocal solo with the commitment and gusto of a man who clearly knows his way around the Boyz II Men anthology. By contrast, “Can I Get A Headband?” is performed entirely by players, but since you forgot that one, maybe having players perform a song isn’t really the way to achieve success.

To answer your second question: no, I don’t think they’re committed to bringing fans a Grammy. They are a basketball team. They probably haven’t even discussed what’s required to win Grammys.

CORBIN: I have never heard “Bust-a-Bucket” OR “Can I Get a Headband” before I got this question, I have basically no interest in ephemeral radio-promotional music, I am afraid. I think coming to this cold gives me a fresh perspective. “Can I Get a Headband” is very bad, but it MIGHT feature the lyric “A Robot of God/Who said he was homeless”. As far as the Blazers’ stubborn refusal to bless us with a sequel to the slightly better “Bust-a-Bucket,” men like Dan Reed who wore black tank tops and sang weird fake-y rap songs over electric guitar riffs and drove the local novelty sports song economy all sublimated into gas the second Malkmus bought a house here.

From: Yoni Rapaport

Subject: Mailbag question

If the blazers were a rap crew, which one would they be? Who would be in what roles?

CORBIN: The Allman Brothers Band, circa 1971. Damian is Duane, Lamarcus is Gregg, Nic is Dicky Betts, Wes is Berry Oakley, Robin is Jai Johanney Johnson, Barton is Butch Trucks. Brandon Roy is Elizabeth Reed.

JOE: Corbin just answered the question with precision so I have nothing else to offer, except a couple runner-up analogies.

Public Enemy

Chuck D = Aldridge, Flav = Lopez, Terminator X = Lillard, Professor Griff = Matthews, the S1W = Barton and Robinson

Wu-Tang Clan

RZA = Lillard, GZA = Aldridge, Raekwon = Matthews, Ghostface Killah = Batum, Method Man = Barton, Inspectah Deck = Robinson, U-God = Mo, Masta Killa = Freeland, ODB = Lopez

A$AP Mob

Rocky = Aldridge, Ferg = Lillard, Yams = Stotts, Ty Beats = Olshey, Bari = Ben Falk, Illz = Batum, Nast = Matthews, and the rest of the Mob can be Claver, Crabbe, CJ, and Dorell Wright.

From: Douglas Corpron

Subject: Questions bout stuff?

Hey PRS,

Which Blazers are the most talented?  But not like basketball talent, u want to know about the real talents- who is the best singer, best dancer, best at writing poetry, who tells the best jokes, and other important talents.


JOE: If anyone with the Blazers is reading this mailbag, then this is a good time to mention that should you credential us going forward, these are the kinds of journalistic tidbits that you could expect us to uncover: who on the team is most talented in the most important ways. As it stands now, we have very little first-hand experience (I saw Meyers Leonard waiting in line at Salt & Straw once, he was very tall), so we have to speculate.

As for the speculation though, I think the obvious candidate for talents is Nicolas Batum, since he’s French. But, given that he’s French and that we still haven’t seen much, if any, of his off-court artistry in really any fields at all, I think we have to look elsewhere. For that reason, I think Victor Claver would have to be most talented. Still European so he presumably possesses the same continental flair for art history and music critique and the culinary arts, but because he’s Spanish he doesn’t fit the easy stereotype of a Frenchman, which is why we haven’t seen these talents. We haven’t been looking for them. Granted, he’s not the most talented at basketball, but he’s actually pretty good at all basketball tasks if taken in isolation, so I imagine that his well-rounded skill-set carries over into life as well. I imagine he has basic shoe-cobbling knowledge, for instance.

CORBIN: I would say we have at least a little evidence that Robin Lopez is the team’s most accomplished writer though I wouldn’t be suprised if Wes was an on the D/L poetic soul. I was reading the Marquette University student written literary journal in 2007, where I encountered a blank verse work by “John Basketpoem” (A pseudonym; records do not indicate any Basketpoems attending Marquette at the time) that interested me deeply:


Compete everyday

And try to get better


That’s how you do it

How you step up and put the ball in the bucket


Get me on the block coach

And I will build a castle fit for basketball gods


Certainly SOUNDS like Wes, though I wouldn’t want to presume.

From: Brian Richter

Subject: Question

Did Bill Walton love disco?

[insert image of Disco Stu chart]




CORBIN: Probably not. I think we have a pretty comprehensive knowledge of what Bill Walton’s taste in music is and it’s mostly weedy jam-rock blues stuff. Gotta imagine he wasn’t one of those veiled-homophobic “Disco Sucks” dickheads, though. I’ll bet he would like LCD Soundsystem if someone turned him on to it, though he might think it was a little arch.

JOE: The chart is strong evidence, though I have a hard time accepting on faith that Bill Walton is purely responsible for disco sales booming in 1977. Even if the Blazers were, at some level, responsible, how do we know it wasn’t Bobby Gross, or Lionel Hollins, or even the fierce Maurice Lucas, who loved the sweet sounds of disco music? Poring over Disco Stu’s raw data would be necessary to make any statements with certainty.

From: Tim Sartori

Subject: Yo, guys

Hey, I’m Tim Sartori (@Tim_NBA on twitter, we have had some humorous interactions a few times).

Just wanted to submit a question, if you’re still taking those?

There’s been a lot of talk about those ‘you have $15 to build the best team you can’ things, and I’m basically wondering, who is on the Blazers’ one of those?

Keep up the great stuff, I’ll be looking out for this post.

CORBIN: First off, excellent job pushing your Twitter handle, this is high grade social media strategizing at its finest. I would never answer a question like this using subjective whims, so I went into Basketball Reference, looked up every position, sorted them by descending total Win Shares produced for the Blazers, and arranged them here:


$5: Terry Porter (79.3 Win Shares)

$4: Damon Stoudamire (37.7 Win Shares)

$3: Rod Strickland (32.7 Win Shares)

$2: Dave Twardzik (21.8 Win Shares)

$1: Damian Lillard (15.4 Win Shares. Given, in two seasons. I didn’t say this method was perfect!)


$5: Clyde Drexler (108.7 Win Shares)

$4: Jim Paxson (50 Win Shares)

$3: Brandon Roy (37.5 Win Shares)

$2: Larry Steele (28.2 Win Shares)

$1: Wesley Matthews (24.9 Win Shares)

$5: Jerome Kersey: (59 Win Shares)

$4: Calvin Natt: (34 Win Shares)

$3: Kiki Vandeweghe (33.9 Win Shares. Neck and neck with Calvin Natt!)

$2: Nicolas Batum (32.2 Win Shares)

$1: Bob Gross (30.4 Win Shares)


$5: Rasheed Wallace (61.3 Win Shares, three lifetimes worth of dominance over squares)

$4: Lamarcus Aldridge (60.8 Win Shares)

$3: Buck Williams (50.4 Win Shares)

$2: Clifford Robinson (46.8 Win Shares. Cliff’s position is up for debate, but whatever, positional revolution, man.)

$1: Mychal Thompson (39.9 Win Shares. So is Mychal’s, but moving him to center wouldn’t have gotten Lucas on so I didn’t bother.)


$5: Arvydas Sabonis (47.3 Win Shares. Pretty impressive, considering he started his NBA Career at 31 and was injured a lot.)

$4: Bill Walton (26 Win Shares)

$3: Kevin Duckworth (25.5 Win Shares)

$2: Joel Pryzbilla (20.5 Win Shares)

$1: Chris Dudley (R, Oregon. 12.6 Win Shares)

Did this method leave Maurice Lucas in the cold and suggest that Sabonis had a better Blazers career than Bill Walton? Absolutely! But science is not an affair, it is a marriage and even you you get a result you may not approve of, you don’t just take her to court and split up your beautiful family.

JOE: I would like to submit Corbin’s “objective” monetary assignments as an example of the fake objectivity and false promise of equality that are inherent in capitalism. Any list that says Jim Paxson is more valuable than Brandon Roy, while also ignoring the contributions great WORKERS like Walt Williams and Greg Anthony and Stacey Augmon, is clearly the work of fascist neoliberal militaristic oil magnates and I for one will not consent to their rule. Para todos toda, para nosotros nada.

CORBIN: How dare you call me a neoliberal. I don’t need to answer to scum like you, but here is PROOF of my progressive economic bonafides:

Displaying IMG_2731.JPG

From: David Brown

Subject: Re Hi

Hai, we want u in our team!!! Thankss.

CORBIN: When Joe told me this was a spam email, I was crushed. I have always wanted to be a part of a team.

JOE: I actually don’t know for sure that it is a spam email. There was no ask for a reply, or a link, so it’s possible David Brown is an enthusiastic fan of the blog who wants us on his team.

From: e

Subject: s

Beloved Family of Ira Curry announces their donation of the sum 600,000.00 USD to you. Send



Mobile #—–



Have a wonderful day

JOE: My name is Joseph Swide and I don’t really have any of that other stuff right now. But if Ira is so inclined, I like to eat breakfast at Fuller’s, near the park blocks, so maybe he can find me there.

CORBIN: NAME: Corbin Aquamaniac Smith. ADDRESS: 1245 NE ProudToLiveInClarkCounty Circle, Vancouver, WA 98685 MOBILE #: 3604206969 AGE: 15 OCCUPATION: Very successful blogger on the topics of women and plant trellising.

From: Famous-But-Not-As-Famous-As-Ben-Golliver Comedian Ian Karmel

Subject: where my subnglasses is



JOE: Corbin, I don’t want to make jokes about this one. Clearly, this came from a man in crisis. We need to find this man’s sunglasses. Many comedians have dark inner lives and right now Mr. Karmel’s is a bit too brightly lit. The clues here are in his type-ohs. Let’s examine the first one, “subnglasses.”

CORBIN: Probably indicates that they are on a submarine.

JOE: Or a submarine sandwich, maybe one that was served on a submarine. Maybe the Blueback down at OMSI. Do they serve sandwiches?

CORBIN: No, but they do serve comfort food cooked by southern women who call young men, like Mr. Karmel here, “Sug.”

JOE: And a summer day in which he would wearing sunglasses might take him to OMSI, a place many summer loves have been kindled. Yet the most revealing part of this email is that not only did he start by typing his message into the subject line, but then when he made a mistake, he didn’t delete it. He just typed the correction in the message field, then made another mistake and did the same thing, again not going back to delete it. Clearly, this is a man who lives his life fast, like a meteor hurtling through the atmosphere, a fireball that doesn’t look back. So while he probably left his former sunglasses at OMSI, probably on the submarine, those sunglasses are in the past, behind him, and so they are no longer his. His sunglasses must be in front of him, not yet purchased, sitting on the rack at a 711 out towards Gresham, the ones with flames shooting down the sides, of course, just like he lives his life.

CORBIN: The life of a road comedian. Tragic stuff.

(HEY if you want us to answer YOUR QUESTION about the Blazers or whatever (Corbin know a lot about plant maintenance, for instance.), shoot us an email at




Ed.’s note: Corbin and I once again had a rich conversation about the upcoming series, and out of respect to the Spurs, their names are all spelled correctly this time.

JOE: Corbin, how many championships will the Blazers win this year? One championship would be nice but I think it would be befitting their greatness if Damian Lillard and LaMarcus Aldridge both left this postseason carrying lots of Larry O’Brien trophies like that time Lauryn Hill won like 4,000 Grammys. How feasible is that?


CORBIN: It’s funny you mention Lauryn Hill, Joseph, because the Blazers’ next opponent, the San Antonio Spurs, have something in common with hip hop and rap artist Lauryn Hill: they are practitioners of the dark art of witchcraft. If the Blazers are going to carry the trophies and banners all people desire for them back to Northern Oregon, they’re going to have to battle valiantly against forces beyond the comprehension of normal human beings.


JOE: Wait, witchcraft?!!! Shouldn’t basketball be fun and free of dark arts? Well first, I guess I should ask, are they fun Bette Midlery witches or evil witches?


CORBIN: Complicated question. Watching Gregg Popovich sass on some sadass sideline reporter is the height of Bette Midlerism in basketball, of course. But the way the Spurs transparently channel unknown powers to give supernatural boosts to weird NBA semi-washouts? It’s unsettling and scary. For instance, do you remember Patty Mills?


JOE: Of course! I have been a champion of Patty since he “torched” the 2008 USA Olympic Team and I also like that he refers to the Spurs as just “Spurs,” like the North London soccer team, and how he calls the Oregon Ducks, “the Duckies.” He’s so endearing! Are you saying that he is actually the evil product of some kind of Wiccan ceremony?


CORBIN: Wicca is a form of white magic, not powerful enough to do what Popovich has done with Patty Mills: a towel waver on the Blazers who later played in Chinese exile before he was signed by the Spurs and their blood magicians and is now a suitable backup point guard with an 18.7 PER who even occasionally plays in two guard lineups with Parker. Or consider Boris Diaw who was out of shape and nearly washed out of the league to force his way out of the Worst-Team-Ever-Bobcats. An injection of Spurs’ goats blood has turned him into a reliable playmaking and shooting stretch four who ably guarded Lebron James in the finals. You should practically see the dark energy pouring out of him as James tried to dribble around his ample frame. Not to mention the Spurs’ older-men Hall of Famers Tim Duncan and Manu Ginobli, who continue to be more than suitable NBA players despite being very old. They are paced and rested throughout the season by Popovich, who is both a brilliant tactical coach and manager of big picture goals. Or they are drinking the blood of the young. Or both.


JOE: Did you know that people are still murdered for suspected witchcraft in Papua New Guinea? In rural villages, there have been instances in which illnesses like AIDS are not understood and thus the resulting deaths are blamed on sorcery, and the men or women who are thought responsible are burned alive, hung from trees, etc. It’s completely horrible and totally preventable. So before we tie Gregg Popovich to a tree and burn him alive, couldn’t we figure out the scientific reasoning for why the Spurs are good? At this point, isn’t trusting in science the only option for the Blazers? Because if it is in fact witchcraft that fuels the Spurs, would Portland even have a chance?


CORBIN: All of the known scientific measuring instruments break when you try to measure the Spurs’ production, suggesting satanic interference. In the regular season they scored at a rate of 110.5 points per 100 possessions, the 7th best mark in the league, and allowed 102.4 points per 100 possessions, the 2nd best mark in the league. Basketball Reference’s SRS statistic, a measurement that takes point differential and strength of schedule into account, said that they were the best team in the NBA this year. But they didn’t even really play their best players super significant minutes in the regular season. This year’s Spurs were the first team in NBA history to have no players averaging more than 30 minutes a game. So far in the playoffs, Duncan, Parker, Kawhi Leonard, and Manu Ginobli are all averaging more minutes in the playoffs than they were in the regular season.


JOE: OK so science calls them the best team in the NBA but they don’t even play their best players very much and they gave relatively heavy minutes to Boris Diaw and Patty Mills and Marco Belinelli? Maybe you’re right after all about this witchcraft. Russian folklore tells of a “Baba Yaga” who lives in a hut in the woods, has bony or chicken-like legs and a keen nose for one’s “Russian scent.” She sometimes tries to eat people and she also gives heavy minutes to Boris Diaw.


CORBIN: That sounds like Coach Pop to me, definitely.


JOE: Well here’s the bad news, Corbin. It doesn’t appear from my superficial reading that anyone ever destroyed “Baba Yaga.” The only thing that one could point to as her downfall is the decreasing number of Russians who believe in a witch that lives in a hut and is something of a matriarch for various woodland creatures. So maybe the Blazers could win the series by choosing to no longer believe in forest witches and not passing folk tales down to their children about Popovich’s ability to smell someone’s “Russian scent”?


CORBIN: Well, the Blazers might be blessed with holy powers, because they’ve played the Spurs relatively well in the LaMarcus Aldridge era. Since the 2010-11 season, the Blazer have gone 8-6 against the Spurs, a genuine achievement against the best team in the league, record-wise, in that time, and especially impressive considering the Blazers have gone through two lottery seasons in that time. This year, they went 2-2; a 115-105 Blazers home victory on November 2nd, a 109-100 Blazers road victory on January 17th, a 111-109 home loss on February 19th, and a 103-90 road loss on March 12th (remember the 4 game losing streak?). In the three games where the matched up with the Spurs, Lamarcus Aldridge shot 54%, 64% and 50%. Damian Lillard averaged 25 points a game.


JOE: I respect numbers and basketball tactics but I have some information here that might startle you. According to the Wikipedia article on Paculla Anna, a Roman priestess to whom the historian Livy attributed responsibility for the growth of Bacchanalia festivals, Paculla Anna made these festivals much more frequent, allowed all types of people to participate, “and made wine-fueled violence and sexual promiscuity mandatory for all initiates.” WINE-FUELED VIOLENCE! WINE, CORBIN, WINE! GREGG POPOVICH LOVES WINE! “WINE-FUELED VIOLENCE” IS THE TITLE OF THE 2013-14 SPURS MEDIA GUIDE! DON’T YOU SEE? GREGG POPOVICH IS PACULLA ANNA!


CORBIN: Especially concerning for locals: Pop is a part owner of A to Z Wineworks in Newberg, Oregon. Gotta imagine he is bringing some “wine-fueled violence” to the locals there.


JOE: HE’S PROBABLY BEEN USING THAT AS A BASE FOR HIS TAKEOVER OF OREGON FOR YEARS! What can the Blazers and the fine people of Newberg do to rid themselves of this sorcery? The Romans were able to crush the debauchery of the Bacchanalia festivals with brutal laws that led to the executions of about 6,000 people, but as for Paculla Anna, it says here: “Paculla’s fate is unknown.” Well, I think we found her. She is the lovably impolite man who sits on the bench for the premier organization in the league.


CORBIN: If that’s true, the Dallas Mavericks, who took the Spurs to seven games in the Spurs opening round series would be the Greeks to the Blazers’ Romans. The Mavs were more creative and eccentric and sexually liberal while running the same offense and using a mid-ranging power forward who gives most teams fits. But the Blazers have been more consistent and better organized, and this could make them better at empire building. The Spurs use a lot of different lineups (If anyone ever tells you that a coach “needs his guys” tell them they’re full of shit: Pop uses all different kinds of lineups for all different kinds of reasons and that kind of intellectual flexibility is why he is the best at coaching.). But with Aldridge at power forward, San Antonio has to stay away from Matt Bonner and maybe even Boris Diaw. Tiago Splitter is better than you think he is, but he isn’t their best offensive option.


JOE: So in your heart of hearts, do you believe that Aldridge can do what the Roman Empire at its very zenith could not, and destroy Paculla Anna and her wine-fueled violence once and for all?


CORBIN: I have absolutely no idea whatsoever. The Rockets were probably as good as the Blazers and they killed Portland in the regular season, but a combination of luck and weird mismanagement on the part of the Rockets gave the series to the Blazers. The Spurs are decisively better than the Blazers and will absolutely not pursue a sub-optimal strategy in trying to beat them. I could imagine Tony Parker spending five games burning the Blazers with picks and giving San Antonio an easy series win. But the Blazers haven’t been overwhelmed by the Spurs in the way other teams have over the last few years. I just can’t bring myself to be like the bearded men in brewpubs across Portland, making up reasons why the Blazers will absolutely win (“The Spurs are old!” Yeah, no shit, buddy, that didn’t stop them from making the finals a year ago.), but I don’t think the Spurs victory is a foregone conclusion.


JOE: Also, girdle-measurers used to tailor the size of one’s girdle based on whether or not they thought that person was under a spell from any number of fairies. What effect, if any, do you think that will have on the series?


CORBIN: Can’t be good for Mo, whose ability to navigate around a pick is already a problem. If Patty plants some spirits in him, a tighter girdle will leave him out of breath almost immediately. On the plus side, more Earl Watson in this one.



Ed.’s Note: In lieu of a traditional preview, Corbin and I discussed our thoughts on the series as well as our hopes, fears, dreams, aspirations, dreams, hopes, and fears. Also, we are well aware that we did not use the proper spelling of the opponent team’s name or the names of its players, but this is the playoffs and disrespecting opponents’ humanity begins now.

CORBIN: Joe, I gotta say, I am FEELING very good about this series for our trusty Portland Trail Blazers.


JOE: Really? I feel good about this series but my feelings should not be trusted. I once believed that Meyers Leonard and J. J. Hickson were a match made in frontcourt heaven (think of the high-lows!). I need you to tell me how crazy I am. I need you to squash my hopes.


CORBIN: Well, Joe, normally I would do that. I am a bitter and sad man whose only joys come in the form of old Baseball Prospectuses and seeing the things I love crushed. For instance, I might normally say something like, “The Blazers have a terrible defense, and an especially bad pick and roll defense, one that has been lit up by teams like the Losetown Sock-its, and in fact, the Socks themselves, all year.” But, I dunno, I just have a good FEELING about this one!


JOE: I expected you to appease my swirling thoughts with math and reason, but you’re saying that feelings are all you have? Feelings are all I have, Corbin, but I had hopes for you. I thought you were an analyst.


CORBIN: I was, until I learned about girls, yessireebob! The old me would have looked at these teams’ regular season matchups: a 116-101 Smocks victory in November, a 111-104 Blazers victory in December, a 126-113 Pet Rocks victory in January, and a “pretty devastating” 118-113 Blazer overtime loss in March, and determined that the Blazers’ crummy defense (107.4 points surrendered per hundred possessions, 22nd in the league) is going to have trouble keeping up with the Lockets’ atomic powered spread screen and roll attack (111 points per hundred possessions, 4th in the NBA.). BUT THE NEW ME is looking at that Damian Lillard guy and saying “Hey, who can guard that dude!?” Now that point guard P-Lick Blurry has been arrested by the NSA!


JOE: *imagining P-Lick Blurry being waterboarded in a secret prison until he admits that Damian Lillard didn’t actually touch his face that one time* *also grinning*


CORBIN: And hey, the old me might point out that Sugar Land stars Fright High-Fjord and Japes Hard-Ones averaged FIFTY FIVE AND A HALF POINTS against the Blazers this year and that Robin Lopez doesn’t have the horizontal foot speed to guard them on screen and rolls or the strength to cover Delight in post-ups. But the new me, the me that is a hit with the ladies and a friend to all my brosephs, thinks, “Hey that Lames Larden with his, frankly, girly flopping and his ‘shooting into contact’ and ‘gunning for high value shots, like threes and foul shots’ might seem useful to eggheads, but is it really honest? And do people really win sports championships when they’re dishonest? Not to mention that D’Wait How-Weird character–so what if he looked terrific this year after his mishaps in LA? Give me a tough dude who scowls all the time, like that Kendrick Perkins, WHO HAS A RING over some JOKER who “gets an insane number of rebounds” or “blows up pick and rolls” or “blocks shots at the rim.” If he had a winner’s attitude, would he want Kobe to yell at him? Isn’t that how JOBS work? Isn’t Chamber Parsnips a little PRETTY to go all the way?


JOE: Sorry I got kinda lost there in the dream of P’Tricky Boo Fairly getting tortured until he admits that he’s evil. In my dream, the prison was in Illinois and Meyers Leonard was there. He was wearing a mask. He was eating an ice cream cone. But anyways, yeah, so the Blazers are gonna win because they represent a more traditional stereotype of masculinity?


CORBIN: Absolutely.  Joe, lemme tell you about men. Men win basketball games, and other games. LaMarcus Aldridge is a man. Damian Lillard: Man. Robin Lopez: a longhair, for certain, but still a man. I crunched some numbers, and the Blazers are worth exactly 5 MUPs more than the Grouseton Flock of Kids; that’s Men Ubove Replacement, Joseph.


JOE: I think I might be the baseline for a replacement-level man. Last night I got a little choked up at the end of Friday Night Lights and then again during Jurassic Park when the one Velociraptor watched the T-Rex kill the other Velociraptor because Velociraptors just seem to value relationships so much and seeing one left to survive alone just tugs at the heartstrings and–HEY! HOW ABOUT THOSE MATCHUPS HUH? YOU THINK LILLARD HANDLES POLICE BEVERAGE’S PRESSURE? WILL LAMARCUS STRUGGLE AGAINST THOSE STRETCHED FOURS OF HOUSTON?


CORBIN: If they can keep from being ground into pesto by the giant spikes on his ass!


JOE: Whose ass are we talking about? And are you sure that’s how you make pesto?


CORBIN: Yes. That Tear-quince Moans character will get starts when he’s not harassing the local homeless, and he’s been like a -200 against the Blazers because LaMarcus dominates Moans’ small and weak body. Home-Free Castle-Pee also has a small and weak body, but he can shoot threes so he’s more useful than Moans. Cranberry Spittoons, a very handsome young man who starts at their other wing is a dilettante power forward who will get minutes against Aldridge. He would probably be able to get LMA out of his comfort zone by shooting all those threes if threes ever went in, in the playoffs. The Blazers could try to matchup and go small with Dorell Wright, if they decide to adopt the coward lifestyle.


JOE: Is there any possibility that the Blazers could convince LaMarcus to play center, thus matching the Rockets small lineups while pulling Howard away from the basket too?


CORBIN: No. If LaMarcus plays center even once, I will regard the series as won.


JOE: If only the Blazers had another 7-foot athlete with a big body and a pretty jump shot who could bang with D’Right Showered on one end and drag him outside on the other end…


CORBIN: Yeah, if only. …wait, what about…






CORBIN: Joe, it’s not a what if, obviously. It’s an “It was.” I mean, Rasheed Wallace would purposely avoid using his post game so that it wouldn’t show up on post-season scouting reports, or that’s what he told people! I can’t believe Meyers sacrificed his regular season stats for the team like this. So brave.


JOE: I hope he gets his own flavor of ice cream at Salt and Straw for such courage and I hope it tastes like the sacrificial blood of a virgin.


CORBIN: Joe, is it possible that you just want Virgin Blood flavored ice cream?


JOE: Enough about me, what role do you see Will Barton playing in this series?


CORBIN: Frankly, I think he will shoot lightning bolts of of his fingers and guide the ball into the basket.


JOE: Ooooh, I read about that in his Draft Express profile.


CORBIN: I am a little worried about Nico Batum assassinating the mayor of Boosieton in the name of French independence from British rule. The Mayor of Boosieton is a member of the Royal Family.


JOE: Sorry I don’t see how that’s a concern. What I’m seeing is a girly basketball team inhabited by under-replacement level men in a soon-to-be leaderless dystopia, while the Blazers will have Meyers Leonard shedding his Clark Kent act and Will Barton shooting laser beams from his fingers and LaMarcus making pesto with his ass spikes. I mean, how could the Blazers even lose this series with all of that? My only remaining concern is Mo Williams. This might all hinge on the play of Mo, right?

CORBIN: …you know, I am afraid I don’t know who that is, and I need to get to a Bar Mitzvah and I forgot how to use Basketball Reference altogether. Hella gone! *Jumps out of window*




Corbin Smith: Blazers point guard Damian Lillard had a career-high 41 Points in a loss to the Kings on Tuesday. Let’s take a look at some other career-high scoring nights in Blazers history:


Future Basketball Hall-of-famer Arvydas Sabonis scored an NBA career-high 33 points as the Blazers took down the Mavs at the Reunion Arena. “Good game, I had a good game, but more importantly, we got the win.” Said Sabas to assembled reporters after the game. “I gotta be honest, I am BUSHED. I can’t wait to go back to the forest, set down my roots, and spend the night in some nice warm soil. Wait. I mean, a bed, and getting sleep and eating human food. I am 100% a human being, not a tree/person hybrid designed by Soviet scientists to be the ultimate energy-sensitive basketball big man. Get out of here! I don’t even speak English! I mean, Aš nekalbu angliškai, gauti šias kameras iš čia!”


New Mexico State product and Trail Blazers rookie point guard Steve Colter went 14 for 20 with 3 three-point shots for a career-high and team-high 35 points in a loss to the Washington Bullets. “Look, I’m just out there trying to do what I need to do to get a win for the team and the fans,” said Colter after the game, “It’s good to have a good game, but when you’re competitive like I am you would rather get the win, for sure. I would also like get a band together, something hardcore punkish, but shorter and a more aggressive, like thrash-y type aggression. Work in some experimental music type stuff. Definitely really political.” In 1990, Colter would meet Claremont, California-based guitarist and tape artist Henry Barnes. Together they formed the legendary powerviolence unit, Man is the Bastard.

Even if the Blazers lost that game, Steve Colter’s dreams on that night came true.



Those career high points were, unfortunately, the only two points Carl’s career. He would be waived by the Blazers on June 23rd and not receive another opportunity in the NBA.


Game 36 by @hideokibespoke #freeboosie #s/o2trobforthesocks #dresseddownitsraining #stillgotswag #stayfreshbestdressteam #toomanyhashtags Gotti out

Let our Boosie go.

Behind the scenes of the commercial today. #ripcity

Art is sacrifice.

Get on this now people

Hersey Hawkins sounds the alarm but are you listening?

Me and @damianlillard #gametime #weherenah #thatboygrowingup #hecleantoo

It’s a walk-off.




Grady O’Brien: In case you don’t know who Stephen Malkmus is–wait, this is a Portland blog, you know who Stephen Malkmus is. Anyway, Malkmus, who has a new album out with his band The Jicks, went on a Grantland podcast not too long ago and used most of the time to talk about the NBA (and his Blazers’ fandom). If you’re a fan of Malkmus and the NBA, this podcast is a dream come true.

Then, Malkmus followed it up by going on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon on Monday and playing a couple songs from the new album. During the second performance (a web exclusive), his guitar player is wearing a Blazers hat!







Joe Swide:

6 AM: alarm.

6:01 AM: snooze (it’s Saturday).

7:13 AM: arise.

7:49 AM: eat breakfast prepared via elaborate Flubber setup (note: it’s the actual setup from Flubber – money is no object).

8:50 AM: select velvet jacket.

11:47 AM: so much velvet.

12:03 PM: arrive at Century Link Field to walk around during warmups before NFC Divisional Playoff.

12:04 PM: take off velvet jacket because rain and velvet are not friends.

12:05 PM: put on funny hat.

1:40PM-4:00 PM: watch Seahawks defeat New Orleans Saints to advance to NFC Championship.

4:01 PM: take off funny hat and replace with new, Trail Blazer logo’d, funny hat.

4:02 PM: put back on velvet jacket.

4:03 PM: mmm…velvet.

4:11 PM: travel to Portland via underground submarine tunnel.

5:11 PM: send submarine selfie to Patty Mills, “hey Patty! miss u!”

5:12 PM: oh, that Patty Mills, he’s adorable.

6:30 PM: arrive at Moda Center.

6:51 PM: meet date for first time.

6:52 PM: yeah, she’ll do.

7:05 PM-9:45 PM: watch Trail Blazers defeat Celtics.

10:00 PM: write in diary, “Hi haters…” (addressing haters in a personal diary is rather unconventional, to say the least, but who am I to question?)

10:01 PM: “…today I am an emperor…”

10:02 PM: “…Bill Gates can’t even solve global health but I built simultaneous contenders in two major sports with nothing but fists of cash and funny hats. Me, Paul Allen.”

10:03 PM-11:59 PM: dreams of velvet.