Posts: 113

1. 

   Sex on the Beach

   25.Aug.08, 12:44 EDT
   
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   The No. 33 MTA bus had delivered our party of four to a stop two blocks from
   Venice Beach, yards beyond where Navy Street meets the sand. As my
   12-year-old son and his two younger siblings hit the boardwalk,
   we stumbled upon a topless rights protest. Even for Venice, this particular hullabaloo felt like a lot. I let my kids watch just a bit of the thing, as I truly support this women’s rights issue. Regardless, not wanting to talk about sex with my children for the rest of the day — “Daddy, why are there 10 times more men than women attending the booby rally?” — I got them in and out of the scene pretty damn fast.

   Within minutes, we were standing in the waves, the boys submerged and then not and me slyly staring at teenage girls in bikinis. You know, the normal way. As the waves attacked my ankles and I held Solecita by the hand and gazed out into the Pacific, beyond the splashing people and even past the surfers. A little lower than the plane-hauled ad for that auto dealership. Somewhere in there. And I thought, there’s no fucking way I’m going to be up for the late-starting Men’s Basketball Olympics final. And that was fine; more than I wanted LeBron, Kobe and company to  beat Spain for the gold medal I needed to hear some sort of statement on Chinese human rights record.

   As that didn't seem to be in the offing, I thought I'd write about sex. Back to the boobies, the basics. When i can't figure out what to write about, I write about sex. This blog has always been about the visceral aspects of physical  life. About feeling. People like sex. So, when stuck for things to write about, hot bodies are the thing.

   People will recall these Olympics for a variety of reasons. China's coming out party generated tangible Michael Phelps memories and more elusive fantasies. Sex was everywhere, literally. In one of the most candid pieces of sports reporting that I've ever seen, Matthew Syed provides this passage:

   I spoke to an Aussie table tennis player this week to check out the village vibe and he launched into the breathless patter common to any Olympic debutant: “It is unbelievable in there; everyone is totally crazy once they are out of their competitions. God knows what it is going to be like this weekend. It is like a world within a world.”

   God loves you loving your body. And I've loved doing this blog. Hopefully from reading the past year's worth of MOLI words you'll loving yourself a little more. For me, it's been a day at the beach with a Culver City Bus driving us home instead of MTA. Clean and easy fun.

   Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

   
   

2. A Lesser Gold

   18.Aug.08, 13:43 EDT
   
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   It’s five-twentysomething a.m., and I’m watching the U.S. play Germany in Olympic basketball. The score is 31-12, us. Deron Williams is playing the two guard, with Chris Paul at the point and Dwayne Wade out on the wing. Wade has just driven the lane, successfully, again. Aside from a Eureka realization I see Dwight Howard have about his free throw shooting, there’s not a thing to be learned. (You know the game’s a dead dog when NBC goes to the Fredric Weis dunk and not a minute’s gone from the second quarter. ) So, I slipped back into a revelry about the weekend gone by.
   
   In the part of LA that’s north of downtown, just west of East L.A., that Miguel the Cranky Spaniard explained to me that the U.S. isn’t actually the world medals leader in the Olympics. NBC just frames the competition as such by counting all medals. In the rest of the world, China is perceived as winning the Olympics
   simply because it deals with the standard measure of victory, overall gold. Miguel, who is often confounded by American sports traditions, conveyed this with a mildly miffed demeanor. Only somewhat irritated. He had barbecued chicken on this night  before he flew off to Oakland, for work. Our girls were in and out, putting way bottles and dishes. And, just to be clear, China is creaming America in the medals race. “It’s not even close, he said. It struck me as a network TV thing.
   

   Television doesn’t have to be boring. I hate when it’s dumbed down, but it’s understandable why NBC has let the games seem to be primarily about swimming and beach volleyball. Athletes like Michael Phelps really do only come along two or three times a century. And, after watching Australia v Brasil smack that ball across
   the sand, it’s clear that the network has on its hands a nightly set-up for a softcore porn flick. Cook and Barnett were charismatic, as were the Brazilian Girls. So many lithe bodies, so little clothing, so much hugging. After primetime  Olympic beach volleyball, everyone goes to bed happy.
   
   I don't get so upset about the truth of the medal competition, actually. It would be nice though to see a more honest representation of the dramas taking place nightly.  In the middle of the night on, I think, MSNBC, I watched  absolutely compelling
   The best stuff is not on NBC during prime time. I watched 139-lb. (I think) female wrestler Randi Miller battle her way to a bronze medal. Physically, Miller is the opposite of arguably the single hottest athlete competing, but she's a riveting athlete. Much more of what we come to the Games for. Badminton, fencing and field hockey and badminton —  "You wanna make sure the shuttle is flying true," the announcer said while 7500 badminton maniacs went absolutely apeshit.  — all gave me non-sexual chills in the course of Sunday's viewing. If only MSNBC trusted its audience to appreciate the full scope of what's going on in Beijing.
   

   Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.
   

3. 

   Define Sport

   14.Aug.08, 09:08 EDT
   
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   I'm having to tear myself away from the pre-Presidential build-up just to begin following the Olympics. I almost don’t have space in my brain for The Games, what with football and baseball and the ever-shifting facts of my own insane life. Also, most of the events are mad boring, like drills. Non integrated and specialized. Last night my girl had on synchronized diving, and that was pretty cool. If gay. But a bunch succession of people swimming — or running — back and forth? I’m not so into it.
   
   (Having said all that: It doesn’t take devotee to realize how otherworldly this Michael Phelps is. Beyond the force and form, here’s what ultimately blows me away about dude: He’s doing it naturally, apparently. With each medal-winning performance, I keep conjuring up the last human male I saw so dominate opponents. Barry Bonds. His early decade at-bats flashed in my mind. And we all know how that’s worked out [so far]. It’s nice to give Tiger Woods company in the world of [apparently] clean athleticism. The standout performances of our time need not be limited to Lance Armstrong, Marion Jones and Steel Curtain Pittsburgh Steelers. It’s wicked awesome to get that pride in humanity back.)
   
   Around my crib, at least, there’s a burgeoning debate about what constitutes a sport? Cuz I ain’t that sure that swimming’s a sport, based on contemporary definitions. It’s an activity, yeah. But is it really a sport. And beach volleyball. I’m totally into it, but also not really clear on why it has to exist.
   
   The wifey-to be can’t take softball seriously because of the women’s bodies. And my 12-year-old son’s mouth hit the floor when he realized people actually count equestrian events as sport. Tastes and temperaments aside, what is actually sport, in the contemporary sense, can indeed be quantified. Any competitive physical exercise that has multiple dimensions — more than just moving in a straight line — is a sport.
   
   So, in conclusion: Swimmming? Sorry, not a sport. One hundred meter dash? Not a
   sport. 400 meter hurdles? Yes. Pole vaulting? Oh, fuck yeah. Ya feel me? My point is that these old school games are awesome for measuring performance. But half the stuff that’s going on in Beijing simply isn’t of interest. I’m not some sort of freak. It would be impossible not to appreciate the stellar work that goes into the athlete performances. But basically, if I’m watching a woman’s event, I’m checking out the fit of the uniforms.

4. 

   LeBron James' World Call

   10.Aug.08, 22:00 EDT
   
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   Stay tuned for more Beijing coverage featuring Dara Torres and Allison Felix and Michael Phelps, too. But this opening bit of MOLI Olympics coverage was too tough to work up. I had to stick with what's tried and true. So, think back... to those thrilling days of yesteryear.
   
   The day that the NBA made available 18-year-old LeBron James' Cleveland Cavaliers jersey, I bought one from David Stern's flagship store in Manhattan. This was 2003, and after my first book's final version hit the world , I toured the nation, sporting that #23 jersey most everywhere I roamed.
   
   Such attire might sound silly for a grown-ass man. But, c'mon. This had to be done. I rooted for the hapless Cavs back in the day of Bobby “Bingo” Smith back before the so-called Miracle of Richfield. How was I not gonna root for LeBron James?
    
   But then BronBron went and showed himself to be human. Last fall when he wore that hat at Jacobs Field, I was instantly like: Fuck that dude. It’s like I’m down with Brooklyn as much as the next Buckeye cat. But that doesn’t mean there’s no such thing as trying too hard. LeBron looked the fool. And loyalty counts a lot for me. Perhaps naively I had assumed that supporting the local baseball team mattered more than a prospective deal with the ROC. Whatever though. I was already kinda mad at dude for not signing then-Cavs journeyman Ira Newble’s Dufur protest petition, a few months earlier.
   
   I’m over all that now. Ever since my Newble reporting for Only A Game I’ve come to get King James a lot better. After the negative PR that followed the star's denial of the scrub's request, LeBron learned about Africa and has come to take a number of smart-looking positions.

   He’s definitely a guy with insanely large aspirations. And that makes sense, as he’s one of the most breathtaking ballplayers ever to stuff it into a jock. Swift, huge, mature and a horse in terms of conditioning, James has earned every bit of his fame.

   Kobe Bryant is exponentially more popular in Asia  than he is in the states, but
   James and Yao Ming are the worldwide face of Olympics basketball. Ball being ball,
   the The Chosen One and the giant's matched starpower doesn’t equate to on-court team parity. Viewers who didn’t think James and the US superior to Yao and China by the end of Sunday's national anthems know nothing about the game, be it backyard. college, NBA or International.

   The U.S. team is bananas good, with nba superstars wholly devoting themselves to role play. Carlos Boozer, for example, got a DNP in the last pre-Games tune-up. Kobe Bryant’s position is something like Bruce Bowen. Like
   the best Bruce Bowen ever. It’s a potentially overwhelming line-up, as evidenced by
   the fact a nervous and somewhat a-kilter American crew still beat China by 31.
   
   James told Craig Sager. it was a good win. Not great. And he’s right. Pity pour
   Angola on Tuesday. Boozer should see some action.

5. This Blog Post is rated Mature.

6. Manny's Curtain Call

   04.Aug.08, 11:51 EDT
   
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   How many truly spontaneous curtain calls have you ever seen? On Saturday night I saw a rare one, live, after Manny hit his first homer as a Dodger. They called Ramirez out of the dugout and hip tipped his cap. Then I saw my second, on Sunday, after he
   hit dinger numero dos. Suddenly, LA fans, some of the lamest and most laidback creatures in the realm of pro sports, are losing it, wholesale. According to AP: Ramirez is even getting loud ovations for making the simplest of catches in left field -- and when he strikes out.
   
   Can you grasp how amped I am? The Kid missed Fernandomania, so Mannymania will have to suffice. It sure is loud. (I like it loud.) This weekend's Dodgers baseball — youthful and browning, hardly recognizable — seems to have swapped Steve Garvey for Marcus Garvey as cultural icons. At Saturday's game I actually saw the Conscious Man in the Monarchs jersey, an archetype unseen by me much 'round Chavez Ravine.
   
   Someone must say it: The home stadium could feel a black-free zone sometimes. If an old-school revival was just happened to be on pre-game, there might be more  blacks on-field than in seat. Black LA wasn't relating so much to Matt Kemp, Juan Pierre and the crew, which is just sad. Now you have, fittingly, Manny. Manny whose recalcitrance actually dates back to Albert Belle, the guy who taught him the art of hitting. Like Jim Rice before him, Manny is absorbing a bit of baseball's racial fury in the form of a Boston-style Beatdown. Bristol, Connecticut is nailing Mr. Ramirez.

   Add to the mix Joe Torre's request that Manny cut his hair. Is the very notion insane or what? Personally, I have no regrets about removing my dreadlocks. Yet I cannot deny that the shock of being without my locks — what I believe were my antennae to the universe — rocked my life a bit. Manny is hitting .615 with two homers and five RBIs in three games. Can't an old-school MLB guy like Torre see that nothing's broke here to fix? Please, Frank: Don't let Skip tinker with the Man Ram just to sate a need to control. Let Manny fucking be Manny and let the game — and merchandising receipts — come to you.
   
   Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

   
   
   
   

7. 

   Very Superstitous; Writing's on the Wall

   31.Jul.08, 13:44 EDT
   
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   OMG. I think I brought Manny to the Los Angeles Dodgers in a deal that makes the Lakers' Gasol deal seem equitable by comparison. A couple of days ago, on the way to my single most disappointing meal in Paris, I was prompted to do my part in ending the Dodgers cursed ways. The second-best team in L.A., by quite a distance now, needed to get better if there was any hope of contending for th NL title.
   
   My ties to Cleveland mean I was conflicted even about the deal for Casey Blake. So in France I decided to cut the cord. Or, more precisely, clip the band.
   
   The band is a formerly yellow plastic dealie of the sort you get in a nightspot — only mine sits ’round the shoulder strap of my Manhattan Portage bag. And, sadly, my band ties me to the Los Angeles Dodgers’ under-performance. A clubhouse attendant put it on the bag last September 15, when he checked it. I was about to hang out in the home locker room up on Chavez Ravine, waiting to chat up Andre Ethier about Ethiopian food, as I really wanted to get him into the mag I was editing.
   
   Schmoozing with the young star went fine, but the Dodgers went south, dropping seven consecutive games after that day of my visit. They were out of the playoff hunt within the week. Over the winter and through their current half-assed season I’ve come to think I jinxed them. I blame me at least as much as the young team’s inconsistency.
   
   So I cut the band this morning, before I even unpacked fully. Before I became reconnected with clarity. And look at the results. Who needs a GM, or even preparation? On Wednesday I had awakened at 5:30 in Paris and hopped the 7:20 train to London. Then I caught a jet from Heathrow, after coffee with my girl and my buddy at the British Library. And I was so late for flights that I never did cop that issue of Baseball Weekly or log on to ESPN. I don’t know more about sports than what IHT or news or Info Sports can tell me. I don’t know what any of the trades mean in baseball’s big picture. However, I can tell you that I’ve done all I can to make sure the Dodgers go deep into the playoffs.

   
   Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

8. 

   Manny, Barry and Belle

   14.Jul.08, 11:06 EDT
   
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   Wonder if that 10th grade history teacher remembers my essay on Pete Rose. Not to stroke myself, but I totally anticipated the baseball legend's fall from grace. Back then Rose was the admired “Charlie Hustle” of the Cincy Reds, and my essay premise was that it wasn’t for baseball’s peculiar code of ethics, Pete Rose might be a considered a criminal. A hustle is a hustle, I wrote. (More or less.)
   
   To this day it’s true. Manny Ramirez is on TV, being called the greatest right-handed hitter of all time. Good thing dude can hit, because he's deep down wild child. For the longest time, it wasn't so accepted to love Manny. Now his hijinks are considered the "Manny being Manny" thing. He can backhand teammates, answer cell phones during pitching changes, can demand that stoner classics be blasted from the Fenway Park soundsystem whenhe steps to the plate. And I’m cool with that. My eldest child has the middle name “Belle”, so you know that that I’m not mad at bad boys in baseball. (Note: The Man Ram is my favorite player, possibly in of sports.)

   Which brings us to Barry Bonds. Allegedly hanging around LA in very good shape, the dormant left-handed slugger reminds MLB of too many issues it wants to forget. Plus, he shat on too many people. So, the consensus among baseball’s consortium of owners is that there’s no place for him in the game, despite the fact that the Yankees — among a handful of contenders — could use a left-handed power hitter. (The Sporting News 1990s Player of the Decade can’t do the NL thing, as its lack of designated hitter would put him on the field, and Bonds’ knees won’t allow him to trot well anymore.)
   
   Listen, Barry’s a stupid, short-sighted twerp, but that doesn’t mean there’s no place for him in baseball. I feel like Barry’s being punished for cheating better than a large percentage of players in the majors. But the truth is that a whole buncha muthafuckas cheated — and do cheat — and Peter MacGowan ain’t volunteering to give back the cheddar the Bonds-driven Giants made. He’s got a phenom to pay for.
   
   Baseball’s funny, in terms of how its villains are defined. No matter middling numbers, a Boston bad guy or a Yankees villain is always within range of becoming an American icon, baseball being largely a regional game projected by Northeast media powers. And things can go either way. Ask Jason Giambi. But Barry’s prolly not coming back. And I actually wish he was. That banned fool can still hit. He’d be a tangible boon to the game and a draw beyond all reason. Baseball, on this most lucrative of occasions, I beseech you.
   

9. 

   E's True Hollywood Story

   10.Jul.08, 15:39 EDT
   
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   Out in L.A., they are calling Elton Brand "Anakin Skywalker". Since the Clippers’ charismatic power forward walked out on a deal everyone in the city press thought he and the Clips were gonna make — and signing with Philadelphia — the locals have assigned truly evil motives to the one-time golden boy. Los Angeles is in a hissing mood. Which is encouraging, in a way. At least we now know there's something that might get these punk-ass fans out of their seats.
   
   But this is not about evil. This is about a deal. To be precise, it's about Brand's agent David Falk being an East Coast guy who knows the world's not seeing nearly enough of Brand. The Clips are more local than Tommy's and the media centers of New York, Boston, and Philly would be sleeping through through his late-starting games — even if the the Clips were worth a shit. Although EB has inroads in the film biz, he lost tens of millions in easy money endorsements. Nobody saw Elton Brand in Kobe-focused L.A.
   
   Plus, more significantly, the Clippers suck. Owner Donald Stirling is an empty suit. His second, Elgin Baylor, is asleep. Anytime something good happens for the Clips, it’s an accident of fate. The Clippers suck, and Elton’s an operator. A player, if you will. Philly’s gonna eat him up.
   
   Working in the his side hustle of movie production improved EB’s savvy, but Brand had for a long time stopped being some innocent kid. EB's cool, but he's not the sort of rube who gives up $20 million dollars in salary for quaint notions of teammate bonding.
   

   While I scribbled for a sports magazine in 1999, someone shipped me an e-mail containing what proported to be an Elton Brand e-mail. It was very hot shit. Here was the Peekskills kid delivering real, unmediated talk about how he felt at his elite athletic program. Clearly, this first Duke baller to exit early had chafed at his classmates' put-down attitudes. (The email came across  kinda edgy. And its voice made me wanna follow up. (The mag that employed me? Not so much.)
   

   I love both EB and his game, Regardless, I'm not naive enough to think that, like other Angeleno imported from somewhere else, his roots only crazy deep. Baron Davis (of Compton/Santa Monica) doesn't deserve to be abandoned here; he's a swell guy. I hope Davis gets Josh Smith. If so, circle the Sixers-Clippers game on your calendar. And Brand will get booed like Darth Vader.
   
   One other thing: I'm working on a blog about women's bodies, for next week. As a means of pre-empting outraged posts, I'd like you to please see this article on what naked girls used to look like.

10. Past Time, Too Soon?

    03.Jul.08, 14:09 EDT
    
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    It might not be obvious, based on my ongoing critique, but I'm actually kinda into American life.
    

    Don’t think me a player hater for revisiting this. Listen: baseball’s awesome. I can remember chilling with Prince Fielder, Johnny Damon, and rising Milwaukee Brewers star

    Seth McClung in South Beach on Super Bowl Weekend ’07 and thinking: These cats are living the life. They’re among the world’s best at the game most men would die to play for a living.
    
    But would every kid want to play it? Today’s kids? Ya gotta wonder if tomorrow’s youngsters will be into baseball at a level that matches 20th century interest. Never mind that baseball plays out as challengingly deliberate for anyone under 20, the sport has become perversely expensive.
    
    My last Dodger game played out as the same amazing live event I’ve dug almost all of my life. Cliff Lee was the same beastly hurler he’s been all season. Closer Takashi Saito displayed the unpredictability that’s given Joe Torre headaches all season. It’s a nutty, up-and-down game, and the fans still feel it.
    
    But the expense of going to the ballpark has become damn-near prohibitive. My crew’s four seats were worth $160. Parking another $15. Unremarkable food ran $60 and my single large, domestic beer ran $11.50. A bottle of water was $5.75. A week later, I saw Gilberto Gil and Devendra Banhart at the Hollywood Bowl. It unnerved me that beer was relatively cheap at $7.50 and water $3.
    
    Now, MLB apologists will at this point say that  the Hollywood Bowl gets help in keeping its prices down. But owners get corporate welfare and that all-important anti-trust exemption is nothing like a burden, either. Still, baseball’s overlords can’t figure a way to get a family of four in and out of their entertainment product for under two-and-a-half bills? Are you shitting me?
    
    Pardon me if I think of baseball as an enterprise that targets elites. As Reagan McMahon pointed out in her innovative book Revolution in the Bleachers, the cost of all-important camps and club teams has risen so that the best American can’t even consider the game a realistic option.
    
    Anyone who watched the College Baseball World Series saw how the the diamond's throwback exclusive ways are playing out. Anyone who’s watched how the Dodgers’ “bargain” plan, its $35 all-you-can-eat bleachers ticket, knows that it amounts to a bunch of poor Mexicans penned up just beyond the outfield. On this fourth of July weekend, while MLB prepares for Mark McGuire’s dodgy return to the game, maybe you should consider just how far the national pastime has gotten from its origins in the hardscrabble fields of an America the game hardly seems to recognize anymore.