After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs. — Emily Dickinson
The Carnival of The NBA, No. 28, comes to us as quixotic exercise, more The Pain than The Hope, a Vision rather than a Sign. We stand here in wonder, on both sides of the fatalistic divide. For, who is it that we Are, if we do not know who we shall Be?
This is only the future. And that future is the Carnival of The NBA, after the jump.
The Carnival commences.
The fine fellow at Mutoni's Musings gives us all the pain and the glory of a Tim Thomas destroying a perfectly good playoff season; who is Thomas to lack such spirit, vigor and soul? Northwest Hoops showcases the preponderance of former Blazers still roaming around playoff land, and we see that, as Proust once wrote, when on Sundays I saw these, in the hot light of a summer morning, blaze like a black sun I would say to myself: "Good heavens! nine o'clock! I must get ready for mass at once if I am to have time to go in and kiss aunt Léonie first."
Ah, high school, such time of learning and loss, of wistful remembrances and raging erections. Gilbert's Arena brings us Wizards yearbook photos, and it is through this that we must not forget, for the days are fleeting and the nights are approaching. We look at high school-aged gentlemen who stand in for Zack Randolph at Blazers Edge, and we are reminded that at our cores, we are all impersonators, we are all empty men.
Ron Artest may no longer be with us, but his presence is felt, even it means living on through black agate text on a solid white unpretentious background. YAYSports! mystery of Who Shot Mamba? remains one of the more pressing issues of our time, though ... what is our time, if not a construct of our own belief system? What Kant called "the maxim of your actions." Though that might have been "angle of the dangle."
Who is the Hope? Who lies in wait as the next Gerry Cooney of the NBA? Jones On The NBA has the answer. The answer must come from within. The answer must come from Kenyon Martin's arm, or perhaps in Pat Riley's whooping crane action. In the end, though, one only has himself and his Basketball Jones podcast to answer for, and that is something, not nothing, no no.
Who has the fever for the flavor of a Pringles? Impending Firestorm would like to be the general manager of the Hawks, and we ask that if a tree falls in the forest, does it fall for thee? If LeBron James, for whom we are all spectators buying tickets, merchandise and snacks, were to retire, what would be a logical profession for him? It is through only the metamorphic possiblities available to post-graduate scholar that not only is retirement a consideration, but also employment escapes the slippery grasp. There is no time for shelf stocking!
A monumental task? Fixing all kinds of off-season Bobcats problems. A task fit for Sisyphus, who was a sissy and girl and shouldn't have been playing with rocks anyway. Is running a call-in podcast such an endeavor? Or is it through this that dreams come, that the future holds promise and joy and hope. Camus wrote "all modern revolutions have ended in a reinforcement of the power of the State," but he married a morphine addict, so what the hell does he know?
How is a void filled? What kind of void? Well, an empty void. Blue and Gold attempts to pick up the pieces of a so-close postseason run. A great man once said that mathematics was the opiate of the masses — or something like that — so LowPost.net looks at regular season performance vs. the playoffs. It is only when the lights shine brightest than a man can truly discover his own worth, or at least the 95 percent of his worth his agent allows him to keep.
You cannot rank a warrior, but you can chart a Warrior, particularly if that warrior looks like a Sudoku nerd from Duke. Screaming from the womb, collicking, cranky and glorious, comes Give Me The Rock, and just as birth as a renewal, so too is the cleansing nature of a good bath in olive oil. (Watch the crevices.) Speaking of birth and renewal, True Hoop turned one year old, and it is through the eyes of a child that we might all be found, or, at least, located for a short while.
As frightening as a world where all are witnesses to Rasheed Wallace might be, it could be a world of more peace than one might have imagined. But it is the leadership of a point guard in Los Angeles that we desire, and desire is more than a common colloquialism for one's Knight father.
But remember, everyone: It is always about the shoes.
It is hope that we bring you. The future. We shall not crush the very notions of imagination or possibility.