AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.
There was a period in my life where I became obsessed with Jim Morrison. I was about 18 at the time, and even though I wasn't a Doors fan, I gravitated toward Morrison because I was an impressionable moron. Mostly, his lyrics. In my ridiculously untapped mind, this guy was handed a megaphone from God. This is something only a dim-witted 18-year-old would think. Because after I started loading up chap-books of my own Morrison-esque rip-offs, I quickly began to realize that, wow, if I keep this up, I am destroying any possibility that I won't grow up to be an asshole.
But for a little while there, I felt a true sense of enlightenment. I grew my hair long. I wore homemade bracelets. I attended coffee house readings and was truly in awe of some of the pretentious cocks standing on stage "riffin'" about life and the pain of being a middle-class college student forced to take a part-time job. Some of them would do traditional rhyme scheme, using stilted merry-go-round metaphors and Tori Amos songs to convey the sense of empowered emptiness they've acquired since the break-up of a long-distance relationship. Other, more serious, kids would get up there, dressed in black, chronically sullen, and pull a napkin out of their back pockets and read their precious dashed-off musings about how life is like a ball of yarn or that the universe is one, big giant beating heart.
Thankfully, Stuart Scott ignored possible social disgrace and forged ahead anyway with his own scat-diddily nonsense during Wednesday night's mind-blowing "Poetry Jam" session. Can't knock him too hard, though — it's obvious he's blessed with more creative gifts than I realized. Hopefully, ESPN will not hold back anymore of their employees from showing off their artsy side during broadcasts. Perhaps John Buccigross can juggle flaming knives, or Neil Everett is an established concert bassoonist. Until ESPN gives them the same creative deference they did to Scott, we'll never know. For now, hopefully, we'll have more of Stu's electric verse. Stu rapping — no, preachin'— about life. Oh, and sports.
So this week, I'm gathering up all the Indians on dawn's highway bleeding, collecting all the ghosts that have crowded a young child's fragile, eggshell mind and placing odds on the next topics for Stu Scott's poetry jam.
Is everybody in? Is Everybody...IN?
(Best Stu Scott voice possibly required for column's full effect.)
"Holla, Torre": 3/1
Oh, old man with the gloomy eyes,
Your plump Italian nose, runny from the weeping,
Your pinstripes are fading, like the brave Navajo.
Cheer up, greasy man, you've got four rings.
And you will not be forgotten, by the Bronx's noisy roar
Suzyn Waldman, soul sister in arms, who charms,
her voice broken, shattered
Like her Jew hymen was so long ago.
Oh, old man with the gloomy eyes.
Should you find peace beyond The Game?
You will, dago brutha.
In your family, your friends, a warm cup of Mazacao tea,
Enjoy the newfound days,
before your bowels break,
like the levees in New Orleans,
And flood your shorts,
not with negroes,
but with the wilting turds of Yankee memories.
"The Heroic Return of Allan Houston to the Knicks, Part VII": 2/1
Take heed, brother-man, they laughin' at-choo:
Your crumbling knees,
your dirty dungarees.
Look who's back, now?
The player, boy with 'tha shot, who's hot,
Like Trot, but not Nixon, he's Fix'n, for the
Aught. Oh. 7.
Have you ever been to Devin?
The castle, not the Hester,
Your three-ball's the molester,
of a baby, or a goat, or a
lady in a raincoat.
Be warned, in the East,
The A.H. 'bout to feast,
on yer scoreboard your overlord,
yer dirty ol' umbilical cord.
Chickens start Roostin',
Cuz it's the return of Houston.
Allan, you dig?
"What up, Pats?": 2/1
Oh, little angry man, in the sweatshirt as gray
as mom-mom's groin hair,
Why don't you ever smile?
Your team is bound by nothing,
Just glory, unlike the sinewy slaves
who were shackled by chains and
whipped for stealing old meat from the farmhand's trash.
Yet, your wins don't come fast enough,
your patience, vanished,
Like the summer rainbows
or Catholic innocence
or Tedy Bruschi's vertebrae.
You don't need sneaky Chinese cameras,
or a quarterback's arm,
or the other graceful panthers
they're still just big-donged dummies
controlled by you.
This is your world, now.
"Serena Williams, Girl, Let Me Swim in Your Skirt": 1/1
Lady, please, your serve so sweet, I'll love you if you
let me stroke your bulbous lumps of dark, dark ham.
Monkey woman, writhe with me,
and I'll clock your spot
with a with an 8-inch crotch rock
Yer pop's is calling,
but don't mind him, cuz
he's got no business
in our love souffle.
lemme pop that trunk
And spray your back
with my super silky