Keeper's First Blog Entry

We interrupt today's regularly scheduled blog entry. Today, Keeper, our new greyhound, decided to post the first of his hopefully ongoing journal entry's. Today's topic: Keepers first day.

Date: Oct. 24, 2006

1:00 PM
Linda-Mom and I went to Oakville to meet my new owner Teresa-Mom. After a quick walk and some chatting back and forth, I was packed up into the Blue Car. It smelled like French fries, which is a bit weird. Linda-Mom started to cry, which was a bit sad. I will miss Linda-Mom. Her house smelled nice and she had a lot of great stuff to chew on. Especially Tessa-Owl, which I’m happy to find out I get to keep! Tessa-Owl smells a bit like Linda-Mom. I’m beginning to become an “old-hat” at this foster business though, so I’m starting to get used to saying goodbye.

1:00 – 2:00
Drove for a long while. Was listening to CBC radio. It seems like Madonna is adopting a third-world baby, presumably to match her new Fendi handbag, or something. Man, humans are weird!

2:00
Got to the new house. Teresa-Mom led me to the backyard for a long pee. Ahhh! How satisfying!
2:00 – 3:00
Inspected the new house. I must say the new house is really different than Linda-Mom’s house. Not bad though, and the backyard is a reasonable size. Lots of birds at the bird feeder, and I smell in the air a hint of rabbit and squirrel. That’s promising! Teresa-Mom showed me my new dog bed. Grabbed Tessa-Owl and laid down for a nap.

3:00 – 4:00
I’ll say this about Teresa-Mom, she gives a lot of good pets. Followed her to the kitchen and laid down for a while. More petting. Ahhh, life is good!

4:30
This dude walks into the house. Black Guy, kinda funny looking. Smells like French fries, which solves that mystery. Bonus, he too loves to gives pets!

4:30 – 5:00
Teresa-Mom and the Black Guy take me upstairs and sort of lavish me with a lot of attention. There is much petting and grooming, and a lot of saying my name over an over again. Turns out the Black Guy has a pocket full of kibble which he feeds to me one by one. Score! Hey, I grew up on a race track in Florida , I know an easy mark when I see one.

5:00 - 5:30
The Black Guy grabs a clicker. He feeds me a bit of kibble and clicks the clicker. He feeds me another bit of kibble and clicks the clicker. This happens again, and again, and again…. After about the tenth time I want to tell him: “Hey buddy, I get it! Clicker equals food. Now chill out!” But, you know owners. You have to indulge them for a bit in order to train them right. He gives up on the clicker after fifteen tries.

5:30
Finally! Some food. Yummy! Ate in my new crate. It’s got that “new crate” smell…

6:00
After another pee, Teresa-Mom, the Black-Dude and I bundle up for a nice walk. It’s kinda cold up here in Canada , and I would be freezing my gonads off, if I had any. (Yuk-yuk!) But Teresa-Mom outfits me with a doggy coat and we are set. It’s pretty interesting around here. There’s cars, there’s other dogs, there’s people a plenty. The owner’s try to cut the walk short, but in the end I convince them to give me another go around the block. We visit two parks, see more dogs. At one point I get confused and I mistake this big blowing leaf for a squirrel. How embarrassing!

7:00
The weird thing about owners is how concerned they are about poop. I guess they were expecting me to poop during the walk, but hey folks, I’m not ready. Talk about pressure! After the walk we go back inside. Every 10 to 15 minutes they take me outside again for a poop. Umm, still not ready, folks! Thankfully, they wise up and give it a rest.

7:00 – 10:00
Get the teeth brushed. Some more pets. A treat or two and then… a nice long nap. Ahhhh, it’s comfortable here!

10:00
Bedtime for the owners. The Black Guy and I go outside for the last time that night, which works out for me because I’m finally ready for a poop. Again with the poop fixation. I really don’t understand why owners feel the need to pick up the poop with a plastic bag. Makes wanna shout: “Hey buddy, I left that there for a reason!” Then when we go back inside, the Black Guy and Teresa-Mom have this discussion about the consistency of my poop! How friggin’ weird!

Later:
At first, I couldn’t figure where they wanted me to sleep. Then I figure out as they make up a spot for me in the bedroom. What the hell was wrong with the upstairs den? Ahhh, owners… Anyways, I think it’s gonna be okay living here.

Peace out!

A BASKETBALL STORY - PART 2

The story so far…
Acclaimed freelance writer Kalil Honsou begins his year long search for Jimmy Waters, a basketball player whom Michael Jordan, himself, believes is the “Greatest of All Time”.

* * *

At first my investigations were sporadic. Whenever I wasn’t running around either chasing a story, or chasing a buyer for my story, or surfing the net, or watching TV, or hanging out, or playing with my bellybutton lint, I was searching out the name “Jimmy Waters” amongst player archives and comparing them to Jordan’s. I looked for players who scored more points in one game, players with better offensive or defensive rebounds, players with better field goals made in one game.

I searched records from high school players in Bed Stuy, and found no “Jimmy Waters”.

I widened my search to high school players in the other boroughs. No luck.

And even though Mike told me “Jimmy Waters” never made it to college, I searched the records anyway. To no avail.

I spent about for or so months, on and off, pouring through old, dusty archives, and poorly copied mimeographs, risking black lung and myopia searching for a ghost. I then realized that Michael was pulling my leg after all, and my interest in Jimmy Waters started to wane.

A few weeks later, I was chatting with another freelance writer friend of mine named Tek-9, at a vegetarian restaurant in the Harlem. Tek-9 wrote a lot of copy for The Source magazine and he’s somewhat of a legend.

(Rumor has it that one day Suge Knight cornered Tek out in the back alley of some record release party in Manhattan, for one of those shitty acts Death Row was promoting after Dr. Dre left the label. This was just after Suge was released from jail [again], and even though it was a long while after Pac and Biggie got hit, he was still riding high on the image of fear he was generating on the streets of both coasts. Suge was famous for his intimidation tactics [like dangling Vanilla Ice out a penthouse window in Miami to get him to sign over his royalties], and all of us writers were, well… frankly, we were running scared. I know a lot of writers who talked shit whenever and wherever, except when Suge was around. When Suge showed up, everybody’s mouths clamped shut. Except for Tek-9. A week before the confrontation Tek had given Death Row’s latest release zero mics, and wrote a scathing review that equated the future of Death Row under Knight’s command to the last days of Howard Dean’s bid for the 2004 Democratic Nomination. Apparently Suge took umbrage with the review. Suge confronted Tek, and the rumor is Suge came “heavy”. No body really knows what happened that night other than Tek and Suge, and neither one spoke a work about it. But Tek had walked away without a mark, and Suge spent the rest of his New York trip sporting thick sunglasses, apparently to hide an “eye jammy” that looked suspiciously like the butt end of his own Mark VII .357 “Desert Eagle”. Mitch “Blood” Green, like a motherfucker!)

Suge, three days after his meeting with Tek-9.

I was just chatting with Tek about nothing and everything. We discussed Bloomberg versus Giuliani and came to the conclusion that they were both full of shit. We talked about how we missed groups like Public Enemy, especially in the days of Bush’s second disastrous term in office. We discussed Jay-Z’s retirement, and made bets when he was going to return to the mic (September 2006. For the record, I won so pay me my “fiddy” dollars, bi-atch!). That led to a talk about Jordan and his three retirements. It was then I remembered that Tek had an encyclopedic memory of street basketball players. I asked Tek if he knew of a player named Jimmy Waters.

“Who?” he replied.

“You never heard of a street player named ‘Jimmy Waters”? Michael Jordan calls him the greatest player of all time.”

“…the fuck you talking ‘bout, son? Ain’t nobody greater than Mike!”

“I know, I know!” I said. “I’ve been searching player stats and there’s nobody with a better record.”

“You serious about this, Kay?” Tek asked.

I shrugged.

Tek started to think. He truly pondered my quandary.

He said: “A guy like Mike, you ain’t never gonna find anybody on paper better than him. So you’re looking up the wrong tree, son. You searching for the unknown, the unsung hero. The man in black.”

“Yeah, but does he exist?”

“If he does, Bed-Stuy is the perfect place to look for him. Bed-Stuy is full of unsung hero’s. The streets are littered with stories, tales, and legends you ain’t never going to hear. You won’t find 'em in no ‘lie-bury’, no internet and in no rap song. These stories, they too bloody, too hardcore for public consumption. You can’t find that shit in Harlem, son. You gotta go straight to the streets. You gotta walk the streets and wait for them to tell you the tales.”

“That’s just your way of telling me you don’t know who the fucker is.”

“No I don’t. But I tell you what I do know, son. What ever makes him the “greatest” ain’t got nothing’ to do with points and shit. It’s gotta be the story. If he does exist, I know who would know who he is.”

Tek wrote an address down for me.

“Go see this man. Go walk the streets.”

* * *

Three days later I knocked on the office door of Coach Elijah Roberts. He coached the boy’s basketball team at Peter Stuyvesant High, at the corner of Fulton and Schenectady.

“My name is Kalil Honsou, and I am a freelance writer.” I said by way of introduction. “I’m writing a story on Jimmy Waters.”

Coach Roberts looked at me for a long time.

“It’s about time,” he said. “Come on in.”

To be continued…

Bedford-Stuyvesant is one of the few neighborhoods in New York City to possess an identity and culture that is known to audiences outside of New York City. Director Spike Lee has prominently featured the streets and brownstone blocks of Bedford Stuyvesant in his films, including Do The Right Thing (1989) and Crooklyn (1994). Chris Rock's television sitcom, Everybody Hates Chris, portrays Rock's life growing up as a teenager in Bedford-Stuyvesant in 1983. The neighborhood was also the setting of Dave Chappelle's 2004 documentary Block Party, in which Chappelle and many prominent Rap and Soul artists performed an impromptu concert on a street corner.

A BASKETBALL STORY - PART 1

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story came to me in a dream. I’ll try to transcribe it as accurately as possible, but I’m afraid there are going to be some definite problems. For one thing, the story is about a basketball player, and I don’t know a single thing about the game. That’s going to be the weakest and most easily criticized part of the story, because, frankly, I’m going to fake it. But the story touched my heart, and I’m thinking it is demanding to be told. It is my intention to tell this story serially over several days and several ‘blog postings. Honestly folks, I don’t know where this story is going to go. I am hoping you will enjoy the journey.

THE GREATEST BASKET-BALL PLAYER OF ALL TIME
By Kalil Honsou

Kalil Honsou is a freelance writer who has published articles in The Source, Vanity Fair, and GQ. In 2006 he garnered critical acclaim for his three part article on Michael Jordan, entitled “American Legend: The Rise and Rise of ‘Air’ Jordan”, published in Sports Illustrated three years after the athlete’s retirement from the National Basketball Association.

It was the last day of my extensive interview with Michael Jordan.

Michael, gracious man that he is, had allowed me an unprecedented access to his private life. We had arranged to meet each other periodically over the course of a month, each time in a different location. Once in Mali, we met just before Michael was feted by government officials in the African nation. Another time, we met in a small town in Maryland, where Mike was busy coaching his youngest son’s Little League team. Yet another time we met in Las Vegas, joined by Charles Barkley for a private, high-stakes three-day poker marathon that was detailed in my article “American Legend: The Rise and Rise of ‘Air’ Jordan”. But on this, our last day, we met in Michael’s office at the base of operations of the Washington Wizards.

At the tail end of the interview, after I had turned off my tape recorder and was preparing to leave for the airport. I off-handedly asked Michael who he considered was the greatest basketball player of all time. This was meant as a joke. Those of us who had interviewed Mike over the years already knew his answer. When asked that question, a younger Mike Jordan would just smile and you and arch his eyebrows knowingly. Nothing more need to be said.

But this occasion was different. This older Mike was different. This was a man looking at the other side of significant events that shook his sense of security and mortality. This was a man who had to bury a murdered father, weather the storm of a crumbling marriage, and who also had to watch as close friends and business acquaintances burned up in the horror of the 9-11 terrorist attacks.

“Hey Mike,” I said smiling. “Just for the record, who do you think is the greatest basketball player of all time?”

Mike looked thoughtfully over at me. “Ever heard of Jimmy Waters?”

“Who?” I said.

“Damn,” he said. “I thought you know everything, K. You’re slippin’!”

“There has never been a professional basketball player named ‘Jimmy Waters’.” I said. I was a bit stung, too.

“I didn’t say he was a pro.” Mike replied. “Didn’t even make it to college.”

“What’s he a street ball player? He better than ‘the Goat’?”

Earl “The Goat” Manigault
(1944-1998)

Considered the best street basketball player of all time. Known for his 52-inch vertical leap and his ability to “double dunk” (i.e. dunking the ball twice in mid air). Immortalized by Don Cheadle in the movie Rebound: The Legend of Earl “The Goat” Manigault. Died of heart failure in 1998

Mike scoffed at me. “Now you’re just plain trippin’. Jimmy Waters. Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. ‘The Planet’. Look him up there. Now ask me no more questions, I’ve got work to do.” Hey waved me out of the office.

Thus I began what would become a year-long odyssey to discover the man who Michael Jordan considered was more deserving of the title “Greatest of All-Time”.

"Balance, Daniel-san."

It's all about balance, really. Something bad will happen, and then something good will happen. Take for instance last week. On Monday I got an email from the YMCA saying that they are canceling the 3-day self-defense clinic due to lack of sign ups. They feel that the hectic schedule during the month of September was a reason behind the cancellation. People were just too darn busy!

At first I fought for keeping the clinic, working on my own to secure some interested students. But alas, I agreed to the cancellation for two reasons: 1) it was difficult for folks to change their schedules on such short notice and 2) I was sick as a dog!

Last week I had a pretty bad cold, and was out of commission for the equivalent of two days. I needed the rest. Still I felt pretty disappointed about giving up on the clinic.

Then on Thursday, my office manager, Randy informed me that he nominated me for a company award for the previous fundraising clinic. I was written up in the company newsletter, along with a couple other folks from other offices who organized some pretty unique community service events on behalf of the company. It felt great to be nominated, and to be named with that group of people. And I actually got a little prize. It's a silver star shaped award currently housed on my office bookshelf.

It was really nice of Randy to put my name in. It was an unexpected pleasure.

Balance.