Go to about 1:30.
I see you are still on the fence (maybe) (hopefully). In addition to what I offered yesterday, I am now willing to include:
My other ticket to see Louis C.K. on October 20. And I promise to try not to repeat his material poorly. Try not to. I can’t promise I won’t.
An old photo of John Wiley Price hosting a radio show. It’s been on my desk forever. I don’t know why.
My New Edition Icon CD. It doesn’t have “N.E. Heartbreak” on it, for some reason. But it does have “If It Isn’t Love.” Which is awesome.
A D Magazine coffee mug. Yes. That’s right. You heard me.
Five (5) More Free Anecdotes. Remember when I got chemical burns from painting the bleachers at the football field during my summer job working on the maintenance crew? I don’t. Because it happened to you.
Free Thigh Drumming Lessons. Ask around the office. I am the best.
A bear cub. (Note: haven’t secured this yet, but I’m close.)
A firm, All-American handshake.
So … thoughts?
As you may have heard, Deron Williams — this summer’s No. 1 free agent target, and former star at The Colony — has apparently narrowed down his choices to the Brooklyn Nets and Your Dallas Mavericks. Williams can make more money with the Nets, and presumably win more games in Dallas playing with Dirk Nowitzki. Being a longtime Mavericks fan and semi-professional dealmaker, I spent some time this weekend coming up with a supplemental package to help Williams decide to come home. Pay attention, Deron.
In 1994, the Houston Rockets, led by a singular star (Hakeem Olajuwon) and a supporting cast of role players, finally won a championship, after one near-miss (losing to Boston in the 1986 NBA Finals) and a fair amount of disappointing playoff exits. It was a dream season, one that didn’t look likely to repeat itself when the team entered the postseason the next year as a lowly No. 6 seed, despite picking up a still-talented, but largely past his prime Clyde Drexler, now mostly ground-based after a career of high-flying highlights. But they surprised everyone and won a second championship.
In 2011, the Dallas Mavericks, led by a singular star (Dirk Nowitzki) and a supporting cast of role players, finally won a championship, after one near-miss (losing to Miami in the 2006 NBA Finals) and a fair amount of disappointing playoff exits. It was a dream season, one that doesn’t look likely to repeat itself when the team enters the postseason this year as a lowly No. 6 (or maybe No. 7) seed, despite picking up a still-talented, but largely past his prime Vince Carter, now mostly ground-based after a career of high-flying highlights. And then…?
Look, crazier things have happened, is all I’m saying.
Longtime comment section denizen Ross Carmichael has started the Facebook group Dirk Nowitzki For All-Star Game Starter. You should probably join. And you should definitely vote for the tall baller from the G to start in this year’s All-Star Game in Orlando. Do you know Dirk has never — never! — been voted into the starting lineup? RECTIFY THIS.
There are many, many reasons to love Dirk Nowitzki. But this latest one? Quite possibly the best ever.
Remember how when the Mavs won the NBA championship (wait – let’s pause a minute and giggle again at that, because dude, the Mavs won the NBA championship and we got a parade and EVERYTHING), Mark Cuban and the team partied and Cubes spent a lot of money on champagne?
Well, apparently, the champagne tab was about $150,000, and then Jay-Z went to throw a bash, and realized he’d have to spend at least that much. So there you go: Mark Cuban, man who makes rappers feel angst and inadequacy before parties.
Maybe. I have no idea how reliable the Times of India is.
Shawn Marion, according to TMZ, has turned down an offer to be on “Dancing with the Stars” because he’s worried that if the lockout ends, he’ll either have to leave the competition to go play basketball, or he’ll be stuck trying to do both. Or something.
But this sounds like he’s pretty confident in his dancing skills. I mean, he could have the skills ofÂ Kenny Mayne, IJS.
I follow Shawn Marion (matrix31) on Twitter. A couple months ago, I started noticing his tweets about his socks. I thought, That’s funny. Socks. But then he kept tweeting them. So, today, I bring you a recap of Shawn Marion’s July socks along with his tweets. You’re welcome.
you won’t catch me doing this (warning, link slightly NSFW if your boss is really uptight).
The question is, though, would you? And if not there, where on your body would you consider such a thing?
Since the rest of us either don’t like parades, got downtown too late to catch the happenings, or prefer to let infographics speak for us, we dispatched three of our dedicated D Magazine summer interns to share their amazing, true tales of this morning’s Dallas Mavericks victory parade. Each patrolled a different segment of the route.
Take the jump, and check out our full parade photo gallery here.
First up, Meredith Crawford:
As a die-hard Dallas Mavericks fan, I was willing to brave the heat and the crowds in order to witness the beginning of today’s parade at the intersection of Young and Griffin streets. However, even at 8 a.m., the surrounding fans and I were already suffering under the sun as people hid beneath umbrellas and searched desperately for water bottle vendors.
Somehow everyone managed to maintain the excitement as we awaited the team’s arrival. I couldn’t help but join in as the crowds gave a resounding “Wooo!” for every police car and work truck that drove past.Â Even the porta-potty truck got a few “Go Mavs!” shouts. To us, everyone was part of the parade.
…if you purchase $50 of official Mavs merchandise, and are one of the first 200 people to show up at the Macy’s NorthPark Center tomorrow at 6 pm.
One of those things will not be hard to do, especially if you have not already bought your commemorative T-shirt. The other might require playing hooky from work. Again.
As I type this dispatch from the cool confines of D Magazine headquarters, high atop St. Paul Place in downtown Dallas, droplets of sweat are still rolling down the small of my back. Yes, I went to the Mavericks parade. No, I didn’t stay long enough to see the Larry O’Brien Trophy pass by.
The plan was to come to work early, then head down to Victory Plaza (or thereabouts). Dropping off my daughter at her Arboretum summer camp, though, meant that I didn’t get to work till about 9:30. I texted Zac, who was already ensconced under the overpass at Houston and McKinney: “Is discretion the better part of valor, given my tardiness?” His reply: “Hm maybe. But also when will this happen again?” He was right! Into the fray I went.
Sweet Holy Mother of God, did I ever make the wrong call. I won’t bore you with a play-by-play account of each bad decision I made once I got down there, trying to navigate by texts from both Zac and Spider Monkey, our staff photographer, who claimed to be standing atop the 99.5 van with Gordon Keith. I wound up in a sea of perspiring humanity in front of Hooters, literally unable to walk because it was so crowded. Smoke from a Swisher Sweet filled my nostrils. A white guy with his shorts riding so low that they were essentially cinched at his knees dropped an N-bomb as he upbraided his associate, a black fellow wearing a gold grill, for not doing his part to empty the large plastic cup they were sharing. Judging from his slurred speech and general demeanor, I assumed the cup contained sterno that had been strained through cheesecloth (but that’s just a guess).
Long minutes passed. Still I was unable to move. Two lanes of people were moving through the crowd, one in each direction, but I became stuck behind — really, stuck against — a demure, obese white woman who was reluctant to press ahead, as forward progress would require pushing people aside with her estimable haunches. Ten minutes passed. We moved perhaps 6 feet. A loudspeaker from a K104 booth blared music directly into my left ear. Somehow, despite the crush of people, a Hispanic woman wearing short shorts and with her muffin-top midriff exposed, found space to do the booty-shake dance. You know: hands on knees, coyly looking over shoulder, derriere working up and down like it’s powered by compressed air.
More time passed. I sweated. I stood. And, then, as a loud cheer rose from about a block away, indicating that the head of the parade was approaching, I made a break for it. “Excuse me,” I said, leaving the single-file southbound lane still impeded by the obese woman. “Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry, sorry.” I pissed off one stranger after another until I got into open space. Head down, I aimed back to the office.
As I walked up Ross, people were still streaming toward the parade. I saw an entire family — mom, dad, couple of kids — ambling toward the parade at a pace that suggested they thought the thing might not start for another couple hours or so.
“Is it over yet?” the mom asked as we passed each other.
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied. “But it’s kinda crowded.”
“We thought it would be!” she called back, now 10 feet away from me.
And that was the last I ever saw of them.
I’m a huge Mavs fan, going back to the glory days of Rolando, Aguirre, and Harper. That said, I wouldn’t go anywhere near the parade end of downtown today. I honestly don’t understand why anyone would. When I try to list the pros and cons, I come up with plenty of cons: the heat, the crowds, the potential for violence. What’s a pro? Getting to see Dirk Nowitzki in person? I can buy a $2 ticket to a Mavs game next season and get that done in the comfort of an air-conditioned arena.