Lascivious Seating Arrangements

As a child lounging on Mallorca's sun-kissed sands, I received a fine education. Por ejemplo, I oft overheard grizzled fishermen tell the tale of Bernadino de Mendoza’s ambassadorial appointment to England.

It was the late 1500s, and Mendoza was shocked to attend an English church where women and men sat together in the pews. After the Spaniard vented his outrage to an English nobleman, the Englishman retorted:

“Such an seating arrangement would only be unthinkable in Spain. For there, men cannot rid themselves of lascivious thoughts even in the holiest of places!”

Ah, how the fishermen chortled!

For my part, I sometimes wonder how we players must carefully attend to a diagramming while choreographed undulations of the most intriguing sorts play out on the parquet. Is it unseemly to do the sidelong glancing? Perhaps.

Naturalamente, my mates and I are prohibited from interluding with these whirling sylphs. So why do they bat their lashes and call my name? Why, one non-ingenuous ingenue even chucked me under my bestubbled chin!

But chuck me not, Sirens of the hardwood. For there are countless tales warning of the danger of our heart’s desires. 

Has no Blazer Dancer heard of Tithonus? He was a Trojan prince who the goddess Eos fell in love with. Besotted by the handsome youth, Eos begged Zeus to give Tithonus eternal life.

Her wish granted, Eos realized the error— she had failed to ask for eternal YOUTH as well! And so over the years, Tithonus transformed into an increasingly decrepit hobgoblin until the gods finally took pity on him.

Adición: I asked two Blazer Dancers if they knew of Tithonus. They stared in wonderment, until one of them spoke: “Isn’t that something? He still can’t speak English!”

In which Michael Holton gives me "adversity"!

Stroking My War-Beard, I Throw Another Clipper into the Blaze!

As the horn of victory was blown, I surveyed the scene. Fetid smoke rose from the Los Angeles Clippers’ bench, and airborne cinders of destruction danced in the spotlights.

Oh, how the mighty beard of Baron Davis dripped with its owners bitter tears! Nearby, Eric Gordon’s globular head, a near-perfect reflection of a basketball’s outline, suffered partial deflation. And the ginger citadel known as Blake Griffin was caked with remorse ... and some of those brightly-colored streamers that descend from the pavilion’s rafters after a foe is vanquished!

Thus did I behold my handiworkings and fiercely smile a fearsome smile. Patty Mills approached deferentially, bowing and whispering, “The carnage is complete. There is no further insult you can lay upon them. See how even now they drag bodies from the parquet? And among those who live and breathe, none dare meet your gaze.”

“SILENCIO!” I bellowed as the pint-sized native of Oceania cowered. “‘There is no further insult’ possible? Dios mio, have you never heard of replays of the instant?”

“No worries, mate!” Patty brightly responded.

Foto from the Oregonian.

Loosen the Hamstrings of Your Gullibility

The following image may strain your credulousness, so please stretch it out before reading further.

Finished? Then I say to you that this foto is transmitted unto you by a most respectable correspondent; that is, a correspondent who is far from credulous himself, and who has no interest in deceiving others, to wit:

Myself!

That said, behold the the fate of a backboarding that foolishly stood in my path during a match for team España!

It is my most fervent desire to replicate this accomplishment in tonight’s match against the Nets of New Jersey. 

And if THIS individual is residing beneath the shards of falling plexiglass . . . ah, life would be sweet, ¿no?

Foto via.

Plural Nouns and Houston Fans

Upon my arrival in Portland two years past, LaMarcus Aldridge took me on a motor-coach tour of the region. Already homesick, the cockles of my Mallorcan heart were warmed upon spying a host of water vessels anchored  on the Willamette River.

“Look, LaMarcus,” I cried. “A school of ships!”

LaMarcus smiled indulgently, and informed me that a grouping of ships was called a “fleet.”

Sensing he was pulling wool over my orbs, I asked, “Then what is a fleet of sheep called?”

“A flock,” he replied.

“And a flock of attractive women?”

LaMarcus paused. “A bevy!” he exclaimed. He continued on, relating that a bevy of wolves is a pack, but that a pack of cards is not a bevy. Further, he said that a pack of thieves (or sports agents) is called a gang, and a gang of angels is called a host, while a host of porpoises is termed a shoal. A host of cows is a herd, and a herd of children is called a troop, and a troop of partridges is termed a covey, and a covey of stars is called a galaxy, and a galaxy of ruffians is called a horde, and a horde of rubbish is called a heap, and a heap of bulls is called a drove, and a drove of drunks is called a mob, and a mob of whales is called a school (“Back to school?” I wondered), and a school of worship is called a congregation, and a congregation of engineers is called a corps, and a corps of robbers is called a band, and a band of locusts is called a crowd, and a crowd of NBA players is called an elite.

“Ah, finally a word I recognize!” I cried in relief. 

But I could not resist one more question. “And what is a grouping of fans from Houston be called?”

“IDIOTS!” LaMarcus responded, driving onwards.

A tip of the beret to
Charles William Bardeen.
Top foto from

I Am a Trail Blazer Fan.

On the Propriety of Manhandling

Fans of American-style basketballings are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions. As a Spaniard, I respect this! 

I have heard these enthusiasts swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part. And again, this I applaud.

Foto from the Oregonian

But I prefer NOT to hear these words while my exotic regions are in their clutches!

A note to mi amigo, Patty Mills

From El Oregonian

That's not how you do it.

J.R. Smith is all that exists (to J.R. Smith!)

"I see . . . me!"

During the blow-outing that the Denver Nuggets meted out to us last evening, J.R. Smith made a most unwelcome gesture to our bench.

Yes, after his successful launching at the distant basket, he donned the three-goggles.

Blasphemy? Perhaps. But my cogitation is that J.R. is misunderstood. You see, he is an armchair philosopher, though the armchair in question is threadbare. As J.R. is clearly centered around his own self, I once asked him if he was a solipsist during warm-ups.

J.R. nodded uncertainly to my query. To make the Nugget more at ease, I identified myself as a solipsist as well.

“I’ve been a solipsist all my life,” J.R. responded. “I’m surprised there aren’t more of us.”

Foto from the Oregonian.