Love in the Wild West

In a turn of events that has forced The OCC to go into a fit of rage and fire the entire research staff due to extreme negligence, we recently came into possession of an article (now approximately a year old) that much of the sports world may have already seen, but regardless needs to be examined and dissected at once, for gems like this don’t come along every day (and sometimes, as it just so happens, they come along a year late).

The subject of this piece is Boston Celtic Delonte West, who was already one of this site’s favorite players but ascended to a new level when we found out that he sat down to share some rather interesting thoughts with ESPN’s Page 2 on the topic of love.

While the result was not quite hilarity on par with Gilbert Arenas in Esquire, what Delonte had to say was still somewhere in the vicinity of transcendent.

Consider some of the more choice excerpts from Monsieur West’s discourse on love:

1) While describing what he thinks would be a “special night,” Delonte says:

“So, I pick her up in my white convertible. From there, I'd have the music pumping on the radio. The Jim Jones pumping, you know, 'Summer in Miami' song pumping. Got to keep a little gangsta, you can't be too soft. You can't be in there playing some guy that's crying, talking about don't leave me and love me baby, wah wah and all that.”

We must admit, we weren’t familiar with this Jim Jones, nor did we know of any song he wrote about Miami (though we were familiar with one Mike Jones and a song he wrote about flossing). In any case, we were able to look into the matter (which was difficult given the recent firing of the research staff), and learned that the song is actually entitled “Summer With Miami,” not “Summer in Miami.” We also made the determination that the song was not, based on a 30-second sample, download-worthy.

Since we otherwise don’t feel inclined to argue with Delonte’s assertion that you “Got to keep a little gangsta, you can’t be too soft,” we’ll move on.

2) Continuing on the same topic, Delonte says:

“So Jim Jones pumping and then from there, wind blowing through the hair, boom, we get straight to the point -- we eat afterwards because I don't want to kiss no onions. I don't want to kiss you tasting like onions and steak and mushrooms and everything.”

Now, you would think it would be safe to assume that “Boom, we get straight to the point” means that, well…he believes in getting straight to the point.

However, describing a later portion of the date, he comments:

“Do some skinny dipping, but keeping it clean fun, don't need to get all right to the point, you know, keeping it clean. Boom, get back, take her back home. Give her a kiss, tell her I enjoyed my night, let's do it again.”

So let’s get this straight: He “gets straight to the point” in the car, but while skinny dipping, he espouses the philosophy that you “don’t need to get all right to the point.”

So which one is it? This, frankly, was rather confusing, yet strangely enjoyable in its confusing-ness (which you might notice is something of a recurring theme throughout).

Two other notes here:

-It’s interesting that Delonte has chosen to emulate the Emeril Lagasse “boom” approach to setting up dramatic moments;

-You know this thing is filled with too much good material when we’re able to ignore the quote “I don’t want to kiss you tasting like onions and steak and mushrooms and everything.”

3) What also must be noted in here is the star turn taken by West’s then-Celtics teammate Orien Greene, who apparently was nearby when Delonte was talking and chimes in during Delonte’s hypothetical date scenarios with such gems as “What, you taking her back to the Mot 6?” (meaning Motel 6) and the truly sublime suggestion: “Take her to your yacht, dog.”

4) Describing said visit to yacht with his date, Delonte says:

“Pop some bottles, some Moet Rose. The red Moet, we ain't popping no Kristal, it tastes like urination. We ain't popping no Kris, that's $500 a bottle. It ain't that serious. It ain't going to get you drunk. Make sure you put that in there. We ain't doing a $500 bottle, we're doing a $99 wine and dine. While we're eating, have a singer. Who should I have?”

to which Greene, who gets more likable every time he speaks in this damn thing, responds without missing a beat, “R. Kelly.”

Well played, Orien.

Though this passage pretty much speaks for itself, it must be highlighted that the line “We ain’t popping no Kristal, it tastes like urination” is pure poetry.

5) Picking up after the meal on the boat, the next event in Delonte’s vision unfolds as follows (and you’ll recognize the skinny dipping thing from before because we’re jumping around):

“OK, so from there, we're doing a midnight skinny-dipping jump. Alright? From there, hopefully she's got money because I hope Jaws gets her, boom, make sure she got me in the will, bank, I'm good. Oh well, shark got her! Jaws got her. Nah, we ain't going there.”

This is great for so many reasons: For one, there’s the pure ridiculousness of coming up with the idea of a shark eating his date during skinny dipping so that he can get her money (even though he’s the one that’s a highly-paid professional basketball player).

Then, there’s the recurring (yet again) use of “boom.” Almost as if he can’t stop.

And just the tone of this whole thing is so oddly yet enjoyably frenetic that you can just picture Delonte talking faster than he can even think, so you get all of these extra words (and repetition, such as “shark got her! Jaws got her”) that make it exhausting and filled with energy at the same time.

And after all that effort to set it up, he suddenly attempts to nix the whole thing by saying, “Nah, we ain’t going there,” as if he hadn’t just gone there at all and in reality we all imagined it.

Which more or less sums up the entire Delonte experience. What’s real? What’s a joke? Is any of this sincere? And what the hell is he talking about, anyway?

The answer?

Only Delonte knows.

Au Revoir, Horsie

Aside from the occasional cockroach stomp, mouse trapping, potentially venomous spider crushing (and perhaps one accidental squirrel mashing with auto vehicle at some point in time), I can safely and accurately say that I have never inflicted serious harm on an animal in my entire life.

But at this precise moment, I feel like loading up a double-barrel shotgun and blasting a horse directly in the gut. On live television. While smiling.

Or at the very least (and perhaps more accurately), I feel like taking a live horse, cutting off a sizable slab of horse meat with a machete or other sharp knife, and proceeding to use said piece of equine flesh to slap anyone who’s feeling heartbroken about Barbaro’s death directly in the face.

And if there’s time, I’d like to double back to club all the people who are writing fake heartfelt eulogies about this damn beast.

I’ve said it before on this site and now I’ll say it one more time as clearly as I can:

It was just a horse. Get over it.

Honestly, I think I had more of a poignant emotional response to the fact that LeBron dunked on Barbosa over the weekend than I did to Barbaro finally croaking on Monday.

And I’m positive that I was more upset that a certain character got clipped during Season 4 of The Wire than I was that Barbaro at long last had his painstaking saga squashed out.

The more I think about it, in a vacuum I could empathize with this horse’s plight – if only this vacuum weren’t overcrowded with sappy morons who are so desperate to make this (now dead) horse into some kind of plucky, lovable underdog inspirational mascot even though it’s clearly just not (and never was) working for any member of the American sports-watching public who has anything close to one iota of perspective as to what’s actually important or compelling and what’s not.

So to the horse Barbaro, sitting there alone in the vacuum: R.I.P., dude.

To those who can’t stop obsessing over this and trying to turn it into something bigger than it is, just know this:

Tonight at OCC HQ, we dine on the delicacy known as "Flesh of Horse."

And if there are any leftovers whatsoever, we're going to pick them up and promptly slap you with them.

Mozart's First Symphony

In case you’re wondering what kind of level we’re operating on over here today, let’s just say – this machine has seen more well-oiled days before (whatever that means).

In any case, with nothing sports-related coming across our wires that stands out as particularly compelling (after all, we’re fresh out of jokes to make about incarcerated Bengals in the wake of Chris Henry’s recent two-day sentencing), we have chosen to expand our scope beyond the world of sports, as we are occasionally wont to do.

And when the following lead fell into our lap (courtesy of the AP via Yahoo News), for some reason it was just too much to handle:

ANTWERP, Belgium – Mozart, an iguana with an erection that has lasted over a week, will have his penis amputated in the next couple of days.

The article did not say what caused said erection, but we’re speculating that Mozart may have been catching up on Season 2 of Rome on HBO.

Another noteworthy passage from the article reads:

“Mozart, sitting on the shoulders of his keeper as camera crews focused on his red, swollen erection, seemed unperturbed by the news.”

Wow. Just imagine if you had spent your whole life trying to become a well-established cameraman and you found yourself on assignment focusing your lens on an iguana’s “red, swollen erection.” Is that the point at which you begin to question exactly what you’re doing in the profession?

By the way, as a side note for those who might have been concerned about Mozart’s future urinary tract and sexual functionality, male iguanas have two penises. So they’ve got that going for them.

Which is nice.

Whoopsie

Just accidentally spilled a XXXXXL milkshake all over The OCC's shiny new mimeograph machine. Going to have to get this cleaned up at once.

Apologies for the momentarily lull in posts. New material coming later today (Thursday).

Thank you and good day.

The Management

Your Fault

If you count yourself among those people who found it to be a great relief that time when Matt Lawton fessed up to his positive steroids test by essentially saying, “Yeah I screwed up and it won’t happen again” (as opposed to blaming a tainted supplement for his positive test or alleging that his cat peed in his milkshake), then you might appreciate Celtics’ PG Sebastian Telfair’s response to his recent demotion to third-string point guard:

“Oh, I’m overly pissed,” Telfair told the Boston Globe. “I’m pissed at myself. I can’t be pissed at nobody else. Me being on the bench now, I can’t possibly see it having to do with anybody besides myself.”

First off, let it be known that Telfair is lying – at least partially. Of course he can be (and probably is) pissed at somebody else. And that somebody is his coach, Doc Rivers – the man responsible for demoting him. Telfair’s gotta be angry at Doc. That’s just natural instinct.

But the fact that he’s outwardly focusing that anger on himself instead of blaming his coach or anyone else feels at this precise moment more refreshing than a frolic through a mountain stream or a swill of orange mango smoothie in the midst of a brutal Saturday morning hangover (not that we’d know anything about that…)

And the funny thing – as was the case with Lawton – by fessing up and putting the blame on himself, somehow Telfair becomes more likable, even though he’s only in this situation because he screwed up in the first place.

Which proves once and for all, in case we didn’t already know, that accountability on Planet Sport is clearly on the verge of going extinct.

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On an unrelated note, has Reche Caldwell ever blinked? Watching him on TV Sunday was enough to make The OCC want to hop on board an autogiro to Indianapolis and personally administer eye drops on the man. Makes the eyes sting just thinking about it his wide-eyed stare.

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Lastly, let it be known that the reported Mike Bibby-Ron Artest feud (which may or may not have been a feud in the first place) recently came to an end with an odd display of camaraderie when Bibby shaved Artest’s hair into a Mohawk.

Interesting that in this particular instance the white flag between Bibby and Artest was raised through the use of the haircut that’s quite often associated with marching into battle.

And probably the more compelling question to raise here (beyond whether or not Bibby and Artest really ever were feuding or really ever did dislike one another and finally reconcile) is why did it take Ron Artest so long to get on board with the Mohawk fad in the first place?

Are You Gonna Eat That?

It’s film week here at OCC HQ, and recently we’ve been re-screening Season 1 of The Wire, which we know is not technically a film but is better than most films (and by the way if you don't stop being so annoying and pointing out little semantic things like "This is a movie; that's a TV show," you will most certainly not be invited to the next screening).

In any case, there’s a moment in one of the recently-viewed episodes in which Officer Roland Pryzbylewski (a.k.a. “Prez”) walks in to see two other officers discussing the intricacies of their wire tap set up, which prompts Prez to respond, “Spy shit. Very cool.”

Which is probably something close to what Falcons’ QB Michael Vick said when he first saw the nifty secret compartment-containing water bottle he was caught trying to bring through security at Miami International Airport on Wednesday.

And even if you frown upon Vicks’ suspected transportation of marijuana in said bottle (the inside of the bottle was said to contain some residue and reek of a ganja-like substance), you at least have to give him credit for employing a rather inspired smuggling method that would have been fairly brilliant had it not involved an object (a water bottle) you’re blatantly not supposed to take on the plane.

Honestly, has Vick not turned on a radio, TV or morse code machine in the past six months? Water bottles at airport security = no-no. You just have to hope beyond all hope that he didn’t ever intend to actually bring this thing on the plane, because that’s kind of like… well, trying to smuggle something onto a plane using a container you’re blatantly not allowed to have. Which is, as we would say in the business, really dumb.

And of course it is possible he meant to take the thing out of his bag and simply forgot, but… that excuse isn’t really flying at this point (so to speak).

Frankly, there are only two explanations Vick could give that would really carry any weight whatsoever around these parts:

1) I’m an idiot – I completely screwed up and I swear nothing like this will ever happen again. (But I can’t guarantee I won’t do something else stupid down the road because sometimes I get into trouble and you’re just gonna have to deal with that if I play for your team.)

2) My bad; I was blazed out of my mind and had no clue that thing was still in my bag.

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While Michael Vick could (but probably won’t) face charges in the wake of the Aquafina Fiasco, Lakers’ forward Kwame Brown will definitely not be charged in connection with his recent clown impersonation outside a Hermosa Beach nightclub.

In case you hadn’t heard, Kwame got busted for grabbing a dude’s $190 chocolate birthday cake and drilling him in the back with it.

Kwame’s excuse for this bizarre move was that he was trying to hit teammate Ronny Turiaf with the glorified pastry (apparently he only partially succeeded in this task, getting Turiaf in the neck and hitting the other dude in the back).

And this is understandable. After all, who among us hasn’t ever thought about chucking a birthday cake at Ronny Turiaf? That guy’s clearly a prick. And by “prick,” I mean “guy who’s universally well-respected among teammates and coaches.”

The truth of the matter is, it’s very tough to find fault with Kwame Brown’s actions here. The fact is, throwing cakes is funny in just about any context. That’s why clowns do it.

And no sympathy for the guy whose birthday cake got ruined. For one, who among us wouldn’t want our birthday cake to be grabbed by Kwame Brown and thrown at Ronny Turiaf, even if the cake did hit us (the original birthday cake holder) in the back?

Secondly, who the hell buys a $190 birthday cake anyways? Give me one of those big chocolate chip cookie cakes for about 20 bucks and I’ll be happy. Dude should feel lucky Kwame didn’t smash the entire thing in his face, call him out for gratuitous spending and hop in his Ferrari and drive away.

An Open Letter to the Golden State Warriors

Dear Golden State Warriors,

At a time in NBA history when arena public address systems are as irritating and invasive as a tsetse fly buzzing around inside a motorcycle helmet, it occurs to me that you have a unique opportunity to stand out as a true innovator amongst the senseless noise-blasting masses.

You see, as the Warriors, you share a common name with the 1979 film The Warriors, which is considered by many a cult classic and is in fact widely quoted in NBA circles, particularly by Shaquille O’Neal, whose “CAAAN YOU DIG IT?” line came directly from that movie.

And while “CAAAN YOU DIG IT?” really has no implication to your franchise, there are a number of quotes from the film that you could – nay, should – play over the PA system in your arena on a regular basis. Consider:

Near the film’s ending, there is a scene in which one of the main villains is attempting to get the gang known as “The Warriors” to come fight him, and he says, repeatedly, “Warriors, come out to play-ee-ay…”

This would be an appropriate scene to air over the PA system (even incorporating the big screen if you so choose) during pregame and halftime warm-ups. And if you wanted – since the character who says this line is extremely annoying – you could show the scene where one of The Warriors throws a knife into his arm. This might be therapeutic for your fans.

But an even better scene to play over the loudspeaker (and once again employing the big screen) would be when the leader of a rival gang says to The Warriors,

“You Warriors are good. Real good.”

And the leader of The Warriors responds: “The best.”

Now if that wouldn’t get the crowd pumped up during a fourth quarter timeout, I don’t know what would.

It seems fairly clear to me that if you aren’t doing this already (and an informal poll of three Warriors fans and repeated viewings of Warriors games on NBA League Pass have given no indication that you are), you should consider it your civic duty to the people of… umm, Golden State… to begin airing clips and/or audio from this film at your arena during games at once. It will make the lives of your fans, and fans everywhere for that matter, infinitely better.

Thank you and good day.

Yours truly,

The Off-Color Commentator
http://offcolorcommentator.blogspot.com

CC: David Stern, The Baseball Furies, Andris Biedrins

Rick Majerus is Monitoring Your Fax Machine Usage

The following interaction took place between TV commentators Dave O’Brien and Rick Majerus during ESPN’s broadcast of the Texas-Oklahoma State game Tuesday night while the two were discussing the spectacular play of star Texas freshman Kevin Durant:

O’Brien: Of course [Durant] torched Missouri for 34 and 13 recently. Missouri coach Mike Anderson said, “Send him to the League.”

O’Brien [continuing the play-by-play]: Curry on the money. Jameson Curry… He has scored in double figures in all 17 games this season. He has 7 tonight…

Majerus [bringing the conversation back to Durant]: Was that why he was faxing agent numbers out this week?

O’Brien [laughing]: Not a bad idea… get a head start…

This conversation begs a number of important questions:

1) Admittedly without having pored over the NCAA rules and regulations pertaining to proper behavior of student athletes (a document I’d personally rather light on fire and stuff down my pants than read in its entirety), doesn’t it come across as decidedly un-kosher for college hoops players to have explicit contact with agents (via fax or otherwise) while still enrolled at school?

2) And if that’s the case, did Rick Majerus just get Kevin Durant in trouble?

3) Or is The OCC way misguided here and it’s actually okay for players to have contact with agents as long as it’s done within certain parameters? (This seems kind of unlikely given how tight-anused the NCAA is when it comes to… well, just about everything.)

4) Or is this completely a moot point because Majerus was just making a weird, sarcastic remark that could easily be misinterpreted as stating some kind of inside knowledge as to Durant’s fax machine-using habits even though it was actually nothing more than a slightly misguided joke?

5) What does it mean to be “faxing agent numbers out” anyways? And who would Durant be faxing agent numbers to?

6) And who’s ever known of a college kid to use a fax machine, other than the guy who lived in The OCC’s freshman dorm and inexplicably had a fax machine in his room, only to one night come home to find that his deaf roommate, in a complete drunken rage, was peeing on said fax machine?

But now we digress. The point is, something mildly fishy may or may not have happened involving Kevin Durant and agents and a fax machine, and said impropriety (which may or may not have happened) may have subsequently been exposed by Rick Majerus on ESPN. (And as a side note, Kevin Durant is really, really good.)

Whatever the case, it seems like we really should get to the bottom of this situation, and if we should find that any improprieties have taken place, we must consider it our civic duty to conceal any findings from the NCAA at all costs.

From here on out, I recommend that we communicate only via fax. Other channels might not be safe.

-- [END COMMUNIQUE] --

Have You Seen a Pancreas Lying Around?

A thousand apologies for the lack of new posts so far this week -- the entire office took a field trip to Las Vegas and the trip was only supposed to be for one afternoon (we were flying out there to see Siegfried and Roy's tigers), but the next thing we knew it was Monday night and we were not exactly sure where the preceding four days had gone.

Needless to say, we're picking up the pieces once again over here.

Stay tuned -- new posts are coming soon.

You Kids Be Careful

The moment after the whistle blows is often one of the most subtly interesting parts of any NBA game.

And this is not to say it’s interesting because it's the time when players often get angry and technical fouls are doled out – that part of a game is more of a necessary evil than anything else.

More interesting are the soundings of the whistle that are not directly followed by a technical; those quieter moments when the action pauses and the defenders suddenly relax.

In many such instances, a player on offense will take the opportunity to hoist a free practice jump shot, and quite often, a mini drama plays out when a defender decides that said player isn’t going to get the satisfaction of seeing his jumper go in, at which point the defender jumps up and swats the practice shot away.

Apparently this is some kind of moral victory, if nothing else, and it's usually at least reasonably amusing to watch, especially considering that it happens with the backdrop of an otherwise boring lull in action.

On other occasions, a player with the ball will continue driving all the way to the rim after the whistle and attempt to throw down a monstrous dunk.

Usually, nothing comes of this.

But on Wednesday night, it had disastrous results for the Celtics.

Already without Paul Pierce for an extended period of time and tonight without two other starters (Wally Szczerbiak and Delonte West), the Celtics lost the the player who had become their de facto leader of late when Tony Allen attempted an after-the-whistle dunk, bricked it hard and then landed awkwardly, immediately falling to the floor and reaching for his knee.

You should have heard how quiet the Garden was as the Celtics’ already crappy season stepped directly into another gigantic, steaming pile of dung.

(Can seasons step in dung? Well, in any case, you get the idea.)

And not to sound too much like a crotchety, conservative, stuffy old fart, but you’d hope what happened to Tony Allen will be a cautionary tale for the other players in the league, because the swingman’s breakout season is probably over, and for no good reason.

What the NBA really should do is make any shooting or dunking that’s blatantly after the whistle a technical foul. That would really help curtail this madness.

Wow, now I really sound like a salty old man. What’s gotten into me?

And what’s a guy gotta do to get some applesauce around here?

Respect Your Elders

Little-known fact: According to U.S. Census Bureau data released over the summer, Phoenix has the lowest percentage of senior citizens (7.5%) for any city larger than 65,000 people.

However, with the Diamondbacks’ recent re-acquisition of Randy Johnson from the Yankees, those numbers are going to have to be altered.

Alright, alright – R.J. isn’t really a senior citizen, but at age 43, he is clearly nearing baseball death, even though he would dispute that fact.

“A lot of people say my career is over,” Randy told the Associated Press. “I had a 5.00 ERA. Well, I was out there pitching with a bad back for most of the year.”

Ohhhh… well, that explains it! He pitched badly because he had a bad back. Of course. And there’s plenty of reason to believe that at age 43 his back problems will get better.

Essentially, Randy’s logic here is: Listen everyone, I was pretty crappy last year, but that’s just because I’m old and broken down. I’ll be much less old and broken down now that I’m a year older.

Okay, in fairness, Randy did have back surgery in the offseason, and frankly we here at The OCC have always been something of a Unit fan. So, let’s stop hating on Randy…

…and let’s start hating on the D’Backs.

Here's the thing about this acquisition – in a vacuum, it really wouldn't be problematic – Team Brings Back Aging Yet Still Popular Former Star for One Last Run at Glory. But the fact is, this is part of a disturbing trend of agedness for the Arizona franchise over the years. The fact is, this franchise steadfastly refuses to get young year after year despite not being above .500 since 2003.

Consider the average ages of the D’Backs’ starting lineups (as listed on baseball-reference.com) for the past six seasons going back to the 2001 World Series title year:

2001 – average age of 34
2002 – average age of 33
2003 – average age of 30
2004 – average age of 29
2005 – average age of 30
2006 – average age of 31

Furthermore, during that six-year span, only 17 of the 48 position player spots have been occupied by players under the age of 30.

The fact is, this team has been rebuilding for years (rebuilding in this case meaning “not winning), but has been doing so Baltimore Orioles style – by continuing to acquire and play veteran talent instead of developing a core of young players.

Think about it: What’s the best position prospect the D’Backs have developed over the past six years? Lyle Overbay? He’s two teams removed from Arizona now. Junior Spivey? He’s already washed up. Chad Tracy? Okay, he’s not bad. But the Arizona franchise’s track record of producing strong young position players has been downright rotten.

Though it should be pointed out that with an influx of young talent including Conor Jackson, Carlos Quentin and Stephen Drew, the D’Backs appear to finally be getting the idea that they need to give the young guys a chance.

Of course, this comes just in time for them to acquire a gimpy 43-year-old who will provide a sentimental lift, leadership and some moments of excellent pitching but ultimately will just bog down the rotation and the payroll (R.J.’s new contract is for $26 million over the next two years) during his last baseball hurrah.

Phoenix may have the smallest percentage of senior citizens in the country, but right about now, the city’s baseball fans must be feeling downright ancient.

King Dikembe and the Two-Faced Cow

Great quote from Dikembe Mutombo last week on his impending ascension to #2 on the NBA’s career shot-blocking list:

“I'm so excited, so excited," Mutombo told the Houston Chronicle. "I'm really thrilled about becoming one of the great shot-blockers who has played this game. To see myself up with my brother Hakeem Olajuwon, I think it's a great honor for me. To go into the history books as two African kings who came in and did something very special in this league, it is overwhelming to me and I think very significant."

I like this quote very much for two reasons:

1) It allows me to picture Dikembe Mutombo wearing a silly-looking fake plastic crown and red king’s robe while wielding some kind of weird scepter-like device and making wild proclamations to his subjects who do not understand his English as filtered through his absurdly throaty voice. Mutombo as a king – it doesn't get much better than that. (Especially if we can somehow tie in the story of The Emperor's New Clothes – now that would be some excellent comedy.)

2) It reminds me for about the hundredth time that at all costs we really need to track down the footage of Mutombo on Conan O’Brien about seven or eight years ago when Conan forced Deke to inhale from a helium balloon, thereby causing the big man to release one of the strangest sounds ever before heard in modern times, immediately sending Conan into an uncontrollable laughing fit that may or may not have climaxed with him peeing in his pants.

This is truly an unbelievable television moment. Whoever finds it first gets to wear Mutombo’s crown for a day.

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For reasons I won't go into at the moment, I recently had occasion to conduct a google search for "joel przybilla hematoma testicle" (seriously, don't ask).

But I bring this up because the results were rather suprising – check it out for yourself. (Don't worry, this is not going to generate a picture of Joel Przybilla's nuts.)

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And in other google search-related news, did you know that if you google image search for "two-faced cow" the fourth hit that comes up is... Matt LeBlanc? (Once again, don't ask.)

Okay, since you did ask – there was recently a two-faced cow born in Virginia. The thing looks really creepy and may or may not be a cyclops. And in looking for more pictures of it, I turned up a photo of Matt LeBlanc, which must mean that in some way which we do not yet understand, he is also a two-faced cow.

I’ll get to the bottom of this at once.

Hit the Deck

A couple of years ago, this site’s predecessor, instant-replays.com (The Off-Color Commentator’s “daddy,” if you will), discussed the merits of subway riding as a full-blown, competitive sport.

And now that sport finally has an inductee for the Hall of Fame – Wesley Autrey, who on Tuesday dove onto the New York subway tracks just before a train was arriving to save another man who had begun convulsing and had fallen onto the track (Autrey ensured both of their safety by wedging them into the gap between the tracks and the bottom of the train).

For his part, Autrey (who it should be noted appeared to be wearing a stocking cap with the Playboy bunny logo on it in one photo) does not want credit for being a hero:

“I don’t feel like I did something spectacular; I just saw someone who needed help,” he told the New York Times. “I did what I felt was right.”

That’s understandable. And frankly, quite commendable. And we will gladly comply with not going overboard declaring that Autrey’s a hero.

But if he thinks he’s not getting credit for a spectacularly bold feat of athleticism, he’s got another thing coming.

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Devout followers of the HBO show The Wire probably realize that they’re seeing genius at work, and many viewers are probably aware that one of the primary geniuses behind the genius that they’re seeing is David Simon.

But what viewers probably don’t realize is that as brilliant as Simon is, he’s not immune to making the occasional comment that makes him sound like a male model.

Consider this exchange from a Q & A Simon did on Slate.com back in December:

Slate: What are your models?

Simon: There were no models for us in TV. I admire the storytelling of The Sopranos, though I don't watch it consistently. And Deadwood; I don't watch it, but I admire their storytelling. We certainly weren't paying attention to network TV.

And now, consider this gem from Owen Wilson’s character of Hansel in Zoolander:

“Richard Gere's a real hero of mine. Sting. Sting would be another person who's a hero. The music he's created over the years, I don't really listen to it, but the fact that he's making it, I respect that.”

Kind of an eerie resemblance, no? Do you think David Simon’s writers ever have to tell him that the files are in the computer?

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Anyone happen to catch Agent Zero’s game-winning three against Milwaukee last night? There’s nothing more hardcore than hoisting up a game-winning shot and then immediately turning to walk away in disdain because you know the thing is going in and somehow you’re disgusted at yourself for being so filthy good as to have hit it.

Occasionally, The OCC attempts to do the old “walk away because you know you nailed it” routine when throwing rocks at the bowling lanes, but obviously it’s not quite as cool as Gilbert burying a game-winning trey from about 26 feet to top Milwaukee in what has suddenly become a pretty heated rivalry.

And while we’re on the subject of Arenas, gotta say it’s disturbing how quickly he seems to be going from NBA cult hero to the crazy yet talented guy who everyone suddenly seems to be appreciating for the first time at the same time as if some force we’re not quite aware of is conspiring to make us like Arenas.

Frankly, the influx of bodies piling onto the bandwagon is almost enough to make The OCC want to protest by jumping off and hurling stones at the fools on board (which would be terribly immature but at the same time kind of satisfying).

But as much as I may want to, I can’t bring myself to do it. The truth is, I wasn’t close to the first one on board this bandwagon, and as it turns out, we still have a couple of open seats. (And we can probably make some more room if we get rid of all these yaks who are milling around for some unknown reason.)

So saddle on up, partner. Let’s get you fitted for a jersey...

Name Recognition

Earlier this year, just before the start of the NFL season, someone asked me if I’d heard of Darrent Williams. His intention in doing so was to try to prove a point that not many people knew who the guy was despite his considerable talent.

My response was something along the lines of, “Doesn’t he play safety for the Broncos?”

So, while I was pretty close – in reality Williams was a cornerback – the point was still clear: If a sports fanatic like me, who wastes countless amounts of brain space knowing the names of obscure players across multiple sports, didn’t know exactly who Darrent Williams was, it was likely that many others didn’t either.

And now most of us know his name for the worst reason imaginable, which by now you have almost definitely heard – Williams was shot and killed early Monday morning in a drive-by shooting.

With seemingly every sports writer in the nation having weighed in on this topic already, I don’t feel like there’s much more to say. I hadn’t ever met Darrent Williams in any context, and didn’t know much of anything about him except that he was a talented young player.

So ultimately, I don't really have anything to add to the discussion except for this: It sucks that this killing made his name before Williams could fully make it himself.

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Continuing with the subject of names (and on a slightly more upbeat note), the artist formerly known as Houston Texans’ RB Domanick Davis has either been hit with a moment of inspiration or has completely lost it, or both, because he has chosen to be reborn as Domanick Williams.

For the most part, this appears to be a thoughtful, inspired choice, as Williams is switching to his mother’s maiden name because that's the name he more truly identifies with.

The only thing slightly alarming is that the name change has been accompanied by the shedding of braided hair and a lot of talk from Williams about how he’s essentially reinventing himself and starting over as a new person.

"So I'm coming back as a new person altogether," Davis/Williams told the Associated Press. "It's going to be crazy, but I had to make my move."

Once again, we're all for reinvention and self discovery around these parts, and really have no problem with someone cutting off his braids, but it’s tough to hear all of this and not at least momentarily think of another prominent Williams – that would be former NBA player Brian Williams – who changed his name to Bison Dele only to later disappear and ultimately be presumed dead in one of the stranger sequences of events in modern sports history.

Now for what feels like disclaimer #19 in this commentary…

This is not to say we expect Domanick Williams to flip his lid and completely disappear from the face of the earth. Only to say that we can't think of name changes in sports (particularly ones involving the last name of Williams) without thinking of the strange Bison Dele. More power to Domanick for changing his name and trying to revamp his image, even if the name switch from Davis to Williams ranks as one of the least dynamic legal/administrative proceedings of modern times.

And I suppose in some way, a boring last name is a good thing. At least he didn’t change his name to Domanick Dele.

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On an unrelated note, you know you've been on the shelf too long with an injury when you find yourself immersed in a basketball-related daydream in which you're burying improbable fade-away jumpers only to realize that in your entranced state you somehow managed to let the train you were supposed to board whisk right past you on the platform without you so much as noticing it was there.

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Lastly, since this post's overriding theme (in case you didn't catch it) has to do with people's names, we’ll let a man who goes by Hank (also known as the Broken Cowboy) have the last word with an inspired post about Monday night’s Fiesta Bowl, which I missed entirely and now greatly regret missing as a result of having read this recap. Take it away, Hank.

We'll Be With You in a Moment

Merry New Year's, friends. We're still in the process of cleaning up plastic hats, kazoos and random beverage containers from last night's New Year's festivities. We'll kick off '07 with a new post later in the day on Tuesday.

Your patience -- and any help you can provide cleaning up this mess -- are much appreciated.