Wikipedia comes up with all kinds of colorful expressions disguised as truth, facts or whatever. It’s just people who like to write; people with nothing to do; people like you and me. They have a wiki account and a trucker’s handle and feel generous so they donate their research free of charge without byline or accolade.
All are welcome so screw your ivy league degree. Encyclopedia infinite. From Bamboo to Boxcars to Chick Hearn; born in Aurora, Illinois; became Los Angeles Laker announcer with a “style as rapid fire, staccato” inventing terms like slam dunk and air ball.
Francis Dayle Chick Hearn came to life for me in the movie “White Man Can’t Jump,” not Mr. Hearn himself, but one of his aerial verbal delights; “The mustard is off the hot dog.” Love that movie. Love that Illinois. Love basketball.
My baptism into basketball was Al McGuire as Marquette Warriors head coach and wisdom teacher until his passing in 2001; encouraging us youngeons to visit local Wisconsin farms and become a taxi driver. Do ya better than a college education, he told us. He knew america’s basketball map like Kerouac knew bars. The In your face basketball book was my bible.
McGuire called it French Pastry. The it being that razzle dazzle, but if the pill hit off the back iron and landed out of bounds….well then for sure the mustard was off the hot dog….the showy exaggerated acrobatic rendered useless, but if it swished…..african drum ballet! sweet butter basketball!
Who dares criticize tattoos? The peanut gallery is filled with virgins; people who never enjoyed a hot metal scissors piercing flesh; in arms, legs, or just above a butt crack. Sweet graffiti butter.
I don’t have a tattoo so what the hell can I say? Nothing. Stranger hops aboard a bus is talked up by a stranger already sitting on the bus. They’re talking about their tattoos because they both have em. Is the mustard off the hot dog? It is according to that virgin in the smug corner wearing Gingrich on his face. I stuff an imaginary hot dog in his sow bug face and focus on the tattoo conversation..
Matt Latos was born in Virginia, attended high school in Florida was drafted by the Padres traded to the Reds. He has 20 tattoos He said so. He must have counted them. He’s a good, maybe a great major league pitcher. I don’t love or hate him but it has nothing to do with his 20 tattoos. Hell, he probably has 20 more by now and they wanna be free.
As far as I know this has never happened before; not in recorded tattoo history has any cluster of toos ever organized a rebellion and demanded freedoms and sovereignty and all that liberation stuff.
Kids preach rebellion; accuse parents of so few people people controlling so many resources…the anarchy symbols on t-shirts. the necrophiliac looks at anyone who doesn’t agree with them until they end up dreaming of mom and dad while steam frying purple vegetables inside apartments with prison bars.
Nature outlives pretenders; wears contenders down; trees snatching sunlight and the hell with that bush. Rulers rule, but this Matt Latos tattoo thing is scaring tycoons into joyriding atop construction cranes. Maybe a good thing. Shaking em, knocking em off center.
The back alleys are rattling with squirrels as the true lions of the animal kingdom. Screw gold and silver. Aluminum shines a Cadillac. I love Cadillac.
Latos himself injected free will into each tattoo. He likes to draw and doodle and paint and all that. He said so, but he has no interest in locking up his creations inside frames. He set em free when they were born on his arm and back and butt. Creep weed. It takes time to fly.
There’s nothing Nazis hate more than a bunch of Jews laughing. Ditto for the British control freaking a bunch of Irish enjoying pints and doing that oh so dangerous and radical act of “having a good time.”
The fear spreading through the tattoo parlor industry is rampant and understandable. The cool merchants know what one small miracle can do. It can add removal to their storefront windows verbiage.
The Brewers had an off day Thursday; traveled up the California coast; from San Diego to San Francisco; Big Sur and cliffs, splashing waves; bus stops and dreams? I love California, but it was probably a private jet and not even a cocktail. You snooze, you lose. Screw it. I’m making me a bacardi later tonight; maybe two of em.
The Brewers are still 73-60 and that equals 13 and in some circles that 13 symbolizes rising above the 12 signs of the Zodiac and kicking those horror scopes in the groin.