Perhaps you think this kind of sweeping generalization is insane. Most people do. If you ask almost anyone about the cultural ramifications of a series of basketball games (some of which happened twenty-one years ago), they will inevitably scoff. I know this, because I’ve tried. “I’m really very hesitant to buy into any theories of this nature,” says longtime Boston Globe writer Bob Ryan, generally considered America’s foremost media expert on the NBA and someone who’s known for buying into illogical theories. “I just think that’s reaching beyond any reasonable limit of logic.” Of course, immediately after making that statement, Ryan spent the next ten minutes explaining why these two teams represented “the conflict between speed and convention.”2 The fact of the matter is that everyone who truly cares about basketball subconsciously knows that Celtics vs. Lakers reflects every fabric of male existence, just as everyone who loves rock ’n’ roll knows that the difference between the Beatles and the Stones is not so much a dispute over music as it is a way to describe your own self-identity. This is why men need to become obsessed with things: It’s an extroverted way to pursue solipsism. We are able to study something that defines who we are; therefore, we are able to study ourselves. Do you know people who insist they like “all kinds of music”? That actually means they like no kinds of music. And do you know guys who didn’t care who won when the Celtics played the Lakers? That means they never really cared about anything.
The Core Principle of Our Metareality,
and/or Pat Riley’s Head
I called the Miami Heat’s front office to see if Riley would talk to me about my hypothesis. Much to my surprise, he called back in only two days; much to his surprise, the first thing I asked him about was his hair. What I wanted to know was whether he realized that his hair symbolized the hypermodern, antitraditional paradigm the Lakers used to mock the Celtics’ archetypical simplicity and Greatest Generation morality.
Oddly, Riley acted like he had heard this question before.
“Oh, I was totally aware of that,” he said. “I knew I was being packaged by CBS and everybody else in the media. But I didn’t pay attention to it. If you play in the finals seven times, somebody is going to notice you slick your hair back, and sportswriters make a big deal about things like that. And as those teams go down in history, the myths become more important than anything that actually went down for real.”
I suppose that detached mythology is really what I’m writing about. In truth, these teams didn’t play each other as often as it seems retrospectively. Though there wasn’t an NBA championship series in the eighties that didn’t include either L.A. or Boston, they only played each other three times. They only faced each other in a seventh game once, and the star that night was forgotten antihero Cedric “Cornbread” Maxwell. The greatest Celtic team—the 1985–86 squad that used Bill Walton as the sixth man—never played L.A. in the finals, because the Lakers were upset in the playoffs by an inferior Houston team led by underachiever Ralph Sampson. The era’s best Laker squad was probably the one from 1986–87 (Jabbar’s last decent season and Byron Scott’s first good one), but Boston was so devastated by injury that year they essentially played with only five guys (their best reserve was Jerry fucking Sichting). In a way, the rivalry is akin to memories from keg parties from your freshman year at college—it all sort of runs together into one hazy image that never technically occurred, yet somehow feels to have occurred all the time.
But in so many ways, that kind of mythology is the only thing that keeps us alive. Remember when Danny Ainge bit Tree Rollins’s hand in the 1984 Eastern conference playoffs? If you do, you shouldn’t: Rollins is actually the guy who bit Ainge. For some reason, everyone recalls the opposite. This is a big part of why so many people hated the greatest Mormon in league history—because someone bit him. Life is rarely about what happened; it’s mostly about what we think happened.
Riley knew this, too. When I asked him what the ultimate key to beating Boston was, I assumed (and kind of hoped, actually) that he’d start talking about the way Michael Cooper matched up with Bird defensively. Instead, he went into a bunch of crap about the fifteenth-century Boers.
“We had to get over the psychological element of the Celtic mystique,” Riley insisted. “After we choked in ’84, I had to teach my guys exactly who the Celtics were in a historical sense. I mean, the Celts were a cult who did sinister things in secret places. That’s where I took it. I had to teach them who their opponent was originally, because that’s exactly who they were playing in 1987. I don’t know if the Celtic players knew about Celt history, but that’s how those guys played.”
This is probably true, although a bit comical (I like to imagine Riley handing out scouting reports that included such insights as, “Dennis Johnson: no range beyond twenty-one feet, initiates contact on drives to the hole, may have aspirations to sack Iberia”). But it proves that Riley understood that sport (or least the transcendent moments of sport) has almost nothing to do with the concept of a game. Scrabble is a game. Popomatic Trouble is a game. Major League Baseball is a game. But any situation where Bird is boxing out Magic for a rebound that matters is not. That is a conflict that dwarfs Dante. That is the crouching tiger and the hidden dragon.
So this is how I have come to make every decision in my life: I suss out the Celtics and Lakers dynamic in any given scenario, and then I go with Larry. I’m a Celtic Person; for me, life is simple. And just in case you’re blind to the abundantly obvious, here are ten examples of how you can construct a green and gold humanity:
QUESTION # 1—“What kind of car should I drive?”
If you‘re a Laker Person, buy a two-door car, preferably something made in America. I‘d go with a Camaro IROC or possibly a Ford Probe. These are fast, domestic vehicles, just as the “Showtime” automaton was a sleek, streamlined machine that came from the streets of Michigan (which is where Magic was raised). Meanwhile, Celtic People are four-door sedan owners. I lean toward the Chrysler LeBaron and the Chevy Cavalier, the veritable D.J. and Ainge of the automotive universe.
QUESTION # 2—“Whom should I marry?”
If you’re a Celtic Person, you should try to marry the most beautiful woman willing to sleep with you. In all likelihood, you are not attractive, Celtic Fan. Your haircut is ridiculous. You need to marry the equivalent of a model, lest your kids will almost certainly be repulsive. It is the Celtic Way to find that middle ground between the beautiful (i.e., the rotation on Bird’s release) and the ugly (i.e., Kevin McHale’s skeletal structure). If you’re a Laker Person, you need to marry the most understanding, forward-thinking, unconventional female you can possibly find. This is because (a) you will only enjoy a creative relationship, and (b) you will undoubtedly cheat on her, and probably with a hooker.
QUESTION # 3—“What should I have for breakfast?”
There’s sort of a gut reaction to insist that Celtic People should eat pancakes and bacon while they read the newspaper, but nobody does that except lumberjacks and maybe Mark Cuban. A Celtic Person eats cereal, but nothing bland; Cap’n Crunch or Frosted Flakes are the best options, because the empty sugar represents M. L. Carr and the ample riboflavin represents Scott Wedman (i.e., something that is good for you, even though you have no idea what it does). Laker People consume Kellogg’s Pop-Tarts, which heat up in a hurry–a lot like Bob McAdoo.
QUESTION # 4—“Who Should I Believe Killed John F. Kennedy?”
Laker People side with the conspiracy that implicates the military industrial complex, although they also suspect this is why nobody turned on the air conditioners during game five at the Garden in 1984. Celtic People think Oswald acted alone and without justification, just like Philadelphia 76er Andrew Toney.
QUESTION # 5—“What should be my favorite sexual position?”
I don’t want to get too graphic, but here’s a hint: Look at the way Danny Ainge shot his jumper. Then look at the way Jamaal Wilkes shot his. Enough said.
QUESTION # 6—“What kind of d
rugs should I take?”
Remember the first game of Magic’s career, when Kareem hit a skyhook at the buzzer against the Clippers and Johnson hugged him like a grizzly? The only people I know who behave like that are usually on Ecstasy. Meanwhile, Celtic People smoke pot, just like the Chief.
QUESTION # 7—“David Lee Roth or Sammy Hagar?”
This is a tricky one, because Dave was the ultimate California boy and Sammy’s heaviest solo record is titled Standing Hampton, which I think is in New Hampshire (the Red Rocker also looks a bit like Bill Walton, sans headband). Yet upon further review, it’s; all too obvious: Celtic People are Roth People, because that’sthe original, definitive incarnation of a classic archetype. Laker People are Hagar People, because Sammy was in the band longer and ultimately sold more albums (just as L.A. ultimately won five titles to Boston’s three, while Magic won twenty-two of his thirtyseven head-to-head meetings with Bird). Hell, the Lakers weren’t as cool, but they were better, you know?
QUESTION # 8—“Should capital punishment be legal?”
Laker People say no, as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is a human rights activist who would question the validity of any practice that essentially replicates the original crime. Celtic people say yes, because anybody who’s ever looked into Larry Bird’s eyes knows he’s killer.
QUESTION # 9—“Is Adam Sandler funny?”
No
QUESTION # 10—“What socially irresponsible rap music should I support?”
According to N.W.A., life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money, and James Worthy (arrested for soliciting a Texas prostitute in 1990) would undoubtedly agree. Therefore, Laker People dig Ice Cube. Celtic People go with Eminem, the only white guy who can keep up.
Now, I know what you’re saying: Question #10 is just a race thing, which is exactly what you refuted four thousand words ago. And I’ll admit this is a slippery slope, and something that’s hard to avoid. Bob Ryan was very up front about this. “When the subject of race does come up, there’s one thing you can be sure of,” he told me. “The Celtics were clearly the favorite team of blatant racists. And that’s a sorry commentary on the world, and no fault of the Celtics. But the fact that they had so many great white players made them heroes to racists and people in the Deep South. Even in Boston, there was an element of their fandom that was very happy they had white superstars. Anybody who would deny that is naive.”
So perhaps that’s me; perhaps I’m naive. Perhaps it seems like the Lakers and the Celtics represent everything in life simply because they represent the psychological war between black and white, the only things just about everybody in America can seem to understand. Perhaps the only real reason I worshiped Larry Bird was because he was a God I could create in my own image.
But part of me knows this was really about Pop-Tarts. And about Oswald. And about voting for Bob Dole.
David Halberstam has noted that Larry Bird and Magic Johnson were actually raised with paradoxical pathologies: Halberstam insists Magic’s middle-class upbringing was a traditional white experience, while Bird’s impoverished, screwed-up childhood (his father committed suicide when Larry was nineteen) was more stereotypically black. Perhaps this is part of the reason both men could so successfully represent people who have absolutely nothing to do with them. I am not a white person; not really. I am a Celtic Person. That’s my identity, and I’m never going to try to pretend I’m some sort of eclectic iconoclast. This does not mean I’m always right and you’re always wrong, nor does it mean I subconsciously need other people to feel the same way I do about anything. You don’t need to side with the Boston Celtics to be a good person. But you should definitely side with somebody. Either you’re with us or you’re against us, and both of those options is better than living without a soul.
1. This is probably not true.
2. Two entities that—to the best of my knowledge—are not in conflict.
In every episode of Happy Days, Arthur Fonzarelli was surrounded by adoring teenage girls. The Fonz would snap his fingers and they would rush to his embrace. This phenomenon was central to all Happy Days–related discourse. We (as viewers) were constantly regaled with stories of his remarkable exploits at the popular make-out locale Inspiration Point; these tales often involved twin sisters. This was just an accepted part of life. Richie Cunningham would periodically wander up to the Fonz’s spartan apartment over the garage, and—inevitably—Fonzie would be with a buxom (and strangely mute) high school junior.
This forces us to pose an ethical question: Are we to assume the Fonz was having sex with all of these girls? I mean, this was the 1950s, and Milwaukee is a conservative Midwestern city. It’s hard to believe that such a staid community would be supersaturated with so many sexually aggressive teenage girls. Moreover, we are supposed to perceive the Fonz as a “good guy,” correct? Oh, he’s a bit of a rogue (what with all the bull riding and shark jumping and whatnot), but he’s certainly not the type of guy who would sexually corrupt dozens—perhaps hundreds!—of virginal high school females, many of whom would have undoubtedly been under the legal age of consent in the state of Wisconsin (currently eighteen years of age). That scenario is unthinkable. We cannot exist in a society where someone like Fonzie would be lionized for being an insatiable sexaholic, a statutory rapist, and a potential child molester. This is not the behavior of a “good guy.” And since Fonzie never seemed to have a long-term rapport with any of these girls, it’s unlikely that he ever experienced a loving, mutually satisfying, logically advancing relationship (the lone exception being Pinky Tuscadero, who did not seem to reside in the immediate Milwaukee area).
That being the case, there is only one conclusion to draw. For the entire 255-episode duration of Happy Days, the Fonz was a virgin.
9 Porn 1:09
When exactly did every housewife in America become a whore?1
Now, this is not an attack on housewives. I can’t say I support the idea of every housewife in America being a whore, but I suppose things could be worse; a loose army of housewife whores is obviously preferable to 2 million housewife serial killers, or 3 million housewife crackheads, or 10 million housewife crossbow enthusiasts. Still, the fact that we have so many whorific housewives is mildly unsettling and profoundly inexplicable. It’s hard to wrap your mind around the motivations of a forty-four-year-old mother smiling while someone takes a series of photographs that prominently feature her birth canal.
Yet according to the affable robots at google.com, there are 6, 250 sites on the Internet that prominently include the phrase “naked housewives.” There are also 7,110 that include the phrase “nude housewives,” which I suppose is technically classier. We have 586 that promote “housewife whores,” while a solid 2,600 offer a more generic alternative ( “housewife sluts”). I could only find 51 that contain the phrase “my wife is a whore,” although that number is somewhat offset by the 6 sites specifically promoting that “my wife is a fucking whore,” not to mention the semiofficial domain name housewifewhore.com. Since one can assume all of these sites have—conservatively—50 whores apiece, that’s a little over 830,000 domestic sexaholics in English-speaking countries alone, all of which can be located in roughly ninety seconds.
Considering how few women are still stay-at-home moms, that’s quite an accomplishment.
Everyone knows that the Internet is changing our lives, mostly because someone in the media has uttered that exact phrase every single day since 1993. However, it certainly appears that the main thing the Internet has accomplished is the normalization of amateur pornography. There is no justification for the amount of naked people on the World Wide Web, many of whom are clearly (clearly!) doing so for non-monetary reasons. Where were all these people fifteen years ago? Were there really millions of women in 1986 turning to their husbands and saying, “You know, I would love to have total strangers masturbate to images of me deep-throating a titanium dildo, but there’s simply no medium for that kind of entertainment. I guess we’ll just have to sit here
and watch Falcon Crest again.”
This phenomenon blows my mind, but—apparently—nobody else is the least bit surprised. It has been my experience that people who are especially obsessed with Internet technology (HTML designers, “new media” pundits, Lord of the Rings fans, etc.) tend to become extremely agitated when you start to talk about Internet pornography, typically because they think that it degrades the social import of the Web and insults all the be spectacled geniuses who create it.2 The argument they make in response is usually something along the lines of this: “Okay, sure—there’s porn on the Internet. But who cares? There are some perverts on computers who spend all day looking at Teri Hatcher’s ass, but there are just as many perverts in public libraries looking at medical journals and playing with themselves under the table. You wouldn’t judge the merits of literature by the actions of those losers, and it’s equally shortsighted to study the Internet through the prism of its lowest common denominator. People who obsess about Internet porn are missing the point.”
The first time I heard that argument, it seemed savvy. However, I’ve grown to realize that the opposite is true. People who aren’t obsessing about Internet porn are missing the point, because that sleaze was the catalyst for everything else. I doubt that pornography has been good for the advancement of society, but I suspect it’s done wonders for the advancement of computer technology.
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto Page 12