I can’t think of another figure in American sport who has a persona based in such unreality as Phil Jackson. He’s nurtured an image of himself as some left-leaning progressive Zen guru all based on the fact that he looked like an Animal House-era Donald Sutherland when he played, dabbled in Buddhism, vegetarianism and drugs, and gives his players “inspirational books.”
And yet he got away with this racist remark when the NBA passed its dress code rule a few years ago:
I don’t mean to say [this] as a snide remark toward a certain population in our society, but they have a limitation of their attention span, a lot of it probably due to too much rap music going in their ears and coming out their being….The players have been dressing in prison garb the last five or six years. All the stuff that goes on, it’s like gangster, thuggery stuff.
Now, he’s lecturing the Phoenix Suns, who the Lakers face in the Western Conference Finals starting tonight, for taking a stand against the reactionary Arizona immigration law while he at the same time speaks out in defense of it.
He sits smugly on the sidelines and whines incessantly about the officiating in-between games (when they can’t T him up). Yes, he’s a good coach, handsomely rewarded for his 10 championships (at over $10 m a year). But six of those were won with the best player to ever play the game, and three were won with Shaquille O’Neal at the heights of his powers as the most dominant force of the past generation. Last year’s championship was his most impressive by a mile.
Contrast him with the Suns, a team of veterans that plays at warp speed, and is propelled by over-35s like Grant Hill and Steve Nash who play the right way and have paid their dues, but have never won a ring. They disagreed with the immigration law and at the urging of their owner (Robert Sarver) wore jerseys that read “Los Suns” as a protest, risking significant backlash and the loss of gate receipts to take a stand against a reactionary law.
They should have been praised for it, and you’d think that a hippie like Phil Jackson would support them. But he’s a fraud. I hope the Suns win in 6.
Last night’s sixth episode of Treme was written by Tom Piazza, extending David Simon’s habit of bringing local voices to bear on local stories, and also of hiring writers (like George Pelecanos) who’ve mastered the art of embedding in a story the deep and persistent internal conflicts that make us human. I’m taking an educated guess that large parts of Creighton Bernette’s character are based upon Piazza’s experience writing about New Orleans after Katrina. In 2005, he published Why New Orleans Matters, which offers a defense of the city based in its culture and history that anticipates the simmering anger that flows through Bernette’s YouTube rants. Piazza’s 2008 novel City of Refuge is one of the more captivating books I’ve read in the past few years, and anyone digging the combination of tough questions and local flavor dripping from episodes of Treme should check it out. It tells the story of two very different families dispersed by the flood and their efforts to reconnect with their lives, their pasts, New Orleans, and their futures. While a bit on the sentimental side, and less powerful than the true stories captured by Spike Lee’s masterful documentary When the Levees Broke and Douglas Brinkley’s The Great Deluge, it’s a worthy companion to all the thinking about life and culture that Treme is spurring us to do.
One of my favorite times of day is 8:30 pm. That’s usually when I scoop up my 10 month-old son and we say good night to his didi and mommy and go upstairs to start our little ritual.
Then, we put on a song and have a cuddle. We tried the cry it out thing, and after a couple rough nights, it worked ok. But then teething, ear infections, and general lack of parental constitution landed us at this new process, and it’s worked pretty well (at least for our first shot at getting him asleep at night). I know that without a doubt we’ll have a drag it out sleep war in our future, but I’m not much for grand parental theories about getting them to sleep. Both my wife and are I pragmatists, for better or worse. We’ll try to be systematic and think about the consequences of the decisions… but we’re not much for short term sacrifice when we don’t have much faith (no matter what other parents say about sleep training) in the long term returns. Besides, this process is the opposite of onerous.
Usually, my boy’s asleep before the end of a couple songs. Often, he gets real drowsy, and I put him down and rub his back until he falls asleep. The whole time he’s chilled out and adorable, and I absolutely love this time we spend together. Sometimes, when the music turns off, I use a glowing seahorse (that plays Handel’s Messiah) to transition him.
When my 6 year-old daughter was his age, before she developed stronger opinions than Robert Hughes, we were able to choose the music that she listened to, and used it as an opportunity to expose her to sounds we really liked. We’re trying that again with our second. He doesn’t need any particular song, so I’m fortunate to be able to try different tunes out.
Below is a playlist of songs that have recently been in the 8:30 pm rotation at our house. Maybe they’ll bring some smiles and peaceful zzz’s to yours. Hope you enjoy.
I changed it. I’ll probably change it again. I’m kind of jumping in here with half-formed plans, hoping the plunge will help me form them.
I’ve had this space for a while as an aggregator and digital cv, and it was called, smartly, “Luke Waltzer: Educational Technologist | Historian.” When I was about to hit publish this afternoon I shuddered at the header, and quickly changed it to A Blog of My Own A Space of My Own. I’ve written at and edited Cac.ophony.org for a few years now, and have gotten to feeling somewhat restrained by that space: our wonderful fellows post there, and I feel as though increasingly my posts there should be tied to my ed tech work at the College. But I want to write about other things, too — sports, music, politics, parenthood, history — and don’t want to feel I have to think twice before doing so. So here I am.
Bloviate it is… for now. Not only am I hostile to the concept personal branding, but I also have the good fortune of sucking at it.
While I’d like to think that I sound like Otis Rush when I agonize over quitting Facebook, truth is, I probably sound a lot more like Jack Twist.
I find Facebook’s well-documented privacy shenanigans completely abhorrent, and, like Nancy Baym, I admire friends and acquaintances who have up and left. I’ve been trying to better understand my own rather visceral reactions to all of this and why I’m so hesitant to quit. Many who have left are fine with Twitter being their primary mode of online social connection. I’m not, and here’s why.
On Facebook, I’m connected to people I grew up with, went to Hebrew school or college with, to family members and to friends I’ve made in adulthood. They’re teachers, lawyers, journalists, professors, writers, nurses, doctors, engineers, social workers, artists, musicians, coaches, students, business folk, congressional aides, soldiers, and retirees. They’re Jewish, Hindu, Jain, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Atheist, secular humanist, and there’s a few who’ve dabbled in Santaria. Many, but not all, are to the left of center, and most are to the right of me. These are folks from every step of my life, and I feel a lot of warmth in that space. When I post anecdotes about or photos of my kids, people comment or like or share stories of their own. When I post interesting things I’ve read or watched or listened to, people thank me, or pass along what I’ve shared. It’s a validating space, not least of all because of the bonds of affection I share with these folks. At one point or another they’ve all been non-digital “friends” of mine; we all occupy a space in each others’ memories. I don’t really have the time — or even, in many cases, the inclination — to put in the effort to stay in close touch with every one of them. But each I feel warmth towards, and think they probably feel it towards me too; ultimately, it’s nice to share an interest in each others lives. While it’s possible I’d be able to recreate this without Facebook, I think it’s doubtful. It wouldn’t be a tragedy to lose, but I’d miss it.
On Twitter, I’m connected to people I know mostly through work; either through CUNY or edtech/Wordpress or scholarly connections. Though I tweet personal things quite often, this is primarily a professional network. With a few notable exceptions, the people who talk to me on Twitter (those who @ me) are people I’ve known outside of the digital realm. I’ve had no shortage of folks whom I’ve spoken to on Twitter who’ve never acknowledged my presence, and while I don’t take it personally, I do find it kind of rude in an abstract way. When someone eng@ges me, I try my best to respond.
My Twitter network, though larger, has nowhere near the ethnic, religious, or class diversity of my Facebook network. When I put out a question, generally people who are my friends outside of Twitter are the ones who respond. I know that’s not the experience of many of my Tweeps, but it’s been mine. The bonds of affection that characterize my Facebook network are rarely present for me on Twitter; when they do appear in a shared story or a knowing quip, they’re especially noteworthy. My Twitter network does inspire and challenge and inform me more than my Facebook network. But at the same time, if I disagree with something or try to engage someone on an idea, I am almost never satisfied by the exchange.
Someone (whom I’ve met and like very much) retweeted the other day something along the lines of “Facebook is for who you went to high school with; Twitter is for who you WISH you went to high school with.” Gotta say, this is one of the more obnoxious things I’ve read. I don’t like all the people I went to high school with; but I don’t hate the fact that I went to high school with them. I am what I am because of what was. I feel like there’s a lot of this kind of snobbiness and self-righteousness and posturing in my Twitter network (says a poster who’s prone to snobby self-righteousness). I know I’m free to construct the network I want to have, but since Twitter is primarily a professional space, I feel I mostly have to construct the network I need to have. There are certain people I follow because they say smart things, even if I don’t think I’d really like hanging out with them. That calculus isn’t really present for me on Facebook, which filters I think into my overall affection for the network. Twitter can be a warm place, but it’s not always: there are people in my network who’ve displayed serious anxiety about a decision or the arc of their lives, and who’ve been met mostly with silence. On Facebook when this happens, I tend to see an outpouring of support. Twitter is great, but it’s a wholly different experience from the one I have on Facebook, and couldn’t really fill the gap that would be created if I deleted my account.
I keep telling myself that the next Facebook privacy fuck up will send me packing. In reality, I just don’t know. Facebook, you suck. I’m gonna lock my info down, but I don’t know if I can quit you.
He’s nurtured an image of himself as some left-leaning progressive Zen guru all based on the fact that he looked like an Animal House-era Donald Sutherland when he played, dabbled in Buddhism, vegetarianism and drugs, and gives his players “inspirational books.”
