ESPN’s Chad Ford is reporting that, with Chicago likely to draft Derrick Rose, Miami is becoming more and more interested in O.J. Mayo (subscription required), and in potentially trading down with the Sonics, Grizzlies, or Timberwolves, all of whom would likely want the second pick to use on MIchael Beasley. (I’ve always wondered if teams who trade down more than one pick ever get burned doing it. Do they have contingency deals with all the teams after them–i.e. would Miami have one ready with each of the aforementioned teams, so that no matter who picked Mayo, the Heat would be able to get him?)

While it’s obviously super early for draft rumors to be given much credence, the potential trio of Durant, Green, and Beasley is fun to contemplate. If Presti had the good sense to jettison Carlesimo, the team could even move Beasley to the five, start Green at the four, and put Durant at the three (where he’ll likely end up anyway) and play D’Antoni style. (They could also do the same with Wilcox or Collison at the five, but that’s less of a long-term solution.) Of course, this would require the right point guard, so here’s fantasizing that the Supes score Ricky Rubio in next year’s draft. The 17-year-old is already dominating Europe’s best league, where he’s been playing since he was 16.

Finally, a video for Mike and all the hoop-nostalgists and Del the Funky Homosapien Fans:

My latest “The Bounce to Ecstasy!” column came out today. It’s about the NBA Draft Lottery, a proposed reality show, and the Sonics’ next draft choice. Check it out!

 Apparently this one’s been around for a long time, but I’m posting it anyway. I wonder what was going through her head.

Sorry for the long drought between posts–I was off having fun in New York City. I return with some good news: you can now buy your tickets to see Haymaker & Sally at STIFF. Even though my name was omitted from the linked page, I assure you that I am the co-director.

Also, those of you looking to add a touch of buddy cop to your wardrobe can now buy Haymaker & Sally t-shirts at our webpage.

I’m happy to announce that I’m signed up for my very own web sports column at the Seattle Weekly. It’s called “The Bounce to Ecstasy!”, after the catchphrase coined by the sublime Bill Raftery. I join two much more well-known and accomplished individuals (Krist Novoselic and John Roderick) as a Weekly web columnist. My columns will basically be glorified blog posts, but they may be in print every now and again and I’m getting paid for them, which is nice. This week’s installment offers a solution for the Mariners’ woes. Look for a new one at this address every Thursday.

My friend Mike posted this graphic from phd comics yesterday. I know this cycle too well:

Similarly, this entertaining article from Jessica Winter in Slate documents the epic procrastination/perfectionism of Ralph Ellison and Truman Capote following the publication of their big hits (Invisible Man and In Cold Blood, respectively). My favorite part is the authors’ false claims of stolen and/or burned manuscripts–really just a half-step above the “my dog ate it” excuse. I wonder if a similarly anguished procrastination is secretly at work with Harper Lee and J.D. Salinger. Either way, the article struck a little fear in the heart of this wannabe scribe (though of course I have no great success—save the underappreciated buddy cop masterpiece Haymaker & Sally—to drive my anxiety), and I hope it does the same for a certain friend who needs to finish his opus, post-haste.

You don’t understand, OJ: people are paying to see me.

To the surprise of only those who believe in Santa Claus, ESPN is reporting that surefire NBA lottery pick O.J. Mayo received gifts—including hotel rooms, clothes, and a flat screen TV—from representatives of sports agents while he was at USC. Today, we get NCAA president Myles Brand’s reaction:

“This is not acceptable behavior and on occasion, it’s illegal. You get thrown in jail if you rob a bank, but people keep robbing banks. The fact of the matter is these kinds of activities are unacceptable, they are unfortunate. We expect the schools to enforce the rules and protect our student-athletes.”

Brand added that he’d like to see the NBA set up a rule whereby players are required to stay in college “two, three, or four years.”

While I can’t find the original article, it appears that, as of 2006, the NCAA was paying Myles Brand $895,000 a year. (Similarly, USC head coach Tim Floyd has a base salary of $850,000.) That same year, Brand delivered a speech defending the NCAA’s pursuit of increased revenues and dismissing complaints that the association’s commercialism was inappropriate. “Nonsense,” he said. ” ‘Amateur’ defines the participants, not the enterprise.”

Brand is right that it’s “unacceptable” for Rodney Guillory, the guy buying Mayo the gifts, to try to funnel the payments through allegedly non-profit shadow corporations. But remember that the NCAA is a tax-exempt organization–one with roughly $500 million a year in revenue and regular million dollar payouts for besuited blowhards. It provides vicarious thrills and bragging rights to the privileged segment of American society that call themselves alumni through a business model that compensates the athletes—the main attraction—at a tiny fraction of their market value. (Mayo could make a pretty compelling case that the value of his scholarship is less than .5% of what he would have made with an NBA contract and endorsement deals last year.) And of course, out of his boundless magnanimity and benevolent paternalism, Brand would like to protect guys like Mayo by requiring them to stay in school for four years.

So I say, here’s to you, O.J. Mayo. Way to get yours. Don’t bother denying it. Don’t act demure or contrite. Be honest: tell them Myles Brand and the rest of the NCAA are a bunch of wrinkled, profiteering, bloviating douche bags, peddling nostalgia for pennies on the dollar that should be yours. The next time some inflated sports-world muckraker confronts you with evidence that you got paid, tell ‘em the truth. You’re a baller and you want to get paid like one.

The handsome bearded man pictured above is Greg Plumis, photographed on the set of Haymaker & Sally, in which he deftly played two roles. But Greg’s skills extend beyond the silver screen: not only is he a versatile actor, but a skilled photographer as well. You can check out his work at the Greenwood Phinney Art Walk this weekend. Here is a sample:

Of course, the walk will feature many other talented artists as well–all the more reason to go. It runs tonight from 6:00 to 9:30 and tomorrow from 12:00 to 5:00. For more info, go here.

His website calls him “The Perfect 10 Model” (and even provides a recipe). He’s built like a power forward, shoots and passes like a guard, and can get off the floor when the mood strikes him. He also dresses like an Eastern Bloc Walt Frazier and flashes facial hair skills that would make George Michael blush. (It takes a lot to make George Michael blush). He was kicked off the Serbian national team for responding to a coach’s halftime tirade by flippantly peeling and eating a banana; he spent the second half in the crowd, posing for pictures and signing autographs. The current national team coach offered a TV or a laptop for his phone number. He wears mullets, fauxhawks, and braids equally without a hint of self-consciousness, lies about his height to bachelorette parties and about his snowboarding habits to his employer, evinces the mean ambition of a hot-boxed Breakfast Club, and, for all this, boasts over $15 million in career earnings, with another $18 or so guaranteed. He is Vladimir Radmanovic, a singular figure in the NBA.

Granted, underachievers are not a rarity in a league with guaranteed contracts. And there have been more than a few whose failure to fulfill their promise arose from deeper, decidedly unfunny troubles. (Eddie Griffin was perpetrator of perhaps the funniest drunken car accident in history until he died in another drunken car accident and it became hard to laugh at the first; Similarly, Vin Baker’s bug-eyed, jowly ineptitude was born of his constant suckling at the hooch-tit.) Despite his childhood in the war-torn Balkans, all signs point to Vladi being not a demon-stricken underachiever but rather a flamboyantly dressed, comically disengaged playboy, a combination of The Strokes and Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd’s ‘Wild and Crazy Guys.’

Though I lament his departure from Seattle (for non-basketball reasons; as a GM, I would never sign him), his decision to sign with the Lakers has been a boon to Vladiphiles everywhere. Now he’s just a channel flip away, wearing grandpa-on-vacation knee-high black socks and improbably poised to add a championship ring to his garish get-up. (Perhaps that will finally discredit the ring as the litmust test of winner-ness). But more importantly, in his crusty coach, Vladi’s found his first worthy NBA foil.

Nate McMillan, a more mild-mannered member of the Scott Skiles/Avery Johnson young tough guy school, was way too no-nonsense for Vladi’s bullshit. Mike Dunleavy was just a quick stop on the contract-year gravy train (look—Vladi even rebounds!). But Phil Jackson is as hopelessly adolescent as Vladi (if possessed of a better attention span). His Zenmaster schtick consists mainly of third-hand mystical pablum and a willingness to insult his players in the press. What better situation, then, for Vladi and the Vladiphiles? We used to have to scour awkward translations of Serbian message boards to find the latest nugget of Vladi apathy, but now it’s front page on ESPN. Phil calls Vladi a space cadet; Vladi separates his shoulder snowboarding. Phil says Vladi should see the team psychologist; Vladi says Phil is like Jack Nicholson in Anger Management. Phil says Vladi is not playing up to his potential; Vladi says they’ll talk about it in the exit interview. And on and on it goes, Mean Girls in men’s clothes playing a child’s game.

Cue up the banana, Vladi. Let’s hope that exit interview doesn’t come for a long time.

One Saturday morning in the year 2000, South Tacoma eight-year-old Perley King woke up to find that there were no Cheerios in the cupboard. Cheerios were his favorite cereal, so he did what any bold and resourceful eight-year-old would do: he got the family dog, stole the keys to his sister’s car, and attempted to drive to the grocery store, alternately pressing the gas and lifting himself to see over the dashboard.

I’ve always admired Perley King for his take-charge approach, and even suggested to my girlfriend the possibility of naming future offspring after him. The idea was quickly vetoed.

The legend and his partner in crime pose for the press in 2000

Well, it appears that Perley has been upstaged. Seven-year-old Latarian Milton of Palm Beach Gardens, Florida joyrode his grandmother’s Dodge Durango because he was mad at his mom. Check out the video. How many seven-year-olds get to give their defiant “I’m not sorry” speech on television. He provides some great quotes.

Thanks to Jeff for the tip.