Mister Faded Glory

I know you didn’t recognize the title of this post as a reference to Vendetta Red’s Shatterday, and that its lyrics are ultimately completely consistent with my tongue-in-cheek post, so I’m just going to inform you of my brilliance beforehand. Consider yourselves enlightened. Now, however, I continue my dalliance with uninspired post topics, info, and content. Welcome to Monday!

A quick recap of the weekend, without any Chicago Cubs headscratching.

My Denver Nuggets appeared to self-destruct against a plodding San Antonio Spurs team on Saturday night. This was an ugly, ugly game — one that recalled memories of old New York Knicks vs. Miami Heat contests, a few of which no doubt fostered the NBA’s precipitous recent decline. (Included with ESPN, remember?) Though, in huge props to the Nuggets and the NBA, current — yes, current – Cinderella lead singer Tom Kiefer (presumably a Colorado native) sang, or perhaps f’n wailed , the national anthem. I digress.

Anyway, I watched hotheaded Kenyon Martin and Carmelo Anthony fall apart at the seams and the enigmatic Andre Miller disappear, all while chucker Earl Boykins greeted any possible shot as a long-lost friend — and I realized, I really want the Spurs to lose.

Now, I’m a Tim Duncan fan, and, in fact, consider him one of the best power forwards or centers of all time. He’s continually underrated and a hard-worker with pleasant demeanor. In fact, most of the Spurs are good guys/good players (Though, in fairness to Carmelo, immediately before he was ejected for a late shove on Manu Ginobili, I was shouting to the TV for the Nuggets to foul Ginobili hard, specifically, to “rip his f’ing hair off”). But, my goodness.

On Saturday the Spurs continually released four players (FOUR!) back to the defensive end after any offensive shot, specifically so the Nuggets didn’t run. Which, granted, worked. They suckered the high-flying Nuggs into playing lo-fi Spurs basketball, which ill-suits Martin, Camby, Anthony, and Miller. The Spurs play a quicksand version of one-on-one post-up basketball, each possession a 24-second snoozefest that could cure an insomniac.

Not to mention, the officiating was atrocious and tilted toward the Spurs. If you’re Manu Ginobili, it must be nice to know that you can whirl and drive the lane completely out-of-control at any time, and know that you will be bailed out by the officials. Preposterous. I had heard the officiating in the NBA was cover-your-eyes awful this season, but this was the first time I’d witnessed it. And, I’m apparently not alone here.

I realize the Spurs are committed to and ultimately successful at their defensive schemes, and their players are consummate professionals — however, they are an ugly team to watch.

The Nuggets are a little to green too figure out how to force their offensive and defensive philosophies upon these grizzly vets, but consider this a call: Detroit, Phoenix, Seattle, hell, Miami (Shaq looks like a flippin’ track star compared to Duncan) — you NEED to beat the Spurs. Send them to hell, and tell them to take their offensive schemes with them.

Only one other weekend note, and coincidentally, speaking of hell —

I was in church on Sunday (the reason’s not important. Trust me, I live in a red state. I’m sure it was some sort of harebrained Christian holiday). Anyway, it was a Methodist church, pretty vanilla format. However, the closing hymn, in your hymnals and mine, was, of course:

Number 666. Aaigh!

In case you’re wondering, I was the only soul repeatedly tittering throughout the church at this inconceivable folly. At some point, doesn’t a:

a) Hymnal publisher
b) Minister
c) Printer of said church program and/or
d) church secretary

Simply omit numbers like this, or even reconsider a hymn choice? Yikes! I was waiting for the minister to begin speaking in tongues….

I make an estimated two, maybe three, church appearances a year, and I’m a little miffed when my life is somehow subject to an absolute prophetic Sunday morning disaster because of religious officials’ subconscious desires to tempt karma and/or salivating, bloodthirsty demons.

Thought about saving the actual program, but, well, I didn’t want to entice fate any further. I’ll sign off for now — I’m listening to Stairway to Heaven - backwards, of course.