Skyscrapers and everything

Wherespmac was once the fourth-best Nic Wise fan site in Southern Arizona. Then it was the one of the few blogs written in English in a nation of floggers (I'm still trying to get to Cumbio status). Now it is just another blog lost among the millions of New York City blogs. I'll still keep it alive for the sake of keeping it alive and for all my friends who rely on this blog to entertain them while they are in class.

Here are some note-worthy things I have seen since I moved here.

-- Every street in Harlem has somebody selling a Barack Obama something. There are an incredible amount of 3XL tall tees with the presidential family's image adorning the shirt. There are others that have Barack's face photoshopped over Dwight Howard's in this picture, with the words "One giant leap for mankind" beneath the image.

There was also a great poster showing Obama wearing a mean dark pair of shades, tilting his head so you can see his eyes, holding his Blackberry in the other hand. Posing in front of Cadillac limo, which is in front of the White House. It looks just like every other Rap mixtape cover, except it says "THE PRESIDENT" on the bottom. Incredible.

Still my favorite Barack paraphernalia was a shirt with a black and white image of the pres holding one hand up and his mouth open. In big block letters next to the picture were the words: "Chill I got this!" On the back of the shirt it just read "Harlem." Even more incredible. If it was not on a kid's back I would have bought this.

-- On a Monday afternoon I was walking down from Times Square when I saw a professionally dressed man by himself getting a cartoon caricature of himself.

-- A woman was walking about 20 feet in front of her 2-year-old son, before she yelled, "You got two-point-five seconds to catch up to me or I'm gonna fuck yo ass up!"

-- This really doesn't fit here, but if you don't read Fake Rick Reilly's Twitter than you are not my friend.

-- My friend Eric's new shoes:


When he is not wearing weird shoes, Eric normally wears rope sandals inside the Buddhist Zen Temple he lives in. On Saturday I told him I was interested in checking his digs out, he asked if I wanted to come to the service on Sunday morning. Seeing as how my schedule everyday is currently open from 12:00 am to 11:59 pm I was able to find room.

Early Sunday morning my friend AJ (I should note that all these people are friends I have stolen from my good friend Dustin) I headed out to Brooklyn to try out the Buddhist world.

We walked inside the building, took off our shoes and started singing along to the chants/songs/I am not sure what they are called. After we chanted the names of all 86 Daioshins and several more chants AJ, myself and the other first-timers went upstairs to learn proper meditation techniques from a monk. The monk was a cool Mexican lady who somehow managed to work in a Wall-E reference while instructing us newbies.

Then we went back down to the Zendo and I failed miserably at meditating. Many moons ago before I began backpacking in Argentina I wanted to get into meditation because it seemed like a good thing to learn and also because of Phil Jackson. My former roommate Lauren told me how impossible it was to completely zone out and I thought I understood what she was talking about. I never ended up practicing any Zen while I traveled.

Back in the Zendo I could not clear my mind to save my life.I didn't want to get yelled at for moving and I didn't want to fuck up anybody else's Zen high, so I just sat there as still as possible for what seemed like an eternity. I thought of everything the monk told us not to: old conversations, old stories, the future, television shows. Then Tony Yayo's opening line from "So Seductive" not leave my head. The goofy, staccato, bass-driven sounds of G-Unit would not leave my head, "Ah n*gga do you?! Know what this is?! One shot, one deal, what it is?!"

Then the monk walked over to me and whispered in my ear, "Stare at the Buddha it will help you focus, we only have five minutes left." I was cool with that until I realized it was probably a Buddhist mind trick and we had a lot more than five minutes left.

Eventually we got up and started doing walking meditating which was better for me since I could move. Then we sat back down and the monk gave an amazing speech. I had never heard another monk's speech before, but her's felt definitively Brooklyn as she alluded to Wired magazine, Woody Allen, Facebook and Twitter.

Then it was all over and Eric gave us a tour of the building and I applauded him for meditating twice a day, every day. Then I felt like a dumbass for singing Tony Yayo and mentally writing this whole blog when I should have been meditating.

Unreal

I am not sure where this blog is heading now. But I think I am only going to blog when one of my favorite rappers is on one of my favorite hospital shows. Let's hope Freeway gets a guest appearance on Scrubs soon so I can update this blog again.

Chapter 25

The day I got into the El Calafate I began walking around the place to see what it had to offer, then just as I was heading to the bus terminal to find a map of the town I ran into two of my friends from my former university in Buenos Aires. They freaked out since they had not heard from me in quite a while and they were blown away that we ran into each other.

I looked at the girls and thought to myself, “I don't know if you guys don't read La Nueva Provincia or what, but meeting you is nothing special.” I then proceeded to have a good time with them for the next 48 hours.

I also made it to Glacier Perrito Moreno. It was pretty.

Just as exciting, once again my Buenos Aires student ID saved me 44 pesos on the park entry fee. Saving me a grand total of 70 pesos, which using a very conservative 3-1 exchange rate, saved me 23 USD on the trip. Practically paying for the 2,200 USD I threw away on a tuition I did not use.

Then I bounced to El Chalten an even smaller town that looks like this:

I did a lot of hiking. Drank some glacier water from the glacier pictured below.

Then I had a one-man picnic in this field.

Then I took some pictures that had an even stronger yellow colors.


By some miracle of God my hostel had NBA league pass for just one of the nights I was there and the only game I was able to watch was a Charlotte Bobcats and Minnesota Timberwolves match-up, two teams which should have been relegated four years ago. But I was still happy to watch NBA basketball and to get to watch Gerald Wallace and Kevin Love from the bottom of the world.

After three days of hiking I took the long bus ride back to Puerto Madryn again just to break up my time on a bus.

I checked back in to my same hostel and then fired off some quick e-mails before I went to the bus terminal to buy a ticket to Bahía Blanca. I had a few e-mails waiting for me all letting me know my wonderland of Bahía Blanca had disappeared in the week since I had left it.

Marquitos told me he was going to be out of town for the entire weekend I planned on returning to Bahia and in the end of his e-mail he added one minor detail. Paul McPherson had already been cut from the team.

I also got an e-mail from Nene informing me of the same grim news. Then I scoured the web and confirmed for a third time that P-Mac had indeed left Bahía Blanca, as well as learning that El Nacional lost their opening game in the Super 8 Tournament I initially planned on attending.

I didn't know how to cope with all this bad news so I went to the bus terminal and bought a bus ticket back home to Buenos Aires. Then I began drowning my fake sorrows in cheap Argentine beer. I sat on the roof of the hostel and watched the sun set over the ocean. I reflected on all my travels and thought about realized that maybe one day with P-Mac was more than enough.

I walked back in to the hostel, checked my e-mail and found this gem waiting for me:

Hi, Justin.

Dropping you a line to let you know that I have awarded your BA in degree in Journalism, back dated to May 2008.

Your diploma will be ordered next Wednesday and will be mailed to you.

Congratulations!!!

OK, so I was drunk sitting on top of a roof in Puerto Madryn, Argentina and now they are throwing me a college degree. I can't be upset with that.

Then I kept drinking with my eclectic posse at the hostel. There were the odd hostel employees, a bald-headed woman and the guy who ran the desk, but always wore doctor's scrubs, some Argentines who traveled the country selling crafts in artesian markets, the token Israeli who is at every hostel, a couple from Australia, a German girl who grew up in the same town as Dirk Nowitzki and an older man who was the talent scout for Club Independiente, the third biggest football team in Argentina.

The talent scout for Independiente showed the local newspaper and revealed a huge picture of himself next to an article about him scouting players in Puerto Madryn. I then pulled out my newspaper from Bahía Blanca, displayed my article and let him know my paper was for a bigger town and therefore superior.

As we all sat in the tiny hostel kitchen one of the local Argentines began jamming on his guitar singing some classic Rolling Stones' songs. Then for no reason at all I grabbed the guitar and spat an accompanying battle rap against the Independiente coach mocking him and his team. Even though I can't play guitar nor rap in Spanish I still lyrically murdered him. The coach took the guitar from me and thought for a few seconds about his retaliation. He then froze up. I finally had my B. Rabbit moment and I had found Paul McPherson. It was a pretty successful trip.

El fin.

Chapter 24

After the El Nacional game and my lighthouse experience I had done everything that needed to be done in Monte Hermosa. I walked back to Nené's house and chatted with for an hour to kill time until I caught the return bus to Bahía Blanca. I learned that Nené was a celebrity in the town as she hosted a radio show for eight years before her husband passed away.

Then I returned to Bahía Blanca and sat in the bus terminal with a 45-year-old wild backpacker, Christain, before I took a bus ride to Puerto Madryn. I asked Christain how long he had been travelin for and he told me 25 years. He had lived on every continent and had all his life's belongings in a single backpack. He was merely traveling South America until he found a suitable city to set up shop and try to teach English.

Eighteen hours later I made it to the marine-life-rich town of Puerto Madryn. Unfortunately boat rides to see massive right whales or day excursions to the Peninsula Valdés, the home of thousands of penguins and sea lions, were out of the budget so I just kicked it within the town.

I took the cheap alternative and found a nice museum in the town. My favorite exhibit featured a hallway of hanging rope you had to walk through to enter a dark rectangular room, which was covered in small smooth rocks. The room was completely dark, except for six soft lights which illuminated the room enough so you could see the eight speakers which emitted whale sounds. Alone in the exhibit I laid on my back in the center of the rocks listening to the whales sounds for 10 minutes until a family came in, to which I awkwardly got up, said nothing and walked out.


Then I walked up stairs and found a room which overlooked the ocean and was full of couches. Also relaxing. I ended my museum tour in the kids room where I took this picture because I like the stuffed octopus a lot.

I found a good hostel that was not listed in the guidebooks and subsequently was not as crowded. At night I was eating my dinner and watching “8 Mile” when some other guests entered the room and asked to change the channel. Not wanting to admit that I was closely watching the movie for the third time in my life, I let them change it to “The Last King of Scotland,” which frustrated me because I was wanted to see B. Rabbit battle rap and not watch Forest Whitaker kill 300,000 Ugandans.

In a silent protest of films which could actually teach me something I walked out of the room and hit the computer to send P-Mac an e-mail thanking him for his time. I told him of my plans to return to Bahía Blanca and let him know I'd contact him again when I got back in town.

I got a prompt reply from mailer-daemon@googlemail.com telling me:

This is an automatically generated Delivery Status Notification

Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:

pmcpherson@yahoo.com

Technical details of permanent failure:
Google tried to deliver your message, but it was rejected by the recipient domain. We recommend contacting the other email provider for further information about the cause of this error. The error that the other server returned was: 554 554 delivery error: dd This user doesn't have a yahoo.com account (pmcpherson@yahoo.com) [-5] - mta594.mail.mud.yahoo.com (state 18).

Well that's just great. Part of me believes P-Mac was not smart enough to remember his own e-mail, another part of me thinks maybe he was just too paranoid to give me his real e-mail address. And then there is the logical side of me which believes P-Mac is part of a larger government conspiracy and its to the United States' advantage that P-Mac's whereabouts remain a mystery.

Chapter 23

The next morning I woke up and ate the free Argentine breakfast which came with my hotel. An Argentine breakfast consists of nothing more than two greasy media-lunas (a thinner, worse version of a French croissant) and a cup of coffee, since I don't drink coffee my body had adapted to eating nothing more than two media lunas and a glass of water every morning.

I then checked out of my room, bought my afternoon bus ticket back to Bahia and went to the market to buy some ham, cheese and bread for what would be my 5,345th ham-and-cheese sandwich of the trip. I also bought the local paper, La Nueva Provincia, to see what the reporter has written about me.

The whole town of Monte Hermosa was peculiar. It claims to be one of the few place in the world where the sun rises and sets over the ocean shore. It was a tiny town of only 2,500 permanent residents, the streets were almost always empty and all the shops were closed for the better part of the day. I found a shady bench in the middle of an abandoned children's play area, made my sandwiches and began reading the paper.

I rifled through the paper and got through the 10 pages of football before finding the basketball section buried deep in the sports section. I had my own headline: “Mochilero y Fanatico de McPherson (Backpacker and McPherson super fan)” along with four paragraphs about my journey nestled next to the game recap in the sports section.

Below is the article in its entirety, keep in mind that the language barrier made some of the facts wrong and I'm still upset with myself for not making sure wherespmac.com got in the article:

Mochilero y fanático de McPherson

“Me enteré que McPherson estaba jugando en este equipo y me vine de Buenos Aires para ver el partido", contó Justin Adler, de 21 años, quien está recorriendo el país, como mochilero.

Justin, nativo de Arizona, Estados Unidos, se llenó los ojos con McPherson cuando jugaba en Phoenix Suns, equipo de la NBA.

"Me encanta que salta muy alto, es impresionante. ¿Cómo lo vi? Ehhh... Me esperas un momento", pidió --la interrupción le vino bárbaro-- mientras se abrió la puerta del vestuario y salió su ídolo, con quien dialogó brevemente. Después retomó su relato.

“Te cuento, llegué hace dos días a Bahía y me vine para acá. Estudié periodismo y estoy la Argentina. Esto es todo muy diferente, muy loco. Lo que sí, ¡hay muchos fierros cerca del aro, es peligroso", se sorprendió Adler.

Su hoja de ruta aún no está definida.

"No sé si ahora ir al Súper 8 o conocer el sur", dudó el visitante, quien no se llevó la mejor imagen basquetbolística de McPherson. De todos modos, con su mochila en la espalda, seguirá conociendo las bondades de nuestro país y, de paso, continuará mirando de cerca al estadounidense que, por ahora, sigue siendo jugador de El Nacional.

Here's the English translation:

Backpacker and McPherson superfan

“I learned that McPherson was playing on this team and I came from Buenos Aires to watch the game,” said Justin Adler, 21, who is traveling the country as a backpacker.
Justin, a native of Arizona, United States, had his open eyes wide open when McPherson played for the Phoenix Suns, an NBA team.

“I love that he jumps so high, it's incredible. Like you saw? Ehh... Can you wait a moment,” he asked, – quickly interrupting – when the locker room door opened and his idol exited, they had a brief conversation. Then he returned to his story.

“I'll tell you, I arrived two days ago in Bahía Blanca and then I came here. I studied journalism and now I am traveling Argentina. This is very different, it's crazy. Like you see, there are a lot of dangers under the hoop,” said a surprised Adler.

His future route is still unknown.

“I don't know yet if I will go to the Super 8 or to the south,” doubted the visitor, who left without the best image of McPherson. Whatever happens, with his backpack on his back, knowledge of the kindness of our country, he will continue closely watching the North American, who for now plays for El Nacional.

I then walked on the empty beach and tried to figure out what it means to find your dreams come true. I wondered where I should go from here now that I had found Paul McPherson, what else is left for me to do? I suppose I could worry about the little things of life such as finding true love or happiness that isn't attached to a washed-up basketball player; or maybe figure out what type of employment I should seek upon my eminent return back to the United States.

But all of that didn't seem to be as pressing an issue as ascending South America's tallest lighthouse, Faro Recalada, which conveniently was located in Monte Hermosa. I walked a four more kilometers along the empty beach until I reached the lighthouse, which appeared to be deserted. I tried the door of the lighthouse, but it was locked.


There were four houses around the base of the lighthouse and an old man stood outside planting some flowers in his frontyard. I asked him if I could go up the lighthouse, he told me to wait a second and then gestured that I should follow him to the back of his house. I was OK with the idea that he might bludgeon me over the head with his shovel and leave me for dead because I had already found Paul McPherson and my life seemed pretty accomplished at the moment.

Fortunately for my family, friends and cranium he did not smash my skull in with his shovel and he instead reached under a window sill and pulled out a key to the lighthouse that was hidden behind his house. He walked me to the lighthouse, opened the door and told me to have a good time. I climbed 75 meters worth of spiraling stairs and made it to the top. Then at the top claustrophobia and the fact that I was 75 meters above the earth in an abandoned lighthouse set in and I decided 45 seconds of looking out was more than enough.


The view of the beach and surrounding fields were nothing epic; unsatisfied I walked down and thought perhaps I should pursue, employment, love and happiness.

Now is the time

I have not blogged about Arizona hoops in a long, long while because I considered myself beyond that phase. But now that Arizona has comically worked its way into the Sweet 16 I am bringing myself out of sports-blogging retirement and typing this post. And if you can't find the comedy in UA getting into the tournament solely off name recognition, playing two shit teams and now outlasting ASU (who has beat UA five straight times) in the tourney then you are a fucking idiot. Additionally if USC loses in a couple of hours, then UA will be the last Pac-10 team in the tourney.

Now in honor of the Cats, President Obama and Jordan Hill who has somehow became a lottery pick, I am going to re-run my interview with Jordan Hill from last summer.

**********
At Lute Olson’s Team Camp I caught up with Jordan Hill to talk about the life and times of J. Hill. I figured Jordan has dealt with enough questions regarding the drama of Arizona basketball, so we talked about the easier subjects of politics, Weezy, Jeezy and baseball.

ME: How excited are you about Barack Obama winning the democratic nomination?

JORDAN HILL: Umm. I mean I'm not no politician, so I don't really know nothing about that.

ME: Are you gonna vote?

HILL: Nah, I'm just gonna leave it to the professionals, I don't know what's going on. I ain't looking at no CNN, no kinda news to see what's going on, so I ain't gonna vote. I bet you that most of the people voting out there are just voting for Obama 'cause he's black.

ME: Isn't it your dream to win a championship and go to the White House and present the No. 1 Arizona jersey to a black president?

HILL: (laughs) I mean I wouldn't mind seeing that, but it's my point of view that he's not going to be there for a minute. That's how I feel.

ME: What do you mean by that?

HILL: (says nothing and shrugs)

ME: You think he's gonna get shot?

HILL: Hey, hey. Sorry man, I just don't think he's gonna be there for a while.

ME: I guess you should worry about winning a championship before we worry about who’s in the White House.

HILL: Yeah we gotta win that championship first.

ME: With oil hitting $134 a barrel and the whole living green movement, what's Jordan Hill doing to save the environment?

HILL: I haven't been recycling. I don't recycle. I litter, I'm trying to cut back on that though.

ME: What's up with your car, I haven't seen it, but I hear it's pretty crazy.

HILL: It's getting painted, I get it back next week. It's an '82 Cutlass. I put 22s on it. I'm getting it painted white and blue, two-tone style to match the interior. The bottom is gonna be navy blue and the top is gonna be pearl white. It was just all white before.

ME: So does that classify as a donk. I'm not from the South, what is your definition of a donk?

HILL: It's big rims and the car is sitting up high. My car is lifted, so I guess it's a donk.

ME: Have you listened to The Carter III yet?

HILL: Yep. Lil Wayne, he's a good rapper, but he's not the best. I listen to my boy Jeezy. Jeezy is the best rapper.

ME: So you graduated Thug Motivation 101 and 102?

HILL: You already know. I waiting on his next one to come out, I don't know when, but it's coming.

ME: Aside from not recycling and listening to Young Jeezy, what else have you been doing this summer?

HILL: I'm taking summer school, pre-session and summer I.

ME: Anything else that most people don't know about you?

HILL: I'm really interested in baseball, before basketball I was a baseball player. I'm a Braves fan.

ME: I know you're pretty inked up, do all the tattoos have meaning because I've heard after the first one they get more and more meaningless.

HILL: No they all have value, except this one (points to flaming basketball on his left tricep). I don't know why I got that.

ME: Alright Jordan thanks for your time. Enjoy the rest of your summer.

HILL: Thanks man.

After the interview I asked Jordan for a photo, so I could have a fresh picture to throw at the top of the blog. Jordan asked if I’d be in it. I told him I just needed a picture of him, but he refused to be in the picture without me and was very persistent about me being in the photo. So eventually I rolled with it and there you have it… Again props to Jordan for being so cool and living up to the hype of being the funniest guy on the team.

Chapter 22

For future legal concerns let's deviate from the whole non-fiction travel memoirs and have a fictitious chapter about the time I met a washed-up basketball star in South America. For the purpose of this entry, we'll call him John McDoeson.

I had talked this player a long, long time ago and been a fan since he first joined the NBA and happened to be on my hometown team. Then magically as I traveled a foreign country and after some strange occurrences, I stumbled into him in a small town, that he just happened to be playing in.

I found it awkward that McDoeson brought up illicit drugs and adultery within the first five minutes I spoke with him.

“I really don't like it here,” McDoeson told me. “But as soon as I find some bitches and weed things will be better.”

I told McDoeson that the marijuana in this foreign country was not as good as the weed back in our common homeland. He was then devastated. He then went on a diatribe explaining how he had all the best hook-ups in his midwest metropolitan city which sits on Lake Michigan. He reminisced on his times in the NBA and how one of his teammates, whose name rhymes with Wario Smelly, “knew a guy who had all the weed in the world.” Ah the glory days of the NBA.

In his mind the only upside to playing in his current league was that they do not drug test.
I changed the subject and asked him what he brought with him when he would move to Europe to play basketball professionally overseas for several months at a time.

“I always brought weed where ever I went. I never got caught neither,” McDoeson said. “I'd always bring like seven or eight grams on the plane with me. I'd also bring a huge tub of Lawrys, like one of those Sam's Club size jars. I gotta have my seasoning.”

We talked some more and then McDoeson talked about trying to get some pussy again. I knew he had a wife, so I asked McDoeson about if his wife ever suspected that he was cheating on her. He told me she was completely fine with him “slutting it up” on the road as long as he used a condom and never cheated on her back home

“She's cool with it, but as soon as I get back home, it's 'N*gga don't be looking at no other bitches'” said McDoeson, exclaiming the last part in a woman's voice.

Throughout the time I spent with McDoeson he constantly talked about his discontent with his current coach and then he went on a rant bringing up how he has never gotten along with any coach. In short the phrase “completely uncoachable” might not be strong enough.

Overall McDoeson was still a great guy and what kind of guy would I be if I knocked another man for his passion for weed and women.