DimeBag: The Weekly Dime Mailbag, Volume XIV

By: 12.29.11
DimeBag

DimeBag (design. Ryan Hurst)

HOW TO SUBMIT: E-mail dimebag@dimemag.com with your question/story/idea and include your name and hometown.

Word on the street is that I owe you a DimeBag or two. My apologies. The NBA season is back. No excuses. I will play like a champion.

Jason, St. Louis:

Will the Clippers have the same chemistry issues as the Heat did last year?

I have no idea. I hope not, for the sake of SportsCenter highlights. But at least I do know what happens when there isn’t any chemistry. Here’s an important and tangentially related story:

I got a haircut yesterday. My former barber retired, so I ventured into a new place. For the last few years, I’ve lacked haicut stability – a highly underrated security blanket for an insecure and overgrown child like myself. Bad haircuts are perpetual mood depressors: Someone comments on your excessively short hair, your last shred of confidence withers away for looking nine years old and you stumble through some sorry-sack excuse while you stare at your friend’s perfectly orchestrated mane. What a bastard. Have some sympathy. Tell me I look wise, or distinguished. Give me something.

So I walked in and meet my life re-shaper, praying that all will go well. I sat down, put on the anti-hair smock (or whatever it’s called) that conveniently (read: inconveniently) makes your phone inaccessible and prevents you from scratching every itch on your face. It just sits there, mocking the hell out of you. And it’s not like the itch goes away, or even stays the same. It gets WORSE. By the time I’ve eliminated this mortal enemy, I’ve left multiple red lines on my skin, possibly drawn blood and converted the itching to pain. Take that, itch. PAIN REPLACED YOU.

Anyway, the woman started touching my hair and spraying that water which assuredly possesses magical hair-cutting powers. Then she started touching my receding hairline, and I got nervous – somehow I thought if I remained insanely still, she wouldn’t notice it. And then, the bombshell from shaky confidence hell. She suggested a new hairstyle to accommodate my receding hairline, which, according to her endless buckets of wisdom, shouldn’t be happening to someone my age. Thank you, random woman.

So, you see? She was an awful teammate.

Page 2

David, Los Angeles:

The Lakers started out 0-2 and look particularly awful. Are they making the playoffs?

NFL teams can overcome an 0-2 start to win the Super Bowl. 64 more games is plenty of time for an NBA team to right the ship. Except the Lakers won’t, because their fourth best player is Josh McRoberts. I don’t buy the whole “Andrew Bynum is out” excuse. Andrew Bynum plays basketball with the aggression of a wounded panda. I don’t care how many times Kobe Bryant cryogenically freezes his knees, he’s basically four years away from the prime onset age of osteoporosis. Due to the botched Chris Paul trade, Pau Gasol reminds me of one of those abused puppies on TV that you feel guilty for not adopting. This team was built for championships. Now they’re just a random amalgamation of Mitch Kupchak‘s past glory and quick fixes. Although the Ron Artest/Metta World Peace announcer dilemma is wondrous in all of its confusing glory. No one knows whether to call him “Metta,” “World Peace,” “Peace,” or “Artest.” In their last game against the Jazz, Kevin Harlan settled on “Metta…World…PEEEEAAACCCEEEEEEE!!!!” I think that wins.

And don’t forget that Kobe Bryant is the anti-championship: Superstar money, superstar attitude, regular star power. He’ll never not be the alpha dog, no matter how good his teammates are. On Christmas day, Hubie Brown was gushing his face off as Kobe and Mike Brown diagrammed a play with the other Lakers looking on. Except Hubie was delusional: Mike Brown stood idly by while Kobe coached. We suspected before the season that Kobe might not take a liking to Brown, let alone respect his attempt at coaching. This was that evidence. I look forward to Kobe giving pointers to Pau, whose anger will finally boil over and lead to an on-court profanity-laced tirade.

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