Lupe Fiasco Presents the Atlanta Braves Update

"Do this one thing for me

outta the trillions of numbers that's in the world

Just leave me a few that lead to you."

--Lupe Fiasco, "Sunshine"

All year the Braves have been a team trying to come out of the rain and the darkness and into the sunshine, and all season I've viewed them within the constraints of this paradigm; but let's face it, rain or shine, it really all comes down to numbers. And the numbers aren't looking good.

The Braves just took 2 out of 3 from the Marlins, putting them 1 game ahead of the Fish in the division, but they still trail the Phillies by 7 and are 4.5 games behind the Rockies in the Wild Card race. The Braves only have 38 games left to make up the difference, and none of those games are against the Rockies or the Giants, who are also ahead of Atlanta. The only real glimmer of hope is that the Braves do have 6 games left against the Phillies, but nothing's promised in that.

Even if the Braves get sunshine's number, that doesn't guarantee she'll answer the phone.

Autotune, Prophets, and Ron Artest

In the Old Testament, when the Israelites lost their way, God sent his prophets to show them how to live again, in the righteous light of the Lord. Now, God sends emcees out into the world to blast false idols like Autotune. Autotune is a deceiver who masks the talentless with a spotless, robotic sheen, to hide the rusty creak of their throats' natural sounds. Autotune collects like locusts on the airwaves, so God sent Jay-z to pronounce the "Death of Autotune," and Lupe Fiasco to explain why Autotune must die. Where one prophet begins a task, another often must finish it. Moses had Joshua. Elijah had Elisha. Hova has Lupe.

Of course, there's a fine line between a prophet, touched by the gods, and a homeless man, touched by aluminum foil and schizophrenia, and, when one picks up a microphone, one never knows on what side of the line they might happen to fall. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ron Artest.

Enjoy the day. Enjoy the All-Star Game, and I swear Langston and I will be off this autotune kick soon enough because in the words of Lupe:

No, I ain't the nigga trying to get a liquor line.

When I be scripting lines, want this petition signed.

It says I'm sick of dying, sick of this prison time,

I really love my people; I'm sick of pimping mine.

Now, if we autotune that sh!t.

We can hear the songs from that opera grown fat b!tch

tellin' us not to pursue it just to shoo it like a blacksmith.

We trapped and movin' round in circles like it's chapstick

and that's the same encircled way of thinking that we chat with

well, wrap this around your head like the bandanas

Fabolous used to wrap his hat with,

rather be in FEDS instead of National Geographics.

Well, I'm not havin' it.

Dikembe Mutombo of the Houston Rockets

Maybe it was the name, all six of them, that seemed to stretch for eternity.  Maybe it was the face that looked like it was carved from Easter Island stone.  Maybe it was the elbows sharp enough to break the Sphinx's nose.  Maybe it was the laughter deeper than any ocean, or maybe it was the heart, beating like a star, into the dark places of humanity, bringing light; but I thought you were beyond age and limits, Dikembe.  I thought perhaps your journey from the Congo to America had found you younger, like a successful Ponce de Leon, but even great stone walls in Zimbabwe eventually crumble; so it comes to an end here, on the same end of the floor where your finger wagged like the second hand to Father Time's clock.  You were one of a kind, and you will be missed.

Journeys over maps are not far when one's heart encompasses the globe.

Drody's here and "We On"

I met this dude on a school bus, coming back from a track meet in Culpepper, Virginia. We didn't choose to sit together. We had to. We were freshmen on the team and had to take any seat we could get. I didn't know a thing about him, except that at basketball tryouts earlier that year we seemed to be guarding each other every drill. I remember those tryouts for two reasons. The first reason is that I spent a good amount of time afterwards puking my flu-ridden guts out into a toilet. The second reason is that those tryouts are the last time I wore my Rec-Specs. This kid next to me on the bus from Culpepper knew me as Rec-Specs. Our paths crossing once might have been coincidence. Our paths crossing twice might be described as fate. I think the conversation started, "Aren't you [Berndon's] little brother?" and that's how Harry met Lloyd.

During the 2000 Presidential election, Berndon's little brother and Rec-Specs stood outside of the Salem Elementary voting station chanting, "Nadernadernader...Nadernadernader!" not because we really cared if Ralph Nader defeated Al Gore or George W. Bush, but because his name was easier to chant and rhymed with cooler words like "Darth Vader" and "sooner or later."

We stood barechested for soccer games, covered in red paint, yelling trash talk that made weaker competitors want to quit their sports. "Shin splints" hurt. Some might call it obnoxious. Others might call it a movement.

We play football for toilet seats.

We stayed loud all the time. Some people thought we were drunk. Others knew we were just bored.

We tried the gallon challenge three times in my parents' basement, and this kid insisted on using chocolate milk; and when we failed for the third time, we tried a gallon of ice cream.

We have a strange affection for John Legend songs, and I'm not even talking about the good ones. I'm talking about songs where Kanye West raps from the perspective of his penis (how will we ever take him seriously?).

We are as a once famous voice message to Big A stated, "A Tribe of Idiots," and idiots hang onto the past because they don't know how to learn from the future, and I remember this kid on the bus next to me from Culpepper; and I can taste my first night of drunkenness (at Langston's), hear my first freestyle session (we still perform at weddings), and recall all the "so there's this girl" conversations (I feel like I had to include that last part just so people wouldn't think this is a love story between two dudes). This kid, who is the dumbest smart guy I know, the Charlie Brown to my Linus, the Belushi to my Aykroyd, The Beast to my Woverine will soon be posting on here. Read his stuff. Enjoy it. Learn from it, and know his name is Drody, the D R that once stood for "drunk" now stands for "Dr." I hope you got the patience cause "We On."


I figure there's nothing better for a Chicago sports fan than a Chicago anthem by two of Chicago's finest. Congratulations on the engagement, brother.