alamo50
05-29-2005, 02:55 AM
Paul on the Playoffs
Updated: May 28, 2005
Ladies and gentleman... back by popular demand... the "funniest man in the NBA," according to Best Damn Sports Show Period, we give you... Paul Shirley!
http://www.nba.com/media/suns/shirley_blog_tunnel200.jpg
That's right, in spite of his complaints over being censored in his wildy popular "Road Ramblings" on Suns.com, the wildly witty 12th man has heard your heart-felt pleas for more online sarcasm and has agreed to offer up tidbits from time to time throughout the Suns' playoff run. The Suns.com staff, in return, has assured Paul that not one word will be censored without prior consent.
The 27-year-old forward -- who made the club's opening day roster, was cut before the opening game, but then re-signed in January -- originally kept an online diary for Suns.com during the team's five-game road trip in mid-March. A diary that created quite a frenzy in the national media, which was equally surprised and entertained by his unique and honest insight into life in the NBA. Shirley's daily journal (Paul doesn't like the word "blog") was mentioned on ESPN's "Cold Pizza" and on ESPN.com, and was covered in several newspapers around the country, including USA Today.
Posted by Paul Shirley, May 27, 2005
San Antonio, Texas – I seem to overheat easily. I think my core temperature must be slightly higher than most everyone else’s because it does not take much to push me over the edge to a slight film on the forehead. Considering my present “home” city, this is all great news. I think it was 170 degrees in Phoenix yesterday. Fortunately, my poor cooling system does not manifest itself in some sort of rancid B.O. It does mean that my upper lip and eyebrow regions break into salty droplets with only the slightest prodding. Now, this is not the worst occurrence in the world, except that, once my body’s radiator gets out of balance, it is difficult to correct the problem. A poor wardrobe choice can lead to a night of sleeve-wiping and awkward looks from the people with whom I am conversing.
We are now in San Antonio, hoping to begin climbing out of the 0-2 series hole over which the Spurs are standing, shovel at the ready. I spent the evening here with a college friend of mine and his wife. Because we are staying near it, we set off down the Riverwalk with the hopes of finding a promising restaurant. Along the way, I noticed that I had made a regrettable decision when I had spurned the idea of donning shorts for the evening’s entertainment. Subconsciously, I must have thought that San Antonio would be cool at night. I would guess that my line of thinking was that, since Phoenix is obviously the hottest place in the world, everywhere else must be cool enough for long pants. I forgot that the only truly appropriate clothing choice in Phoenix is complete nudity; I was off by one step—San Antonio is easily shorts-worthy. (On a side note, it is a bit humid here in San Antonio, which reminds me of home, where it is disgusting in the summertime. However, the author finds little solace in the “dry heat” of Arizona. What an absolute load of [feces]. My oven puts out dry heat as well; I am confident that I would not be comfortable in there, either.)
My friends and I were alarmed at the fact that San Antonio has become quite the tourist trap these days. I had never noticed it before—maybe because I have never been here on a holiday weekend—but the Riverwalk is fast becoming its own little version of Bourbon Street. Fewer transvestites, more Mexicans, but otherwise very similar. I was disappointed by the amount of non-native San Antonians walking the roads because I have noticed over the years that, when people go on vacation, they often lose sight of the fact that they are, in fact, quite unattractive. I saw many overweight women wearing clothing they should never have purchased, let alone put on, which cut down on the aesthetics of the area significantly. (Side note, or question. Why do fat girls think that tight clothes are going to somehow enhance their overall appearance? It actually does the exact opposite. Also, do these people buy homes that are not equipped with mirrors? Even a stainless steel toaster would probably do enough of a reflecting job to tell some of the hosses I saw wandering around this evening that it might have been a better idea to leave the not-so-little strapless number in the closet.)
About the time my revulsion at the BMI’s of the passersby had run its course, we found a restaurant that appeared tolerable. I hammered down an overpriced ribeye that was presented covered in barbecue sauce—a concept that offends me greatly as a former caretaker of steaks on the hoof back in Kansas. Our visit was lovely; when we finished, we hiked back to the hotel and said our goodbyes and my friends left for their hotel. The walk home in the muggy evening air had done little to refrigerate my core; consequently, my brow was still damp and I was anxious to get back to my hotel room so that I could crank the thermostat down to about 60 degrees and finally cool down the nuclear power plant that seems to run my body. On the way to the elevators, I noticed the entire brains behind the operation that is the Phoenix Suns closing quickly. Included were Mike D’Antoni, Jerry and Bryan Colangelo, and David Griffin (director of player personnel), with wives and families in tow. They’re good people and I get along relatively well with all of them, so I was not displeased to see them. They are, however, my bosses, on various levels, so such of a collection of power—and me—on an elevator, was a bit of an awkward situation—especially for them. They were forced to make conversation with an interloper when they were looking only to get up to their rooms after a long night of planning the future of basketball. They all knew that I was not going to play in the next day’s game, so that discussion was out. Bryan and I had already talked about the bad beat I took in the poker game on the plane (Joe Johnson caught one of two nines that would help him on the river and I was sunk). David Griffin was in said poker game, so we had already spent some time together on the day. Coach D’Antoni is funnier than me, so any remark he would make would probably go over my head, and Jerry Colangelo has seen about 8,000 basketball players in his day and certainly doesn’t need a 12-second conversation with the likes of me. It was all very Seinfeld-esque, mostly to me—and made more so because my face was by then very much wipe-of-the-brow worthy. Which means that the entire front office now thinks I have either a very hard time dealing with normal social situations, or a rampant drug problem. I am really going to give my wardrobe more careful consideration the next time I leave the room.
NBA.com
Updated: May 28, 2005
Ladies and gentleman... back by popular demand... the "funniest man in the NBA," according to Best Damn Sports Show Period, we give you... Paul Shirley!
http://www.nba.com/media/suns/shirley_blog_tunnel200.jpg
That's right, in spite of his complaints over being censored in his wildy popular "Road Ramblings" on Suns.com, the wildly witty 12th man has heard your heart-felt pleas for more online sarcasm and has agreed to offer up tidbits from time to time throughout the Suns' playoff run. The Suns.com staff, in return, has assured Paul that not one word will be censored without prior consent.
The 27-year-old forward -- who made the club's opening day roster, was cut before the opening game, but then re-signed in January -- originally kept an online diary for Suns.com during the team's five-game road trip in mid-March. A diary that created quite a frenzy in the national media, which was equally surprised and entertained by his unique and honest insight into life in the NBA. Shirley's daily journal (Paul doesn't like the word "blog") was mentioned on ESPN's "Cold Pizza" and on ESPN.com, and was covered in several newspapers around the country, including USA Today.
Posted by Paul Shirley, May 27, 2005
San Antonio, Texas – I seem to overheat easily. I think my core temperature must be slightly higher than most everyone else’s because it does not take much to push me over the edge to a slight film on the forehead. Considering my present “home” city, this is all great news. I think it was 170 degrees in Phoenix yesterday. Fortunately, my poor cooling system does not manifest itself in some sort of rancid B.O. It does mean that my upper lip and eyebrow regions break into salty droplets with only the slightest prodding. Now, this is not the worst occurrence in the world, except that, once my body’s radiator gets out of balance, it is difficult to correct the problem. A poor wardrobe choice can lead to a night of sleeve-wiping and awkward looks from the people with whom I am conversing.
We are now in San Antonio, hoping to begin climbing out of the 0-2 series hole over which the Spurs are standing, shovel at the ready. I spent the evening here with a college friend of mine and his wife. Because we are staying near it, we set off down the Riverwalk with the hopes of finding a promising restaurant. Along the way, I noticed that I had made a regrettable decision when I had spurned the idea of donning shorts for the evening’s entertainment. Subconsciously, I must have thought that San Antonio would be cool at night. I would guess that my line of thinking was that, since Phoenix is obviously the hottest place in the world, everywhere else must be cool enough for long pants. I forgot that the only truly appropriate clothing choice in Phoenix is complete nudity; I was off by one step—San Antonio is easily shorts-worthy. (On a side note, it is a bit humid here in San Antonio, which reminds me of home, where it is disgusting in the summertime. However, the author finds little solace in the “dry heat” of Arizona. What an absolute load of [feces]. My oven puts out dry heat as well; I am confident that I would not be comfortable in there, either.)
My friends and I were alarmed at the fact that San Antonio has become quite the tourist trap these days. I had never noticed it before—maybe because I have never been here on a holiday weekend—but the Riverwalk is fast becoming its own little version of Bourbon Street. Fewer transvestites, more Mexicans, but otherwise very similar. I was disappointed by the amount of non-native San Antonians walking the roads because I have noticed over the years that, when people go on vacation, they often lose sight of the fact that they are, in fact, quite unattractive. I saw many overweight women wearing clothing they should never have purchased, let alone put on, which cut down on the aesthetics of the area significantly. (Side note, or question. Why do fat girls think that tight clothes are going to somehow enhance their overall appearance? It actually does the exact opposite. Also, do these people buy homes that are not equipped with mirrors? Even a stainless steel toaster would probably do enough of a reflecting job to tell some of the hosses I saw wandering around this evening that it might have been a better idea to leave the not-so-little strapless number in the closet.)
About the time my revulsion at the BMI’s of the passersby had run its course, we found a restaurant that appeared tolerable. I hammered down an overpriced ribeye that was presented covered in barbecue sauce—a concept that offends me greatly as a former caretaker of steaks on the hoof back in Kansas. Our visit was lovely; when we finished, we hiked back to the hotel and said our goodbyes and my friends left for their hotel. The walk home in the muggy evening air had done little to refrigerate my core; consequently, my brow was still damp and I was anxious to get back to my hotel room so that I could crank the thermostat down to about 60 degrees and finally cool down the nuclear power plant that seems to run my body. On the way to the elevators, I noticed the entire brains behind the operation that is the Phoenix Suns closing quickly. Included were Mike D’Antoni, Jerry and Bryan Colangelo, and David Griffin (director of player personnel), with wives and families in tow. They’re good people and I get along relatively well with all of them, so I was not displeased to see them. They are, however, my bosses, on various levels, so such of a collection of power—and me—on an elevator, was a bit of an awkward situation—especially for them. They were forced to make conversation with an interloper when they were looking only to get up to their rooms after a long night of planning the future of basketball. They all knew that I was not going to play in the next day’s game, so that discussion was out. Bryan and I had already talked about the bad beat I took in the poker game on the plane (Joe Johnson caught one of two nines that would help him on the river and I was sunk). David Griffin was in said poker game, so we had already spent some time together on the day. Coach D’Antoni is funnier than me, so any remark he would make would probably go over my head, and Jerry Colangelo has seen about 8,000 basketball players in his day and certainly doesn’t need a 12-second conversation with the likes of me. It was all very Seinfeld-esque, mostly to me—and made more so because my face was by then very much wipe-of-the-brow worthy. Which means that the entire front office now thinks I have either a very hard time dealing with normal social situations, or a rampant drug problem. I am really going to give my wardrobe more careful consideration the next time I leave the room.
NBA.com