Hoops Gone Hollywood

I've also been peddling my wares and talking some hoops over at YaySports!. Throughout the year, the blogmaster of YaySports!, the Cavalier, has had both myself and fellow Epic Carnival mastermind Jack Cobra cameo while he completes the mother of all blogger-created basketball-themed movies, Who Shot Mamba? Tentatively scheduled for release in 2008, Who Shot Mamba? will tell the tale of the mysterious Mamba, who may or may not have been mysteriously murdered. Such details are mysterious indeed.

In eager anticipation of this momentous event, I've scoured the annals of cinema to put forth the ultimate competition: a team of actors attempting to be basketball stars versus a team of basketball stars attempting to be actors.

I'll admit this isn't an inclusive list, but these are the best all-round teams I could think of.

(Additional note: only one pick per movie. That was my rule.)

The Hollywood Hoopsters

PG - Calvin Cambridge (Like Mike) - Not too many actors like passing the rock, so by default Cambridge gets the call here.

SG - Scott Howard (Teen Wolf) - As a human, Howard was a mild-mannered pass-first, defensive-minded fundamental average white-guy guard. But as the wolf, Howard turned into an elusive scorer with a wicked first step.

SF - Jimmy Chitwood (Hoosiers) - One of the best pure shooters in basketball history, Chitwood was money from outside.

PF - Juwanna Mann (Juwanna Mann) - A tough position to fill. Not too many Hollywood stars willing to attack the boards and get garbage points.

C - Elliot Richards (Bedazzled) - The man broke Wilt Chamberlain's scoring record, had a quintuple-double, and played like a giant. Too bad he had the IQ of a door mouse.

Their opponents: the B-Movie Ballers

PG - Penny Hardaway (Blue Chips) - The movie that made Penny Hardaway an Orlando Magic guard. Not a bad NBA career, but never made another film. And for that we can thankful.

SG - Ray Allen (He Got Game) - I'll admit, I am like the only person in the world who hasn't seen this. But I heard it's one of the better actor-baller roles in movie history.

SF - Michael Jordan (Space Jam) - Before swatting Kevin Bacon and sharing his drawers with Cuba Gooding, Michael Jordan used to be a pretty good basketball player. Yeah, he is out of position here, but I couldn't leave Ray Allen off the roster.

PF - Dennis Rodman (Double Team) - In the rare basketball star in a non-basketball movie, Rodman kicks rear with the great Jean Claude Van Damme, not giving a van damme what David Stern thinks. And matches up well with opposing drag queen Juwanna Mann.

C - Shaquille O'Neal (Steele) - Sure Kazaam was a better movie, but I liked Steele, in a leave your brain at the concession stand and watch Shaq fight crime sort of way.

So who wins this epic battle of the silver screen? I'd favor the real athletes, but you can never underestimate the magic of Hollywood.

Notes from a Knicks Nation refugee

Nearly 1,000 days ago I became a refugee. In June 2005, I went into exile and left the Knicks Nation. The ill-conceived decisions of an incompetent regime drove me away. I could no longer endure the torment and the torture of rooting for the New York Knicks. So although I had over ten years of attachment, I said my farewells, packed up my memories, and walked away.

Whereas I considered myself a Knicks fan, I found myself wandering the NBA landscape in search of a place to call home. Unable to survive on my own, it wasn't long before I found myself in one of the many displaced fan camps throughout the nation. Within this refugee camp were many other displaced fans who had likewise boycotted association with their favorite team. I met numerous Clippers fans who couldn't stand Donald Sterling, Charlotte Hornets fans who couldn't find it in their hearts to follow the Hornets to New Orleans nor root for their new Bobcats franchise, and 76er fans who had enough of their organization's mismanagement. Recently, we have even had fans from the Timberwolves' and Sonics' Nations join our camp as a reaction towards the mismanagement of their respective franchises.

Although I still stayed in touch with other Knicks fans, both in New York and throughout the Knicks Nation diaspora, I grew to enjoy my new community. My fellow refugees taught me how to be a general NBA fan, to follow the league and watch the games, but not acknowledge the team of my home nation. Although there were times of despair where we would all miss our homeland, we were generally happy. We traded tales of former glory, bragged about our stars of yesteryear, and embraced the sheer joy of the game, all without the drama of attachment.

Despite the joy of living in a displaced fan camp, I secretly yearned to return to Knicks Nation. I dreamt of the day when I could watch Marbury, Randolph, Curry, and Balkman and cheer with my fellow Knicks fans. Alas, as long as the incompetent regime of Isiah Thomas maintained control, I would remain in the camp, left only with my hopes, dreams, and fleeting memories of days gone by.

Then, last week, a glimmer of hope. After the Knicks suffered one of the worst losses in franchise history, a 45-point shellacking by the Boston Celtics, I thought for sure I could begin planning my return. Gleefully, I packed my bags, rolled up my sleeping mat, and prepared for the long journey home. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Despite the protests of both the remnants of Knicks Nation and their supporting media channels, Isiah Thomas remained in power. Dejected, I returned to my spot in the camp, unrolled my sleeping mat and closed my eyes, dreaming of Walt Frazier, Bernard King, and Patrick Ewing.

I know there will be a day when I will return to the Knicks Nation. A time when I will have to say good-bye to the many friends I have made in the displaced fan refugee camp. Despite the sadness of farewell, however, the fall of the Thomas regime will be among the happiest events of my life. As I have planned for years, on that joyous day I will once again don my John Starks jersey, dust off my Knicks hat, find myself a seat at my local sports bar, and cheer loudly and boisterously for the Knickbockers of New York.

Remembering Ol' Dirty Bastard - An NBA Tribute

Today is the third anniversary of the death of the one of the most charismatic rappers in hip-hop history. Ol' Dirty Bastard of the Wu-Tang Clan was a hero of mine, an inspiration who stuck it to The Man and lived life on his terms. Ol' Dirty didn't make much sense with his off-beat rhymes and sing-song drunken ramblings, but in an age of overproduction and cookie-cutter YouTube hip-hop dance songs, the surviving work of Mr. Russell Jones serves as a beacon of originality, a lighthouse on a coast of commercialism.

So in honor of the rhymes and times of Ol' Dirt McGirt, I've hand-picked five of his lyrics, spread out over his catalog, and applied them to persons of NBA significance. Enjoy.

"My advantage on the M-I-C is the slang/ That I manifest so you could never hang / Obviously you know my name by now/ I done thrown stupid parties all through your town" - "Goin' Down", Return to the 36 Chambers (1995)

Only one NBA player seemingly invents his own slang and throws the most stupid parties. The same player who lives in his own hyperbolic chamber and cheats at Halo - the one, the only Gilbert Arenas. Arenas has many NBA fans, especially bloggers, sprung on his every word and will assuredly use that advantage come the All-Star election.

"The things that you learnt in class is trash / You can't do nothin' wit' it, I put you in the past" - "Caught Up", The Trials and Tribulations of Russell Jones (2002)

The NBA has definitely been rough for 2006 NCAA leading scorers JJ Redick and Adam Morrison. Last year both struggled to adjust their game to the NBA level, with Redick battling injuries and Morrison becoming a punchline on defense. This year, it is Morrison who is hurt and Redick is again struggling, scoring only two points all season.

"Screwface ya bitches put food on y'all / He won't slip, won't trip, won't ever fall / Bitch you better obey me, better not betray me" - "I Want P**sy", N*gga Please (1999)

Only one man in the NBA is more untouchable than Elliot Ness. The man with the Teflon rep and the smooth smile. The Billy Dee Williams of the NBA, Isiah Thomas. Although the Knicks have clawed their way to mediocrity of late, Thomas's reverse Midas Touch and ability to weasel out of a possibly career-ending sexual harassment suit and still keep his job will soon be the stuff of legend.

"Crews be actin like they gangs, anyway / Be like, "Warriors! Come out and playiyay!" / Burn me, I get into shit, I let it out like diarrhea / Got burnt once, but that was only gonorrhea" - "Shame on a N*gga", Enter the Wu-Tang (1992)

With the Warriors struggling out the gate and the Mavericks accounting for one of their losses already, you know Dirk Nowitzki is salivating like Pavlov's dogs at the chance to get his revenge for last year's playoffs. Supposedly, Nowitzki took a few weeks off of basketball this summer to recharge. Don't be surprised to see that his offtime pays off come playoff time and he looks like a man on a mission. Nowitzki isn't looking to get burnt twice.

"I don't know how you all see it, but when it comes to the children, Wu-Tang is for the children. We teach the children." - the 1998 Grammy Awards

For all of Ol' Dirty's legal entanglements, his drug possessions, and his general disregard for the rules of society, there is one moment that showed the true nature and giving personality of Mr. Russell Jones. In February 1998, ODB helped save the life of a 4-year old girl trapped in a car wreck outside of his recording studio. This action allowed the girl to get into the care of hospital personnel much quicker.

Like Ol' Dirty Bastard, Ron Artest's NBA career has been marked with constant conflict. Like ODB, detractors of Ron Artest feel his inclusion in the league sets a bad example for the youth. However, this summer, Artest participated in a trip to Kenya to help feed underprivileged children in sub-Saharan Africa. Whether or not this proves to be an epiphany in Artest's life has yet to be seen, but it does show Artest too is for the children.

So R.I.P. to the ODB. There will never be another.

Remembering Ol' Dirty Bastard

His sound was an acquired taste. Those who like hip-hop liked Ol' Dirty; those with no affinity for hip-hop thought he was horrible. He was a rapper for the fellas, although he won over the ladies with songs with Kelis, Mya, and Mariah. He became a folk hero of sorts, a pre-cursor to Flavor Flav's VH1 celebrity. How could he be a famous rapper and still be on welfare, they asked? He was the epitome of celebrity ills, an artist whose character overwhelmed his real self. Where would he have been without hip-hop? Although it may have been his status that fueled his self-destruction, it was the talent behind that status that blazed an unforgettable path in hip-hop history.

R.I.P. Ol' Dirty Bastard
(November 15, 1968 - November 13, 2004)

Probably the oddest O.D.B. tribute you will ever see, by Buckethead.

Not quite a night at Baseball's General Manager Meetings

Following the success of last year's trip to baseball's annual Winter Meetings, I decided to once again attempt to crash the main stage and hob-knob with baseball's power brokers. This year my target was the General Managers' Meeting, a pow-wow of baseball's wheelers and dealers. While not as grandiose as the Winter Meetings, the General Managers' meeting usually lays the groundwork for transactions throughout baseball's off season.

Similar to last year, my trip to the GM Meeting began at the end of the work day. Although last year I was able to leave at 4pm and avoid a majority of the Tampa-Orlando traffic, this year I wasn't so lucky. Call it foreshadowing.

What follows is a chronological description of my night. No, it's not a diary. It's a journal.

4:58 - left work. Yeah, that's right. I normally get out at 5, but because I had something to do, I left two minutes early. Gotta love stickin' it The Man.

5:00 - 6:20 - listened to Playboy Radio on the way to Orlando. Yes, that's a plug. Playboy Radio is the only talk radio I listen to. And I am awesome at their dating quiz show. One day I might just call in.

6:25 - Arrived at the Hyatt Regency Grand Cypress Hotel and Resort.

6:26 - Stopped at the gate by a sweet old lady in a security uniform who politely asked me what my business was at the hotel. Rather than saying, "I'm a huge Pat Gillick fan and I heard he was here", I went with the more confusing "Umm ... a friend told me to meet him here." That always works.

6:28 - Unfortunately, the sweet little gate guard didn't let me in. She pulled out her clipboard and asked for his name. Here is where I should have pulled an Obi-Wan Kenobi, waved my hand, and used the Force to control her weak and feeble mind. Instead, she was persistent that I not pass the gate without either a valid reason or proof that someone I know (and who knows me) was somehow beyond the gate.

6:30 - Dejected, I made a U-turn and pulled away from the hotel. I was curious though, what lay beyond the gate? Is that the normal procedure? Did the hotel put this little old lady at the gate to protect the sanctity of the general managers' meeting? I've always pictured the general managers hanging out in a smokey bar, sipping whiskey, and plotting their next blockbuster trade. Perhaps it's more like their own Hedonism event.

6:40 - Instead of getting back on the highway and driving the hour and a half back home, I decided to see if I couldn't get into the Hyatt another way. Might there be a back entrance, one that doesn't have a merciless old lady manning the gate?

6:42 - Pulled into a nearby Chinese buffet. I was attempting my own Mission Impossible. This was going to be a Dead Presidents-type gig.

6:48 - Walked along a passageway separating the Chinese buffet from a hotel neighboring the Hyatt. So far, so good.

6:52 - Strolled along the perimeter of the hotel's parking lot looking for a way in ... a break in the fence, anything.

6:54 - Found a way in. Although most of the fence dividing the two hotels was at least six feet high and lined with barbwire, a small section was not. It lacked barbwire completely and was only five feet or so in height. This was my way in.

6:54 and 24 seconds - Looked at the fence and its surrounding shrubbery.

6:54 and 32 seconds - Kept staring at the fence. You know, I am not as spry as I used to be. Especially when I am still fresh dressed like a million bucks in my work clothes.

6:54 and 51 seconds - What if I got arrested for trespassing?

6:55 - Do you think if I got busted for trespassing I can get Peter Gammons to interview me from jail? Maybe some one else? I'll even take Skip Bayless.

6:55 and 49 seconds - Tried to psych myself up for a simple fence climb - a hop, skip, and a jump into the bacchanalia that is the GM Meetings.

On second thought ...

6:56 - Walked back to my truck.

6:58 - Felt a vibration in my pocket. Realized it was my phone. Glad I didn't try to sneak in. Fielding phone calls while trying to sneak into a world-class resort is probably not advisable.

6:59 - Talked to my mom. I'm sure she would have been happy if I told her I was trying to break in to a resort to meet with people from pro baseball. She would have understood. She's supportive like that.

7:03 - Got in my truck and drove the long, dark, lonely highway home.

I'll be the first to admit this year's visit to the GM Meetings was nowhere near as productive as last year's trip to the Winter Meetings. This year there was no Ozzie, no Omar, no Jim Leyland, and no admittance.

Bummer.

Jay Busbee loves the Mets ... just kidding ... just the '86 version

As a result of a tied bet, both myself and Atlanta blogger/writer/connoisseur of southern things Jay Busbee decide to write our favorite versions of the other's favorite team. Unfortunately, Jay is a Braves fan so I had to write about the Braves on his site. And here is his take on the Mets team that absolutely won me over those many moons ago. Jeez, has it really been 21 years since the Mets won anything?

Hey there, Serious Tip readers. I’m Jay Busbee, head honcho over at the Atlanta sports site Right Down Peachtree. Being an Atlanta sports site, one of our obsessions is the Atlanta Braves ... which puts us directly at odds with Mets fans like Jordi here. So back at the beginning of this season, Jordi and I made a little wager, much like those cheesy mayor-versus-mayor bets. Whoever’s team won more games would get the benefit of a post from the other guy. Worse, the loser would have to write about the winner’s team ... in positive terms.

Well, the Braves and the Mets split the season 9-9. If either team had managed to put together a winning record against the other, they would’ve probably been in the playoffs. But it wasn’t to be, for either of us. (Tom Glavine has been spotted driving a brand-new red-and-blue Lamborghini around the streets of Alpharetta, Georgia, but that’s another story.) Anyway, earlier this week Jordi turned in a fine essay on the 1977 Braves, perhaps the most woeful team ever assembled.

Me, I’m taking the opposite tack. My personal favorite Mets team—besides the ones that finished in second place behind Atlanta, of course — was the 1986 squad. Thanks to legions of annoying Red Sox fans — who make me want to embrace Mets fans at this point — the 1986 season is known at least as much for “it gets behind the bag!” as it was for the Mets.

And that’s a damn shame, because the 1986 Mets were — oh my lord, I can’t believe I’m typing this — one of the coolest teams of all time.

Look at that team: Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry, a couple of young phenoms who were already being sized up for Hall of Fame plaques—and, based on what they’d already demonstrated, deservedly so. Keith Hernandez, probably the best defensive first baseman of all time. (Before baseball ruled it illegal, he used to stand in foul ground to make it easier to lay tags on runners leading off.) Gary Carter and Ray Knight were among the best in the game at their respective positions. Lenny Dykstra, Mookie Wilson, and Wally Backman, young loons who were every bit as talented as they thought they were. And Davey Johnson, a manager who had no problem declaring right from the start that this team was going to kick in the teeth of the rest of the league ... and proceeded to inspire his team to do just that.

The team began with a 20-4 record in April, and — much like the 2007 Patriots — didn’t let up at any point during the season. They got into no less than four bench-clearing brawls over the season; in July, so many players got thrown out of the game that Johnson had to put nutjob pitcher Roger McDowell in right field. The team finished with an astonishing 108 wins, running away from the league and fooling the rest of the sporting world into thinking that collections of wacko personalities could actually gel into a cohesive unit.

But as impressive as the regular season was, it couldn’t compare to the ’86 Mets’ postseason—particularly the two Game 6s. In Game 6 of the NLCS, facing the Astros, the Mets found themselves down 3-0 after the first inning, and wouldn’t tie up the game until the ninth. The game ran until the 16th, when the Mets put three across in the top of the inning, the Astros followed with two in the bottom, and Orosco closed the door with the winning run on base.

Game 6 of the World Series saw the Mets down to their final strike before Mookie hit that fateful slow roller up the line. Of course, the Red Sox still had a chance to win the Series in Game 7, but much like the Bartman fiasco with the Cubs nearly two decades later, the Sox were dead before the first pitch of Game 7 was ever thrown. (Interesting side note: I was at the 1993 Old-Timers’ Game befre the All-Star Game in Baltimore. Buckner was playing first. Somebody hit a slow roller up the line, Buckner fielded it flawlessly, and you could hear 50,000 people go “ohhhhh ...” — as in, “Why couldn’t he have done that seven years ago?”

Anyway, the ’86 Mets were a once-in-a-lifetime collection of insanity, and sure enough, they all fractured not long afterward. Strawberry, Gooden, and Hernandez saw their careers affected or derailed by drugs. Dykstra achieved more fame as the sparkplug of the grubby 1993 NL Champion Phillies, and is now — I swear this is true, here’s the link — a stock-picking columnist for TheStreet.com. Hernandez and McDowell were the first and second spitters in that famous Seinfeld episode, and McDowell is now the mild-mannered pitching coach of the Braves.

So raise a beer — or something stronger — to the 1986 New York Mets. (Check out Jeff Pearlman’s The Bad Guys Won! for far more on the subject.) They were baseball’s last great team of knuckleheads that actually won anything. (The 2004 Red Sox were self-promoting, self-aware knuckleheads, which is infinitely worse.) In a world of 24-hour sports scrutiny, we’ll never see their like again, and that’s a damn shame.

My Favorite Braves Team - The 1977 Atlanta Braves

Earlier this year, in approximately March or so, Jay Busbee and I decided on a friendly wager on who would win the season series: my New York Mets or his beloved Atlanta Braves.  After much deliberating, we decided that while the winner would get to gloat all off-season, the loser had to write about their favorite roster in the winning team’s history.  As luck, or as I like to call it “the Mets utter ineptitude”, would have it, the two teams tied 9 to 9.  So in lieu of counting stats and breaking it down to the knitty-gritty, we decided to both write.

I’ll be honest, before the Braves became an NL East powerhouse, I never paid them much attention.  Growing up in New York in the 1980s, the Braves were an afterthought, a minor speedbump on the road to further Mets glory.  Before the days of David Justice, Ron Gant, and John Smoltz, the only time I had any feelings towards the Braves was when Lonnie Smith hit a game-winning home run against Sid Fernandez sometime in 1989.  Fernandez was a personal favorite of mine and I was quite mad at this last-place Brave outfielder for standing in the way of my favorite team.  But I digress.  As for my favorite Braves team, for the sake of colorfulness and sheer ineptitude, I am going with the 1977 Atlanta Braves.

Besides being the year I was born, the year of the Son of Sam, the year Interpol made it illegal to copy video tapes, and the year the Bronx supposedly burned, 1977 marked one of the lowest points in Atlanta Braves history.  Gone were Hank Aaron, Dave Johnson, Ralph Garr, and Dusty Baker.  In their place were Jeff Burroughs, Willie Montanez, Gary Mathews, and a position-less youngster named Dale Murphy.  Add in a new charismatic owner and his penchant for hands-on management, a knuckleballer who won 16 yet lost 20, and the legendary Biff Pocoroba, and the 1977 Braves were one of the worst teams the city of Atlanta has ever seen, and that includes some bad Hawks basketball.

Leading the charge for these bumbling Braves was manager Dave Bristol.  Bristol would manage 160 of 162 games in 1977, making way for the first Bobby Cox era in 1978.  Of course, thanks to new owner Ted Turner, the Braves made headlines on one of Bristol’s “days off”.  Turner, eager to show his baseball prowess, took the reigns of the team on May 11th, promptly losing to the Pirates 2 to 1.  Although he would go on to claim that "Managing isn't that difficult, you just have to score more runs than the other guy", it would be the last day Turner would venture into the daily on-the-field management of the club.

As much of a mess as they were in the dugout, the Braves were as much a mess between the lines, and probably nowhere more so than on the mound.  The so-called ace of the staff was future Hall-of-Famer Phil Niekro.  Although Niekro pitched for the Braves from 1964 to 1983, 1977 was by far his worst year.  In 1977, Niekro gave up over 300 hits and walked a whopping 164 batters.  Rounding out the staff was a gaggle of has-beens and never-weres including one-time 20-game winner Andy Messersmith and one-time NL ERA leader Buzz Capra.

Although the aforementioned Burroughs had one of his better years and was clearly team MVP, my favorite Brave on the 1977 team is shortstop Pat “Don’t call me pocket” (can I say that?) Rockett.  I could be wrong, so long-time Braves fans please help me out, but by his stats, Rockett seemed like he epitomized the light-hitting, slick-fielding shortstops of the era.  Sort of a Rafael Belliard of his day.  Except for one glaring problem – Rockett wasn’t very good with the glove.  Although he only played in 84 games, Rockett was perhaps the worst fielding shortstop in the National League in 1977, committing 23 errors.  His 1 error per 3.65 games was second worst in the league behind stone-handed Padre shortstop Bill Almon and his horrendous 41 errors.  Whereas the Padres moved Almon to third the following season, Rockett wasn’t so fortunate, playing his the final 55 games of his career in ’78 and hitting an unmistakably pathetic .141.

Without a doubt, the 1977 Braves were a mess.  Similar to today’s Giants, they were a team in transition.  Young prospects Dale Murphy and Bob Horner would emerge the following season as stars, and after a few more years of struggle, the Braves would finish in first in ’82 and second in ’83 and ‘84.  Unfortunately however, their success was short-lived, and the Braves turned into the eventual doormat of the NL West.  Yet no matter how bad they were throughout the 80s, no other Atlanta Brave team featured a Rockett, a knuckleballer, and an owner gutsy enough to think he could manage.  That’s why, as a Mets fan and a fan of eccentric personalities everywhere, the ’77 team is my favorite Braves team.

Counting down the best of death

If you've read The Serious Tip since back in the day (March to be exact), you might know I have an unusual fascination with extreme heavy metal. The most fringe of the rock/metal genre has piqued my interest for quite some time. To be honest, I am not sure why these bands interest me. Perhaps it's their appearance, their defiance of death and their embracing of dark, or maybe I just think they are an amazing anti-establishment sub-culture as evident by their creative names and over-the-top lyrics and theatrics. Upon investigation, one might even be drawn to question their "realness", similar to the "studio gangstas" in hip-hop culture.

Anyway, before I start to babble on about the socio-economic-religious impact of extreme heavy metal on global culture, HailMetal.com put together a list of the best death metal albums of all-time. I definitely recommend taking a look, if only for the artwork and the creative monikering.

Before I give you the link however, I would like to share a couple of my favorites and my own commentary:

Number 3:

Hmmm ... "Amorphis". Doesn't "amor" means love? And "phis" is, of course, more than one "Phi" - possibly short for Phi Mu, or any other Greek organization. So if I have this right, the translation of this mega-power in death metal means "Love Phis".


Number 42:

Yeah, you see that right. The cover of Macabre's death metal magnum opus Sinister Slaughter is a mock of The Beatles's Sgt. Pepper album, only depicting mass murderers and other assorted deranged psychopaths. What else would you expect from a band with songs named "Ted Ted Bundy Song" and "Nightstalker Richard Ramirez"? My only question is, is music about killing people considered "snuff rock"? Not to be confused, of course, with the "Snuffy Rock" they play on Sesame Street.

Ok, those are my favorites. Do I own either of these? No. Could I understand what the singers were saying/screaming/bellowing without looking at the lyrics? Probably not. But, I'll give them credit, they are creative. In their own special way.

As for the rest, they can be found here: Hail Metal.com's Best of Death.

Supplement Raids Stun Porn Industry

Recent supplement raids across the U.S. have intercepted numerous cases of erectile dysfunction drugs addressed to pornography stars and caused uproar throughout the adult film industry.

FBI sources have told The Serious Tip shipment lists on over 69,000 cases of ED drugs seized since February 2007 contained the names of numerous high-profile male adult performers. The most recent of these raids netted approximately 2,500 cases in Brooklyn, NY. Other raids have seized drugs in Miami, Fla., San Francisco, Ca., and Salt Lake City, Utah. Many of these raids, such as the recent NY seizure, made headlines due to their seizure of huge amounts of human growth hormone and other sports-related drugs.

“Although sports supplements such as HGH have gotten much of the publicity, we have seen a huge jump in the amount of illegal ED drugs headed towards the porn industry,” said an anonymous FBI officer who has worked on the case since late 2006. “We are working hand-in-hand with our other agencies to stop this epidemic.”

According to FBI sources, the drugs are generic versions of name-brand ED drugs such as Viagra and Cialis. Many are manufactured in poor third-world countries by children with no shoes and women who haven't showered recently.

“I mean, I don’t want to take away these peoples’ only source of income,” said a second FBI agent new to the agency, “But we don’t need drugs like that in our porn. Those beautiful, blond, big-breasted, lovely, attractive, kind, sweet, young women need guys like us to protect them from the evils of drugs. Especially the girls in the cheerleading outfits. They look so innocent, yet sexy. Not that I watch porn or anything.”

Results of the raids have also caused controversy throughout the porn industry. Among those concerned is Jon Longfellow, a recently retired male performer and holder of several porn records, to include longest performance without ejaculation.

“I was clean my whole career,” said Longfellow. “Now I have to question these new guys. I mean, as some of them get closer and closer to the all-time records, how do we know if they were natural?”

Although the FBI has only recently disclosed the names on the shipment lists to top porn officials and not made any of their findings public, many female performers already have their suspicions.

“I knew something was wrong when one of the guys in my gangbang scene last week lasted way longer than any of the others,” said Britney Bazoombas, a three year veteran of the industry. “I was kneeling there, waiting for the moneyshot, thinking ‘wow, this guy has to be on something to last this long’. Now I know.”

Velvet Revolver / Alice in Chains Live in Tampa

I wanted to post this over the weekend, but my previously mentioned ISP problems made doing so impossible. Anyway, last Saturday I got to check off a major goal in my concert going career. I saw Alice in Chains open for Velvet Revolver at the Ford Amphitheater in Tampa. Granted, Velvet Revolver was the headliner and they put on an absolutely great show, but I have wanted to see Alice in Chains in concert since I became a fan in the mid-1990s.

A few notes:

- When I bought the ticket, the guy at the ticket place told me new lead singer William Duvall sang just like late frontman Layne Staley. I'll admit I was a bit skeptical, but Duvall nailed it. Very impressive.

- The set list was nothing new, which also kinda surprised me. I thought perhaps they would slide a new tune in or perhaps a song from one of guitarist Jerry Cantrell's albums. Instead I got a heaping helping of classic Alice in Chains. And there is nothing wrong with that.

- Most of the songs came off of Dirt and the self-titled album, except "No Excuses" from the Jar of Flies album and "We Die Young" and "Man in the Box" from their first album, Facelift.

- As I watched the show, I started thinking, what is Alice in Chains' most famous song? "Would?" was probably their first major hit, and "Rooster" is definitely up there, but I would almost have to go with "Man in the Box". It gets plenty of radio play still, and has been used in a bunch of movies and at sporting events. Opinions welcome in the comments, of course.

- Speaking of "Rooster", the band closed by playing the song while showing an awesome montage of war footage that spliced scenes of troops in Vietnam with scenes from the current conflict in Iraq. Flashing throughout the footage were pictures of Richard Nixon, Lyndon Johnson, Donald Rumsfeld, Dick Cheney, and President Bush. While definitely not at the level of a U2 Bono statement, AIC's video did a good job of putting geopolitics aside and showing the traumas, stresses, and similarities of two wars generations apart.

A few notes about Velvet Revolver:

- I've never seen Slash perform live before and I was blown away. His guitar playing skills were better than I thought.

- Unlike Alice in Chains, Velvet Revolver mixed some other material into their set, playing songs from their members' former bands, Stone Temple Pilots and Guns'N'Roses. Of course, these songs drove everyone in the crowd wild.

- I was really surprised they played the Guns'N'Roses tune "Mr. Brownstone", however. If memory serves me correct, the Virginia Tech killer wrote an essay with the same name and quoted the song quite extensively. Here it is. I thought maybe the band would have retired the song in tribute to the victims.

Overall, I would give this show a solid “A”. The 60 dollar ticket and the fact that the ushers did not let people take pictures (supposedly at the artists’ request) was the only reason it doesn’t get an “A+”. Highly recommended.

(Picture acquired from the Velvet Revolver web site.)