The New York Fucking Knicks Making The NBA Finals Explained Through Moby Dick Lines

 

The Knicks seem to be sailing through boundless fields of ripe and golden wheat. I cannot tell, can only hint, the things that darted through my mind last night while taking in the denouement. I might proceed with several more examples, one way or another known to me, of the great power and malice at times of the New York Knickerbockers. Full of barbaric spirit and suggestiveness, as the prints of that fine old Dutch savage, Albert Durer. Investigate it now with the sole view of forming to yourself some unexaggerated, intelligent estimate of whatever battering-ram power may be lodged there. How far beyond all utterance are their linked analogies? What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! A chasm seemed opening in the playoffs, from which forked flames and lightnings shot up, and accursed fiends beckoned us to leap down among them. The Cavs lived like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs. Leviathan maketh a path to shine after him; Harden would think the deep to be hoary.  

The pressure of the finals is immense. Can they ascend to the heavens, capering upon the astral plane. Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of them if they lose? So you suppose Jalen Brunson is afraid of the devil? All these are but subtle deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without. The gale that now hammers at them to stave them, they can turn it into a fair wind that will drive them towards home. During the violence of the gale, they had only steered according to its vicissitudes. Fix your eye upon this strange, crested, comb-like incrustation on the top of the mass of the playoffs—this green, barnacled thing. Ye gods! It's a trophy. Do you hear those faint caterwauls, whispering of a conqueror's parade sweeping down through the canyon of heroes? Oh! happy that the world is such an excellent listener!

 

 

meet da met, step right up and greet da met

I saw photos from the met gala the other night. What is the point of the met gala? I don't understand it's appeal to the wider world at large. Is it because it offers the public a glimpse at pure uncut celebrity in it's natural environment (a red carpet)? I don't understand why celebrities dress up in weird outfits. Is it as simple an answer as they are addicted to fame, and that they want people to talk about how zany they look? Heidi Klum's casper outfit, pictured above, was.....odd. How did she sip a drink, or eat her portion of the delectable 12 foot hoagie I assume they had catered for the guests? Call me persnickety, but its fucking lame to go to a party solely to do or be art. Or is this just me not understanding or properly respecting the importance of gonzo fashion? Is this a personal blind spot? Is the patriarchy to blame for me not getting it? Anyway, it's definitely another trivial thing that I shouldn't get worked up over, and yet, here we are!

These people at the met gala, who have no problem with it being hosted by jeff bezos, one of our precious oligarchs perfectly fine with wrecking the world to avoid paying taxes, are the people we hold up on a pedestal as the best of us? The people we take our social cues from? These are our american arbiters of what's cool? I don't get the appeal. I mean, sure, actors, musicians, athletes, they can be hotties, or good at their specific vocation, but that doesn't make them a good hang, or smart, or interesting. They probably are so singularly focused on their profession that they kinda suck to be around when it comes to everything else. A job shouldn't be what defines who a person is, or whether I would like them personally. If anything, I think it matters more what a person does outside their job (okay, one caveat, what politicians do at their jobs is the only thing that matters about them, and I would prefer to never know anything else).

This whole spiel goes along with something I've been bandying about in my head for a while, the idea that the richer you are the more boring and tasteless you are. The rich are too insulated from the real world to actually develop any individuality, let alone empathy or compassion for other people. They just don't have a wide enough assortment of experiences and interactions with all of the stripes of the rainbow to be an interesting piece of humanity. Why does every rich person's home look roughly the same? I think these people at some point unlearned or never had to learn how to think for themselves, the money dampened their spirit, and now they all follow some standardized paint by numbers guide for how to look and act wealthy. Its tacky, if anything, and normal people shouldn't look to them as paragons of how to live. You can't purchase personality, or charm, or bigheartedness, or comedic timing. I guess money can buy "friends" as long as what you think a friend should be also bares a striking resemblance to a toady. It doesn't seem very fun to care more about cultivating an image of success than simply living in whatever fashion suits you. And I think that is why I don't understand the met gala, cause to me it's the boiled down version of rich people thinking they're doing something cool when it's actually dreadfully gauche.