Obituary - Detroit Pistons As We Know Them

While there undeniably will be talk of the Pistons' six straight conference finals appearances, the Detroit Pistons as we know them and will remember them essentially boil down to four-and-a-half years of tragedy.

Sports, like ancient theater, toes the line of comedy and tragedy and eventually wavers off the crack toward one side or the other. There is no comeragedy. Oedipus gets his eye stabbed out (and takes a stab at his mother). Tragedy. Nick Bottom is turned into a donkey in a forest. Comedy. Medea slaughters her children like it's a pig pen. Tragedy.

Ultimately, the modern Detroit Pistons -- which consist of Rasheed Wallace, Tayshaun Prince, Rip Hamilton and Chauncey Billups -- will be seen as the court's version of ancient tragedy. This core group was believed to have shown so much potential in the few months after Rasheed Wallace's acquistion. They put on the greatest defensive exhibition in NBA history, holding five consecutive teams to below 70 points and creating a record so secure it's harbored in the Palm's underground vault, located right next to Wilt's 50 points a game and Oscar's triple-double season average. The exposition.

They upset what was supposed to be the greatest amalgation of talent since the 1980s in the Finals by defeating Kobe, Shaq, Karl and Gary, men whose singular monikers speak louder than surnames. They were the ultimate team, destined for multiple championships because they didn't need one player to win. They had each other. The rising action.

The 2004 Detroit Pistons were supposed to be the years away from the climax, which would have consisted of multiple championships for "the ultimate team." We knew there was supposed to be a bright future in store for the congregation of players, coaches, and newly revitalized Pistons fans. We didn't know that we had already seen the denouement.

Any other team would hoist six conference finals appearances and trumpet it far above their head, but the Pistons' ceiling never rose when the showings stacked up. Finally, when the number reached six this year and bowed out for the fourth time, nearly all will come tumbling down.

Changes will be made. Players will be traded, coaches will be realigned, veterans will retire, youngsters will take on larger roles and aging athletes will begin their ride into the NBA sunset -- also known as contracts with the Milwaukee Bucks and Memphis Grizzles. Like a colony of ants near an aardvark, nobody is safe. Chauncey Billups and his deteorating body could be shipped out. Rasheed Wallace's attitude could be gone -- and don't forget his effervescent game. Tayshaun Prince's arms could be shown the door (he already left his offensive game in the Orlando series, so there's no use in kicking it to the curb now). Antonio McDyess could have played his final game as a Piston, or a professional, if he can't emotionally invest himself in another championship run. All are expendable in Auburn Hills, with the possible exceptions of Rip Hamilton, whose jumper is worth each million of his contract, super rookie Rodney Stuckey, and Jason "Pogo Stick" Maxiell (tell your friends about that nickname -- it's a keeper).

Yes, change is coming on Five Championship Drive, and it's all because the road to the Palace isn't being renamed with a six. The team that showed more promise than Mark Prior's right arm four years ago likely will be hacked away by architect Joe Dumars, a great competitor who knows when to call it quits. Throughout all the changes in Detroit during the past four years -- the coaches, bench players and contracts -- the greatest switch came when the Pistons realized they had one. Yet too often, the switch short circuited and pride came before the fall.

This year was different though. This year, there were no excuses. The coaching staff was stacked, the bench was replenished, starters' minutes were down, and health was basically a non-issue. Players openly talked about no excuses, no reasons for failure, and they showed it. Most defensive plays were executed with heart. Hustle was palpable through the t.v. set. Fists were pumping, feet were moving, and bodies were flying. For about 15 straight games in the postseason, the switch was on.

But somebody forgot to pay the electric bill.

And so we're left with a team who has reached the summit, climbed back down, and realized how hard it was to make it to the top in the first place. Bodies are older, egos are inflated, bridges are broken (How many heart to hearts do you think Rasheed and Flip have had this year?) and traditions have been worn. In six years, the Pistons lived by the idea that if it ain't broke, don't fix it. But now, it's time for the contractor to break out the tools. Something needs fixing, and that means the end of an era -- one that produced a championship but left us wishing for so much more. An era in which opportunities were blown and titles probably were inexcusably lost. They reached the top, but could never return. And never will.

What a tragedy.

NBA Live (Blog)

So I missed the first quarter. Who cares. It was tied.

A live blog of Game 5 of the Pistons-Celtics series:

Second quarter

7:55 - Theo Ratliff gets dunked on by Kevin Garnett. He can expect to see himself on the walls of about 40,000 10-year-old Celtics fans in two months.

7:51 - Who is the smokin' hot chick with Bill Belichick? If I was here, I'd be checking my bathroom every day. Spygate is like an old habit — it dies hard.

6:23 - Tayshaun Prince returns from the Witness Protection Program for a dunk.

5:42 - Does anyone else thing there's something off about Ray Allen? The guy wins more sportsmanship awards than Shane Battier and he apparently spends all of his free time doing charity, but there's a strange edge to him that is borderline stalkerish. He seems like the teacher who's really friendly, and then you find out he's child molester friendly. Like Mr. Handell.

5:40 - Cheryl Ford tells me she doesn't want any part of my rec league team. Tells me nobody wants to watch women take a charge. Tells me nobody cares about the WNBA. Basically tells me everything I've been saying for the past 8 years.

5:25 - If the only part of coaching was executing in-bounds plays, Flip Saunders would be so much more important than he already isn't. Hamilton with an in-bounds layup.

3:54 - Kendrick Perkins is slowly moving up the Sean Ely "If I Could Shoot 3 NBA Players In The Face, I'd Shoot Manu Ginobili Twice" list.

2:58 - Forget Abraham Lincoln, Mother Teresa, and Albert Einstein. If I could have dinner with 3 people dead or alive, Charles Barkley and I would totally be breaking bread. Man I wish I could be in his Fave Five.

2:04 - An unspoken difference maker in this series has been rebounding. The Pistons have lacked a significant inside presence that pulls down offensive rebounds throughout the game (McDyess has been big in the fourth quarter, but not for 48 minutes).

1:22 - Garnett goes all Barnum and Bailey and hits a 21-foot bank shot with a tenth of a second on the shot clock. I give it about 3 more years until David Stern puts tenths of second on the shot clock. And makes the shot clock wear a suit to the arena.

Halftime - Is there a less important job in all of sports media than that of sideline reporter? I mean, if Craig Sager and Jim Gray have done it, how important can it be? Kendrick Perkins was just interviewed and said his big first half is the result of being active. Really, I thought it was because you were in a coma KP. What a worthless job. Unless you're Erin Andrews. Or your face time keeps Bill Raftery from talking.

3rd Quarter

Pre-quarter - Jeff Van Gundy has given Perkins the nickname KP 43. No wonder he got fired from every job after two years.

10:52 - There's a serious discussion that Joe Dumars needs to have with himself this summer (because let's face it, Joe Dumars is like the Fidel Castro of the Pistons front office). Tayshaun Prince is undeniably a very good defender. But his lack of offensive ability in the playoffs the past three or four years is a major concern. It's awfully hard, especially when you're a jump shooting team, to have such a liability.

9:32 - Mike Breen says KP 43 needs 41 rebounds to beat Wilt Chamberlain's record for rebounds in a game. I think Mike was confusing Wilt's 41 rebounds with his "41 rebounds."

7:41 - Has there ever been a starting point guard in the NBA Conference Finals more hesitant to shoot than Rajon Rondo? He makes Eric Snow look like Allen Iverson.

5:27 - Flip Saunders, out in the middle of the court arguing a non-call, interrupts the Celtics cheerleaders' performance. Somewhere, Red Auerbach is doing barrel rolls in his grave.

5:10 - KP 43 gives a shoulder roll after blocking Jason Maxiell to turn over the ball. He's now right below Manu and Antoine Walker on the list. Assuming Chris Webber retired.

3:45 - Pierce makes one of the least dirty look dirtiest plays I've seen. It's like seeing a dog covered in mud. Or something like that.

2:05 - Really, Tayshaun Prince should not be allowed to touch the ball anymore. Ben Wallace does more with the rock in his hands than Tay right now.

1:30 - Whoever decided every game in this series would start at 8:45 should have to get up at 6 a.m. the next day for the two weeks.

1:19 - Is KP 43 an unrestricted free agent at the end of the year? You listening Joe?

1:15 - Apparently the Pistons left their poise on the tarmac at DTW.

0:40 - If you would have told me that my favorite announcer during the NBA Playoffs would be Jeff Van Gundy, a guy who'd I'd trust more with my taxes than my team if I'd never met him before, well then I'd put the mute button on for 2.5 hours every other night. But the guy is pleasantly entertaining.

0:06 - Were referee Ken Mauer and Steve Lavin separated at birth? Did they come out of the womb with a barrel-full of hair gel?

Fourth quarter

12:00 - A question that never will be answered, but perhaps should have been more than any other question in sports: Would the Celtics be in the same position as they are now if a cardboard cutout of Doc Rivers was head coach? Unfortunately, the world will never know.

10:15 - It's quietly an 8 point game. Then James Posey hits a three. I can see him being the Robert Horry of the 21st century — won a championship with the Heat and could be getting another one this year.

8:45 - What word best quantifies Rajon Rondo's shot-making abilities? Let's go to the thesaurus: appalling, base, flagrant, inglorious, shady, shameful, shoddy, unbecoming, unworthy. I vote inglorious. But you can't spell inglorious without glorious, so that's done. We'll go with shameful, because you have to spell shame in that. Or ham.

8:12 - Has Antonio McDyess pulled a David Copperfield or what tonight? I still love him, but maybe now I only want to get to first base.

6:55 - All of the sudden, this game has gotten sloppier than Lindsay Lohan with four beers in her. I should have my keyboard taken away from me for making an analogy with Lindsay Lohan in it. That's just lazy.

6:45 - Pistons are down eight, Celts have the ball and it's a timeout. I'm calling it now: Pierce drives to the hole and kicks it out to KG for a wide open 17-footer.

6:30 - Ray Allen turns the ball over. Nobody could have seen a turnover coming. Nobody.

5:51 - Lindsey Hunter has the most amazing set of hands I've ever seen. His wife must be the happiest woman in the world.

5:18 - Rasheed Wallace might have effectively signed his walking papers tonight. What a dumb tech.

4:30 - Chauncey Billups hits a 3 from Martha's Vineyard and then lets Rondo make a lay-up. I don't know which is more impressive.

4:04 - Has there ever been a quieter 30-point game in conference finals history than KG's monster game tonight? KP 43 still has a lot to learn.

3:30 - Ray Allen is a douche.

2:54 - Here's guessing Rajon Rondo didn't graduate from University of Kentucky.

2:38 - I hate KP 43 more than anybody, but Ken Mauer needs to have his whistle taken and put in time out.

1:58 - If Rodney Stuckey hits both of these free throws, I'll name my kid Rodney. Maybe it's his middle name.

1:36 - Rondo's free throw shooting: Shameful. It fits.

1:15 - Rodney Stuckey hits a three with one minute left to cut the game to one. My child is going to hate my guts so much.

1:10 - It's time to come up with my "If the Pistons win this game, I'll (insert random overexaggeration that I'll never do)." I'll take suggestions and maybe do it if you comment on it before the end of the night. I probably won't do it.

0:59 - Each team only has one time out with one minute left in the game. Is this the NBA?

0:47 - Ray Allen is really ruining this game for me. Just like eighth grade all over again.

0:08 - Rodney Stuckey doesn't just have ice water in his veins. The dude has liquid nitrogen. He's three years older than me and making free throws in the conference finals. (Side note — even if the Pistons win, they lose the rest of the playoffs if Rip Hamilton misses even a single game with an elbow injury.)

0:06 - I'm putting my computer down. I'm afraid I'll throw it if Stuckey hits a game-tying three.

0:00 - So the Pistons drop a game that I really think they needed more than the Celtics. There's no way Kevin Garnett is going to let the C's lose two games in a row, much less one on their home court. Here's hoping the Pistons and McDyess can pull out two in a row. And here's hoping Ray Allen's shooting hand falls off tomorrow.

I just can't picture this scenario working out to well for me.

I go into a job interview and absolutely nail it. Blow them out of the water. Make them come to my house and beg me to take the job. So after they've sufficiently groveled to the point where I feel like The Bachelor (by the way, SWEETEST JOB EVER), I modestly accept. Eh, I guess you can pay me. I'd do that for you.

Couples months later, before I've even lifted a pen or my first of eight daily trips to the water cooler, I quit. Gone. See ya later. I'm out of here.

Would anybody be a little peeved?

Now fast forward one year, and I'm out of a job and clutching to my employment dreams. I'd be a Wal-Mart greeter if they offered me $7.45 an hour.

Think I'm getting a shot at returning as The Bachelor? The answer to that won't come up roses.

But life really is that easy if you're Keith Nichol.

Nichol, the one-time Spartan recruit who bailed on MSU in brilliant Bobby Petrino fashion, has transferred back to his "hometown team," which, ironically, wasn't cozy enough to keep him from the beauty of Norman, Oklahoma. And the worst part of it all is that he'll be accepted with open arms.

As long as he can throw a 20-yard out in a five-step drop, that is.

College sports has about the same amount of loyalty and integrity as a WWE tag team on a pay-per-view special. O.J. Mayo promised championships for USC, but all he delivered was future NCAA sanctions. Kelvin Sampson racked up 100 recruiting violations for making impermissible calls to recruits, proving he's not the only Midwesterner whose cell phone could be classified as a concealed weapon. Bobby Bowden has produced enough convicted felons to fill a medium-security prison. And when push comes to shove, each will end up relatively unscathed — Mayo will make millions in the NBA Draft this summer, Sampson already has bounced back with an assistant coaching position in the pros, and Bowden will coach until he's 88, or at least a year after JoePa kicks the bucket.

Not to say that these situations compare with that of Nichol. You can't fault a 20-year-old stud quarterback for wanting to play and move closer to home. Transferring to a school you left high and dry isn't grounds for an NCAA investigation, as it shouldn't be.

But if MSU head coach Mark Dantonio lets Nichol waltz into the 2009 MSU backfield (which I don't believe he'll do), it will go to show once again that there's no shame in college sports. In almost no other profession can you quit on 100 fellow employees and warmly welcomed two years later. If Nichol wants to be a member of the Spartan family, he's got to be more saintly than Mother Teresa in the next 18 months. He's got to prove that he's flushed all the crimson and cream from his bloodstream and received a transfusion of green and white. He's got to be the team's biggest cheerleader from the sidelines next year. Hell, he should have to be a cheerleader next year.

The real world doesn't work the way the football world is working for Keith Nichol. But at the same time, that's not to say it shouldn't. Everyone deserves a second chance to repair the bridges that have been burned.

And if Nichol can go four quarters, he'll have 75,000 masons by his side in 2009.

Missing The Drive

Gut reactions from Pistons-Celtics game one:

The Celtics are going to win this series for two reasons (besides the fact that they're the better team):

1. Drive

No, not the heart that I so lauded no more than 24 hours ago. Both seem to have plenty of that. Drive as in dribble penetration and points in the paint. The Pistons struggle to score near the basket, relying almost solely on jump shots. The Pistons' best dribble penetrator, Rodney Stuckey, showed how invaluable and inexperienced his game is at the same time tonight. Stuckey's attack of the basket drew fouls, jump shots and defenders — but he was the only Piston within a Tayshaun Prince arm length of the paint tonight. The ability of Paul Pierce, Rajon Rondo and, most importantly, Kevin Garnett to wear the paint dry will pay off in the long haul. The number one rule in basketball: Championships are won in the paint.

2. Frontcourt consistency

There's no amount of money I would wager on Rasheed Wallace turning in a 20-10 game on a given night. Not even Charles Barkley would put down 10 G's on 10 to 1 odds. As hyper-talented as Wallace is, as driven as Antonio McDyess is, as freakishly athletic as Tayshaun Prince is, you can't take any of them to the bank. For the Celts, Paul Pierce offers a reliable crunch-time scoring threat and Kevin Garnett has 80% of Wallace's talent with twice the brains, a near-deadly combination when properly executed.

This isn't to retract the previous post. The Pistons showed some heart in fighting the Celtics to the end.

But in the end, talent always trumps heart.

Stomaching a Title

Hear that noise coming from Detroit? It's sounds like a rumbling — and it isn't coming from Kwame's bedroom.

No, that's the stomach of the collective Detroit Pistons. And it's clamoring like a pair of thunderstix in the hands of an ADD 8-year-old.

The knock on the Pistons has been the same for three years in a row: They only play when they want to play, and often that decision is made too late. But this team, a collection of wily veterans and new red, white and blue blood, seems as hungry as it has been since 2004, when Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O'Neal learned what it's like to virutally play 5-on-2.

Sure it's early. The first two rounds of the Eastern Conference playoffs are about as important as Flavor Flav's love life. But there's a new swagger about this team, one that desirably lacks swagger while hogging a arena-load of confidence. Maybe it's the youth injected into this team like a shot of speed. Maybe it's the stealth-like approach taken to dismantling a talented team such as the Orlando Magic without much fanfare.

Or maybe, they just haven't eaten lately.

It's been four years since the Pistons tasted immoral victory (and doesn't it seem more like four decades?). Since then, the turnover has been palpable. Gone are Mike James and Memhet Okur and Elden Campbell and Corliss Williamson and Tremaine Fowlkes (OK, maybe Tremaine was left off the playoff roster, but what a travesty). In are Rodney Stuckey, Jason Maxiell, Walter Hermann (hey, he played meaningful minutes, that freakish-handed Argentian). But most importantly, in is they have the hungriest man of all. In is a guy who acts like he hasn't tasted a home-cooked meal since Larry Brown was on his eighth coaching gig. In is Antonio McDyess.

(For the sake of full disclosure, I have no journalist objectivity when it comes to Antonio McDyess. I love him like a 4-year-old loves a lollipop.)

If the Pistons lose a series in these playoffs, nobody will take it harder than McDyess. If I was his kin, I'd put him on suicide watch (or at least make sure he doesn't start thinking about signing with the Lakers). It's hard to stomach the idea of the fiercest Piston walking off the court this year with his head limply parallel to the floor. If he does, McDyess most likely will be McDone in Detroit.

But as long as he's out there and fighting (and breathing, and not throwing up), I give the Pistons a fighting chance. They're not the most talented team remaining in the playoffs. In fact, they might be the least talented. But if the past nine games (of which the Pistons won eight) are any indication, what they lack in talent they are making up for with heart.

And with this group of men, the best way to their heart is through their stomach.

The Little Things

I always feel dumb when I watch a movie and it really makes me think about things. I guess I think I should be thinking about life lessons from books or stuff like that, but it doesn't seem to go that way very often. Maybe that's what is so amazing about film (and I'm not talking Adam Sandler-esque film). It takes us and puts us in places that we'd never even consider imaginable, let alone close to the first person. If someone said, "Tell me about movies," I'd probably say that they are stories, both real and fake, that make us realize how much there is and how much there was and how much there could be in the world.

Indulge me and take my latest venture into my affection for worldly cinema. "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" is a true story about the editor of Elle, a famous fashion magazine apparently. He's on top of his industry when he has a stroke that essentially paralyzes everything except him brain, ears, and eyes. To put it lightly, that would suck. Imagine life not being able to move anything except one eye (his other eye basically shut down and was no longer usable). You can't talk, move, or eat. You can't play a sport or type on a computer or drive to the grocery store. The list could go on forever.

While this guy essentially couldn't do anything, he could do everything that so many of us can't or won't or don't. Maybe he can't move, but he can be moved. Maybe he can't talk, but he can speak. Maybe he can't hug, but he can embrace.

Sometimes — no, forget that, many times — we have as much vitality as could be physically possible, yet we are as close to death as he was. The man, who died a few years ago, blinked out his memoirs with one eye, a painstakingly slow process that produced 144 pages! He continued to live his life as much as possible. He was a father with three children, he tried to reconcile with his one-time partner, and he took in all the world had to offer him. He was enamored by the little things in life — a lighthouse, the wind, the laughter of children. If only we all were so lucky.

The question then becomes how can a man so close to death live so much more than most. How can someone with movement in only one eye walk so tall. It seems that in order to appreciate what we have, it all has to be taken away. It's sometimes funny to look back at the petty in life and realize how idiotically destructive it can be — how friendships are lost over inconsequential battles, how ties are broken by slight differences in opinions, how our constant desire to be better than others leads us to push people down.

I don't say these things from a pedestal. Rather, I say this in admiration of what I wish life could be. At times, we toil in that which frustrates, angers, and scares us, all the while ignoring what makes our lives worth living. It's sad to think that a man whose only conscious decision he can make every single day for years is whether to blink one eye can live a more fulfilled life than many.

Given, he only came to realize many of these things once everything was taken from him. Still, how did he do it? My guess is that his heart still worked better than any of ours. Now the question becomes how do we go about living the same life as him, understanding how to have the same heart as him, but with the capabilities we all have.

It's not a question that I know the answer to, but I do know that life would be a whole lot better if I did.

The Specter of Overkill

Would somebody please send U.S. Sen. Arlen Specter a letter, e-mail, fax, anything — heck, a telegram would suffice — telling him to just move on from the NFL's Spygate.

It's over. Done. Cooked like a turducken during a Lions Thanksgiving Day game.

Still, the once-esteemed Pennsylvania senator (I say once-esteemed because he's clearly offsides in this battle) wants to orchestrate a deeper investigation into the NFL's most scandalous story in decades. He's calling for an independent inquiry into the actions of the Patriots and the NFL's handling of reviewing tapes from Spygate.

The guy just doesn't know when to quit. He's like the guy that gets dumped one day and shows up at his ex's front door for a previously scheduled date the next.

The only person that's interested is him.

The greater public has put Spygate behind them. We've acknowledge another cheating incident that have so tainted sports in the past decade, and we're ready to move on. The NFL has finished its investigation and slapped Patriots head coach Bill Belichick on the wrist, albeit with a tree trunk rather than a ruler. Belichick has been mum on the subject for months now, though the same probably could be said for world politics, his personal life, or the status of Tom Brady's throwing shoulder.

But all alone in his little Washington office, the Pennsylvania senator is prepping for overtime.

Specter has anointed himself the world's most important middle school principal, charged with the task of rooting out cheaters. And he's starting at what he sees the highest point of society — an association that pays Terrell Owens nearly $10 million each year.

Forget holding politicans accountable. Specter's got bigger Fins to fry.

The most aggravating aspect of the Specter of overkill is that amount of time the senator has dedicated to beating a dead horse (my apologies to Eight Belles). Specter has interviewed the world's most famous football peon, Patriots video assistant Matt Walsh, held television press conferences that make ESPN producers salivate, met personally with NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell, and done who knows what else to needle his way into the Spygate mix. (By the way, who invited Specter to this party? Should we be expecting Nancy Pelosi to badger Major League Baseball next?)

While Specter says he is "incensed" with the NFL's handling of the Spygate fiasco, imagine the Pennsylvania constituency he represents. Rather than addressing the state's trying economic times or the country's ongoing housing crisis, Specter spends his work days trying to uncover the inner workings of a sport scandal executed by an assistant golf professional in Hawaii.

If nothing else (and for the record, there shouldn't be anything else), you have to commend the senator's determination. When it comes to investigating the NFL and upholding the moral aptitude of athletics in the United States, the Pennsylvania Republican is religiously sticking to his guns.

Maybe Obama wasn't so wrong about Pennsylvania after all.

The Prodigal Jackson

After six days in Jackson, Michigan, I feel like I'm stepping into the hillbilly version of Alice in Wonderland each and every day.

In the greater West Bloomfield area, there were no smoke shops, the biggest dive bar was The Blue Martini, and there were Jews.

In Jackson, not so much.

Given, my dad's roots in the yeoman land of Lancaster (pronounced Lank-uh-stir, not Lan-caster) have me quite versed about areas where "You might be a redneck jerks" exhibit themselves every day. But Jackson's a whole different roasted pig.

How do I know? 10 observations from my limited amount of time in Jackson, Michigan — birthplace of the Republican Party and Polident (not really).

1. Jackson has an exotic dancer club on the corner near the abandoned train yard. It's an insult to skankiness everywhere.

2. The Leoni Township Lion's Club is holding its 51st annual Carp Carnival this month. Contrary to popular belief, and the pursuit of fun everywhere, this is not a celebration of me.

3. Saw an 25-year-old riding down the sidewalk on a pocket bike with one hand on the handlebar and another smoking a cigarette.

4. Asked to find a smoker who was against the new smoking ban and a non-smoker hailing the ban, I struggled to find the latter.

5. The town's premier tanning salon is called Tan-Fastic, which boasts 2 million tans sold like McDonalds boasts 99 million double cheeseburgers sold.

6. The Town Bar is as dingy as it sounds. Its owner believes our government is filled with socialists and Granholm should go back to Canada where she belongs. And you can quote him on that.

7. There's a sign for a house near downtown: $74,349 OBO.

8. The city's finest art gallery once was the home of the state's most notorious criminals.

9. Still haven't found a Jew.

10. Bike Night at Wooly E. Bully's Bar features slutty mechanical bull riding.

The Rebirth of Jesus

The old blog was looking kind of stale, so I've redone it all "Jesus Is My Homeboy"-style. Call it the revival. Just don't expect me to die for all your sins. And knowing all five of my readers (take that Colman), there are plenty of those to go around.

Plus, the old title is so stupid. I can't honestly believe I thought Tom Keller and Sean Ely were cool at one point.

With that, quick random musings from the day:
-- After two trips to and from Jackson, my windshield is a certifiable insect graveyard
-- The devil must be a radio deejay, because I've heard Coldplay's "Yellow" four times in the past week and a half.
-- Sixth graders. Worst. Quote. Ever.
-- Didn't make anyone cry today. Solid.
-- Asked an old woman how old she was. Might have made her cry after I left.
-- Discovered that Jackson never learned the meaning of pretentious.
-- I haven't been able to get my computer registered to get Internet in my room. I can only do that between 10 a.m. and 5 p.m. Monday through Friday. I work 9 a.m. to about 7 p.m. every night. I'm not sure how I'm ever going to get Internet.
-- I can't use gchat at work. Majorly pissed.
-- A photog came to my assignment today and stayed for about 3 minutes.
-- My new roommate hasn't left her room as far as I know since about 6 p.m. yesterday. I think she thinks I'm going to rape her.
-- I would like to apologize somewhat to every intern I made do man on the street. Somewhat.

The First Day Schedule

Today is a day of starts. Start of internship at Jackson. Start of summer-ish. (Re)Start of blog with world's greatest URL.

To start the restarting of jesuswasacarpenter.blogspot.com, an itinerary of my first day of work:

6:40 a.m.: Alarm clock goes off. The work world should start at 11 a.m. max. And end at 4 p.m.
7:00 a.m.: Stop hitting snooze button. Feel fear for the first time today. (This is for being late and getting fired).
7:30 a.m.: Begin cooking scrambled eggs with ham, mushroom and onion (I showered by this point).
7:33 a.m.: Decide cooking is a bitch that won't take all of my money. Only some.
8:00 a.m.: Leave for work. Pray for no traffic. And for my passenger side view mirror, whose capa was slightly detated last fall.
8: 40 a.m.: Arrive at front door of Jackson Citizen-Patriot. Leave pride at said door.
9:05 a.m.: Receive first assignment. Obit on woman with rare lung disease.
9:30 a.m.: Take tour of newsroom with kind secretary woman. Introduce myself with random combination of the words: I'm, Carpenter, Michigan, junior, Jacob, meet, day nice, State, first. Worry introduction was in that order.
10:30 a.m.: Get up nerve to finally get back in saddle. Make phone calls.
10:50 a.m.: Make contact with 86-year-old father of deceased.
10:53 a.m.: Make 86-year-old father of deceased cry. Hang up on him quickly. Officially bucked off the horse.
12:00 p.m.: Waiting on calls, remembering how annoying that is. Remember people could be burying dead person I'm calling about. Feel like a piece of crap.
12:15 p.m.: Wonder if I can leave for lunch. Decide to play it safe and maintain anorexic tendencies.
1:30 p.m.: Receive several calls back. Feeling good about story.
1:50 p.m.: Assigned story about lung and asthma day at elementary school. Wonder if boss thinks I'm a smoker and trying to send a message.
1:55 p.m.: Assigned story about stilt walker. Meet assigned photographer Dave Weatherwax. Resist temptation to laugh in his face while picturing Harbison kneeing him in balls. Wonder with what force one must be kneed in balls to cause impotence.
2:15 p.m.: Haven't stood up from chair in about 4 hours. Learn that like your leg, your ass can and will fall asleep.
2:30 p.m.: Tell boss story will be ready in 10 minutes.
3:10 p.m.: Finish story.
4:15 p.m.: Wonder if story will ever be read. Resist temptation to go onto Facebook at work.
4:17 p.m.: Decide Facebook and moon have equal gravitational pulls. Awaiting scientific test results.
4:45 p.m.: Story read. Receive compliment. BS love for obits.
5:00 p.m.: Watch boss leave. Wonder if that means I can leave.
5:55 p.m.: Speak up to fellow reporters about leaving. Given OK.
6:00 p.m.: Walk to front door. Locked. Put tail between legs and walk out other door.
6:05 p.m.: Survived first day without major problems. Decide it's going to be a good summer.
6:45 p.m.: Arrive at apartment to find two roommates. Decide I decided too soon.