Here’s Bill Simmons at his best:

Remember what pissed us off most about LeBron picking Miami over New York? It wasn’t just that he tried to stack the decks with a superteam; it’s that he walked away from New York, the city with the most basketball fans, the city with the biggest spotlight, the city that would have either made him immortal or broken him in two. He didn’t want it. He copped out. He could have picked loyalty (Cleveland) or immortality (New York); instead, he chose help (Miami). That killed us. We hated him for it. What was telling about Chris Paul’s choice was that he eschewed the Clippers (a safer basketball situation for him; he would have been able to grow with Eric Gordon, DeAndre Jordan and Blake Griffin) for the Lakers (a much more volatile basketball situation with Kobe’s miles and Bynum’s knees) for the simple reason that he wanted to be a Laker.

For the right players, it’s not about cities as much as teams, uniforms, histories, owners, fans, titles … and Chris Paul cares about the right things. He’s the best teammate in the league. As much as it killed me that my least favorite team landed him, the “basketball fan” side of me loved it. Chris Paul and Kobe Bryant … together? Playing across the street from my office? How cool was that? I remember when KG landed on the Celtics, one of my Lakers-fan buddies told me, “I hate KG and I hate the Celtics, but this is going to be cool.”

That’s how I felt about Chris Paul and the Lakers. If you love basketball — if you truly love it — you appreciated what was happening. And it had nothing to do with the Washington Generals. Believe me.

Of course, that’s not how December 8, 2011 will be remembered. Years from now, I won’t remember anything about that day except for David Stern losing control of his own league. Once upon a time, it was reassuring to look there and expect to see him, and darn, he was there. It was kind of neat. Those days are long gone. The National Basketball Association has lost its way. I feel like crying.

Ian Thomsen has more over at SI.com.

So, have you heard enough holiday music yet?  Are you missing baseball enough?  If the answer to both questions is “yes”, please take a gander at my baseball name-oriented version of the “12 Days of Christmas”.

Enjoy!

Busy sports day yesterday. Pujols, Wilson and all that. The Hardball Times offers a recap (and they did a fine job covering the meetings).

The Yanks are layin’ in the cut, though they have reportedly made a one-year offer to pitcher Hiroki Kuroda. Also, Mariano Rivera is okay after having surgery on his vocal chords.

Over in the NBA, a nixed trade (gas face0; Tyson Chandler to the Knicks? Dwight Howard: Brooklyn’s Finest?

Plenty to schmooze about. Have at it.

[Photo Credit: David Bekerman]

Check out this terrific gallery of New York City photographs…

by Dave Beckerman

over at Everyday I Show.

Parking lot in Soho. Wait, what?

Honey, hang on a sec, I’ll be right there, I just need to take a picture.

You can now get Speculoos here in the States. It’s called Biscoff spread. Gread news for us Belgian-minded Americans. Now, the questions is: Speculoos or Nutella? Aw, hell, why not one of each?

Fort Greene, represent.

Two paintings of Greg G in Santa Monica (gouache on paper), 1997

The writer Nik Cohn was profiled in the New York Times Magazine last weekend. A gifted critic of Rock n Roll, Cohn is most famous for this piece–“Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night”–the basis of the movie “Saturday Night Fever.”

Thing of it is, he made most of it up:

“There’s nothing I’ve written that I’ve been able to reread in later years without deep, deep dread,” [Cohn] said, waving off a compliment. The prime example remains “Saturday Night.”

It’s hard now to believe anyone took it for literal truth. Its audacious artfulness makes most New Journalism look like court stenography. Vincent and his Bay Ridge posse were composites, based on the mods he knew in London a decade before. Cohn — who appears in the article as a shadowy figure in a tweed suit — never did spend much time at the 2001 Odyssey disco. That “Saturday Night” struck a deep nerve was not particularly comforting to its creator. “I found it very difficult to function,” he says of the aftermath, not overjoyed to be talking about it. “I completely lost my way and had enormous self-contempt. It knocked me off my trolley, and my trolley has never been the solidest base in the universe.”

…“When I was young and on the hustle, there was something that made people not want to talk to me,” Cohn admits, still savoring the turnaround. “So when people actually started talking to me, I thought, Wow, this is far more fascinating than all the stuff I made up. I realized you don’t have to create the myth. You don’t have to embroider. It’s all there.”

I’ve never read Cohn’s stuff on Rock. But I’m curious.

Three to One does I (scream!) cake.

Indians.

Final day of the winter meetings.

Hardball Talk’s got it going on.

Update: Albert to the Angels. Whoa, Daddy.

It’s cold in New York today. I saw a dude on the train on my way to working this morning. He was not wearing a coat. I looked down.  Sandals with no socks. Really, man?

When I got to work and, I said good morning to Big Lou, one of the security guards in my building. I told him about the guy on the train.

Lou said, “Well, you never know, he could have a foot problem.”

“No, Lou, I think some people are just Herbs.”

“You never know, Al. Who are we to judge?”

I stopped and looked at Lou and told him that he was right. I thanked him for pointing out the facts. Won’t be the last time today that I need correcting.

Good to have people like Lou in your life.

Sitting on the train this morning at 125th street, the light pours in from the east. It’s always good to have someone blocking the sun.

One small move on their part and:

Blinded by the Light.

Let’s all agree that before you write an article about trading Jesus Montero for a starting pitcher, that starting pitcher needs to be better than current free agent C.J. Wilson.

For the last two years, C.J. Wilson has been better than Gio Gonzalez in almost every way. Wilson pitched more innings, kept balls in the park at a better rate and walked fewer batters. They whiffed guys at close to the same rate, but Gonzalez jumped up in 2011 to claim a slight edge. That’s in raw numbers. When you look at the home road splits, it becomes clear we are talking about two different animals. Wilson is stellar outside the harsh environs of the Ballpark in Arlington. Gonzalez is ordinary once removed from Oakland and its acres of foul territory.

The main knock against Wilson is that he has walked 167 men in the last two years. Gonzalez has issued 183 free passes in 25 fewer innings.

Gio Gonzalez is five years younger than C.J. Wilson and still under team control for several years. His explosion in strikeouts in 2011 bodes well for his future. Those are huge points in his favor, no doubt. He’s projectible and cheap and certainly may be better than C.J. Wilson in a few years when Wilson gets older and Gonzalez is in his prime. But Jesus Montero is under team control for six more years. Which sounds better, Jesus Montero for six years and C.J. Wilson for whatever it takes to sign him? Or Gio Gonzalez for four years and whatever bat they have to sign to replace Jesus Montero?

The Yankees are not making headlines during the Hot Stove season, so the writers are left to make their own heat. Hey, I’d love to see Gio Gonzalez at the back end of the staff while he tries to get those walks down and learns to pitch to Death Valley in Yankee Stadium. But not at the cost of six years of a bat like Montero’s. Not when a better version of the same pitcher can be obtained on the free agent market.

The Yanks win negotiating rights with Hiroyuki Nakajima.

Oh, hell yeah. Check this out.

Saveur talks Sunday sauce.

We listen…with our stomach.

[Photo Credit: The Pioneer Woman Cooks! and  My Recipes]

Here’s another original manuscript from W.C. Heinz, reprinted with permission from his daughter, Gayl Heinz.

This piece, “Maybe Tomorrow, Maybe the Next Day” is about a comedian, Jeremy Vernon. It originally appeared in the Saturday Evening Post (January 27, 1968).

Enjoy.

f

A few weeks ago, I received the following e-mail from Jeremy Vernon:

Unfortunately I can’t tell you a lot about Bill, except that I very much enjoyed his company and working with him. He was a warm, gentle man (perhaps, somewhat surprising to me, for a sports figure) extremely considerate and tactful, and his questions were well thought out, intelligent and he dug deep.
He took notes rather than using a tape recorder during the interviews, which were casual, btw, at purely random times, it seemed.

Bill followed me to Cherry Hill, NJ where I was appearing with Peggy Lee at the Latin Casino. He was with me for about 5 days, I believe. The band leader appeared to be soused or otherwise whacked out, and Bill kindly eschewed mentioning it in the article. Between shows I took Bill to see a nearby 2nd rate club I had working in my salad days, The Hawaiian Cottage, a pseudo-Polynesian “family” restaurant. The owner, Joe Zucchi (singular of zucchini?), treated me to a sandwich, but presented Bill with a bill for his food. Bill took it with a knowing, tolerant smile.

The way the article came about was that Bill had been given an assignment to write about a working comedian who was not a “name.” He contacted the William Morris agency, who directed him to the late Corbett Monica (who wasn’t late at the time), and me. I was appearing at the Copa, with Miss Peggy Lee. Bill said he chose me over Monica, if memory serves, because I was less well known, which he found a richer source for a story. Hey, this was some 44 years ago. Possibly Bill found me less slick and unassuming.

For more W.C. Heinz here’s Part One, Two, and Three.

What’s a matter with you, boy?