Vegas, baby

Five Rivals.com shirts? Check.

More shorts than I know what to do with? Packed away.

Laptop? Got it.

Camera? Ready to roll.

My secret poker money stash? Check and double check. (Just don't tell my wife.)

Okay, I'm ready for Vegas.

My morning flight to Sin City leaves 8:30 a.m. from Atlanta on Monday morning. Seat 15C, you and I are going to be great friends for nearly five hours over America.

I love flights to Vegas. There isn't a bad mood on the plane. Just pure greedy thoughts of striking it rich in the casinos with no clocks and windows. The big bird is completely full and probably overbooked knowing Delta.

I'll be in one of my favorite cities in the world this week for work.

Here's my iMix for the trip. As you can imagine, I should have great report back from my trip. Let$ hope it i$ filled with lot$ of thing$ that have to do with ca$h, hoop$ and $tories from the land of heat and poker chips.

That guy

I was standing in line at the cleaners the other day and I was listening into Johnny McCocky in front of me on his iPhone. Johnny sure was into Johnny. I wasn’t. He was there to pick up his and I quote:

“Um, yeah, wait just a sec.”

“Yeah, Brian. Hold on. I gotta pick up my Polo, extra starched, shirts. I’m going to Boston with Brittany.”

“Um, yeah, I need to pick up my Polos, extra starched. I’m going to Boston with my girlfriend this weekend for the Fourth.”

The Chinese guy behind the counter didn’t have to say much. I knew what he was thinking no matter what language we both spoke.

Complete d-bag.

The Todd, that’s the name I gave him, got his extra starched shirts, paid, talked on his iPhone with Brian, and jumped into his Hyundai and drove off.

Yeah, a Hyundai. I bet The Todd and Brittney are flying on a red-eye that he bought on priceline.com for $79.

But his shirts look really good. And starched.

I heart New York

"Dammit, I forgot my Purell."

That was my initial thought in the taxi line at LaGuardia Airport last Thursday. I made a colossal mistake. How in the world can you go to New York City without any friggin' Purell?

Costly mistake on my part. I had to bite the bullet and take on the world without

After riding on nearly every train in the under belly in America's most recognizable city, touching hand rails, pushing my way through turnstiles, opening doors to cab after cab, shaking hands with basketball players, coaches, parents and even a ref for three days straight, I'm almost tempted to drive myself to a pressure washer or straight to the Center for Disease Control in downtown Atlanta.

It's Friday now. I've been home for almost a week. I'm still alive. I survived.

Other than fighting off diseases like S.A.R.S. and the West Nile virus, my trip to New York City was outstanding. Just outstanding.

GREAT FOOD

My friend and Brooklyn resident Patrick took me on a whirlwind tour of The City. The first stop was in the Greenwich Village. Why not start with Joe's Pizza. Apparently the pie shop is one of the best in the Big Apple. For two bucks a slice (or something like that), I was sold. The pizza was perfect.

Later that evening we went to a nice Italian restaurant called Bocca in Manhattan. Small but super nice. My pasta was mixed up inside a giant cheese wheel. Very creative. Very tasty. The Nutella tort for desert was money, too.

Back in the day, hamburgers were a major staple on my dietary plan. However, you just can't find a burger like a Whataburger in Georgia. It's all Chick-Fil-A. If I lived in New York, Pop Burger would be my joint.

Do I need to explain more? You get two pop burgers per box and they are the size of a Whitecastle (sorry if you just threw up in your mouth at the thought of a Whitecastle) but the Pop Burgers taste like they just came off of your grill in the backyard. They were so money and they didn't even know it.

Perhaps the highlight of any trip to New York for true authentic food addict is spending time on the famous Arthur Avenue in Little Italy in The Bronx.

Since I was just a block or two away at Fordham University, making the quick trip to Arthur Ave. was an easy decision. I slide over there with a good friend of mine Steve DeMeo, a former assistant coach at Providence College. Great guy and it helped he knew the area. We found Tino's Deli.

Big time.

Just trust me, go to Arthur Avenue if you go to New York it is worth the trip.

NOT SO GREAT BASKETBALL

I spent three days in the Bronx. There is probably a joke that should follow that line. I just can't muster one up. (Maybe an ameba got into my bloodstream and found my brain after all.)

I spent three days in the Bronx inside of a gym without air conditioning. That’s the joke. Sitting in a gym for a combined 22 hours over three days without air conditioning is worse than being in a prison camp.

GREAT PEOPLE

There is an unfair knock against New Yorkers. The pigeon hole that they are cast in is that they aren't very nice, quite rude, wear jump suits and gold chains.

People, that's New Jersey.

I met Jesus. And he saved me. Right there on Arthur Ave. in the Bronx. I was granted my ticket to the heavens. This Jesus was also a crackhead and probably homeless and most definitely out of place in Little Italy. But at least my seat in heaven is saved. Thanks Jesus.

Everyone I met in New York was gracious and quite hospitable. My good friend Patrick showed me the city like a seasoned veteran. The Kansas City native has only lived in the city for a year and a half and dude had the subway system on lockdown. If you can experience New York with a local, that's the only way to go. What an experience it was.

I could go on and on about New York. It was a blast. If you can go, go.

Just don't forget your Purell.

NBA: Celtics win, Pierce wins an Oscar

Okay, let me start by saying I want the Celtics to win.

I'm happy Boston won. Great game.

But seriously Paul Pierce? Did you get hit by a sniper? What's up with the crashing to the floor, being carried out by your teammates and the grimace on your face like you just passed a kidney stone? Really?

I thought he was great with the back-to-back three-pointers. Clutch. Money. Big players make big plays. Cliche, cliche, cliche.

Pierce was big but was this necessary:



Dude, you twisted your knee. You came back 10 minutes later like you were Willis Reed.

Great game, great win, great acting. I love this game.

L.A. homie

It was 3:30 a.m. and I was standing outside of a 15-passenger van on the streets of Crenshaw in Los Angeles.

That's so gangster, isn't it?

That, in a nutshell, was my weekend in the City of Bloods and Crips, er, Angels. And I was stranded on the streets of the hood. What a weekend.

Rewind with me for a minute…

Last Friday night, I went to a trendy little area in Westwood, just outside of UCLA's campus, and went to Jerry's Deli for a late night breakfast with a dozen or so friends and colleagues that were in town for the Pangos All-American camp that I was covering for Rivals.com and Yahoo! Sports.

I was also working on 23 straight hours of being awake.

Jerry's Deli was a neat little spot and we were taken to the back table in the café, passing what was some sort of celebrity, some girl named Kardashian. I guess that's some sort of big deal or something. She asked if I was single. I proudly told her that I wasn't. Sucks for her.

At any rate, it was off to my hotel, you know the posh Vagabond Inn (pictured below) on the other side of town. After taking our exit to get to the hostel, er, hotel, I heard the engine make a noise that you just don't want to hear.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

We ran out of gas at 3:30 in the morning. In L.A. In Crenshaw.

I was experiencing my own Blackhawk Down experience. It was me, seven others and our van minus the gas on the rough and tough streets of L.A. We were stranded with no help in sight.

Did I mention the community of homeless people that we parked right in front of? Did I mention that they weren't happy about our arrival?

Shortly after we coasted to the side of the road and in front of the homeless community, we saw our savior of night. A police squad car was driving up the street rather quickly and we jumped out and tried to flag him down.

Dude drove past us like Jeff Gordon. He had no interest in our stranded situation. The officer flew by without even blinking an eye. Our cries for help went unanswered.

The call to AAA ended like this: "Sorry, sir, we don't respond to the area you are in at this hour."

The night couldn't have been any worse at this stage of the tragedy. At one point, I decided to venture out on my own into the cool night air with two other gas shortage survivors.

We got two and a half blocks before realizing that we had no idea as to where we were. Things weren't going well.

After more calls for help and more passers by wanting no part of our crazed crew of renegades, help finally arrived and we were able to make it to our posh hotel.

I was up for 27 straight hours. I survived my experience of being out on the streets of L.A. I survived a Kardashian.




Los Angeles was a fun trip, outside of my Friday night of course. The basketball was okay. The company I had with me was great. My good friend, Rob, and I found the world's best taco stand on Figueroa Street, just a stone's throw away from USC's gorgeous Galen Center.


Chanos was the best part of the time in SoCal. The $1.50 chicken taco was a lifesaver. Pure authentic Mexican food on the cheap and it was beyond tasty. Pure spice too. I think I had six of them during my time in L.A.

Every bite was full of flavor and buying it as a walk-up customer on the corner of one of the busiest corners in South Central was a highlight of my spring. Washing the spice down with a milkshake from Fatburger, which was right next door, was so Cali.

I'm about to say something that is probably sacrilegious but here goes: Fatburger is so much better than In and Out burger. So much better. The burgers were better. The fries were better. The milkshakes were better. And yes, I feel really fat because of it.

In a nutshell, that was my L.A. experience. Gang violence, good food, okay basketball, great weather and great friends.

You couldn't have asked for anything better.

Going back to Cali

As my good friend James Todd Smith III says, "I'm going back to Cali, to Cali, to Cali." No, really, I am. I'm going back to Cali, the state of my birth. That's where the dream began.

The road show is sending me to LAX for a weekend of wild basketball at the University of Southern California. Should be fun. I think. My lodging is being taken care of and I'm staying at a lovely establishment called the Vagabond Inn. That is the real name. I promise.

When time allows and when I'm not staring at the chalk line of the body on my floor, I am hoping to catch up on some music. I slapped together some music for the five-hour flight and for my stay in the Golden State.

Raleigh, my memory lane

There is something about going to Raleigh, N.C. that makes me think of my childhood.

Living in Texas, you learn one thing particularly quick about sports and that it is football that rules the reign. It is the only sport that needs to be played by the human race. That's what they'd have you believe at least.

Not at the Davis household. And that's why I have such a strong fondness of Raleigh.

One of my best friends, Shawn Davis, was born there. His family has roots in the state and his father, Chuck, was the biggest NC State basketball fan that I knew. He was the only fan I knew of the program, growing up in Dallas, Texas.

The Davis family lived down the street from us on Steppington, a perfect slice of American suburbia. Every Saturday, I'd go with Shawn and his father to the neighbor blacktop. Shawn and I would generally be regulated to last pick amongst the 30, 40 and 50-year weekend warriors. We were so much better than that though.

I don't remember the games. I don't remember the guys we played with. I don't remember how good they were. I don't remember how long we played. I don't remember the particulars. Those things don't matter to me.

Chuck didn't teach me the game. In fact, he was quite intimidating. His North Carolina accent was as distinctive as the sweet vinegar-based barbecue you can find through the Carolinas. Hearing his accent usually came through in his barks to us about how to play the game correctly.

Chuck grew up with Jim Valvano and the NC State Wolfpack. The National Championship Wolfpack of 1983 to be exact.

But what he taught me was the passion that comes with it. Chuck's passion for all things NC State infused my passion and desire to learn more about the ACC. To learn more about the Wolf Pack, North Carolina, Duke and every other team in the conference.

Our games on the neighborhood weren't great. They were excepted to be great. They were fun as hell though. Passionate games, just like the way Jimmy V wanted the games to be played – with passion.

Chuck died one surprising day in 1994. It was one of the saddest days of my life. My best friend lost his father before he could graduate high school.

It doesn't surprise me know that I'm so passionate about the beautiful game. A lot of it can be traced to my days as a young middle school kid in the Lone Star State with a Wolfpack fan on a neighborhood blacktop.

Thanks for the passion Chuck. I'll enjoy Raleigh for you this weekend. Being in Reynolds Coliseum reminds me of your sweet family. It always will.