Sunday, June 25, 2017

should this bother me?

I saw this information on the door to a bagel place early this morning. Sunday morning, I figured grab some bagels.  Parked my car, approached the doorway,  spotted the sign.

Should this trouble me? Kind of nice thin font for the title, and scripted look for the days. Interesting touch with the word to sandwiched between the two horizontal lines.

You have to figure someone approved of the sign. Likely more than one person.  Someone probably ran the design by management.  A manager or two of some stripe had to read it through before giving the okay.  Make sure all words were spelled correctly and the information was accurate.

Maybe someone can explain the rationale to me.  Why not

Monday through Wednesday 6 -5; 
Thursday and Friday 6-5
 Saturday and Sunday 6-5.

If you are an acquaintance reading this entry, you have probably heard my rant about pizza sizes.  It began years ago when I visited a New Jersey establishment.  I asked for a pizza and they told me that there were two sizes, Medium and Large.  Does this bother anybody else?

How can there be a medium size if there is no small size? As far as I know the American Pizza Organization or some other association like that has not designated certain diameters of pizza pie to be small, medium, and large.  This proprietor could have been offering a choice of large and larger, or small and less small--but there is no such thing as a middle ground if you only have two options.  The proprietor did not warm to my comments along these lines.

Once in Plainview--the town where I lived as a teen, a town that has earned a reputation for having an excellent school system--I noticed that the candy store that had been there for a long time had been purchased and was now a different sort of establishment. A huge sign on the storefront attempted to describe the type of merchandise therein.  The sign read Stationary.    This was both amusing and disheartening.  I don't think they were attempting to let all know that their lease was a long one.  How can you open a stationery store, and be in the business of buying and selling stationery items, and then buy a sign, review the sign, and place the sign above your place of business, (how many people must have been involved in the decision making) and spell the main brand of your trade incorrectly.  When I informed the owner of the error, she acted icily and defensively.  Apparently, she had heard this comment before. She sneered at me and said, "that's the second spelling of the word. Look it up in a dictionary"  Did she really say that to me? Sure, if you go to "stationery" in the dictionary you will see another spelling. This is because there are two different words with two different spellings, one referring to the merchandise in this establishment, and the other meaning something temporarily or permanently not moving.  How's this to describe the distinction?

The stationery on the shelf was not selling, apparently-given current consumer patterns--the stationery would remain stationary.  

Too high brow for the proprietor?

If I go to another meeting with people with PhDs who comment on a new innovation or an idea that is very unique, I will extract the remaining hairs from my scalp.  Innovations are, by definition, new. When a process ceases to be new it ceases to be innovative. Unique means one of a kind. You can't be very unique, any more than you can be unique.  One of a kind is as unique as it gets.   A recent graduate is not an alumni, unless she or he has multiple personality disorder. The person is an alumnus.   And there is no such word as criterias. If you have only one litmus test it is a criterion. More than one: criteria.

Should this trouble me?

A student once wrote in a paper that he had great sympathy for the Jews because throughout history they have always been used as "escape goats."  Interesting image that.  I probably could have used an escape goat at one time or another to avoid the evil eye of some allegedly educated sort who felt there was nothing wrong with selling two sizes of soda pop--medium and large--and endured my pedantic rant.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

The Blood of Emmett Till

A number of things crossed my mind when I read The Blood of Emmett Till a new book by Timothy Tyson.  Tyson does a thorough job of describing the context for the murder, the background of the murderers, the background of the victim, and the courage of the victim's family.

By the time I was a junior in high school I had become a good student.  I had not been in junior high school--often reading teacher descriptions of my work stating that I was underachieving. But I did okay by the time I was in eleventh and twelfth grade.   In New York State it was in a student's junior and senior year when you studied American History. Then in the second semester of my freshman year I took American History from the Civil War to the present with as energetic a professor as I have ever had.  People fought to get into David Goodman's class. He was dramatic as a lecturer, flamboyant with his cowboy hat, funny on occasion, unconventional (we did not have a text, we had to read four novels about the various decades of that period), and you were lucky to get a seat.

Point is that in both high school and in college I do not remember reading about or studying about Emmett Till.  I know that a folksinger I liked, Phil Ochs, had a song about Emmett Till--so I knew there was a story there, but I did not know the details. It was sometime in graduate school when I read about how Till's mother had forced an open casket and Jet magazine had put a photo of the mutilated kid on its cover.

Why did we not study it in high school or college?  The Till case was an egregious case of injustice. I graduated high school in 67. Till was murdered only 12 years before.

There is no doubt that the half brothers, JW Milam and Ron Bryant, kidnapped, killed, and then dumped Till's body in a river. Tyson begins his book with an interview with Carolyn Bryant the woman Till, allegedly, good gosh, spoke rudely to which caused the half brothers to abduct and murder. Bryant now in her 80s essentially said the kid did nothing warranting such punishment, and admitted that she lied at the trial.  So, they did it. They were guilty. And they were acquitted.

The defense attempted to provide some handle onto which the all white jury could hang a not guilty verdict. So, they contended that the identifications of the kidnappers might have been inaccurate, and the body pulled from the river might not have been Till's, and besides the kid had mouthed off to a white woman. Each of these arguments is at odds with the others.  If we can't convince you folks that these good old boys did not kidnap the kid, maybe we can convince you that the dead kid wasn't the kid they kidnapped. And if we can't convince you that they did not kidnap the kid, and if we can't convince you that the dead body wasn't Till's, well maybe we can provide you with a good reason for why the boys done it.

It worked.  Big rush of joy from the south. Why. Not because the brothers were innocent of this outrageous murder, but because yet again a southern jury protected its racial nonsense.

I thought of the Kent State murders while reading this book, and also the Simpson trial.  I've read a number of books on both, and spent quite a bit of time at Kent State's library in their special collections unit. There is no doubt, none, that the guardsmen's acts--in the words of the Scranton Commission--were unnecessary, unwarranted, and inexcusable.  Yet at the trial the guardsmen were acquitted.  There is no doubt that Simpson murdered his wife and Ron Goldman.  Yet he was acquitted.

I see an analogy here. The jurors in the Simpson case and the Kent State case were looking for a reason to acquit.

However, the Till case is even more horrific, because it was not an isolated incident. Till type murders were the way of the south and not a one-off like OJ or the National Guard.  The kid was mutilated by fellows who thought they had the right to kill.

I think what Tyson does best in this book is describe the climate at the time of the killing. It makes the reader realize that Bryant and Milam probably thought their actions were no big deal and they would be heroes of sorts, or at least just doing what a man should do.  He also describes the courage of Till's mother and uncle very well.  I am not sure the last chapter makes its mark, but as for the rest of it--you want the facts, you'll get the facts.  Emmett Till was murdered brutally for doing nothing wrong. He was butchered and when the not guilty verdict was read, there was dancing in the streets. Not that long ago.  There are still crimes of this ilk.

Friday, June 23, 2017

Go back to sleep?

So last night I returned home late, around 10 pm.  I flipped on the tube and saw that on some channels I could get sound and no picture.  It was only mildly annoying since there was nothing special I had intended to watch.  I figured it would be fixed by the morning or I would call Comcast then and remedy the problem.

Yesterday morning I went out to get the newspaper as I typically do. There was no newspaper. I went out again a few times later before I left for work. Still no paper.  Okay, it happens that there are delivery problems.

After I noticed that the tv was not working last night, I went out with a flashlight to see if the paper had eventually arrived. It had not. No big deal. I had things to read and do.

When I woke up this morning, just an hour or so ago, I flipped on the set and again saw that there was no picture on certain channels.  Before I went to call Comcast I checked to see if today's paper had been delivered. As is typical there was my wrapped in plastic--so it won't get wet-newspaper on the lawn. I brought it to a chair, parked myself, and called Comcast.

The robot that responded thanked me for calling Comcast.

Is anyone pleased when a robot thanks them for calling? I am not, for the record.  Not displeased, not annoyed--at least not immediately--just find it meaningless.  I begin to get annoyed when I have to answer several questions that, had there been a person responding (preferably one that had not recently had a lobotomy) I could get to where I needed to go in a hurry. Finally after a couple of minutes of responding to a series of unnecessary questions, I am put on hold to speak to a technician. I got to the technician "quickly" because at one point I just pushed zero several times.

A happy woman from India answered. She thanked me for calling Comcast.  It is a little more tolerable when a person, not a robot, thanks me but still clearly obligatory and, therefore, not very meaningful.  I explain my problem, clearly. She thanks me. She tells me she can help me with this. These are standard responses. She can't help me--as it turns out.

I was at my eloquent best this am. Not always the case, but I clearly articulated the problem. She told me there was a power outage in my area and the technicians are working on the case. Would it make sense, I inquired, if there were some channels on which I had video and others where I did not?

Oh yes, she responded. This happens regularly.

I asked when the problem began. She put me on hold. When she got back, she thanked me for my patience. She told me the outage began at 104 am.  I told her that then this could not be the problem since I had experienced the problem at 10 pm.  She put me on hold.

She came back and thanked me for my patience. She then spewed something that I could not quite follow but had to do with the possibility that even though the source of the problem began at 104 am, it was possible I could have experienced it earlier.  I asked when the outage would be fixed. She put me on hold.

She returned. Thanked me for my patience. She said according to her notes the problem would be fixed by 5am.  I noted that it was now 630 am. She asked me if I wanted to trouble shoot, but told me, patronizingly, that sometimes when there is troubleshooting one can lose the video on all the channels and perhaps I should wait until the outage was over.  I mentioned that, according to her, the outage was to be over at 5 am.  She put me on hold.

When she returned she thanked me for my patience.  Before she could go further I conjectured that perhaps the problem was unrelated to the outage. I had mentioned that Comcast had sent me a box a while back for updating my equipment. I had not had problems with my set and am not technically savvy so I had not installed the update.  Could that be the problem? No, she said. I asked if someone could come out to install the equipment not, I made clear, to resolve the current situation, but because I see notices on the screen periodically indicating that it is time to install the box.

This was a big mistake. I now had irreparably conflated the issue with video with the box, and she could not separate out the matter. I decided to do the separation for her. I said that I would not do the troubleshooting regarding the current issue. We would leave it for a day since I am not going to be watching television until tonight anyway.  Period. On another matter--entirely--since we were on the phone, could she schedule a time for the technician to come out and install the box (as had been a service promised when the new boxes were sent out).  She said of course she could. She put me on hold.

She thanked me for my patience when I returned. No need. I no longer had any patience.  She asked me if I thought the technician could remedy the video problem. I, with a little more volume, reminded her that I was asking for the technician for another matter. She put me on hold.

She thanked me for my patience.  She asked again why I wanted the technician. I told her and asked why I could not just schedule an appointment.  She said she was getting the schedule now and put me on hold.

I decided to start reading the paper while waiting. I took it out of the wrapper while listening to music that could be soothing in another context but is annoying when you have been waiting interminably for a response.  I cut to the sports section and read the headline. There is a box score and article about the Red Sox game. The Red Sox did not play yesterday; they had the day off. I look up to the top of the paper and see that today they delivered the paper I was supposed to receive yesterday.

The woman from New Delhi gets back on the phone and thanks me for my patience. She tells me she is ready to schedule an appointment for me, but she tells me there will be a charge.  I lose it.  Not even 715 in the morning.

I should not have, but nonetheless do then, call the Boston Globe delivery service.   A robot thanks me for my call. A robotic message tells me that there were some delivery snafus yesterday which could cause a delay in delivery.  And some newspapers may not be delivered until the following day.  What possible good is Thursday's paper delivered on Friday--especially if Friday's paper is not delivered. Sure, tell me what the weather is going to be like yesterday.  That will be helpful.

The robot tells me that they are sorry for any inconvenience.

Should I go back to sleep?

Monday, June 19, 2017

An American Summer

My consciousness on a continuous basis begins in 1956.  I do remember an incident from 1953 and other episodes that if I were to try and identify when they occurred I'd figure would be before '56.  I can remember days in kindergarten which began in 54 but they are just isolated events.

How do I know this?  Well, I remember watching the World Series with my mother in 1956 when Don Larsen pitched the perfect game.  I remember my parents speaking about the Dodgers finally beating the Yankees in 1955, but I don't recall anything about it.  And the Giants, my dad's team, swept the Indians in '54 and I have no recollection at all about that.

However, one day in 1955 is vivid.  I was watching a program that I think was called Ding Dong school.  I remember my mother yelping with joy when she heard the host announce that the Salk polio vaccine had been proven to be effective.

I don't remember the fear of polio.  I know, now, that FDR was afflicted.  And I've read some about the fright that all parents had in the late 40s and early 50s, hoping that their children would not come down with the disease. But my first real memory of polio was hearing my mother shout with joy because the disease had been cured.

The majority of the book An American Summer by Frank Deford takes place in 1954, (despite the blurb in an Amazon description suggesting that it is set in 1955).  When I finished the book I read an excerpt about it that appears on the inside flap.  There, a Peter Gent, (an author whom I've never heard of) wrote: "What a heartbreaking, heartwarming, joyful read."

Those words are right on target.  This book is beautiful with one asterisk that while not insignificant does not render the book anything other than joyful and heartwarming.

A few weeks back Frank Deford passed and I read his obituary.  I knew Deford as a sportswriter and a very good one. I did not know that he had also written over fifteen books and several novels. I went to my library network web page, saw one that looked interesting, and requested it.

It is magnificent.  I will not give much away with the following description, but if you are inclined, as I am, not to want to know anything at all about a book, you might want to skip to the next paragraph.  In 1954 a family is moving from Indiana to Baltimore because the dad has accepted a job to be president of a manufacturing company there.  The whole clan is not ready to move, so in early summer the father and one of the sons, a fourteen year old, arrives in Baltimore. The rest of the family plans to join at the end of summer in the weeks before school will begin.   Early in the story the boy saves a dog from what appears to be its demise by running into the street and carrying the dog away from oncoming traffic. The owner of the dog is so grateful that she embraces the boy and brings him to her wealthy abode. There the boy, Christy, meets Kathryn who had had it all, but now is a victim of polio. The developing relationship between Christy and Kathryn, and Christy and his Dad  makes this a very believable coming of age story.

There is nothing trite about this tale.  We see human flaws, and courage, and resolution.  Deford is so crafty that you are not sure if Christy and Kathryn are fictional or real people despite the fact that the book is called a novel.  Only when I finished it and took a good look at the beginning and end pages did I realize what was what.

I mentioned an asterisk.  The one thing I thought of while reading was that what the book does not explore are issues of race in 1954 Baltimore.  If Christy had been a black lad, and had saved the dog, while I think the mother would have been as effusive thanking him, she would not have invited him to become so much a part of her family.  So, I am thinking while reading that my reaction to the novel would be different if  I were a black reader. I might think that what the book truly shows is the racial dichotomy in 1954 where someone could come of age as Christy did in the summer of 1954, but had he been black the seeds that would have been planted would not have been related to an awareness of the world with its challenges and compromises, but rather the epiphanies would relate to how race created a different set of understandings.

That comment, however, should not discourage readers of any ethnic background from reading.   An American Summer is a wonderful book that describes in part what pre Salk vaccine parenting was like, what it is like to be courageous in the face of a life aborting disease, and what it means to be a person of substance.


why do you think they call it dope

About a week ago I went to a lecture about opioids and literature. A professor at a nearby university was speaking at a library I recently joined.  The subject of drugs and how drugs are described in the media have been an interest of mine for some time. So, I went.

Back when I was a student, about halfway through my college years, the inebriant of choice changed from beer to dope.  Many of those who used to go to bars to self medicate or frolic, now began to roll joints.  Instead of asking buds if they wanted to go for a beer, a friend might ask if you wanted to get stoned together. Or for those more advanced, "trip" together.

I was never much of a druggie. There were a number of reasons for this.  One was that I was on the other side of the law, so to speak. In my sophomore year I applied for and received a coveted RA position. These were coveted less because there was a surfeit of those who wanted to uphold the rules, and more because the benefits were very sweet.  Room, board, and tuition.  I went to a state school and it did not cost a lot compared to other schools, but with my compensation for being an RA, I actually made some money going to school. I had been fortunate to receive what was called a Regents Scholarship which meant that my tuition was already paid for. For reasons that don't make a lot of sense, even if you had tuition waived because of being an RA, you still received a check equal to the amount of tuition if you had a Regents Scholarship.   This meant that starting when I was a junior, I was able to buy a better brand of wine when attempting to woo and wow women (still called coeds when I first started going to school).

One job of an RA was to stop people from smoking dope. This dampened my enthusiasm for exploration.  But also, on the few occasions when I indulged, I found the experience less than exhilarating and preferred liquid inebriants.  I eschewed what we called "acid" primarily because I had heard of bad trips. I thought my head was a decent asset and did not want to take a chance that some experience might dull what I thought was what I had going for me.

Still, despite being a reluctant and limited consumer of what were called drugs, I found the advertising and other media representations offensive and outrageously inappropriate.    I had and have a number of reasons for having felt and feeling this way.  As I write this now--someone who has not inhaled anything illegal in several decades--I find the portrayal of drugs an abomination.

The first reason is that there is a bogus dichotomy between legal drugs and illegal drugs.  So-called legal drugs are consumed and prescribed with no stigma attached.  Never mind that scholarly books (Mad in America for one) make it clear that many legal drugs have long lasting deleterious effects on consumers.  Yet, drugs that are not produced by the pharmaceutical companies are reviled by parents, teachers, and government officials.  If pharmaceutical companies could peddle dope, the product would come in fancy containers. This would not mean indulging in them, however peddled, would be good for you.  It just means that if you put a proper hat on some items, they are good for you, even if they are not.

The second reason is that the advertisements--public service ads no less--described the drugs in a way that were intended to frighten. I am all for frightening people about the risks of risky behavior.  But when you frighten people suggesting that behaviors are dangerous, when they are not necessarily, you become the boy who cried wolf.  When I was an RA we, the RAs, would listen to lectures from law enforcement types about the inevitable perils of weed.  It was just a load of malarkey.  If all the people who indulged occasionally in 1969 were affected as described in these lectures, there would not be enough teachers, doctors, lawyers, plumbers, accountants, etc. to serve our society.

The problem with drug usage (as is the case with alcohol consumption and all legal drugs as well) occurs when drugs are abused.  I remember a while back I had a toothache that created a type of pain that was borderline unbearable.  My dentist said he could give me something to take the pain away.  I did not want to take the drug, not because I am a tough guy on principle, but because I figured I would not want to get dependent on it.  But the waves of pain from the ache were too much. So, I succumbed and took the pills. And baby, did that feel good.  Pain went away.  Felt like singing, White Rabbit.  When I had my hip replaced a few years back they gave me a "cocktail" for the pain.  At about midnight of that night I got what all the fuss was about regarding acid. Holy smokes I was flying and it felt great.  I did not want to go to sleep and miss the fun of the ride.  But with the toothache and with the hip, there came a point that the drug did not make me feel good, it just took away the pain and I could sense that continued use would be no good.

That is the thing about any kind of excessive consumption.  The difference between me and 99 % of my cronies and the other 1 % was we, the majority. could stop. If we want to advertise to our youth that drugs are not good for them, we need to be credible and tell the truth.  Drugs, legal and illegal, can be bad for us if we become dependent on them.

The lecture, I was glad to hear, talked about some literary greats who found that being high actually had a positive (if temporary) effect on productivity.  She was careful to emphasize that she was not condoning drug usage--in fact went to great pains to describe the problems with the authors to whom she referred--when they became dependent on the drugs.  There was talk about the perils of addiction--and I heartily agree.  Whether you are addicted to opioids, beer, cheesecake, or even sports, you have a problem.  If you literally can't live with your head if there is not a ballgame on, well maybe it is time to start a stamp collection.

A few years ago  a crony from my college years came to town with his family.  His teenage kids were out cavorting and his wife snoozing when I met him in a bar for a beer.  This guy indulged in college and what's more argued forcefully against law enforcement types who "busted" kids for dope. You can imagine my surprise when he said--genuinely--thirty plus years later, that he was concerned that his kids might "get into drugs."

Say what?  When I called him on it, he Jackie Gleasoned hometa hometa, and said that drugs now are worse. Well, some are and some are not.

All of us have to be vigilant when identifying what is and what is not deleterious. We can't just with a broad brush paint some things bad and other things good without thinking about it.  If I were to caution anyone about drug usage, the first caution would be to look at the legal prescription pills they are knocking back daily.

Again, if you were to examine my  daily intake for the last forty years, I would not be arrested for anything. I should be arrested for eating an entire pepperoni pizza after the Patriots won a playoff game--or some other gustatory indulgences, but not for drugs.  Yet I think we need to be careful when we decry the evils of products regardless of their current legality.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

No Cure for love

 Is there no cure for love?

I recently read two books, both detective yarns of different flavors.  And they both--one centrally and one less directly--deal with this question.

The one that deals with it centrally is actually called No Cure For Love.  Very good book.  Two notches up from a beach read, and still a fast page turner.  A tv actress is being stalked by a maniac who claims to be her true love.  A detective who works in a special unit of the Los Angeles police department is on the case to try to find the obsessive lover and protect the actress.

The maniac is the most extreme example of someone who is crazy in a kind of love for which there is no cure.  But he is a maniac with a sick family background.  Besides the maniac, there are three other "normal" characters in the novel who engage/d in relationships that reflect that, once smitten, decisions and behaviors become irrational and can be counterproductive.  Yet a fourth example seems to provide a foundation for a sequel to the book.  (I just perused the author's website and I don't see any sequels to this novel, first published in 1995 and then re-released in 2015).  The normal characters and their relationships are not central to the plot, but they're examples of the premise: there may be no cure for love. Love begets irrational behavior.

A number of things are impressive about the book. The first is that the author, Peter Robinson, typically writes about an Inspector Banks who works and lives in the UK.  I have read several in this series and thought No Cure for Love was part of the Banks' series. No Cure for Love however has nothing to do with Inspector Banks and very little to do with the UK.  A main character is from the UK, but for the most part the dialogue/slang/language is typical of US detective stories. The ability to switch and write so differently reflects versatility and skill.

The second impressive feature is that while there are a couple of things in this book that make me wonder about how likely they are to happen, the book--for the most part--passes the plausibility test.  I wonder about Sally's current mental health given her behavior in the past.  And there is a love affair that seems not only gratuitous but, in my experience at least, unlikely to begin as it did.  Still, everything else about the book rings as if it could be true.

Third impressive aspect:  there are enough clues in the novel to keep you guessing about who the maniac might be.  And you can get it right.   I am not typically a fan of detective stories when at the last second someone pops up as the doer who could not have been sleuthed out by the reader.

In sum, if you like detective stories, read this book.  And when you are done with its plot, maybe think about whether there is indeed a cure for love so that we can behave rationally when we are in the throes of it.

The second book, Slow Burn, by Ace Atkins is a Spenser novel.  Spenser, a character developed by the late Boston author Robert Parker, is attempting in this novel to identify arsonists who have been burning buildings for a year.  I liked the Parker Spenser novels, a little more than the Atkins's ones, though the latter have its strong points as well. Both write fast moving stories.  Parker's typically had a moral message at the end that hung around for a spell. Atkins's characters have a little more depth. In this one, there is a reference to Spenser's hard drinking dad, who I had not read about before.  Maybe I just missed it.  I never thought Parker got Susan--Spenser's love interest--or Hawk--his friend and occasional partner--in anything other than monochrome.  Atkins does a little better.

In Slow Burn, three people, with holes in their hearts, rationalize starting fires.  The damage to their innards relate to family, abuse, and thwarted dreams more than romantic disappointments. Nothing of course condones their anti-social behavior.  One of the three does more than just set fires.

There is a reference in the acknowledgments that the author researched an actual spate of fires in Boston in the 80s to do this book. However real were the other fires, I found I had to suspend too much belief to buy the plot line in this one.  It is a fast read, but I don't think it sufficiently gets to the guts of why people do the things they do.  Spenser novels written by Parker did not do this either, but often you were left with something to wonder about relating to the human condition when you were done.  That happens to some extent with this one but not as much.

Not a bad read, but not a book I would hunt for.

No Cure for Love, however, is a different story.  Very well written and compelling page turner. And beyond the search for the maniac--the title and the book itself made me think of why we act irrationally if not maniacally when "every fairy tale seems real." Probably there is no cure for the "dizzy dancing way we feel."  I don't believe that is always a bad thing. Hate to be cured of that feeling.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Well, I got that wrong.

Three huge errors tonight in my forecasting.

(1) Cleveland won despite the fact that typically a team that wins three straight in basketball series, wins the fourth to sweep.

(2) I thought the Under was the way to go. The O/U was 227.5.  That was obliterated by 24 points.

(3) I thought that Kyrie Irving could not continue to play like superman.  I will not think this again because once again Kyrie Irving was absolutely incredible. Incredible means not believable. He made shots that are not believable.

Now, Richard Jefferson was playing football out there guarding Durant and there was a whole hell of a lot of contact which probably will not be permitted in game 5. Nevertheless Cleveland whipped a flat Golden State. Curry came out half asleep and nobody but Shawn Livingston looked like they were ready.

On to Monday.