Myanmar? Ghana? Burkina Faso?

Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words, or 843 words in U.S. customary units. Even with a striking visual aid can you name the three countries that have not adopted the metric system?

Sad to say, no hoops at St. John's this weekend. We'll reconvene next Saturday, June 30.

Larry Walnuts

I don't watch The Sopranos, but I did get pulled into a discussion about Journey this week. Unless you've been too wrapped in NBA Finals madness to pay attention, you probably know the seminal HBO series wrapped up this week. You probably also know the closing scenes were set against Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'."

"Where do you stand on Journey?" was the message behind Matt Thurber's sending this article, which defended the band's creamy goodness. "This guy's an idiot," wrote Matt. I demurred, saying that listening to Journey is like digging into a big bowl of Trix: There's no nutritional value, you'll be hungry again in 30 minutes, but each mouthful brings sunny, deeply satisfying memories of youth.

For the record, "Don't Stop Believin'" this week climbed to number 30 on the iTunes popularity list and number 55 on Amazon.com’s music chart."

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Did anyone stop believin' for one minute the San Antonio Spurs were not going to sweep this year's NBA Finals? David Stern tried to put a positive spin on the fact that professional basketball is becoming a niche sport, more like hockey or boxing than must-see Sunday afternoon fare like NFL football or NASCAR. "It's the Internet!" he said, suggesting that the millions of missing NBA fans were "consuming" the games via the web. Ah, no. They weren't. They were outside mowing the lawn, or watching So You Think You Can Dance?, because your game has become B-O-R-I-N-G.

To remind yourself how far the Finals have falen, check out this article about the 1984 finals that Jim Julian passed along. I don't know what the average age of a St. John's player is any more, but I bet this article will bring back fond memories for most.

Wanting to refresh my memory about just how good Larry Bird was, I watched some old videos on YouTube. Watching Bird now, as an older player, I can see there was a singular principle with which he approached the game that always put him in position to influence the play: Don't stop movin'.



It's not nostalgia, young 'uns. It really was a better game then.

Please let me know if you will or will not be playing hoops at St. John's tomorrow. We tip off at 8:00 a.m., as usual.

For sale: The best speakers you ever heard

For sale are my beloved Mirage M7si loudspeakers. Unless your name is Bruce Holt, these are probably the best speakers you have ever heard.

These speakers are in great condition. The piano lacquer tops and bases are nick- and scratch-free. Fabric is in good condition. They have been well cared for in a smoke-free home. Included are the manual, floor spikes, jumpers (for switching from bi-wired to single wired configuration), and all original packaging. Price is $450 (Original retail: $1,300).

Bonus: I will also include a very nice pair of bi-wire speaker cables with your purchase.

Read Stereophile's glowing review of the M7si. Then download the original product brochure and manual, including detailed specifications.

Please contact me with any questions or to arrange an audition. You can expect a prompt response and a smooth transaction.

Fuhgeddaboutit

Dictionary.com says the term "wop," an epithet for those of Italian descent, is derived from the Italian guappo, meaning "swagger or pimp." Urbandictionary.com, however, posits the term is an initialization of "without papers," signifying that in earlier times many Italian immigrants arriving in the U.S. lacking identification papers.

A user comments on urbandictionary.com:

"F--k all those definitions that say wop is a drink. [See wapatui.] The only time I've heard someone use the word is as an ethnic slur, and usually at me."

Apparently that's how a patron named Gambino, recently relocated from "the East Coast," felt at The Blue Parrot in Louisville, Colorado, last month. He insisted the restaurant take its popular "wopburger" off the menu. Owner Joe Colacci told him to buzz off.

Remember some years back when a New Yorker came passing through St. Paul and made a big stink about finding a dago sandwich on a West Seventh restaurant menu? Local newspapers pounced on the guy; second- and third-generation Italian immigrants have been serving dagos at the likes of DeGidio's and Yarrusso Bros. and Cossetta's for years.

When I was a boy, my father took me to the original Cossetta's market, a twelve-by-twelve corner store where capicola and soppressata hung from the ceiling like wind chimes and you could still hear Italian being spoken by the folks behind the counter. Dad also told me "wop" stood for "without papers."

I believed him, because Dad grew up down the street from Cossetta's, the only non-Italian for blocks around. That means he grew up in Nick Mancini's sphere, and indeed my dad played on one of Mancini's hockey teams when he returned from the navy. Dad can remember when about the only thing Mancini's restaurant served was a hot dago. Then it was not much more than a shack, and Nick's mom did most of the cooking.

Growing up, when we dined at Mancini's Nick would always come by the table, smile at my mother, mumble something familiar, and order the staff to bring a round of drinks. Of course, he did that for just about everybody, but it always made you feel like the most important table in the place.

Years later, after I hadn't been in Mancini's for some time, I was dining there without my folks. Nick looked at me from a few tables away and I could tell he was trying to place me. It was obvious he didn't know who I was and equally obvious that he connected me with someone he was accustomed to greeting personally. ("I don' know dat guy, but I know I always buy his mudder a manhattan.") Without walking over he signaled a waitress to bring me a drink and went on his way. I felt like the mayor of St. Paul.

R.I.P. Nick. Let's all agree with the poster at urbandictionary.com who suggests "wop" is simply the sound a pile of spaghetti makes when it hits your plate.

Please let me know if you will or will not be playing hoops at St. John's this weekend. We tip off at 8:00 a.m., as usual.

Spring into Summer

I.
Someone's grilling
and it's killing me
because it's way past dinnertime
and I'm laying sod.

Smells like burgers
but it could be steak.
The fiend.
I lean on my shovel and think about
the lamb and goat we had in Texas
in the little town where people still
had Czech first names.
No one cooks that stuff up here.

II.
The kids are playing
in dirt and staying out
way past what should be their bedtime,
which is not so odd.

They hear their mom
call from up the hill.
They go down.
I chase and chase them and finally get mad
which doesn't move them all that much.
Thank goodness for this laundry tub
with three big sinks.
They don't make these anymore.

III.
I hear boys talking
low while walking by
then they light a firecracker.
Just the one, for now.

A bowl of cereal
is a good late supper.
And a beer.
In time the yard work will be done, mostly,
and we'll just cut grass and eat tomatoes.
Which makes me think of tomorrow's supper:
I'll make a steak
and try to find some early corn.

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Please let me know if you will or will not be playing hoops at St. John's this weekend. We tip off at 8:00 a.m., as usual.