Franz Stuff

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Thursday, December 02, 2004

Cat Fancy?

Franz, what's with the cat stuff? Always liked cats, less organic residue and noise than dogs. I decided to include my talking cat while scrambling for ideas during my strange dayz at The cat was popular so he stuck. Here are some 'cat' highlights I found in the archives ...

I was spreading jam on my toast this morning, pondering the bristling, pulsating world of off-season NBA hoops, when my cat strolled into the kitchen and hopped his furry little butt up onto the kitchen table.
As I crunched my toast, I eyed him and mused, "What are we gonna do with Donnell Harvey?"
To my utter amazement, the cat rolled his eyes and said, "I say we trade his punk ass."
I was stunned that my cat would just sit there and say this to me, he doesn't know a THING about NBA hoops! Oh, he knows his college ball alright, and, MAN, does he hold a grudge on that poor Loren Woods. That cat lost caiche-large when Zona tanked and he blames Woods for the loss to Duke in the NCAA Finals last March.
It was MY CAT making those 'fungus' phone calls draft night which sent Woods' stock nosediving. Lemme tell ya, that cat is brutal, Jack.
Anyway, maybe he's got a point about Donnell the Man-Child. Donnell was a late first-rounder. His value, assuming he only sees garbage time this season, is probably gonna hover for a while. When does Donnell lose any 'kicker' value in a trade? Sooner? Later? The Mavs claim the kid's got promise, and I love the guy, but maybe its best to emotionally prepare ourselves for the possibility of losing Harvey in trade this summer.
That cat will be hell to live with until it happens.

A day in the life at the plush offices can be intoxicating.
After a particularly rough morning (TWO paper cuts!!) my little hockey tamale, Consuelo, and I decided to take our work-a-day frustrations to the squash court at the rec facility. I consistently beat on Consuelo's weak backhand, driving her to frustration. Between points, the court would resonate with the shriek of Spanish epithets, some directed at me, some at the ball, and some at Bob Gainey for letting Mike Keane walk.
After our game, Consuelo commented further on the Stars as we sat in the steam room, "I doan know ... Keaner had lost something. Maybe the retirement of his compadre Carbo last season hurt Keane personally more than he'd be weelling to admeet."
In the jacuzzi, she mused that maybe Keane's words of leadership were starting to sound stale to his teammates ears. And by the time we hit the massage table (I'm tellin' ya, Jack, Fish treats the talent around here NICE) Consuelo had flip-flopped her views on the Keane situation entirely and was looking forward to seeing a Stars team being led more by Modano, Hatcher, and the newly added veterans.
Revitalized to tackle what rigors the rest of the afternoon might offer, we parted company and headed back to work.
At my cubicle, I found a voice-mail from my cat. He was laughin' and braggin' about Loren Woods' threats to run off to Europe to feed his basketball jones. Somebody should let Loren know that my cat has family in the old country, if you know what I mean, and that he ain't escaping the long paw of vengeance my cat most certainly will wield. You know, I'm starting to feel sorry for that boy.

Did you see where draft day disappointment Loren Woods played really well in his first summer league game against Milwaukee? He had 24 points, nine rebounds, six blocked shots and numerous other shot alterations. Do you think any NBA GM's might've been second guessing themselves after seeing that? Well, in his SECOND game against the Magic things didn't go quite so well. Woods threw the ball at Brendan Haywood after the Orlando center bumped him to the floor, and later got tossed after cussin' out an opponent and the ref.
Mr. Issues tallied 5 points and 5 rebounds in 28 minutes. Can you imagine what happened between these two games to cause Woods' concentration to falter so?
Yep, my damn cat again. He dictated a letter to me the other day (just 'cause the cat talks doesn't mean he can write - think about it) that must've made it to Woods sometime between these two ball games. The letter started off - "Dear Miss Woods" - and ended - "Indescribably vindictive and doggedly determined to destroy your life, Franz' Cat."
I think a little feline frustration is starting to creep into Loren's game.

I don't look forward to Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, Fish demands the male members of the staff gather in the Taebo room in the rec center and ... ahem ... rehearse.
You see, sadly, Fish fancies himself fronting a boy group - you know, like N-Sync or something. So, we're forced to gather together to work out steps and harmonies. Describing the group - Fish is the 'cute' one, Tom House is the rugged one, Mike Leath is the quiet one, and I'm the hungover one. He can't dance, but my cat ably pitches in by spinning two turntables and a microphone. He also writes our better tunes. His latest is called, 'Girl, Loren Woods is a Rat-Bastard.'
The cat's got talent, filling out our song list with titles like 'Whisper in my Ear, Girl, and Tell Me How the Fungus Ate Up Loren Woods' and 'Girl, My Bookie Called and Your Narrow Butt Owes Him a Fin' and, of course 'Love Me in the Morning, Girl, Because Tonight I've Got Loren Wood's Body in the Trunk of my Car.' We call ourselves P-Wypt (the cat's idea) - look for our breakout CD at your local music store soon.

A month before Jodie Valade wrote her "Werk mit Dirk" piece for the DMN, I wrote the same basic information here in my dim, dank corner of Fish's 'jounalistic' nightmare. I could really only find three differences between her version and mine: she's got Holger's photos, her interviews muffle any stylistic dissonance my own dry translative relay carried, and she avoids using the word 'kielbasa.' Other than that, the same column. I half-expected comments on the story by avid Mav watchers to include mention that they heard about Dirk's off-season routine weeks ago at
But, not a peep.
Even Fish seemed oblivious to the fact that his own website carried the story in his comments on XTRA Sports 1190 regarding the DMN version. The lack of Franz/ props for first offering this tidbit of Nowitski-ality says two things to me: first, ain't nobody listening to what I'm saying (Thank God!) - save maybe Jodie (Hi! Jodie - xoxox), and, second, my own freakin' editor, having already conceded defeat in our little spelling/grammar tete-a-tete, has further acquiesced to fate by entirely refusing to read (Beautiful!) what I submit for public consumption.
I can't imagine a more pleasant, freeing reality than the one this situation presents to me. So, in both an attempt to explore this fresh reality and to breathe life into whatever potential mass interest my pitiful little contribution to Fish's tragically Maverick website might hold, I am writing my latest offering completely, and totally ... naked ... buck nekkid ... au naturale. Why the hell not?
And, thusly, we shall procede ...
The freshly signed Michael Finley was one of the participants in the Vince Carter Charity All-Star Game held at Air Canada Centre in Toronto on August 3. (I'm now opening a squeeze bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup) I read a fan report about the game that claims Finley attempted a half-court shot during the course of play - and MADE it. (I'm growing worried that the chocolate syrup that I've poured over my head and which is now running down my naked body will muck up my keyboard) The final score was ungodly - 176-171 - with VC tallying a game-high 55 points - the majority undoubtedly on highlight reel dunks. (I am now dipping strawberries into the chocolate coursing across my milky white thighs and inserting them into my ears) Follow the link below to a photo gallery for the event. (I'm now adding a strategic spritz of aerosol whipped cream ... here and there) On the first and third pages, you'll find a coupla glimpses of Fin sporting the familiar blue, #4 jersey. (I am now scampering to close the venetian blinds, and wondering how I'll ever face my mailman again) As fans, we aren't privy to the scads of information, experience, and expertise wielded by Mav leadership when making personnel decisions and mining destiny for options. (My cat just entered the room and for the first time in his life ... is speechless) Cuban is both the product and exploiter of today's 'embrace change' atmosphere of success. (I'm stuffing a piece of New York-style cheesecake under each armpit) He won't stand for ANY aspect of Mavdom not falling in line with the purposeful goose-step of his flexible opportunism. (I'm spreading Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream on my cheeks ... no, the other cheeks) With the understanding that what we are talking about here is entertainment, then I approve that maintaining our options allows the skill of Mav leadership to drive toward fulfilling the desired position of funny, juggling clown bringing my fat ass wonder and pleasure. (My cat is looking up at me with a sour face after licking my toes and requesting that I pour a bottle of Myers's Rum and some Coca-Cola over my head as he fancies a Cuba Libre)

So, out of respect for the heightened security and Police presence after the terror attacks, I thanked him for trying and turned tail out the door and scuttled past Mrs. Clipboard to my car in the parking lot and sailed on home, growing increasingly frustrated as the miles clicked by over the time and effort I'd spent on only to have this outrage happen to me.
When I arrived home, I found my cat splayed out on the living room floor surrounded by papers and photographs - he was alphabetizing his 'Loren Woods' dossier. He asked me, "Why the long face, puddin'?" I tearfully told him my story about the the cruelty of the AAC parking attendants, the electronic warfare perpetrated against me at the arena's entrance by the security troll, and the overwhelming frustration that Fish's little Easter Egg Hunt had just put me through. Needless to say, my loyal feline friend has added Fish's name to those who need to be put straight via his frontier justice. All I know is that Fisher better watch his six o'clock, 'cause that cat don't play, Jack.

Waiting at the first tee box, a driver whistling under the intensity of his every mighty practice swing, was Donnie Nelson. You've heard the stories about what a great guy Donnie is and how cordiality drips from his every pore. Well, he's even nicer than all that you've heard. We hung out for a while as Lil' Whistle served as honorary starter for passing groups. He would occasionally stroll our way and talk hoops and scoops with Fish, and he genuinely tried to sound interested in the grudge I told him my cat has against Loren Woods and how it's a good thing the Mavs didn't draft him 'cause my cat woulda tore his ass up. Fish just kept lookin' at me real stern-like and shaking his head 'no.' Stephi sat and laughed at Fish's feeble attempts to rein my ass in. About this time, when the sweat on Fish's brow was starting to whirlpool and emit steaming bubbles, he suggested we head on out into the golf course to see some other peepus.

When I got home from the Nuggets vs. Mavericks pre-season game 'round midnight, my cat leaned forward in his Barca-lounger, muted the TV with the remote, and asked me the same question that I'm sure is burning on all y'alls' minds right now -- "How'd Menk Batere look?" Well, obviously, it's Menk's world and we're all just livin' in it.


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