The Day I Went Shopping with Rashad McCants.

Kevin McHale can control Rashad McCants.

The GAP cannot. Especially during a 50% off post-Christmas sale.

It all started with an innocent email from your favorite blog author to your favorite malcontent NBA shooting guard via the Timberwolves official website.

The email stated (in part): "...In closing, I want to punch Rashad McCants right in the ear. Tell him to meet me at the Mall of America second floor rotunda at noon on Saturday for his beatdown."

I sent the email, and thought little of it again. Saturday came and the gal pal begged me to go to the Mall. I hate malls. I hate crowds. I hate shopping. But, I love the gal pal. So, I relented. We headed to the mall for a mind-numbing day of commerce and surliness.

As we walked past the vast open nothingness they call a "rotunda", a fairly tall man with an inordinate number of tattoos approached me.

Tattooed man who can't play basketball: "You Abe?"

Your favorite blog author: "Yep. Can you bend down a bit so I can punch you in your melon with a bit more force?"

Tattooed man who dates a third-rate pseudo-celebrity: "Why do you hate me so much? You a hata. You don't know me. I'm a good guy."

The author of this barely-read blog: "OK. You get one chance. Who is Rashad McCants?"

An awkward silence ensued. McCants stared at me. I stared at McCants. The gal pal stared at some random guy on the escalator (who probably doesn't spend so much time chronicling about other guys on a seldom-read blog).

Then, before I could say or do anything else, McCants grabbed my hand and began racing through the rotunda. I could barely utter a "Pray for me" to the gal pal before I was whisked away.

Our first stop was Old Navy. McCants was not impressed. Apparently, he is trying to set up his own clothing line (with some help from his sort of homely gal's influences in the industry).

So, we went to Brooks Brothers. That was a disaster. It ended with cheers and jeers from the sales staff and claims of racism from my escort for the day.

Next up was DSW for some warehouse-direct shoe options. McCants seemed very comfortable here. So comfortable that he simply walked out with the shoes he tried on. He asked what I thought of them, I said that they would look good on him on the far end of the Timberwolves bench during that night's game.

He agreed.

Next, we stopped at all 43 sports clothing/shoe/hat stores in the gigantic mall. McCants bought North Carolina paraphernalia at every one. But, he had to try it on first. (Cue shopping montage here). I put on a Duke hat. He scowled. I put on a Tyler Hansbrough jersey. He scowled. I put on a Timberwolves jersey. He scowled. Fun times.

I was starving. As he stopped to check out a sale at Anne Taylor, I went and bought a couple of Nutella crepes. I gave McCants one of them, but made him pay me for it. (He still owes me for those times I wasted watching him stink up the joint for the Wolves.)

It was getting late. And, uncomfortable. I'd spent more than an hour with my mortal enemy. And, all I had learned was that he was a lousy person to go shopping with when he wasn't a lousy basketball player who causes the local team to lose.

I think McCants was picking up the ominous vibe. And, his mood became very sullen. The malcontent had returned. The sulking, petulant shooting guard that is pouting his way out of the league (and its riches) began acting like a 12-year-old kid who was told he couldn't buy a new Wii game. I worried that he was gonna pull a J.R. Rider and kick some pregnant security guard in the back. To my surprise, and disappointment, he didn't.

I excused myself, citing chasing down the gal pal and her new guy pal as the reason. I added a "Hey McCants, stop sucking so much!" as I left.

The last I saw of him he was racing into and then out of the nearest GAP store amid shouts of "You gotta pay for that", "Hey McCants, you suck" and "That guy stole my soul".

Things I learned from Rashad McCants

Maybe I'm a jerk.

In light of recent charges that I may have an unhealthy obsession with second-rate NBA player, Rashad McCants, I've decided to present a kinder, gentler column dedicated to everyone's favorite wayward bum. Err, umm... misunderstood malcontent. See, I can do this!

Thank you Mr. McCants for teaching me:

1) That hooking up with the ugly sister is not always a bad thing. You could end up with the ugly sister of the ugly sister.


2) That my freshman year high school coach was right. A guy can help the team even by sitting the bench. Case in point: The Timberwolves are 11 - 25. In 9 of their past 10 victories... you've played a total of 45 minutes, despite averaging 20+ minutes in the other 28 games. You've also taught me that a guy can make the difference on the court even while wearing a sharp sweater vest. The Timberwolves have won their last 5 games when you don't play at all!


3) That guys with a tattoo stating, "Born to be Hated..." are indeed easily hate-able. Who would have known?


4) That Yakhouba Diawara of the Miami Heat is in line for a big raise. He's making $2 million less than you even though he's shooting better (37%) and playing for a winning team.



5) That if an employer ever owes me $2,620,215 guaranteed... I can phone it in and coast for a few months and still get paid.


6) That a single gimmick fueled by the justified hatred of one man can snap me out of my writing malaise.


I hope that my minuscule readership likes the less abrasive Abe. If anything, I think I've proven that we can all learn from one another. Even it's simple life lessons learned from the vile antics of a horrible basketball player who is trying to steal my soul.

DVR is Killing Me.

"It will change your life."

That's been my mantra for the past year whenever anyone has asked me how I like having DVR.

I meant it. DVR is the mother of all inventions for the culturally fit. I no longer watch anything live. Hence, no more commercials. No more changing plans to sit in front of an inanimate object at a specific time. No more disgruntled hissy fits because I'm stuck at Aunt Bertie's 73rd birthday party instead of watching my favorite tv show.

But, things change. I still contend that DVR will change anyone's life. Only... I didn't think it would end mine.

What do I mean?

I can no longer watch sports live. I just can't do it. Especially, a football game. Three plays. 30 seconds of nothing between plays. Then, commercials for two minutes. Back from commercials. One play. Two more minutes of commercials. Back for four plays... 30 seconds between each play. More commercials.

Basketball is nearly as bad. Do you realize how boring free throws are? I don't. With DVR... I no longer remember. Shaq could be shooting 96% from the stripe for all I know. I never sit through a trip to the line.

I now wait two hours after kickoff/tipoff and tiptoe around the house; careful not to take calls from certain friends. I avoid other forms of media, e.g., Internet, radio, altogether.

All so I can watch the game later and fast forward through the fluff.

I have a disease. I feel like I'm in an old/new Twilight Zone episode. The greatest invention of mankind is destroying me.

Help.