Black Men Can't Swim

And other words to the whites about b-ball, side musicians, and racism

Speaking of sex and Basic Instinct, I have a really embarrassing question to ask. Did somebody change the rules and not tell me? I mean, everybody's buzzing about the lightweight bondage and the bisexuality angle, but what shocked me the most was how easily this woman achieved orgasm. The first time she makes love to Douglas, they thrash around for roughly ten seconds, suck one another's fingers awhile, take turns getting on top and tying each other up for a few more seconds, and then BAM! She collapses on him in a heap. The whole thing takes less than a minute. I've got no problem believing that's how long it took him, but unless I've been doing something seriously wrong all these years, she's going to require a little more attention, if you catch my drift.

Never try to start a conversation with me after one of my favorite teams has just blown a big game, especially not at 1:00 a.m. in a Tex-Mex bar full of horny musicians. Judging by the glazed look in his eyes, I sense that my politically correct debater has abandoned hope of getting sympathy from me and would like to move on. In the absence of a timely interruption from an attractive woman, I exit the conversation with the next-best excuse - a trip to the men's room.

I catch a few more Magda Hiller tunes. She's not only a pretty fair vocalist, but her lyrics are a treat as well, humorous, earthy, and wise. Wills and Peeler are their usual consummate-sideman selves, although Hiller's unpredictably idiosyncratic arrangements of relatively basic chord progressions are throwing them occasional curves. That's actually one of the advantages of sideman's revenge night - it's spontaneous, unrehearsed. Good music with all the rough edges intact.

I shoot some eight-ball before returning to the bar and striking up a conversation with a musician I have seen around town but have never spoken with before. He's not much of a hoops fan, although he does his best to muster some nearly genuine-sounding sympathy when I describe Ohio State's follies. We start talking about Basic Instinct. I launch into my anti-White Men Can't Jump spiel. He agrees in principle, although he hasn't seen the movie, nor does he know much about basketball.

I feel a little better. So what if Ohio State lost? I can still go out on a Sunday night and be thoroughly entertained by local musicians without wasting valuable beer money on overpriced tickets. I can still hang with the likes of the soon-to-be-rich-and-famous Mavs, even if they don't know Diddley about The Game. I can still find parking on South Beach. I can still meet intelligent people who don't find Basic Instinct offensive.

"But I'll tell you one thing," my new amigo adds.
"What's that?" I ask.
"White people can't dance.

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