Zipp 808s and Heartbreak

I was positive that today, Monday, November 22, would be a revelation. That I would know for sure what's been bothering my knee. That, even if it was a torn meniscus or other easily diagnosed injury, I would have a name and defined treatment path.

But after scrolling through a cross-section of my knee from every angle, the view was inconclusive. Nothing to be overly concerned about. A slight abnormality, but the radiologist wasn't worried enough (or didn't even notice it) to make a note on the report. I heard the words "chondral sclerosis" and "maybe a little bit of pre-arthritis."  But the official prognosis is still: Wait and See; Don't Run; See You in Four to Six Weeks.

This was doubly disappointing, because last week I received an invitation from Sports Bistro to join their ambassador team for next season. I've waited to even accept -- much less publicize -- my position, because I'd be a pretty crappy ambassador to the sport of triathlon as a gimp (and not even a gimp with an inspirational back-story of competing against all odds).

They say no news is good news. In this case, it's more like 24-hour MSNBC: still no real news, followed by sporadic hopeful updates that get quashed by the realities of more misinformation, then a bunch of commentators who are paid to say things that frustrate the hell out of me.

I spent Sunday following Ironman Arizona. That's looking farther and farther away, as I can only spin my wheels on the elliptical for the immediate future. I feel like I can save my money on lusty expensive bike wheels for the moment; it doesn't do any good to have a tricked-out tri bike if I can't run afterwards.

Please, somebody: when I'm at the YMCA, humming away on the rowing machine with my iPod earbuds drowning out the sound of the resistance fan, just sneak up behind me with a 35-pound barbell and put me out of my misery.

Check it Out

Rap and hip-hop have taken a serious turn for the worse.

I can say this without batting an eye, because there is a new book out: The Anthology of Rap. Everybody knows that anthologies are strategically released during dips in the market to try to create renewed interest, whether it's a DVD box set of "I Love Lucy" or 43 Miles Davis CDs, packaged in a trumpet case, for just $750 dollars-American. (Try to remember the last time you heard real jazz. See?)

Granted, Eminem still lights up any track he touches. And it'll be interesting to see what Lil' Wayne comes up with, fresh out of prison.

Blame Billboard for propagating weak flow and slant rhymes as Top-40 material. Blame whoever killed (or didn't!) Tupac and Biggie. Blame teachers for giving young kids on the streets, the would-be rappers, a passable education and a ticket out of the hard knock life.

But definitely blame will.i.am for having the balls to even record this verse:

We just had to kill it
We on the radio hotter than a skillet
We in the club making party people holla
Money in the bank, we be getting top dollar


I’m a big baller,
You a little smaller
Step up to my level, you need to grow a little taller

I’m shot caller
Get up off my collar
You a Chihuahua
I’m a Rottweiler

 Compare that to the farcical rap battle in "Malibu's Most Wanted" in which Jamie Kennedy, as B-Rad, rocks the mic with this gem:

I'd rather go fly a kite
Or go on a low-carb diet
That means no more pasta
Ya'll rappers is too slow,
And I'm kinda fasta

I got a watch
It's a Swee-otch
And when my mother does my clothes
To get 'em clean she uses blee-otch

In hindsight, "Malibu's Most Wanted" may have been a forecast of today's rap game. B-Rad's biggest blunder was the belief that his prose would amount to "a million-dollar rhyme, right thurr." Will.i.am seems to be suffering the same delusions of self-importance -- but unfortunately for consumers, his played-out raps really are money in the bank.