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The Official 2012 NBA Casual Wear Thread - We're Back, Word To Magic!
- Thread in 'Sports & Training' Thread starter Started by shuges,
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I dont care they own beats, thats not a status symbol in my life. I do care how dumb they look lol
big j 33
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[color= rgb(188, 19, 26)]
[/color]
I'm reminded of this article from Grantland this past December about the changing fashion and sense of identity in today's NBA. It's an interesting read that makes a lot of good points.
But 21st-century blackness has lost its rigid center, and irony permeates the cultural membrane. More than kids knowing they can be president of the United States, it might be more crucial to the expansion of black identity that — thanks to, say, N.E.R.D or Odd Future — they know they can be skate punks. Kanye West can release an album called The College Dropout, then run around the world dressed like an Oberlin junior. (The backpack craze was popularized by him.) West had done what 15 years of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Family Matters could not. He ushered in the chic of the black nerd. He cleared a safe space for narcissism and self-deconstruction; for singing rappers with names like Drake, J. Cole, and Tyler, The Creator; for the Roots to be Jimmy Fallon's house band; for the threat in the music to move from the street to the psyche. Hip-hop had already begun to splinter into a land of a million mixtapes before West's arrival. And with that shattering, black male style was transitioning away from Sean Combs' "Puffy" era gilded age, with its plushness, flamboyance, glamour, and actionable danger.
If you were black, liked hip-hop, but also liked the confessional dimensions of the singer-songwriter, West was an alternative you could relate to, and you could see the change in NBA press conferences. Once upon a time — about two or three years ago — these same players greeted the press and stepped onto buses awash in big, creamy sweaters, roomy leather jackets, and substantially karated wristwear. Then, suddenly, that was switched for less urban, more meticulously groomed style. You can still find baggy denim shorts, long white T-shirts, sideways baseball caps, and platinum ropes with a diamond-encrusted crucifix. But it's Allen Iverson in the time of Blake Griffin, Gucci Mane in the moment of Drake. These men aren't dressing for A-T-L pool parties. But they're not wearing the clothes of the streets, either. Durant and James and Stoudemire are wearing what black kids are wearing in the suburbs, where white kids' belief that the racial grass is greener applies to black kids.
MICHAEL LOCCISANO/GETTY IMAGES
If there were a tagline for the change, it would have come from Jay-Z's melodic admonition "Change Clothes": "Y'all !@*%@% acting way too tough / Throw a suit and get it tapered up." So the big stars arrived at press conferences looking like the executive Jay-Z suspended his rap career to become, looking, well, like the president of the United States.
In a sense, the shift is also a snapshot of how stylists continue to remove Darwinism from sports style. There's very little natural selection now. And yet, no matter who dressed him, it's fun to see Amar'e Stoudemire, in those Foot Locker ads, walking past NBA aspirants as some kind of instructor, like he's the Tim Gunn or RuPaul of the NBA. The cardigans and black frames, the backpacks and everything else: It's all as overdetermined as what happens on Project Runway with Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj, and with the drag queens. "Nerd" is a kind of drag in which ballers are liberated to pretend to be someone else.
When David Stern imposed the league's reductive dress code six years ago, all this role-playing, reinvention, and experimentation didn't seem a likely outcome. We all feared Today's Man. But the players — and the stylists — were being challenged to think creatively about dismantling Stern's black-male stereotyping. The upside of all this intentionality is that these guys are trying stuff out to see what works. Which can be exciting. No sport has undergone such a radical shift of self-expression and self-understanding, wearing the clothes of both the boys it once mocked and the men it desires to be.
It's not a complete transformation. Being Carlton wasn't just code for nerd, it was code for gay, and the homophobia these clothes provoked still persists, even from their wearers. Once last year, Dwight Howard, of the Orlando Magic, wore a blue-and-black cardigan over a whitish tie and pink shirt to a press conference. When a male reporter told him it was a good color on him, instead of asking the reporter "Which color?," Howard spent many seconds performing disgusted disbelief: Whoa, whoa. A moment like that demonstrated how hopelessly superficial all this style can be. The sport can change its clothes, but, even with Dan Savage looking over its shoulder, will it ever change its attitude? If Howard thinks compliments about his cardigan are gay, he probably shouldn't wear one.
Still, something's changed in a sport that used to be afraid of any deviations from normal. That fear allowed Dennis Rodman to thrive. Now Rodman just seems like a severe side effect of the league's black-male monoculture. The Los Angeles Lakers officially recognize the man who was involved in one of the most notorious fights in sports history as "Metta World Peace." Baron Davis, of the Cleveland Cavaliers, spent the summer in a lockout beard that made him look like a Fort Greene lumberjack. And Kevin Durant wears a safety-strapped backpack. If Stern was hoping to restore a sense of normalcy to the NBA, he only exploded it. There no longer is a normal.
[/color]
I'm reminded of this article from Grantland this past December about the changing fashion and sense of identity in today's NBA. It's an interesting read that makes a lot of good points.
Spoiler [+]
[font=Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif]
[/font][font=Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif]Last April, Kevin Durant, of the Oklahoma City Thunder, held a playoff postgame press conference in a blue long-sleeved shirt with tiny screen-window checks. It had a spread collar and was buttoned up to his neck. Durant's attire was noteworthy for several reasons, the first of which was that for most people it wasn't noteworthy at all. Once upon a time, NBA press conferences were no different from the press conferences of other sports. An athlete looked like he threw on whatever was handy, answered reporters' questions, then went on with his night. Durant is a good example of how that's changed: He also likes to meet the press wearing a backpack.[/font]
For the people who notice this sort of thing — and it must be said that the backpack is something you're meant to notice — the change Durant encapsulates is both surreal and ironic. The bag is never removed, worn with the safety strap fastened, and rarely acknowledged, as if the affectation is actually just natural, as if Durant might be carrying actual homework. In the same way that there are people who never thought they'd see a black American president, there are also people who never thought they'd see a black basketball star dressed like a nerd.
Durant isn't alone. In their tandem press conferences, LeBron James and Dwyane Wade, of the Miami Heat, alternate impeccably tailored suits with cardigans over shirts and ties. They wear gingham and plaid and velvet, bow ties and sweater vests, suspenders, and thick black glasses they don't need. Their colors conflict. Their patterns clash. Clothes that once stood as an open invitation to bullies looking for something to hang on the back of a bathroom door are what James now wears to rap alongside Lil Wayne. Clothes that once signified whiteness, squareness, suburbanness, sissyness, in the minds of some NBA players no longer do.
If you happen to be someone who looks at Durant, James, or Amar'e Stoudemire's Foot Locker commercials — in which he stalks along a perilously lit basketball court wearing a letterman's cardigan, a skinny tie, and giant black glasses (his are prescription) — and wonders how the NBA got this way, how it turned into Happy Days, you're really wondering the same thing about the rest of mainstream black culture. When did everything turn upside down? Who relaxed the rules? Is it really safe to look like Carlton Banks?
It certainly appears that way.
Carlton Banks wore his polo shirts, khaki pants, and cardigans tighter than a young black kid would dare in 1990-anything. The joke was that he and his two sisters were culturally white, and the secret of Carlton is that he began to see himself the way both his hip-hop cousin, Will, and the show saw him; and as he began to gain a black consciousness (like when he discovered Public Enemy), he gradually came to resent the laughter.
Carlton was something new for TV. The Huxtables of The Cosby Show were upper-middle class. The Bankses were rich. And Americans weren't used to seeing rich black kids, which is why we were asked to watch The Fresh Prince through the eyes of a poor black one, and, in his discombobulation, Will saw in the Bankses what an indigent black kid from West Philly might: cartoons. Turning Carlton and Hilary into jokes made success look silly. The story of black men on television in the 1980s was always lightly Dickensian — upward mobility in the hot air balloon of rich white guilt: Benson, Webster, Arnold, Willis. The Fresh Prince was the same formula but with intraracial chafing.
All the interesting comic tension of the show was in how long it would take until Will got Carlton to do something black. How long until he, say, wore a track suit or stopped dancing like Belinda Carlisle and started doing the running man. This, of course, is also what people spent Sammy Davis Jr.'s entire career hoping they'd see, that he'd replace the skin he'd seemed to shed, that he would change back. The tragedy of Davis is the triumph of Carlton: Neither did. You know who changed on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air? Will. Carlton got Will educated, enlightened, prep-schooled, and blazered. It's only a mild overstatement to say that Carlton changed us, too.
There were other black nerds — the Derwin of De La Soul's first album, the Poindexter mentioned in Young MC's "Bust a Move," Steve Urkel, Spike Lee's Mars Blackmon — but Carlton was the most pernicious because he was with us the longest. At its best the Carlton character embodied things that gave some black people pause — enthusiasm, knowledge, diction, all that's symbolized by a sweater wrapped around your shoulders. If you saw a little of yourself in Carlton or a schoolmate saw a little Carlton in you, you probably felt unlucky, since being a Carlton became synonymous with aspirational whiteness and selling out.
AP PHOTO/TIM HALES
[color= rgb(188, 19, 26)]W[/color]hat's most surreal about what LeBron James and Dwyane Wade are wearing is that the clothes are versions of what, in the late 1980s, 1990s, and early 2000s, got kids terrorized. Black youth culture was so steeped in hip-hop and monolithic ideas of what and who black people should and should not be that in order to incorporate a tie into your daily wardrobe, you had to walk a kangaroo court of Karl Kani hoodies and FUBU jeans. Black love once seemed more conditional than it does now. In 1991, Kanye West might have been too much of a weirdo to be a star.
But 21st-century blackness has lost its rigid center, and irony permeates the cultural membrane. More than kids knowing they can be president of the United States, it might be more crucial to the expansion of black identity that — thanks to, say, N.E.R.D or Odd Future — they know they can be skate punks. Kanye West can release an album called The College Dropout, then run around the world dressed like an Oberlin junior. (The backpack craze was popularized by him.) West had done what 15 years of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Family Matters could not. He ushered in the chic of the black nerd. He cleared a safe space for narcissism and self-deconstruction; for singing rappers with names like Drake, J. Cole, and Tyler, The Creator; for the Roots to be Jimmy Fallon's house band; for the threat in the music to move from the street to the psyche. Hip-hop had already begun to splinter into a land of a million mixtapes before West's arrival. And with that shattering, black male style was transitioning away from Sean Combs' "Puffy" era gilded age, with its plushness, flamboyance, glamour, and actionable danger.
If you were black, liked hip-hop, but also liked the confessional dimensions of the singer-songwriter, West was an alternative you could relate to, and you could see the change in NBA press conferences. Once upon a time — about two or three years ago — these same players greeted the press and stepped onto buses awash in big, creamy sweaters, roomy leather jackets, and substantially karated wristwear. Then, suddenly, that was switched for less urban, more meticulously groomed style. You can still find baggy denim shorts, long white T-shirts, sideways baseball caps, and platinum ropes with a diamond-encrusted crucifix. But it's Allen Iverson in the time of Blake Griffin, Gucci Mane in the moment of Drake. These men aren't dressing for A-T-L pool parties. But they're not wearing the clothes of the streets, either. Durant and James and Stoudemire are wearing what black kids are wearing in the suburbs, where white kids' belief that the racial grass is greener applies to black kids.
MICHAEL LOCCISANO/GETTY IMAGES
If there were a tagline for the change, it would have come from Jay-Z's melodic admonition "Change Clothes": "Y'all !@*%@% acting way too tough / Throw a suit and get it tapered up." So the big stars arrived at press conferences looking like the executive Jay-Z suspended his rap career to become, looking, well, like the president of the United States.
In a sense, the shift is also a snapshot of how stylists continue to remove Darwinism from sports style. There's very little natural selection now. And yet, no matter who dressed him, it's fun to see Amar'e Stoudemire, in those Foot Locker ads, walking past NBA aspirants as some kind of instructor, like he's the Tim Gunn or RuPaul of the NBA. The cardigans and black frames, the backpacks and everything else: It's all as overdetermined as what happens on Project Runway with Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj, and with the drag queens. "Nerd" is a kind of drag in which ballers are liberated to pretend to be someone else.
When David Stern imposed the league's reductive dress code six years ago, all this role-playing, reinvention, and experimentation didn't seem a likely outcome. We all feared Today's Man. But the players — and the stylists — were being challenged to think creatively about dismantling Stern's black-male stereotyping. The upside of all this intentionality is that these guys are trying stuff out to see what works. Which can be exciting. No sport has undergone such a radical shift of self-expression and self-understanding, wearing the clothes of both the boys it once mocked and the men it desires to be.
It's not a complete transformation. Being Carlton wasn't just code for nerd, it was code for gay, and the homophobia these clothes provoked still persists, even from their wearers. Once last year, Dwight Howard, of the Orlando Magic, wore a blue-and-black cardigan over a whitish tie and pink shirt to a press conference. When a male reporter told him it was a good color on him, instead of asking the reporter "Which color?," Howard spent many seconds performing disgusted disbelief: Whoa, whoa. A moment like that demonstrated how hopelessly superficial all this style can be. The sport can change its clothes, but, even with Dan Savage looking over its shoulder, will it ever change its attitude? If Howard thinks compliments about his cardigan are gay, he probably shouldn't wear one.
Still, something's changed in a sport that used to be afraid of any deviations from normal. That fear allowed Dennis Rodman to thrive. Now Rodman just seems like a severe side effect of the league's black-male monoculture. The Los Angeles Lakers officially recognize the man who was involved in one of the most notorious fights in sports history as "Metta World Peace." Baron Davis, of the Cleveland Cavaliers, spent the summer in a lockout beard that made him look like a Fort Greene lumberjack. And Kevin Durant wears a safety-strapped backpack. If Stern was hoping to restore a sense of normalcy to the NBA, he only exploded it. There no longer is a normal.
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I noticed that those big headphones have become part of the pre-game uniform. I go to my brother's basketball league games and a lot of the little kids wear them, plus slides and the most popular socks ever Nike Elites. I've always worn in ear-buds, never tried those big bulky ones.
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Cant knock it til you try it. I borrow my brothers over ear Beats and they do wonders on the train.
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Originally Posted by 10 Piece Nuggets
Cant knock it til you try it. I borrow my brothers over ear Beats and they do wonders on the train.
they are great, but I dont know how people workout in them. Its like wearing ear muffs, your ears sweat like crazy. Again, its a status symbol for some people
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Depends what you mean by "working out". Most of the dudes I see wearing these in the gym are the ones who walk in, do 5 sets on the flat bench, some arm exercises, then walk out without ever breaking a sweat. Basically just at the gym to be seen.Originally Posted by manamazing55
Originally Posted by 10 Piece Nuggets
Cant knock it til you try it. I borrow my brothers over ear Beats and they do wonders on the train.
they are great, but I dont know how people workout in them. Its like wearing ear muffs, your ears sweat like crazy. Again, its a status symbol for some people
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^
Or they just have limited knowledge on lifting weights. A lot of guys just care about chest and arm exercises.
Or they just have limited knowledge on lifting weights. A lot of guys just care about chest and arm exercises.
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is son forreal? man this guy is one of the corniest people i've ever seen yo. how you 30 dressing like this. the suit is smooth, even the tie aint bad, but you doing a colored acebandage to tie it all together? crazy. hard to believe a hood dude from chitown would slide this far...but yeezy did it too, and so did hov. who am i to judge. still corny doh lol/
runningfishy
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^ Buffons is what Buffon does. Buffon dresses as a a Buffon does.
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Originally Posted by jumpmantwenty3
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Originally Posted by Mr Jordan04
Originally Posted by jumpmantwenty3
The heart and smiley face tats by his tears
such a junky
|A-Man|
formerly atgd7154xbbxmz
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?
or please tell me buffon is an actual slang and you weren't misspelling buffoon
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...i dont have any Beats, but ive been wearing headphones around for years now. being able to listen/watch what i want when i want is very peaceful.
....i am thinking about copping some better earbuds too.
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^ how about trying to interact with actual human beings instead of confining to yourself all day long? Put the headphones on when your at your house, before a game or during a break at work or something. Don't walk around with headphones on you all day like an idiot.
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....yeah, i guess. one could. but if they dont want to whats the harm to anyone other than that individual?
...plus, headphones on all day makes that person an idiot?
calibeebee
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Originally Posted by Big J 33
[color= rgb(188, 19, 26)]
[/color]
I'm reminded of this article from Grantland this past December about the changing fashion and sense of identity in today's NBA. It's an interesting read that makes a lot of good points.Spoiler [+][font=Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif][/font][font=Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif]Last April, Kevin Durant, of the Oklahoma City Thunder, held a playoff postgame press conference in a blue long-sleeved shirt with tiny screen-window checks. It had a spread collar and was buttoned up to his neck. Durant's attire was noteworthy for several reasons, the first of which was that for most people it wasn't noteworthy at all. Once upon a time, NBA press conferences were no different from the press conferences of other sports. An athlete looked like he threw on whatever was handy, answered reporters' questions, then went on with his night. Durant is a good example of how that's changed: He also likes to meet the press wearing a backpack.[/font]
For the people who notice this sort of thing — and it must be said that the backpack is something you're meant to notice — the change Durant encapsulates is both surreal and ironic. The bag is never removed, worn with the safety strap fastened, and rarely acknowledged, as if the affectation is actually just natural, as if Durant might be carrying actual homework. In the same way that there are people who never thought they'd see a black American president, there are also people who never thought they'd see a black basketball star dressed like a nerd.
Durant isn't alone. In their tandem press conferences, LeBron James and Dwyane Wade, of the Miami Heat, alternate impeccably tailored suits with cardigans over shirts and ties. They wear gingham and plaid and velvet, bow ties and sweater vests, suspenders, and thick black glasses they don't need. Their colors conflict. Their patterns clash. Clothes that once stood as an open invitation to bullies looking for something to hang on the back of a bathroom door are what James now wears to rap alongside Lil Wayne. Clothes that once signified whiteness, squareness, suburbanness, sissyness, in the minds of some NBA players no longer do.
If you happen to be someone who looks at Durant, James, or Amar'e Stoudemire's Foot Locker commercials — in which he stalks along a perilously lit basketball court wearing a letterman's cardigan, a skinny tie, and giant black glasses (his are prescription) — and wonders how the NBA got this way, how it turned into Happy Days, you're really wondering the same thing about the rest of mainstream black culture. When did everything turn upside down? Who relaxed the rules? Is it really safe to look like Carlton Banks?
It certainly appears that way.
Carlton Banks wore his polo shirts, khaki pants, and cardigans tighter than a young black kid would dare in 1990-anything. The joke was that he and his two sisters were culturally white, and the secret of Carlton is that he began to see himself the way both his hip-hop cousin, Will, and the show saw him; and as he began to gain a black consciousness (like when he discovered Public Enemy), he gradually came to resent the laughter.
Carlton was something new for TV. The Huxtables of The Cosby Show were upper-middle class. The Bankses were rich. And Americans weren't used to seeing rich black kids, which is why we were asked to watch The Fresh Prince through the eyes of a poor black one, and, in his discombobulation, Will saw in the Bankses what an indigent black kid from West Philly might: cartoons. Turning Carlton and Hilary into jokes made success look silly. The story of black men on television in the 1980s was always lightly Dickensian — upward mobility in the hot air balloon of rich white guilt: Benson, Webster, Arnold, Willis. The Fresh Prince was the same formula but with intraracial chafing.
All the interesting comic tension of the show was in how long it would take until Will got Carlton to do something black. How long until he, say, wore a track suit or stopped dancing like Belinda Carlisle and started doing the running man. This, of course, is also what people spent Sammy Davis Jr.'s entire career hoping they'd see, that he'd replace the skin he'd seemed to shed, that he would change back. The tragedy of Davis is the triumph of Carlton: Neither did. You know who changed on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air? Will. Carlton got Will educated, enlightened, prep-schooled, and blazered. It's only a mild overstatement to say that Carlton changed us, too.
There were other black nerds — the Derwin of De La Soul's first album, the Poindexter mentioned in Young MC's "Bust a Move," Steve Urkel, Spike Lee's Mars Blackmon — but Carlton was the most pernicious because he was with us the longest. At its best the Carlton character embodied things that gave some black people pause — enthusiasm, knowledge, diction, all that's symbolized by a sweater wrapped around your shoulders. If you saw a little of yourself in Carlton or a schoolmate saw a little Carlton in you, you probably felt unlucky, since being a Carlton became synonymous with aspirational whiteness and selling out.
AP PHOTO/TIM HALES
[color= rgb(188, 19, 26)]W[/color]hat's most surreal about what LeBron James and Dwyane Wade are wearing is that the clothes are versions of what, in the late 1980s, 1990s, and early 2000s, got kids terrorized. Black youth culture was so steeped in hip-hop and monolithic ideas of what and who black people should and should not be that in order to incorporate a tie into your daily wardrobe, you had to walk a kangaroo court of Karl Kani hoodies and FUBU jeans. Black love once seemed more conditional than it does now. In 1991, Kanye West might have been too much of a weirdo to be a star.
But 21st-century blackness has lost its rigid center, and irony permeates the cultural membrane. More than kids knowing they can be president of the United States, it might be more crucial to the expansion of black identity that — thanks to, say, N.E.R.D or Odd Future — they know they can be skate punks. Kanye West can release an album called The College Dropout, then run around the world dressed like an Oberlin junior. (The backpack craze was popularized by him.) West had done what 15 years of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Family Matters could not. He ushered in the chic of the black nerd. He cleared a safe space for narcissism and self-deconstruction; for singing rappers with names like Drake, J. Cole, and Tyler, The Creator; for the Roots to be Jimmy Fallon's house band; for the threat in the music to move from the street to the psyche. Hip-hop had already begun to splinter into a land of a million mixtapes before West's arrival. And with that shattering, black male style was transitioning away from Sean Combs' "Puffy" era gilded age, with its plushness, flamboyance, glamour, and actionable danger.
If you were black, liked hip-hop, but also liked the confessional dimensions of the singer-songwriter, West was an alternative you could relate to, and you could see the change in NBA press conferences. Once upon a time — about two or three years ago — these same players greeted the press and stepped onto buses awash in big, creamy sweaters, roomy leather jackets, and substantially karated wristwear. Then, suddenly, that was switched for less urban, more meticulously groomed style. You can still find baggy denim shorts, long white T-shirts, sideways baseball caps, and platinum ropes with a diamond-encrusted crucifix. But it's Allen Iverson in the time of Blake Griffin, Gucci Mane in the moment of Drake. These men aren't dressing for A-T-L pool parties. But they're not wearing the clothes of the streets, either. Durant and James and Stoudemire are wearing what black kids are wearing in the suburbs, where white kids' belief that the racial grass is greener applies to black kids.
MICHAEL LOCCISANO/GETTY IMAGES
If there were a tagline for the change, it would have come from Jay-Z's melodic admonition "Change Clothes": "Y'all !@*%@% acting way too tough / Throw a suit and get it tapered up." So the big stars arrived at press conferences looking like the executive Jay-Z suspended his rap career to become, looking, well, like the president of the United States.
In a sense, the shift is also a snapshot of how stylists continue to remove Darwinism from sports style. There's very little natural selection now. And yet, no matter who dressed him, it's fun to see Amar'e Stoudemire, in those Foot Locker ads, walking past NBA aspirants as some kind of instructor, like he's the Tim Gunn or RuPaul of the NBA. The cardigans and black frames, the backpacks and everything else: It's all as overdetermined as what happens on Project Runway with Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj, and with the drag queens. "Nerd" is a kind of drag in which ballers are liberated to pretend to be someone else.
When David Stern imposed the league's reductive dress code six years ago, all this role-playing, reinvention, and experimentation didn't seem a likely outcome. We all feared Today's Man. But the players — and the stylists — were being challenged to think creatively about dismantling Stern's black-male stereotyping. The upside of all this intentionality is that these guys are trying stuff out to see what works. Which can be exciting. No sport has undergone such a radical shift of self-expression and self-understanding, wearing the clothes of both the boys it once mocked and the men it desires to be.
It's not a complete transformation. Being Carlton wasn't just code for nerd, it was code for gay, and the homophobia these clothes provoked still persists, even from their wearers. Once last year, Dwight Howard, of the Orlando Magic, wore a blue-and-black cardigan over a whitish tie and pink shirt to a press conference. When a male reporter told him it was a good color on him, instead of asking the reporter "Which color?," Howard spent many seconds performing disgusted disbelief: Whoa, whoa. A moment like that demonstrated how hopelessly superficial all this style can be. The sport can change its clothes, but, even with Dan Savage looking over its shoulder, will it ever change its attitude? If Howard thinks compliments about his cardigan are gay, he probably shouldn't wear one.
Still, something's changed in a sport that used to be afraid of any deviations from normal. That fear allowed Dennis Rodman to thrive. Now Rodman just seems like a severe side effect of the league's black-male monoculture. The Los Angeles Lakers officially recognize the man who was involved in one of the most notorious fights in sports history as "Metta World Peace." Baron Davis, of the Cleveland Cavaliers, spent the summer in a lockout beard that made him look like a Fort Greene lumberjack. And Kevin Durant wears a safety-strapped backpack. If Stern was hoping to restore a sense of normalcy to the NBA, he only exploded it. There no longer is a normal.
VEEERRRY good article, thank you for posting
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Yes.
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Yes it's stupid. What grown man walk around with a headphone all day ?
It's even more stupid to wear a huge headphone like that.
It's even more stupid to wear a huge headphone like that.
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I've seen people walk into places looking for jobs with backpacks on and beats by dre headphones around the neck....
Needless to say....no job.
It's turned into fashion over function. People just way them as an accessory now, even not when in use. People used to wear headphones while working out...on the train maybe....walking around solo in the city.
Dude is right though....I sometimes roll with no music as it isolates you from the world. If you want to meet new people or engage in conversation with random people, you have to make yourself approachable and accessible.
Needless to say....no job.
It's turned into fashion over function. People just way them as an accessory now, even not when in use. People used to wear headphones while working out...on the train maybe....walking around solo in the city.
Dude is right though....I sometimes roll with no music as it isolates you from the world. If you want to meet new people or engage in conversation with random people, you have to make yourself approachable and accessible.
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- People actually do this? Beats by Dre do NOT = a watch or cufflinks
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^
Kids are stupid nowadays. Not surprised. They're too focused on wearing trendy things.
Kids are stupid nowadays. Not surprised. They're too focused on wearing trendy things.
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- Nov 22, 2006
Fashion ? More like a sure way to make yourself look like an immature kid
Look at me. I'm 30 and I walk around with a huge headphone on my neck. Yay you like my fashion ?
Look at me. I'm 30 and I walk around with a huge headphone on my neck. Yay you like my fashion ?
- 8,415
- 1,852
- Joined
- Jun 26, 2005
....i do
Originally Posted by KenJi714
Fashion ? More like a sure way to make yourself look like an immature kid
Look at me. I'm 30 and I walk around with a huge headphone on my neck. Yay you like my fashion ?
....I'm 33 and I walk around with earbuds on or around my neck, and im 100% happy and comfortable doing so. Yay for me
...i also make 54K working for the federal gov't in a dept. of DHS....but i look like an immature kid? okay. fine by me
....am i not allowed to CHOOSE to not engage in conversations with random people? to not make myself approachable and accessible? i'd much rather you leave me alone. do i not have that freedom?