Buckle Up Los Angeles

Ron Artest made his Hollywood arrival official last week, signing a three-to-five-year deal with the Los Angeles Lakers, and Dark Side is, well, conflicted. You might think that as a long-time Lakers fan I would be elated by the apparent Ariza-upgrade at small forward. A quick review of last year’s stats suggests that Artest is a much stronger player with stats more desirable than Ariza’s in nearly every category, age being the only significant exception. There are so many Ron-Ron intangibles, however, that just don’t show up in a stat sheet – including fourteen kinds of crazy. But don’t get Dark Side wrong; it’s not that I don’t like crazy. In fact, I love it. It’s just complicated. And it is my long complicated relationship with crazy that keeps me from jumping on the Artest welcome wagon.

Most people have an aversion to crazy. They see crazy walking down the street and they cross over to the other side. I cross the street as well, only I cross the street to get closer look. I do this knowing full well that it’s probably a bad idea. I know that crazy could mug me, throw up on me, or perhaps cause me to wince as I catch the foul smell of urine mixing with day-old whiskey that often accompanies crazy’s lack of emphasis on hygiene. But crazy might also do something incredible, like run through a glass window, have a shouting match with a squirrel, or jump a scorer’s table, run into a crowd of fans, and start beating one lucky ticket-holder mercilessly. And when crazy starts doing its thing, I don’t want to miss it.

This unusual attraction to crazy first revealed itself in high school, when crazy helped keep the general boredom of small-town life at bay. After courting crazy, dating crazy, and engaging in a number of on-again-off-again love affairs with crazy, I eventually decided to settle down and move in with crazy. And that’s when my relationship with crazy began to change. With the daily and constant exposure to crazy, my affection began to wane. Crazy’s propensity for random acts of madness were cute in the beginning, but eventually the drunken slaps, drinks in the face, turbulent sobbing fits, and frequent public embarrassment started to wear on me. Sometime after intermittent crazy becomes persistent ceaseless Jesus-just-kill-me-so-it-will-stop crazy, a more consistent drama-free life starts looking pretty good. I still loved crazy; I just couldn’t live with it.

In the years following my life with crazy, I knew that leaving it behind had been the right decision. When I would go out for a drink with friends and the night wouldn’t end with a staggering red-faced woman screaming at me in the middle of a crowded bar, I would usually breathe a sigh of relief. Every once in a while, however, I would hope for a little crazy. Maybe I would whisper a backhanded compliment into the ear of my date as I slipped her jacket over her shoulders, hoping for her to turn and throw something at me, or maybe slap me before running out in tears. She never would; she was not, after all, crazy. That’s why I was with her. Feeling like a complete dick, I would apologize and my need for crazy would go unfulfilled.

It was a difficult spot to be in. I knew I woudn’t survive constant crazy again, but I needed a fix. I eventually learned to manage my jonesing by picking up small doses of crazy vicariously. When friends would tell me about their relationships with crazy, I would listen attentively, imagining myself in their shoes and remembering my time with crazy. This was my crazy Methadone.

“She shaved your cat? Why would she do that?”

The frustrated narratives would allow me to conjure up and appreciate my time with crazy. And when I returned home to my non-shaved cat, I was able to appreciate that my time with crazy was over. It was in a similar distanced manner that I became a fan of Ron Artest.

Ron Artest started gifting crazy almost as soon as he was drafted in 1999. Whether it was applying for a job at Circuit City to get an employee discount, showing up to practice in a bath robe, or frequent suspensions, Ron was a continuous source of entertainment for anybody not cheering for his team. For fans of his club, of course, he was an endless source of embarrassment. His central role in the most infamous brawl in sports history established Ron as an NBA pariah. It also earned my unconditional adulation. How could I not love an unpredictable maniac who could turn a meaningless regular season blowout into a parade of insanity and who I also didn’t have to sleep next to at night? It was the perfect relationship. Ron went crazy, I reminisced, and at the end of the game, he took his crazy ass back to Chicago, Indianapolis, Sacramento, Houston, or any other city that wasn’t Los Angeles. He was your crazy and I loved him for it. But when Ron slipped on the Purple and Gold last week, he stopped being your crazy and started being my crazy, standing in the front door, waiting for me with a tall glass of scotch in one hand and a tazer in the other and wanting to know where I’ve been all night. So please excuse my muffled hoorah; I’m hoping not to wake crazy. When she gets a full night’s sleep, she tends to bite less.