The Last Trickster Poet of Hollywood

A remembrance of an evening with Val Kilmer—where he conjured a provocation: the creative life begins when you stop asking for permission, find art in the everyday, and dare to make your own reality.

It wasn’t a conversation, not in the traditional sense. Val Kilmer didn’t stand behind a podium. He didn’t read from notes. He shuffled onstage, found an armchair that looked like it belonged in a sunken living room from 1978, and just—sat.

This was at my college, a small liberal arts school with an ambitious lecture series that had recently hosted former presidents Jimmy Carter, George H.W. Bush, Henry Kissinger, and an up-and-coming senator named Barack Obama. These were people of consequence. Leaders who made policy, waged war, held power.

But none of them had been Batman, Iceman, Doc Holliday and Jim Morrison all rolled into one. None of them had that strange electricity of myth and menace, all bottled in a single person.

The moment Kilmer appeared on stage, the air in the room changed.

This was post-Heat, post-Batman, the tail-end of a decade when he’d shape-shifted through a rogue’s gallery of icons. He was famous in a way that felt dangerous. You didn’t know what he’d say—and that was the point.

He opened the floor to questions immediately. No script. Just Val, free-associating through Twain and Shakespeare, quoting his own films, rhapsodizing about his kids, about cameras, about the stubborn, irrational act of making art. The whole night orbited one message:

Create your own reality.

Nobody’s going to hand it to you. And even when they do, you’ll have to fight to keep it. Surprise people. Be undeniable.

He told the story of landing The Doors. He hadn’t waited for a studio call. He recorded himself singing Morrison songs. Slipped one of his own into the demo, unlabeled. Even Oliver Stone couldn’t tell which was which. Neither could the remaining members of the band. He became Morrison, and by the time casting decisions were made, there was no decision. Val was the Lizard King.

He talked about being the first person he knew to own a video camera. He filmed constantly. It was the same footage that would, decades later, form the spine of Val, his devastating, luminous 2020 documentary.

And somewhere in those rambling minutes, something clicked in me.

That night, Kilmer didn’t just perform. He modeled something. A way of living as an artist—scrappy, obsessive, defiant, enchanted. Shortly after Kilmer’s talk, I started carrying around my own video camera. I shot everything. DIY remakes of Psycho. Art films about levitating scissors. Late-night antics at Denny’s . I wasn’t trying to make something perfect. I was trying to live creatively. To treat reality as pliable. To find everlasting moments in every day. Val would understand.

It’s easy to remember the fun stuff. He did say “I’m your Huckleberry,” and yes, he told a story about Marlon Brando so strange it felt like a hallucination—involving face paint and a kimono. But what stayed with me were the deeper threads—about fate, failure, and the fragile, self-styled scaffolding that holds up an artistic life.

When someone asked about his reputation for being “difficult,” he didn’t flinch. He spoke about being a guardian of truth—for the characters he played. If he found something essential, he fought for it. The work didn’t have to be easy. It had to be real.

He talked about his son thinking he was actually Batman, not Val. Even after showing his son the movie, the boy was not convinced, and assured that he was Batman, and not his father onscreen, despite the blockbuster proof. What is reality anyway?

Maybe we are all Batman.

Kilmer painted, drew, made collages. None of that showed up in the tabloids, but it pulsed through him that night. A creative energy too unruly for one medium. You realized that the onscreen personas were just fragments and borrowed masks—glimpses of someone constantly inventing, constantly seeking.

I watched Val recently. Listened to the audiobook of his memoir I’m Your Huckleberry. Rewatched Tombstone, then Heat. And suddenly, I was back in that auditorium. In the dark. Watching a man peel away the myth and try on masks, only to reveal something stranger: a deeply sincere, wildly imperfect, defiantly poetic romantic. It was impossible not to feel inspired by that.

He made rebellion feel sacred. Mischief felt like method. He refused to play the Hollywood game, even as he conquered it. His career was a masterclass in turning dust into gold and getting bored the moment it gleamed.

Yes, he made baffling choices. Burned bridges. Took detours no manager would have greenlit. And yet he carved out something rare: a career that was his. A life of ecstatic contradictions.

He turned down the easy version of success. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he didn’t. What’s certain is that he kept surprising us, right up until his voice gave out, and then—somehow—kept talking.

That night affirmed something in me.

I stopped waiting for permission. I stopped bowing down to so-called gatekeepers and forces I can’t control. I started making things. Well, I started making more things. Different things. Experiments. And I’ve kept on, trusting that if you throw enough wonder into the world, something unexpected will come back. It worked for Val, and over time, I’ve seen it play out in my domain as well.

Val Kilmer was, and is, our Huckleberry.

A trickster-poet in a cape. A dreamer who saw art everywhere. The crew-cut scene-stealer who once stole Top Gun from Tom Cruise with a single, arrogant chomp of chewing gum.

The Lizard King who refused to let The End define him—but instead transform him.

And when we look back, when we really trace the strange flickering light he left behind, what do we see?

We see the ghost of Jim Morrison swaggering through firelight, singing prophecy through a veil of leather and smoke—somehow about something more soulful than an expected chronicle of sex, drugs, rock n’ roll.

We see Doc Holliday, pale and facing the void, still faster on the draw than anyone alive. A Southern specter, one foot in the grave, the other in poetry.

We see Batman, not the brooding demigod of later years, but something more tormented—more Shakespearean. A Batman who looked like he’d read Hamlet and meant it.

We see Chris Shiherlis in Heat, silent and wounded, a thief with the face of a fallen angel and the soul of someone already halfway gone.

And we see Val himself, in Val, the final act, stripped of voice but not spirit. Archiving his own myth with love, regret, and more vulnerability than Hollywood ever knew what to do with.

Each of these characters was a mask. And each mask revealed something truer.

Because Val Kilmer didn’t just play icons. He inhabited them. Bent their voices to his cadence. Let their ghosts borrow his skin. He moved through genre, through persona, through time, as if this life was just one long improv scene and he was dead set on finding its truth before the lights went down.

And maybe that’s the real secret:

He was never just acting.
He was becoming.

Becoming the outlaw.
Becoming the poet.
Becoming the myth.

Becoming a cosmic jester with paint on his hands and a camera in his palm, chasing beauty across deserts and backlots and dreams.

Some actors fade.
Val burned.
With brilliance. With mess. With risk. With refusal.

He created a reality larger than the screen. A creative life so alive it bled off the edges. A rock opera of detours and digressions that joyfully haunt us all.

So here’s to Val.

Our Huckleberry.
Our Saint.
Our fading gunfighter, laughing into the abyss.
Our shapeshifter in the spotlight.
Our silent poet in the wings.

Val, if you're listening—
as you're out there still filming, still dreaming, still editing the reel of your cosmic cut—know this:

You didn’t just live a life.
You performed a constellation.
And we, lucky as hell, got to look up.

Grass, Leather, and the Geometry of Failure

How baseball reveals the beauty and brutality of being human.

Japanese phenom Roki Sasaki throws his first pitch on the mound at Camelback Ranch during spring training. Glendale, Arizona. Photo by Andrew Miller.

Baseball begins with a whisper.

Not a roar, not a frenzy of synchronized chanting or the gut-punching bass of stadium speakers rattling ribcages.

No, baseball begins out of sight, behind chain-link fences on dew-soaked backfields where the grass is still wet enough to stain your cleats and the air carries the faint scent of distant concessions. It’s less an arrival and more a reemergence—the slow, deliberate stretching of limbs, the muscle memory of leather against palm, of fingers searching for that perfect grip along uniform red stitches. Something deep and primal stirs, an echo of summers past and seasons unfinished.

Baseball is a contradiction in cleats. It is both timeless and fleeting. Timeless in the sense that the game itself has barely changed in over a century—the diamond remains ninety feet to first, the pitcher’s mound still sixty feet, six inches from home plate, and the rituals of sunflower seeds, pine tar, and rally caps persist like sacred rites. And yet, for those who step onto the field, the opportunity is heartbreakingly finite—a narrow window to weave yourself into the tapestry of a game far greater than the sum of its individual strands.

And make no mistake, baseball is a game of strands—light and shadow, myth and mathematics. There’s the version you see on glossy posters and highlight reels, all towering home runs and gravity-defying catches. Then there’s the version obscured by shadows—the grinding repetition of early-morning fielding drills, the bone-deep ache of a season’s wear and tear, and the whispered superstitions that players follow as if appeasing the baseball gods themselves. Step over the chalk lines. Never mention a no-hitter in progress. Wear the same socks—unwashed, if necessary—until the streak ends.

Baseball’s unwritten rules are less suggestions and more commandments etched into the collective consciousness of players and fans alike. Violate them at your peril. Flip your bat a little too enthusiastically? Expect a fastball in the ribs next time up. Linger too long admiring a home run? Watch your teammates duck the consequences. It’s a sport where humility and hubris exist in constant tension, where respect for the game is paramount—even as the game itself shows little mercy in return.

Consider the cruel calculus of baseball. In no other sport is failure so visible, so frequent, and so defining. Hit safely three times out of ten and you’re a legend. Anything less, and you’re just another name etched into the ever-expanding database of statistical mediocrity. And the numbers are always there, whispering in the background—batting averages, on-base percentages, exit velocities—each data point a tiny chisel scraping away at the illusion of permanence. Swagger might get you through the tunnel, but baseball’s relentless machinery grinds down even the most confident players, reducing ego to dust scattered across the infield.

Yet, for all its cruelty, baseball remains a democracy of opportunity. The lineup is a great equalizer—one through nine, every player gets their turn. There are no shortcuts, no strategic dodges that let a team avoid its weakest link. When the game is on the line, fate might call upon a superstar, but just as often it taps the shoulder of a journeyman utility player whose name barely registers outside the clubhouse. And should that unheralded player deliver in that singular moment—should they lace a line drive into the gap or drop a perfectly placed bunt—the weight of their past failures momentarily lifts, replaced by the intoxicating clarity of success.

Of course, the opposite is also true. A stellar career can unravel in an instant—the wrong hop, a momentary lapse in concentration, or the cruel physics of a baseball rolling through the legs at the worst possible moment. Think of Bill Buckner. One error, one instant of misfortune, and decades of excellence reduced to a single highlight looped endlessly across sports networks. Baseball remembers both your triumphs and your failures, but it has a longer memory for the latter.

And yet, year after year, players return. They gather in sun-drenched ballparks and windswept dugouts, chasing that fleeting sensation of contact perfectly made—the sharp crack of bat against ball, the clean thwack of leather as a fastball hits the catcher’s mitt. They return because, despite everything, baseball offers a portal to something beyond the drudgery of daily life. It demands total immersion—an obsessive focus on the minute details of weight transfer, swing mechanics, and release points. Hours spent perfecting the spin of a slider or the precise timing of a swing become their own form of meditation. See ball. Hit ball. The mantra is deceptively simple, but in its simplicity lies the freedom to disappear into the moment, untethered from the world outside the foul lines.

Baseball is both therapy and torture—a game that reveals character with unflinching clarity. Step into the batter’s box after a strikeout and the game will immediately test your ability to forget the past. The pitcher on the mound doesn’t care about your self-doubt. The scoreboard doesn’t offer sympathy. The only question that matters is whether you can reset, whether you can convince yourself—against all evidence to the contrary—that this time, this swing, will be different.

And perhaps this is why baseball players are, more often than not, a peculiar breed. To survive a season’s worth of failures requires a contradictory blend of obsessive focus and short-term amnesia. You must care deeply about every detail of their craft while maintaining the ability to shrug off each setback as if it never happened. The moment you start carrying yesterday’s failures into today’s game, the weight becomes too much to bear. So you forget. You rebuild your confidence from scratch, one at-bat at a time, until the next slump arrives to tear it all down again.

This cycle—of hope and heartbreak, of success measured in fractions of inches—is what makes baseball both maddening and irresistible. It’s why, every February, players gather once more on those dew-covered backfields, their breath visible in the crisp morning air as they stretch and sprint and reacquaint themselves with the feel of bat and glove. They come not because they’ve forgotten the failures of seasons past, but because they’ve chosen to believe that this year might be different. That this year, the baseball gods might smile a little more kindly. Empirical evidence and a Wikipedia page full of strikeouts be damned.

Baseball is coming.

This is both promise and threat.

And somewhere out there, on a sun-warmed field where shadows fall long and thin, a ballplayer picks up a scuffed baseball and grips it tight. The seams press into his fingers, familiar and strange all at once. He winds up, lets it fly, and listens for the sound—the slap of leather against leather, the first echo of a thousand possibilities yet unwritten. The whisper that started it all, now rising, growing, swelling into something more.

Because baseball, in the end, is not merely a sport like the others, but rather a cosmic question posed to the universe: What if this time, just this once, it all goes right?

Play ball.

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Andrew “Oyl” Miller is an advertising Creative Director and Copywriter. He spent 15 years working at Wieden+Kennedy on brands like Nike, PlayStation, MLB and IKEA. You can check out his work on his website.

Jim Riswold Changed Advertising

From the outside, Jim Riswold was the name I kept hearing.

Riswold was the first copywriter Dan Wieden hired and was credited with authoring Nike’s voice in the 80’s and beyond. First with the Spike and Mike ads, Bo Knows, Hello World for Tiger Woods.

And on and on and on.

The list is staggering and endless.

One of his ideas for Nike was so big, pairing Michael Jordan with Bugs Bunny, that it ended up becoming a Hollywood blockbuster, Space Jam.

When I started at Wieden+Kennedy, the Riswold anecdotes started on day one and never stopped.

About how he rode off with Michael Jordan one day to go golfing. Or how he would start swearing at random people in the elevator. Or how he literally had a “Stupid” stamp that he would pound on work presented to him.

Susan Hoffman, my mentor and patron saint of W+K was especially full of the Wisdom of Riz. About how he’d make things so simple and sharp. About how he’d never give up once he had an idea. About how much he hated boring work. About how much he hated BORING.

One day, when I was in W+K 12, Wieden’s experimental advertising school, Susan arranged for us to visit Jim Riswold in his art studio. We were all a little intimidated given the man’s hard core reputation and hall of fame body of work.

We showed up at his studio, which was filled floor to high ceiling with art, WW2 propaganda, bins of vintage toys, statues of world dictators, random doll parts, portraits of David Bowie and Warhol paintings. It was like a psychotic flea market or deranged toymaker’s factory.

We gathered around and Jim started talking about how he came up with some of his famous ads. How he’d bang his head against his desk (or hide under it), wallowing in despair until he found something interesting. He talked about how he always looked for ways to exaggerate or stretch the truth. Like Bo Knows about two-sport superstar Bo Jackson. The idea was simple, Bo is good at two things, what if he was good at everything?

Despite Jim’s snarling reputation, he was extremely generous and open with sharing his thinking and process with our group. Even when someone asked a “dumb” question, he answered earnestly and thoughtfully. Of course, he would tip into his famous profanity-laced tirades during his anecdotes. Usually when he was recounting resistance to his ideas or having to deal with a process that would dumb down his work.

After the talk, a few of us were looking around his studio and checking out his art and toys. He asked if we wanted to go around the corner to his local spot to keep chatting. Of course we were up for that.

I asked him how he comes up with his ideas. He said he just had a list of people he wanted to work with, then he made up campaigns as an excuse to work with them. That list included Lou Reed, Spike Lee, Bo Diddley, Bugs Bunny, Miles Davis and more. He had a knack for turning fame in on itself and creating a cultural bang that turned into new and unexpected things that became crystalized in pop culture.

Riswold then asked what we wanted to do. He alternated between harsh cynicism “the client would never buy that. You should have had that idea ten years ago,” and teacherly optimism, “keep going, there might be something there.”

After the visit to Riswold’s studio, I’d email him for advice sometimes. He always responded right away. Sometimes just with a short line. Sometimes with a couple of paragraphs. Usually taking the time to both rip on himself and me.

A few years later I was asked to give a talk to the current W+K 12 group. At one point Riswold walked by as I was answering a question. He was just walking through. He kept his head down and when he was almost out of the space he suddenly shouted “Don’t listen to this stupid f***! He’s only been in advertising for two f***ing minutes!!”

It was a drive-by STUPID STAMPING by Riswold.

The standard the he set with his work has remained the creative bar and north star for decades.

In meetings and brainstorm sessions, I used to hear “that’s kind of a Riswold idea” as a high form of praise. I don’t hear that so much these days. And that’s a damn shame. It falls on those of us who heard some of the method behind the madness to preach the gospel according to Riz. In all its vulgar glory. It’s central to the DNA of a place like Wieden+Kennedy. It’s the big bang of creativity that preaches taking big swings, and being bold enough to be wrong. Or these days, maybe even worse, daring to NOT MAKE SENSE.

One more pearl of wisdom Riswold explained was this: Never complete an idea.

Riswold argued that if you perfectly wrap up an idea, the audience will get bored. Leave something unsaid or unexplained. Or flat out wrong. In an industry of meetings and video calls with everyone power nodding along in agreement as a presentation “tracks”, maybe the bravest thing is to go the other way. Risk alienating some people. Let them scramble to catch up. Give them space to figure it out for themselves. That’s one way to get to work that cuts through and gets remembered.

It’s something I still think about when I’m putting ideas together today.

I’ll leave you with some words from the man himself below. And when it comes to advertising, no one has ever had a command of words like this dude. He will be greatly missed.

My love goes out to his family, the thousands he inspired and mentored and the untold millions who were smacked upside the head by his work. Riz Forever.

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Andrew “Oyl” Miller is an advertising Creative Director and Copywriter. He spent 15 years working at Wieden+Kennedy on brands like Nike, PlayStation and IKEA. You can check out his work on his website.

Dame Time Never Stops

To be a sports fan is to consent to a certain kind of repeating hell.

To take a ride on a fragile carousel of fleeting delights and hopes.

To have your journey hijacked by nightmares seen and unexpected.

At least that’s the kind of looping fandom experience that awaits fans of certain sports franchises. I’m not talking about perennial winners like the Yankees or Lakers or Man United. Teams with decades of titles, yet whose fans still find reasons to moan insufferably about their “misfortune.”

I’m talking about fans of cursed franchises. Like the Cubs (before they won) or the Red Sox (before they won).

I’m talking about the specific kind of prolonged cosmic agony that comes with being a fan of the Portland Trailblazers.

Live through enough of these downturns and floor drops and you’ll end up flinching at your own shadow.

Portland, an improbable place for a pro sports franchise. A tiny media market in an out of the way place. Besides being Nike’s birthplace, the Blazers have been our only point of sports pride. When the Blazers matter, so too does Portland matter. When the Blazers falter, well, um…

We’re West Coast, but we’re not LA. We’re not Hollywood, but we’re within jeering distance. It’s a a one-sided relationship that grows the chip on your shoulder. The identity of outcast and underdog is readily available. We’re a band of hippies, that place Steve Jobs fell in love with typography, a handful of Ken Kesey novels, a smattering of bookstores and strip clubs—and lush, green nature full of mountains and trees for us to get lost in and find ourselves again.

But back to the Blazers. Back to day Zero.

Us Blazermaniacs are hurting today.

There is always a dull pain, but today, for the first time in 11 years, Damian Lillard is not a Portland Trailblazer. Man, it hurts to type that.

For over a decade, his singular passion and loyalty emanated and elevated our city of roses and made Portland matter in the sports world. No, sadly we didn’t win a championship. But we became the stage of a unique and legendary basketball talent. A man who was a trailblazer in his very being. Who did things his own way. Going directly against the way things were always done, and catching flack for each of his legacy building moves.

With Nike in his backyard, Lillard went counterintuitive to three stripes, becoming the cornerstone of their basketball business and securing a 300 million plus bag in the process. He pushed through the cliche of athletes having “music” projects, and kept developing his skills, dropping tracks and albums every year as Dame D.O.L.L.A.—pulling noteworthy features along the way. From the jump, there was something different about this undersized point guard. He defied cliches and had a specific vision about who he was.

And all the while, he was a gym rat. Obsessively tuning and optimizing his game. Displaying a rare competitive drive that closely aligned with Kobe Bryant’s notorious Mamba Mentality. Kobe even recognized the greatness in young Dame, singling him out with uncharacteristic praise for an opponent. Those who knew basketball deeply, saw something in Dame’s emerging talent.

Dame continued to go off. Each season showing more bravado. Getting faster, sharper and trickier. Extending his three-point range to video game distances that forced conversations about the NBA adding a four-point line. He and Steph Curry made shooting from half-court a part of their arsenal. It seemed like an audacious one-off when Dame launched his first “logo” three, but the long distance bombs never stopped. They only grew more frequent. Dame was evolving into one of the most potent scoring machines in his era.

Slowly, Portland realized that we weren’t just watching our guy, but that Dame was putting on displays of all-time greatness. The basketball gods had illuminated his game. Dame transcended playing in a small market and showed up with a big time persona.

It was the era of Dame Time.

The accolades came. All-star appearances. Olympic gold. Impressive scoring averages. Three point records. Eventually Dame passed Hall of Fame legend Clyde Drexler to become Portland’s all time leading scorer. LeBron James even tapped Dame to co-star in Space Jam 2. Dame was the ultimate big fish in a small pond, and it never held him back. He was growing into a superstar on his own terms.

As Dame matured into a veteran, he eschewed the NBA trend toward superstar buddies joining up to create super teams. Dame emerged as the vocal antithesis of this mindset. He was determined to stay on his grind. He backed it up in his actions, on podcasts and the lyrics of his tracks. He was determined to win, unconventionally, with loyalty. It was a noble stance that drew heat and fire from media and fellow athletes the brighter Dame’s star burned. In an era that glorifies rings above all else, Dame was going to get there on his own path.

Sadly, Portland’s front office failed Dame. They failed to match his from a different time loyalty. They failed to surround him with balanced talent that complimented his outlandish game. And so, year after year, Portland languished and Dame would need to carry the entire franchise and city, making up for obvious roster holes.

There were highlights and miracles and blazes of hope along the way. There were game winners and series winners. The spotlight shone solely on Dame and Dame delivered. Earning a reputation for being an all time clutch performer. Despite never having made the NBA Finals.

There was even an improbable, cinderella run to the Western Conference Finals a few years ago. The farthest the Blazers would ever go in the Dame era. The team sadly ran out of steam and ended up being swept by Steph Curry and his Warriors dynasty. But Dame didn’t hang his head. As always, he had overachieved. He got back in the gym and stayed on his lonely grind.

All this time, for 11 years, Dame was a rock. A leader and a professional. Never dodging the media and always speaking his mind with respect. Dame is a throwback. His values are entrenched and he operates on a personal code that prides itself on loyalty and commitment.

For 11 years, we were blessed with this loyalty in Portland.

On paper, loyalty was returned. His contracts from the Blazers earned him nearly half a billion dollars, one of the richest hauls in pro sports. And that doesn’t count what his personality and story earned him from his 300 million shoe deal and other endorsements. Portland made the right business moves to reward the face of the franchise. But beyond the paycheck, loyalty was woefully lacking.

Somewhere over the course of this summer, the wires got crossed. Portland decided to move on from Dame, and unfathomably didn’t give him the heads up. Instead they went out and drafted a rookie, who has echoes of a young Dame and plays the exact same position. It was the last straw.

Portland could have worked with Dame by trying to bring in veteran pieces that complimented and enhanced Dame. That’s the basic strategy when you have a singular superstar, you build around them. But in making their brash choice, Dame’s hand was forced, and on July 1st he formally requested a trade. The face of the Blazers for over a decade wanted out.

And yesterday, he got his wish.

And for Blazer fans, our worst fears have manifested again.

Today, we add to our impressive resume of misfortune.

The tragedy and business of sports dictates that those who care most deeply about the team and its players, have zero say in the team’s path. A path that has included such spectacular lowlights as:

-Being the team that could have drafted Michael Jordan, but didn’t.

-Being the team that could have drafted Kevin Durant, but didn’t.

-And now, being the team that willfully ignored the wishes of it’s greatest player and most loyal athlete of the modern era.

Yes, woe is always us. But today is about Dame.

Today we lose a major piece of our identity for the past 11 years. No doubt we’ll have phantom limb syndrome and live vicariously through the triumphs Dame achieves in another city. It’s not possible to stop reacting to the thrill of a Dame half-court shot.

To Dame, THANK YOU.

Thank you for your class and heart. Thank you for embedding yourself into the Portland community and all the good you do in the city. Both loudly and quietly. You will forever be our true mayor.

Thank you for making Portland matter again. When superstars came into our house, you stood up for us and fought back. Thank you for the insane threes and game winners. Thank you for the professionalism. We’ve seen our share of dark and embarrassing times, but with you as our leader, there was only pride. Only class and wide-eyed truthfulness.

You made us stand up straighter and puff out our chests. We could claim you as our own and hitch a ride to the stratosphere as your star rose.

These past three months have been a lot. Amid all the trash talk and sports media hype, it still felt like the basketball gods might intervene and find a way to keep you in a Blazer uniform.

Today we know that was wishful thinking.

Anyway, go get your ring. Go get a couple.

And when it’s all said and done, we’ll beam with pride knowing our guy did it. Hell, we’ll even dream of you coming back to Portland as a champ and leading us to the promised land and that parade down Broadway you prophesied about years ago.

Bridges may have been burnt in how this all went down, but luckily this is Portland and we have a lot of bridges.

Until then, go get it Dame.

How the Nike Brand "Just Does It"

This article originally appeared on my SubStack.

I’ve worked with a lot of brands.

I’ve worked with brands in tech, sports, ice cream, travel, fashion, finance, automobiles, airplanes, food, pets, furniture, entertainment, music, crypto and NFTs. Those are the broad strokes.

And there is one brand I’ve worked with more than any other: Nike.

I grew up in Portland, Oregon and fell hard for the mystique of the Swoosh. I was an athlete (varsity basketball in high school, and baseball all the way through a pro tryout after college) and I loved creativity. Nike delivered creativity to athletes in spades. When my baseball career came to an end, I walked right into the shadow of the Swoosh and set out to figure out what the hell was going on there.

How come I had to buy Air Jordans? Why did Nike commercials rival Hollywood productions? Why did everyone I know have posters of Nike athletes on their bedroom walls? How did this company down the road in Beaverton go from selling shoes out of a van into becoming the coolest brand in the world?

My unbalanced curiosity led me to the halls of Nike’s ad agency Wieden+Kennedy. Since then, I’ve spent nearly two decades working on Nike campaigns. First in Portland, then in Tokyo, and now, as I type from Arizona.

Working with so many talented, passionate and experienced people at both Nike and Wieden+Kennedy over the years has been a particular education. All throughout that time I also worked on other clients, which has shown me Nike’s similarities and differences with other brands.

Almost all clients I’ve worked with have asked me what it’s like to work on Nike. Some clients even set the specific bar of hoping to make the kind of work that Nike does. You can even find clips on YouTube of Steve Jobs praising Nike’s advertising and brand strength. (Jobs used to actively hire former W+K employees with Nike experience to work on Apple’s advertising. A hiring principle that continues to this day.)

So, what is it that makes Nike able to function as such a potent brand? Even as it has expanded into becoming such a multinational corporate juggernaut? How has it retained its brand power? What has Nike and its agency partnerships done to keep its advertising and branding as the bar other brands aspire to?

There is no easy answer. But I can give my observations from my career of working with Nike and comparing it to other brands.

The standard is clear and extremely high. It’s not easy selling an idea to Nike. They’ve been going for decades and have executed a wide diversity of work in that time. When you are trying to come up with ideas for Nike Football or Nike Basketball, nothing you present can resemble anything they have done in the past. Each assignment demands a fresh and specific insight. On some campaigns, I’ve written nearly a hundred scripts, just to sell one. Other brands I’ve worked with have high standards, but clients are rarely deeply versed in the work that came before their time.

Nike is a belief system. Working on Nike can veer into cultish territory. There are beliefs and quotes that come from co-founders Bill Bowerman and Phil Knight. “If you have a body, you’re an athlete.” There are also north stars that have been established in previous ad campaigns. Mantras like “You don’t win silver, you lose gold,” and “There is no finish line.” These beliefs become proof points that you can filter work through. Clients will look to these truths to judge your ideas. You need to understand what Nike believes, not just what you think will be cool. If you can ground your ideas in the brand beliefs and you’ll give your ideas a better chance. Many other brands I work with speak of core beliefs, but it feels more like an intellectual exercise. Some brands are always trying to reinvent what they stand for. Nike knows who they are.

The voice of the athlete is queen. At most brands, the buck stops with some senior client. At Nike, the athletes themselves wield incredible power. I’ve seen situations where a client was tepid on an idea, but once it got the thumbs up from an athlete, it was game over. Once an athlete likes something, it’s sold and you go make it. On other brands, sometimes it’s hard to actually pinpoint the final decision maker. At Nike, there is always the “threat” that an athlete will come in and make the call. This adds tension and focus to the whole development and approval process. Brands who do identify a single decision maker usually make the most singular and impactful work in my experience.

They take it personally. (aka everyone cares) Phil Knight famously doesn’t believe in “testing.” This has created a culture that empowers decision makers. For better and worse, clients at Nike are encouraged to develop their own taste and stand by their decisions. This can lead to very subjective debates. But the end result is that all of the work that gets made has real human spark and emotion behind it. Someone made the decision because they personally liked it. No putting it to a committee vote or anonymous room of people off the street. You can feel the human touch and quirk in the finished product. Some brands I’ve worked with operate as a democracy. They give the power to testers or take a vote and listen to the opinions of even the most disengaged participant. This is the opposite of taking it personally, and leads to watered down, please the masses type of work.

They’re competitive as hell. Nike’s operating system and business engine is competition. Being founded by athletes and coaches, everything is a win or lose proposition. Nike clients want to outshine each other. One hit project can make a career. This creates active excitement and immense pressure. There is a constant push to make the work better and finesse the details. It’s not a matter of making comments just to say something (something I have experienced on other brands that actively makes the work worse.) Nike clients are smart and driven, because they are in the game to win not just build a resume.

Everything comes back to sports. Everyone at Nike can talk sports. Even if a client isn’t an athlete themselves, they find a way to respect and honor sports. I’ve worked with tech brands whose clients didn’t really understand or appreciate the tech. I’ve worked with travel brands whose clients just saw the job as a marketing role. At Nike, everything ties back to a love of sports. Being nimble with references, historical performances, play styles and the latest rising stars will serve you extremely well. This passion permeates all levels of the work. This intensity of passion is hard for other brands to manufacture. At Nike, love of sport runs to its core.

They have a tight strategic playbook. Before a project comes up, the brief and strategy are super clear. Sometimes, as a creative, the strategy portion of the process takes too much time. But the end result is a clear target and set parameters to operate in. From there, judging and debating work becomes almost a legal exercise. Every detail of an idea must be justified back to the core strategy. This can be infuriating when you are in the weeds trying to get a project green lit. But the intention and purpose behind this is to make sure the work stays on target. Of course human opinion does enter the process, but with a defined strategy, arguments on both side need to have logic to them. I’ve never seen anything close to the level of rigor that working on Nike demands at another brand. In my experience, this comes from a lack of strategic clarity. Both strategic business thinking as well as creative strategy.

No one is just taking up space. I once presented a campaign to a blue chip tech company. The presentation was in a classroom setting. I was up front in the “teacher” position. Looking out, were THIRTY CLIENTS sitting in school desks. None of them looked at me. All of them were typing on their laptops. We somehow sold the campaign, but given the odd circumstances, it didn’t “feel like a win.” Contrast that to Nike, where I have routinely presented to one or two clients. Sometimes there are more stakeholders from other functions, but I’ve rarely presented to more than ten clients. This results in intimate presentations that feel more like conversations. Now, when these things go wrong, it can get really uncomfortable. But mostly, it just feels like a partnership. You know the other side is invested and leaning into the work. Reactions are natural and immediate. You know where you stand. And it’s not at the head of a class with rows of disengaged “students.” How that will ever lead to great work, I’ll never know.

Small talk matters. We’ve all been in those awkward pre-meeting moments. We talk about our weekends or what we ate for dinner. No one really cares, but it’s better than sitting in silence. With Nike, it’s all about “did you see the game last night?” and “Do you think LeBron’s gonna break the record?” Even in the idle chit chat, it’s a chance to show your love of sport and credibility knowing what’s going on. The end result: those head nods and approvals later in the meeting are a little easier to come by. I have seen fruitful small talk on other brands. Like the creative director I worked with who seemed to know IKEA’s entire catalogue and store layout even better than the clients. This also led to smooth relations and approvals.

Everything is marketing. (aka your product is marketing) This is a big one. Nearly every other brand I’ve worked on has treated marketing as a kind of add on. The marketing department is called in after a product has been developed and is tasked with selling it to the masses. At Nike, marketing is baked in to the genesis of every product. Even working at an agency, I was sometimes invited to meetings with product developers to brainstorm how the story of that product could come to life. I’ve also seen products at Nike that didn’t crack their' “story” get shelved. Nike demands that each product “says” something. That’s not something that’s added on later. It’s a part of the big bang of each product’s creation. One brand I’ve worked on stands out as coming close, and that is Airbnb. When I worked with them, they were very advanced in also seeing the benefit of a product feature coming with an innate story. Involve your storytellers early, folks. Your business results will thank you.

Everyone wants to be Nike. They’ve cracked the code and have been executing for decades. But it’s not as easy as setting the brief to “Make a Nike style commercial for (Brand X)” Nike is the result of all sorts of beliefs, elements and working styles that come together. It’s not a switch to be flipped. If you want to achieve what Nike has, you have to dig deeper. And maybe you need to ask your brand uncomfortable questions. What do you believe in? Do you care about the work or are you just here for your resume? Does your brand have a north star? Or are you just doing whatever worked at your last job?

Nike is a unique (and actually pretty funky and chaotic “in a good way”) organization. Not every brand will have the intrinsic elements that Nike does. But every brand can aspire to be better. Every brand can commit to being more personal and human. And everyone that works on other brands can apply what works at Nike to what they are doing on a daily basis. The main thing comes down to care and responsibility. If you are willing to let go or roll over when you feel a project going off track, resist. The more you can find a way to do things that you believe in and connect with, the more your brand will benefit. The best brands outside of Nike I have worked with, have had their own versions of what makes Nike successful. The good news is, every brand can get better. Even Nike. Make it your mission to figure out how.

Giannis' TED Talk on Failure

Giannis Antetokounmpo sent shockwaves through the media with his post game comments the other day.

After his Milwaukee Bucks were eliminated from the NBA Playoffs, a reporter asked him bluntly, “Is this season a failure?”

Visibly shaken, Giannis sighed, rubbed his head before composing himself and going off on a response for the ages. In his impassioned reaction, he argued that there is no failure in sports, and that it’s all a part of the journey to achieve excellence.

I think by showing his frustration, it’s clear the season was a failure. He is after all, arguably the best player in the NBA and his Bucks are recent champions who marched through the season and claimed a number one seed. The expectations were clearly to win a championship, and they failed to do that.

However, it’s not a failure, full stop.

The interesting bit in sports is how athletes respond to seasons where they come up short. Some hide and disappear. They duck the smoke. They make excuses.

Then there are those who turn failures into pure motivation. Those who hate to lose with every fiber in their being. And it doesn’t just stop there. The most elite competitors internalize their failures and come up with an action plan to come back stronger.

Take rookie Kobe Bryant, who famously shot multiple airballs down the stretch of the Lakers playoff game against the Utah Jazz. What was Kobe’s response? He literally called up a high school gym and asked to have it open when his plane arrived, at 2 in the morning. He took no down time to process his failure. He immediately continued his journey. He was compelled to figure out how to make sure that what just happened would never happen again. Kobe failed on that one night, but he also set signposts in the ground that pointed him towards his next success.

Or take Michael Jordan, who was bullied and bodied by the Detroit Pistons in the late 80s. His response? To hit the weight room, try new training tactics and build his body and mind to conquer the beast next time. As history shows, he achieved success in that mission.

Failure is not the end of the story. Unless you let it be. Failure makes some competitors get smaller. Others let failure turn them into a monster.

We know Giannis has a strong work ethic and a strong mentality. He looks up to the fierce competitors who came before him. He’s a student of the game. While he is dismissing the idea that this season was a failure, the story doesn’t end here. My money is on Giannis turning into even more of a problem when we see him next season. He’s committed to the journey and the process of trying to achieve excellence. He won’t disappear on us after this disappointing end to the season. You can already see the wheels turning. He’s not satisfied. And we know based on how crazy his career has developed, he’s about to do something about it.

This is not a full stop failure. This is dot dot dot, to be continued energy.

Giannis’ post game press conference will go down with similar moments from Kobe and others. It’s possible that we’ll see this as a turning point in his career. He was already a legend, but moments like this can spark new trajectories. At one point, after winning three titles alongside Shaq, Kobe was already a myth. After he experienced some down seasons going solo, and even a tough Finals loss, a new Kobe started to forge himself.

Giannis is on a similar path to immortality. This is a temporary setback on the path to something greater.

Giannis has a lot of basketball left to give. And with additional fire, we may end up seeing a player with more depth, more passion and able to will his team to even greater heights. As a fan of the game, it’s a bummer to see Giannis exit the playoffs early. But I’m excited to follow what his response will be. Giannis’ narrative just got even more intriguing.

Thank you, Dan Wieden

“I feel so damn sorry for you,” were the first words Dan Wieden said to me.

I had somehow been invited to interview for the ad school Dan and Jelly Helm had started in the W+K headquarters called 12, and we were told to show up for lunch at this little restaurant in Portland. As soon as I walked in the door, Dan was there and he gave me that first line.

Dan went on, “You’re going to have the hardest year of your life. Susan Hoffman is going to kick your ass. She’s the toughest one we have. She makes us all cry. I can’t imagine what she’s gonna do to you.”

After the exchange, my heart was pounding and I was even more intimidated than when I walked in. I didn’t know what to say. Dan put his hand on my shoulder and added “I’m a little jealous of you too,” with a trickster twinkle in his eye.

That was my intro to Wieden, the man and the agency (and the brilliant Susan Hoffman). Provocative and kind.

The next year was hard as Dan promised, but it was also magical and life-changing. I got to experience the chaos, passion, debates, sky high standards, kindness, all nighters and messy humanity of the place Dan and Dave created. There would be more encounters with Dan like when he would stop by to offer some Jedi wisdom to 12, take us to lunch, share an elevator, randomly walk up and ask “what are you working on?” and that one time we sat in an empty agency and just watched a basketball game together.

The time I was privileged to be around Dan and the 14 years I spent at W+K, taught me the value and depth of his proudest creation: the culture. Yeah, we made some ads, but it’s the late nights, laughs, production grinds, legendary parties, stupid jokes and crazy respect you have for the talented misfits you work with that stay with you forever.

Thank you for everything, Dan.

You continue to move us all, dude.

Street Fashion in the Metaverse

Street fashion might not sound like a perfect analog for the NFT space, yet early on it's seeming like a match made in metaverse heaven.

Lately, Bobby Hundreds, owner of the street brand, The Hundreds, has become an NFT uber-evangelist on full blast across his social channels and podcasts. He's turned into this inspirational, almost Steve Jobs type figure, who has made it his mission to open up the NFT space and personally onboard as many people as possible.

Last year The Hunrdeds had their own NFT drop called the Adam Bomb Squad, consisting of illustrated bomb characters that have graced the brand's streetwear for decades. The founder of Hundreds ah-ha moment was when he realized they were sitting on this deep legacy of IP and a super passionate community: the two main drivers of a successful NFT project. After a few tests, The Adam Bomb Squad was a success. Selling out its first mint and now experiencing a healthy life cycle on the secondary market. This has only fueled Hundreds enthusiasm and conviction in the space. And like I said, he's bringing as many people with him as possible. Including all of his OG streetwear friends, which means street fashion could really be the next big thing to follow art into the metaverse.

Another early streetwear foray into the metaverse famously came from RTFKT and their fusing of meta-video game, hyper aesthetics to create a line of virtual sneakers and become the first famous metaverse fashion brand. Nike took note and acquired RTFKT just when their heat couldn't get any hotter.

Streetwear circles tend to be tight and insular, so it was no surprise, yet also a pleasant surprise, when RTFKT tapped streetwear legend Jeff Staple to bring his game-changing and iconic Pigeon Dunks into the metaverse. The alchemy of the old and new came together to create an instant classic. What must have first felt like an experimental lark for Staple, turned into his own ah-ha moment in the NFT space as he witnessed the awesome community embrace and power that comes when an authentic creator offers something meaningful and heartfelt in the space.

And so after the hype of the drop settled down, Staple is approaching the metaverse again, this time with his own solo NFT project.

Enter the Stapleverse.

A connected community universe built around Staple's iconic Pigeon brand. Here, hypebeasts will be able to mint "Feed" and later have the option to risk throwing their feed to turn it into either a "Pigeon" or "Poop." It's the kind of risk it all layer that we've seen implemented in a few NFT projects. Like the Bored Apes Serum, which takes away your original Ape forever and gives you a brand new Mutated Ape in return.

The website is slick. The passion and creativity leaps off the screen. The art for the first drop is perfectly executed by illustrator B. Thom Stevenson. This week, Chapter 1 dropped. It presents a series of graphics that represents the highs and lows of living in New York. As the project builds out, Staple envisions adding references to new cities around the world to the Stapleverse.

There is a roadmap for the Stapleverse, and it's already clear that Staple has the passion and energy to keep creating in the space. With a known, authentic creator behind the project, confidence rises that this will not be a rug pull. Staple has already been a part of NFT history and now is looking to build off his legacy in the space.

There is a strong psychological connection between hypebeast street culture and NFT culture. Both worlds center around literal "drops" of their products. In both space, catching wind of early hype is credibility and currency, as well as often the difference between those who ape in early and those who live with FOMO in perpetuity.

For those who need the right Nikes that no one else has, or the t-shirt that only came from one single shop, NFTs area a kindred spirit. For streetwear and NFTs are both markers of status. And as our lives turn increasingly digital, it figures that we will need more than just a follower count to signal our status and what we are into. Found out about Bored Apes before anyone else? Your Twitter profile will be the judge of that. Get in on the first Stapleverse drop? Just flash your wallet. From now on, your cool points will be stored on the blockchain, available for all to see and judge. It's Supreme drops, but for the web3 savvy.

You won't see the long mysterious lines of people with insane kicks in questionable New York or Tokyo alleys. Instead, these early streetwear adopters will be going on whitelist quests inside of Discord servers. All hell bent on finding out first, where the the latest cool is at.

A Day at Jigokudani Monkey Park (地獄谷野猿公苑, Jigokudani Yaen Kōen) in Nagano, Japan

A Day observing the famous "snow monkeys" at Jigokudani Monkey Park (地獄谷野猿公苑, Jigokudani Yaen Kōen) in Nagano, Japan. After taking a bus to the park, you hike in about 2 kilometers until you get to the main gathering point of the snow monkeys. In the valley, the monkeys roam free, mixing right in with the visitors. As you approach, you find them walking along the path with you, jumping down from the nearby trees and generally moving all around the vast space. When it gets cold enough, the monkeys gather in the natural hot spring (onsen). The day we visited it was fairly warm, so no monkeys were in the onsen. But there were still hundreds of them running, playing and eating all over the place.

PODCAST RECO: BONG JOON HO ON THE DIRECTOR'S CUT

Rian Johnson sits down with Korean film director Bong Joon Ho to discuss the full span of his career.

There were two moments from his childhood that really seemed to stick with him and make sense as an origin story for his career in film. Bong was born in the countryside, in a lush, green town on the side of a mountain. When Bong was young, around 7, his father got a job in the city and he found himself uprooted into a concrete jungle. He said everything about the shift of environments was shocking to his system. He found the landscape harsher and colder. He found the people more serious and intense. He didn’t understand at the time why his family had to leave his birthplace and he wrestled to make sense of it in his own mind.

He also talks about how he watched Psycho around the same time, at age nine, and how it was his earliest memory of a film really sticking with him. He couldn’t believe someone could make something like that. He was fascinated by how the story unfolded, all leading up to the shocking twist at the end.

Flash forward to Bong’s filmography and you see these early imprinted themes strung throughout his work. He deals with themes of urban darkness contrasting against the beauty of nature. In his films you can feel that longing to return to the lush greenery of his childhood. Cities are often portrayed as cold and clinical places, full of calculating and equally cold characters.

Bong also speaks about the maturity of the Korean film industry. And how when he started out, there really was no industry and he would need to wear all sorts of hats to get his films going. Now, very quickly, there is an organized and unionized film system in place. He says as more opportunities have come, the Korean film scene has leveled up. He thinks that soon it will be on par with the craft and services you can find in Hollywood. In that sense, his films are much easier to make these days, because there is that shared understanding and experience in film.

He also speaks about the pleasure of being a writer director. He loves to plan out and craft his scripts. He’s working on a followup to Parasite at the moment, as well as another project. Like many creators, he has found the lockdown time to be a fruitful one and he has made good strides to set up his next projects. He also talks about his routine as a writer, and how he needs to work in cafes. He found the words hard to come by in the early days of the lockdown when everything was closed. Now that his favorite cafes are back, he is writing two films simultaneously. Hopefully we won’t have to wait too long to find out what those projects are all about.

Listen to this episode from The Director's Cut - A DGA Podcast on Spotify. Director Bong Joon Ho participates in a conversation with Rian Johnson on Director Bong's beginnings in the industry, how his early life informs his voice, and what guides him in his collaboration with actors.

PURSUIT OF AIR

Podcast Reco: M. Night Shyamalan on How I Built This

Check out the inspiring interview with M. Night Shyamalan on How I Built This. It’s a great podcast if you’re not familiar. Usually they focus on entrepreneurs and tech founders, but they’re doing a little series from the Sundance Film Festival focusing on storytellers.

I feel like M. Night Shyamalan gets written off too easily. Because of his mega-success with The Sixth Sense, he’s been branded as some kind of one-trick pony. He’s The Plot Twist Guy. Yes, that was a cool and signature moment that left a cultural dent, but as this interview reminds us, creative people are more than just a signature moment.

In this wide-ranging interview, Shyamalan breaks down his creative process. He talks about how he carves two hours out every morning to focus on writing. But he goes easy on himself. He allows himself to stare at the wall. He creates a safe space for himself and doesn’t apply un-needed pressure. His only rule is he can’t be productive in non-writing ways. Either his pencil moves, or he works out thoughts in his head. For two hours. Every morning. It’s a solid practice.

He also talks about his early beginning in film making. He grew up with a Super 8 camera and would essentially make his own versions of his favorite movies. Raiders of the Lost Ark, ET, Star Wars, etc. He says that looking back on those experiments, he realizes he missed the most satisfying part of filmmaking, the creativity. He realized that his imitations kept him busy, but they weren’t fulfilling. It wasn’t until he started trying to tell his own stories that something sparked inside of him. Since then, he’s never looked back.

When asked about Hollywood’s lack of diverse voices in storytelling, Shyamalan said he didn’t wait for a seat at the table, but he brought his own seat and tried to make the table longer. I thought that was a pretty unique and inspiring take. He says that staying true to your unique background is your power. That you have to commit to telling the story that only you could tell. Rather than trying to tell a story that Quentin Tarantino or David Fincher could tell. What can only come from you?

And finally he touched on how he has stayed creative during the pandemic. And how 2020 was actually his busiest and most productive year yet. He didn’t have to worry about traveling to promote his work, and instead he could just work. He could get his two writing hours in every day. It allowed him to write, produce and direct his next film as well as his next television project. It’s a good reminder of how to take the limitations we’re all facing, and using them to carve out a space to connect deeply with what it is that you do. May we all have more of that in 2021 and beyond.

ECHOES AND RINGS

HIS AIRNESS

MAMBA FOREVER

MUHAMMAD ALI

“THE LAST DANCE” REVIEWED - EPISODE 10

Michael jamming out

For some reason, this is one of the indelible images of the documentary for me. Michael, wearing his funky hat and sunglasses, spinning his head around randomly and listening to music. Someone says something and he peels them off. Then he goes on to brag about how he got the album before it was released because he knew the artist. He looks loose, he looks stressed out, he looks in it. How does a guy like that blow off steam? At the time, they are sizing him up for his outside of the stadium statue, but he still has games to win. The future seems certain, but he still has to put in the work. The expectations and mystique couldn’t be thicker. Rock out Michael. Headbang away.

“I ain’t Shaq” lol

I just love how he just keeps repeating that he’s not Shaq. He’s better obviously. That a team slowed down Shaq, is irrelevant when you are talking to Michael Jordan. He ain’t Shaq.

Exhausted

Yes, there was talk of Michael and the whole crew coming back to go for their 7th championship. But I don’t know how realistic that was. Jordan especially looked completely wiped after hitting that last shot over Bryon Russell. Plus, there is the symmetry of 3+3. Perhaps a three-peat is the threshold of Jordan’s godlike basketball abilities. It seems like the lonely leadership role he assumed was especially taxing. He even gets emotional talking about it 20 years later.

I wonder what would have happened if Jordan would have shared the weight of his burden a bit more. I mean, Scottie was an all-world talent along side him, and had proven in Jordan’s absence that he could lead a team in his own way to the brink. Maybe if Jordan had stepped off the gas when it came to thrashing his teammates, there would have been legitimate reserve fuel to go for 7. Honestly, this feels like a fish story with Mike saying he’d come back for one more run. And there was the incident where he snipped the end of his finger on a cigar cutter. Another downside to that nasty habit. I remember at the time people were reporting that Jordan could no longer palm the ball after the cigar cutter thing. Cradling the ball with one hand and taunting defenders was such a big part of Jordan’s game, especially late era Jordan. Maybe the fingertip thing was the last straw for the last dance.

Crazy piano Mike

I like this image of Mike in his hotel room playing the piano as the paparazzi snapped photos. It isn’t really an interview. It’s just the cameras being there when Jordan is finally getting to take a breath. He’s crazy at the piano and saying all sorts of stuff. Unfiltered. I can’t help but see his behind the scenes personality as some kind of a late 1990s Denzel Washington character. Maybe it’s Training Day merged with He Got Game. Mike is just constantly running his mouth with supreme confidence. It forced his game to back up his enormous mouth. I guess that’s a decent motivating engine. Talk yourself into a corner so much that you have no choice but to come out and be the undisputed greatest of all time. King Kong ain’t got nothing on Michael Jordan.

I’d like to see some kind of fever dream film capturing this version of Jordan. Crazy piano, cigar Mike. I imagine a multi-perspective film like Todd Hayne’s near Dylan biopic “I’m Not There.” There could be half a dozen Jordan’s cast. Denzel Washington, Michael B. Jordan, and anyone else who can channel something about Crazy piano Mike. We’d follow these versions of Jordan around, betting on what color car was about to pass by, dancing extemporaneously to his own piano music and challenging everyone and anyone within earshot. Set it all to a late 80s, early 90s soundtrack and you might get something with visual poem aspirations like the Unauthorized Bash Brothers Experience crossed with the Todd Haynes art house vibe.

Last thoughts on the Last Dance

Wow, I can’t believe that’s over. What a perfect time capsule of an era. I felt dropped right back into those NBA seasons in the late 90s. I remember how all the twists and turns and drama felt at the time. While there wasn’t much new for Jordan fanatics, the way it was stitched together and filled with all the main personalities was well crafted. It was an enjoyable experience. I can’t help but feel the heavy hand of Jordan’s perspective on the series, but as they say, winners write history. Maybe one day we will get a fair, balanced and contentious version of what happened with Michael and the Bulls. But as a Michael Jordan fan, I’ve always been here for Jordan propaganda. Especially when the footage is so ample and gorgeous. 

The lingering questions from The Last Dance remain unanswered and will resonate forward. What did the greatness of Michael Jordan mean? Did it have wider, inspirational substance that mattered outside of the game of basketball? Or is Jordan’s story a hyper competitive distillation of what happens when the American Dream crosses paths with Corporate America. The result of the non-stop competitive drive accelerated change in sport, media, business and beyond. One man was able to use the system to his advantage, paying some sort of untold price in the process. What happens to Michael Jordan the man? The man who traded his mortality on the promise of becoming a myth and a logo for excellence. After the transaction, what is left of the man? The brand and empire marches on, meaning different things to millions of people. But what does the legacy mean to Michael? Would he change anything about what happened on his journey? It all feels so carved in stone, now that the statues have been erected and armies of feet are clad in signature Air Jordans of every possible configuration. But what lies behind the myth? What is left of the young, bleeding heart of a skinny kid from North Carolina? What remains of the man after the music of the last dance has stopped? The simple, yet complex question remains: Was it worth it?

“THE LAST DANCE” REVIEWED - EPISODE 9

“It became personal with me...”

When Jordan was playing, he was a living legend. Especially on his second three-peat. He was the pop culture equivalent of The Beatles. Sure players competed against him, but they were also clearly in awe of him. After the game Jordan would get approached by his opponents asking for an autograph, or if they were really brave, a pair of Air Jordans.

Reggie Miller was not like this.

Reggie Miller was a vaudeville villain on the NBA stage. He was an anarchist whose game was fueled by entire arenas booing him. He didn’t care about being likable. He was scrappy and deadly. A last second competitor who you’d want to take the last shot. Kind of like Jordan. While Reggie’s game wasn’t the mesmerizing air show of Jordan’s, Miller was a killer competitor. One of the few guys who would take it right at Jordan. He, like Jordan was also one of the legendary trash talkers of the 1990s. When these two guys clashed, there was no love lost. There were no sneaker exchanges. It’s a marvel they actually got Reggie to appear in this documentary. Ah, brings back the memories. When Jordan was out of the game playing baseball, Miller was one of the league’s brightest stars. He wasn’t going to give up the spotlight just because MJ was back in the building.

“Michael lived a different life than the rest of us,” Steve Kerr

Although basketball is a team game, Michael Jordan stood out too much to just be one of the guys. And by the end of the Bulls prodigious run, it was very much Jordan and the Bulls. You get the feeling from this documentary that it was a pretty solitary situation for Michael. He was going to the same practice gym as everyone else, but his net worth and cultural impact was on a completely different level. How could anyone relate to him at this point? Judging by the interviews with his teammates, they were always kind of kept at arms length. The weight of responsibility fell almost solely on Jordan. Sure the losses stung everyone, but Jordan was a myth maker, and he couldn’t risk a high profile failure or embarrassment. Now was no time to appear human. That’s what his 1995 comeback was about. A chance to see Jordan, the mortal. There was now no need to repeat that story beat in this myth. This was all about getting to the top of three mountains once again. There was poetry to it. There was a certain rhythm to it.

“We’re going to win game 7”

I’m struck by how sheepish and nervous Jordan looks when he makes his guarantee. It’s not supreme confidence. It’s not swagger. He is forced into giving an answer, and he tip toes into it. It’s kind of funny now to see the doubt on his face. He and the Bulls would go take care of business, but this series was clearly no gimme.

That Indiana Pacer team was a juggernaut too. They had a deeper, tougher bench than Chicago. They could keep sending big bodies at Jordan and the Bulls, and over a seven game series, it wasn’t inconceivable that they would be able to wear them down. Also, with Larry Bird as their coach, he held a psychological key that could used against Jordan. The series ended up going seven games and was riveting playoff basketball. The Bulls would advance in the last seconds of game 7, but as Jordan admitted, this Pacer team was their greatest obstacle in this three-peat. An exhausted Bulls team would advance to the Finals, again.

“THE LAST DANCE” REVIEWED - EPISODE 8

“I’m back”

As baseball was put on indefinite hold, the NBA season moved forward. The Bulls, led by Scottie Pippen, were in striking distance of a return to their former glory. You know there was a part of Jordan that didn’t want Scottie to get all the shine of bringing the Bulls another title. Suddenly, you started getting Sportscenter nightly updates about how Jordan was seen at dinner with a former teammate, or how he’d crashed a Bulls practice session. The rumors started to grow, maybe MJ was going to un-retire and pick up where he left off.

Sure enough, he did return. And while he looked like the world’s best basketball player when he stepped back in the iconic red Bulls uniform, his game showed obvious rust. He’d been away for a year and a half concentrating on basketball after all. He looked human. And while it was fun to have him back, we were all left wondering if he would ever be the superhero we remembered him as.

Knocked out by Magic

Jordan was essentially returning to a post-Jordan version of the NBA. And the Orlando Magic were the rising team on everyone’s radar. They were powered by two of the leagues most dynamic personalities: Shaquille O’Neal and Penny Hardaway. It’s hard to remember now, but before injuries, Penny was a new kind of NBA beast. Long-armed and high flying. He was a point guard who could score on command. He and Shaq played the most entertaining brand of basketball in the league. Penny seemingly picked up right where Jordan left off. Even getting his own line of signature sneakers and iconic Nike commercials featuring a puppet version of him called Lil Penny. It was marketing gold. Penny kept winning and his sneakers became a cultural phenomenon. 

In a post-Jordan first NBA retirement, Penny Hardaway was king.

So it was only fitting that Jordan would return to take on his heir apparent. But Orlando was at the height of their powers when they met the Bulls. Chicago was still trying to figure out how to work Jordan back into their system, and he was still trying to turn himself back into an unstoppable force. It was simply too soon. And the Magic ended up knocking the Bulls out and taking the Eastern Conference crown.

There is a lasting image of a defeated Jordan, at the end of the Bulls’ bench, looking across the court at the celebrating Orlando team. He looks sickened. He looks furious. And you can tell there is something brewing inside of him. In defeat, his fires had been rekindled. His reaction and commitment to coming all the way back would lead to an era of dominance even more impressive than the Bulls’ first three-peat. But for now, the off-season beckoned.

But more specifically, Intergalactic basketball playing monsters beckoned…

Space Jam

Man, those pickup games during the Space Jam filming must have been legendary. I love how Mike extended the invite for everyone to come out and play. It was like his test drive to see where everyone’s game was really out. The ultimate scouting mission. He wanted to get comfortable with everyone before he had to face them in battle again. And he was establishing himself as the king by calling everyone out to come and kiss the ring before his comeback fully kicked in. 

And from an advertising and branding perspective, Space Jam was about 25 years ahead of its time. Talk about branded content. That’s the power of Michael Jordan and Nike to pull off a two hour shoe commercial disguised as a feature film. All based on an actual shoe spot from the year before. Talk about unstoppable branding power. I believe I can fly indeed!

Watching the best team of all time, live

I saw MJ and the Bulls play live during their mythic 72-10 season. They were in town to play the Portland Trailblazers and my Dad and I got tickets. Now I’d been to lots of games before and since then, but having MJ in the building was different. Even in a large space, even from the nosebleeds, you could feel his presence taking up the entire Rose Garden arena with its 22,000 person capacity. No one else had that kind of force with them. 

We showed up early to the game, because hey, Jordan was in town and maybe we could catch an extra glimpse of him. Sure enough we did. Hours before the actual game, MJ was out there on the court by himself. Before there was any sort of crowd assembled. When there was just media and team staff milling about. But MJ was out there on the court, putting in work. This wasn’t the playoffs. Portland wasn’t even good at the time. This was a “meaningless” game in February. But Michael Jordan was the only player on the court, hours before tipoff, working on his game. This stuck with me.

This was his first year after his baseball exodus, and watching him warm up, you could feel that he wasn’t satisfied with his level. Specifically, he was working on his post up and signature fadeaway. The weapon that would come to define his second three-peat. I watched as he repeated the same moves, over and over and over again. He would flip the ball up in the air, and let it backspin into him, like he was simulating a pass from someone else. Then he’d catch it in a crouched position, and take a series of dribbles. One or two shoulder fakes later, he would rise up, floating backwards and release the shot with a perfect arch and backspin. At one point, someone on the Bulls’ staff came out and fed him some passes in the post. But mostly, it was just MJ on his own, in an empty stadium. I kept wondering, if Michael’s the best, how come the guys who aren’t as good weren’t out there putting in work? Oh, this is the difference I remembered thinking. It would inspire me to love practicing on my own before and after games, and learning to feel those extra repetitions paying off.

I was literally at this game. And now it’s a GIF. Maybe I’m one of the specks in the background.

Hours later the game started, and Jordan was electric. Even on a meaningless February game. The Bulls’ offense was perfectly spaced as they had become masters of Phil Jackson’s triangle offense. The ball constantly kept moving. Around the perimeter. In and out. Guys finding the open man. The Bulls moved like the ultimate well-oiled machine. And every two or three times down the court, Michael would end up in the post, in the exact spot he had been practicing before the game. The results were the same too. Picture perfect fadeaways over JR Rider, or whatever Trailblazer defender was trying to stop him that night. Jordan cruised to about 30 in the Bulls’ win. Every time he touched the ball, the arena charged up again. This is what we were paying for. Even in the 300-level, you could feel Jordan’s signature competitive spirit. As he chomped through his gum and the Portland defense. This was basketball on another plane. And we were all witnesses to one of the greatest seasons every put together in team sports.

Giving The Glove a slap in the face

Wow, this segment about the Bulls versus Sonics series in 1996 has already turned into a meme. When Jordan was wiggling his head and cackling at Gary Payton claiming he “slowed Mike down,” is already plastered over the internet. I mean, the Bulls did win the series, but Payton was defensive player of the year. And it’s also true that the Sonics won two games as soon as Payton started guarding Jordan. The stats actually show that Jordan’s numbers and shooting percentages went down. That was the narrative at the time soon. With the media criticizing Sonics’ coach George Karl for not having Payton guard Jordan earlier in the series. I don’t know what Jordan attributes his dip in production too. But hey, champions get to write their own history and end up on the winning side of all the memes. 

Nevertheless, respect to Gary Payton and an additional shoutout to Shawn Kemp. Again, look at the YouTube highlights and Google Kemp’s stats. The guy actually made a case for being series MVP in a losing cause. He gave a gritty, iconic Finals performance.