The Roots have given me a top-10 concert experience and a top 10 favorite song. Black Thought doesn’t even start rappin’ until a minute into the track. I can’t wait to hear the new album.

It’s why I wear a doo-rag.

No, it goes much farther back than that jheri curl I wore in the ’80s. Doo-rags actually have almost nothing to do with my process at the keyboard. I started writing at the 1970s’ end — when I began smoking pot. Of marijuana’s many benefits is that it spurs an urge to record.

It’s not something that constantly flows, the impetus to document. Not if you’re a do-er, it doesn’t. That’s why I’ve made Mary Jane an important part of my writing day’s beginning. In the pre-dawn hours I medicate, have coffee and write online, just to get myself in gear.

This is something I failed to address in conducting a workshop on memoir at last weekend’s Southern California Writers Conference. My focus was on reporting one’s past so as to know the story. I also tried to hammer home to the aspiring scribes that writing is reading. It’s difficult to ever re-write and edit too much.

So much info I didn’t have time to share. Like, I need to space out. A lot, on some days. Short bike rides or sessions shooting free throws are solid crutches for me. Napping is important, as is critically reading a strong piece of writing before bed. I’m one to write early, while my subconcious and those last powerful words still have a relationship.

Of the many Irvine gatherers that I spoke to, one stood out most as someone who left the conference with more than she had arrived with as a writer. A young woman who had not written professionally, she sought to enliven reports — something like a police department newsletter.

In my session on how to apply fictional devices to reporting-oriented writing, I gave her tips: Use the language and humor of the workplace. As her audience is a very observant group, specific interesting details should underpin every piece of her writing. Simple stuff, no doubt. Still, it was gratifying when the kid told me that I’d provided her best workshop of the conference.

Lots of precocious writers out there, which is reassuring. Keynote speaker Robert S. Ward, too, comforted when he said:

“Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise: Writing is hard work.”

Around 6 a.m. in Venice, while I’m sitting on my porch listening to the planet and the radio, as I’m medicating or having a cigarette, I try to make the work less difficult. No matter what, it only gets so easy.

Ten a.m. and I’m already behind.

Maybe I’m nuts, but I swear that I saw raw material of the supposedly outrageous Richard Prince photo of a photo of the then-child star. It’s pretty memorable.

Roman Polanski is making big news and gathering strong opinions, but Europe’s no monolith where protecting youth sexuality is concerned. England’s panties are in a bunch about Prince’s photo and its place in an upcoming show at the Tate Museum.

The execution and dissemination of the Shields image — originally by Garry Gross — may well be wrong. Back in the day, I thought it was awesome. I was closer to 10 than 20 and had little memory of how a naked 10-year-old girl looked. The photo’s disconcerting, yet surprisingly educational.

Also, what the critics mean in describing Brooke as pubescent is that her, um, garden apartment was fully carpeted.

The critics are being literal.

The star USC running back’s injury sadly reminds me of The D.O.C. In terms of scoring touchdowns for the Trojans this season, no one has done it better.

Don’t you wonder what happened the night before? Did Johnson get a lot of sleep the night before this workout? It’s such an odd circumstance.

Update: I was at the gym this afternoon, wondering if the row of press benches seemed less busy than usual. And then it hit me, what Stefon Johnson’s horrific injury reminds me of:

A horror movie. Specifically, the most memorable scene in a forgettable flick, Happy Birthday to Me:

The scene shifts again and we find Greg, lying on a bench, pumping some iron. He finishes his reps and places the barbell on the stand. Our tennis shoe friend shows up, and Greg recognizes whoever it is but doesn’t realize the danger. He asks the killer to spot him and add some more weight, and then continues bench pressing. After several reps, the killer slides the barbell stand away. Greg holds the barbell above his head (I assume he’s too tired to just drop it over his head and roll out of the way) and pleads for the killer to put the stand back. But the killer takes another weight and drops it on to Greg’s crotch, causing him to drop the barbell; it crushes his neck, and he spits up a fountain of blood. (Okay, if it is Rudy, he just killed the wrong guy.) Later, Amelia shows up with some pizza but finds the bench press equipment in perfect order. (So the killer brought a mop?)

Johnson is expected to make a full recovery. Good thing, too. He’s a good little back. Can’t wait to see him play next year.

A story written in the days when I felt I was in career jail.

The next book will come out and some will be all like: Eh, the blog is better.

Whatever though. It’s all my work to me.

Take best advantage of that link. Not all of you, but some of you may qualify for free shipping. If it comes to mind, write a review. I need positive Indian press.

Ron Shelton told a really great story here. Have you even heard of Steve Dalkowski?

Ted Williams stepped in for one pitch during a spring training game and walked away. “Fastest I ever saw,” he said. Teddy Ballgame, who regularly faced Bob Feller and Herb Score and Ryne Duren, wanted no part of Dalko.

I’ve never heard this one. Dalko inspired Shelton to write Bull Durham. For that we we give thanks.

Saw Black Dynamite last night. Great title, decent film. It’s a lovingly made send-up of blaxploitation flicks. (70s martial arts, too.)

For about an hour, Black Dynamite is really, really funny. Then the gimmick wears thin. And, basically, you can leave. Don’t worry. Trust me.

The film really looks great. There are lots of cool jokes and commentary. Thing is, we need to re-think feature film lengths.

I saw Dr. Horrible for the first time the other night. At about 45 minutes, it seemed a perfect length. Black Dynamite is a great film if it comes in under 65 minutes.

Anyway, I thought we were talkin’ sports here. What the fuck is your problem?

As arguably the Dodgers most avid Negro fan, I’m really excited about what they’re doing. Billingsley sounded amazing on the radio last night. Just one bad pitch spoiled the performance.

On a personal note, drafting bargains Andre Ethier, James Loney and Matt Kemp has made my fantasy season, thusfar. I’ve led my league for 90 percent of the season. (Ryan Zimmerman was a great pick, too.) Those guys won’t be had for cheap again until their bodies break down.

No more fantasy talk. I swear this.

Another thing. Not sports, actually, but this business with the bursting water mains is freaking me out. Worst case scenario: L.A. is going through an infrastructure meltdown.

Back to sports.

You wonder if Pete Carroll watches Jets games. Is the footage not available to him?

Goodbye now, on some deadspin Plaxico and Dykstra shit.

This seems a good time to point out that I’m not actually obsessed with race. Thinking about that shit is like a gig for me. Through the life of this blog, I’ve been working on books about gangsta rap. And the issues just keep spilling off the page and onto the blog. However that works.

This morning I was listening to Nas while breaking from manuscript revisions and surfing the Internet. It happened that Michael Wolff, a guy among my favorite journalists since he had a column in New York, wrote a typically insightful piece on ACORN.

This blogger wrote a bunch of words about ACORN called Ultimate Nigganigans. He did not have the balls to actually publish it. (Yep, it happens.) (Too distracted to address anything more heavy than fantasy football.) (I’m leading my Yahoo public league, btw.)

It might be best to let Wolff do the thinking on the notorious ACORN video, for now:

What does this mean, other than that all culture and discourse is reduced to America’s funniest home videos?

Not all culture. For one, there’s never been a home video called Ultimate Nigganigans. That would be some serious shit right there.

He really fuckin’ likes me!

Finally, it can be said: Skip Gates is my nigga.

Alright. I’m lyin’, I admit to having no proof. That aside, it’s kinda
cool that this morning, the prof’s respected site, The Root, re-ran my piece on racial divisions between MySpace and Facebook. Connects from FB can tell the reporting is dated by my citing of 450 friends.

Good stuff, if I remember. (I’ve not yet re-read the thing.) (Might suck.) Seems I’m going through something of a Re-print Renaissance. The Michael Jordan product is nice, as ESPN published me in with a bunch of old-school big-name writers. David Halberstam, Mike Downey, Rick Telander.) And Sam Perkins, whose game I really admired.

Be careful not to read anything into this brush with professional viability, sports fans. The bump prolly has more to do with tightening editorial budgets more than anything. I’ll become excited when checks start arriving at the crib.