Today, wrote for <\/a>BK Magazine <\/a>about how <\/a>You Can See Everything<\/a> is a movie about prison<\/a>. Got to put on my lawyer hat for a moment and appreciate how subtly radical it is that a movie of this size gets this close to representing the experience of life behind bars (and, of loving people behind bars). Spoilers somewhat abound, but if you read this blog you have probably already seen this movie and annoyed your loved ones about it plenty. <\/p>\n Onto the main event: The Never Hungover 2026-27 Brooklyn Nets Season Preview<\/p>\n What happens when you die? Does your life continue flashing before your now un-openable eyes, spiraling increasingly quickly until you realize that you\u2019re a child again and that this is all there is? Does your spirit begin to float above your physical form, noticing with equal parts horror and serene acceptance that you are unable to communicate with the loved ones huddled around that body which once housed you? Do you go to heaven? Hell? Are you reborn as something new, whether a blade of grass or a king? <\/p>\n Last summer, the Brooklyn Nets finally died. And yet, for the first time since the pandemic, I am unreservedly thrilled to watch the Brooklyn Nets play basketball. There\u2019s an oft-repeated misconception that this upcoming Nets season serves as the beginning of the team\u2019s future. The truth, in fact, is that watching this year\u2019s Nets will be an exercise in living in the present tense. There is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow. There is only a team that, by pursuing the ostensibly mundane and obvious goal of winning games, may well prove the existence of life after death. <\/p>\n In the late hours of June 13, 2026, if you could dodge autonomous Kalshi robots<\/a> doing the shmoney dance outside of Madison Square Garden, weave around the line of ecstatic customers outside of Josh Hart and Mikal Bridges\u2019 Chipotle<\/a>, push through the horde of transplants singing the \u201cconcrete jungle where dreams are made of\u201d song in the West Village, rerouted past the would-be Mamdani-run bodegas temporarily seized by Polymarket to hawk Brunson Egg and Cheeses<\/a> by the promotional bagful, and emerged unscathed from the hubbub of a city full of people committed to having the greatest night of their lives to stand outside of the deserted, rusting hull sitting at the corner of Flatbush and Atlantic, if you could train your ears just so, you might have heard the sound of a merciful gunshot ring through the Barclays Center. That night, the inevitable came to pass: the Brooklyn Nets, such as they were, were unceremoniously put down. The move from New Jersey to Brooklyn, the all-in push for a bunch of geriatric Celtics that treated draft capital like a credit card, the then-as-farce redux after a one-year good vibes respite, the trading a bunch of picks again but this time it\u2019s for James Harden and he\u2019s outstanding just outstanding you always thought he was a grifter but here in front of you is a man with a level of control over the game that you\u2019ve never seen but he pulls his hamstring and then heroically further fucks up his hamstring to serve as a decoy for his buddy Kevin Durant to almost singlehandedly (lest we forget Jeff Green) scrape the Nets past the wicked Milwaukee Bucks and into a championship but who then before signing a contract extension is like the proverbial \u201choe\u201d scared by Kyrie Irving\u2019s antics the burning of sage in the locker room the Theories all of it and that\u2019s fine sure but not playing home games because he won\u2019t get vaccinated is a bridge too far meaning in a year\u2019s time what the Nets actually traded all those draft picks for was the ghost of Ben Simmons, the Mikal Bridges interregnum, the tank that landed a Russian twink and his personal Mossad detail followed by the tank that landed the sixth pick\u2014all an unbroken chain of cosmic punishment for the hubris of attempting to claw New York City away from the Knicks. The project of the Brooklyn Nets was always destined to end in an irrelevant whimper; it took weeks before their body was reported. <\/p>\n Around the time that the Knicks bested the world, I found myself serendipitously reading Jackie Ess\u2019s Darryl<\/a>, a taut novel about a cuck\u2019s journey of self-discovery. That I could identify within a novel about cuckoldry a great number of strains of my own experience with fandom was a purely psychedelic experience. Representation is often presented as a balm; here, it was anguish. It was not clear that I could continue on the path that I had charted for myself. I had to uncouple. <\/p>\n And yet, what I found through the passage of time was that there was a certain bliss in having my personal hell\u2014the Knicks atop the world, the Nets condemned to something below irrelevance\u2014come to pass. My private fear had been made real, and life continued. The Nets, having been banished from the draft\u2019s top five through the cruel and unusual NBA draft lottery, selected a plucky and hyper-skilled guard with potentially fabricated back problems incongruent with his preteen face, and I began to feel a sort of paternal affection toward him. Julius Randle, the sacrificial lamb of New York basketball, waltzed into town. Michael Porter Jr. asked the hard questions<\/a>: is love compatible with cheating, can a man be so straight that he would have been queer if born a woman, are demons real? Egor D\u00ebmin turned hot and asked an even harder question: \u201cWho\u2019s running Bushwick?\u201d I was watching Summer League, skipping plans to catch preseason action, back in the fold anew. <\/p>\n You see, nothing can hurt Brooklyn Nets fans anymore. There are no more ping pong balls left to bounce incorrectly, no more existential villains with mountaintops left to summit. The Knicks could win again and it wouldn\u2019t matter because we have survived it once; the Sixers could win and it wouldn\u2019t matter because the Knicks would have lost; the Celtics could win and it would be pretty funny. The Nets have no incentive other than to try and win as many games as they can, despite the fact that the best-case scenario on the year is for them to sneak into the Play-In Tournament, of which tournament the best-case scenario would be their decimation at the hands of a rival juggernaut. I feel the peace that one feels settling into a rocking chair on the porch, watching the sun set after a day of back-breaking work, appreciating anew each one of life\u2019s mundane miracles. <\/p>\n The Nets\u2019 season will not always feel as blissful as it does now in the abstract. Already, fault lines have emerged. Egor D\u00ebmin, who has embarked upon a mission to stress-test the primacy of aura by spending as much time looksmaxxing as he did practicing his drive kick-outs, sacrificed a summer of progress with his garish tattooo of Mother Mary. <\/p>\n
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