I was always fascinated with locating a new Navedo when the updated white pages arrived in my apartment building lobby. I’d ask my mother if she was familiar with a first name or address. Was it possible that I was distantly related to one of these strangers? If so, was there any chance they knew I even existed? Sometimes my last name feels like a special club when it’s not an enormous burden.

Truthfully, it didn’t really matter, because I was never going to call any one of them. Curiosity was my only motivation. I was 10 years old, using my chubby little fingers to thumb through and scan the fine pages of a New York phone bible. This was an analog Facebook without the actual faces.

Still, I’d examine those columns for names and numbers I might recognize like I was deciphering a code on an ancient scroll. For a little while, I even tried to identify patterns between phone numbers and neighborhoods. Absolutely strange, I know. This was being done by a kid who had a Sega Genesis to play when he was bored.

My objective became a little less foggy once I browsed through the last names starting with “S” in the overwhelming collection. I was going to find R.L. Stine. And I was going to call him.

*****

When I wasn’t busy being an existential 10-year-old kid mystified with the sheer volume of New York City residents, I was busy being an annoying 10-year-old kid prank calling some of those New Yorkers with my friends. We entertained the idea of finding a popular rapper or athlete in the phone book and getting them good — if we could hold our laughter long enough to actually say something funny.

My decision to find R.L. Stine was my secret, though.

His “Goosebumps” and “Fear Street” books were too significant in my life to even consider bothering him with bad jokes from snickering kids. So, I made myself mature about the plan. Besides, I needed to be absolutely certain that the Robert Stine in the white pages was the same R.L. Stine whose pages I read feverishly.

Now that I really think of it, I was sleuthing long before ever embracing a journalism career. Thanks to a detailed ‘About the Author’ page in the back of each book, I knew that R.L Stine lived near Central Park, and my mother confirmed that one of the addresses in the white pages was close enough. And that was close enough for me.

I thought about writing him a letter, but I was too insecure about my handwriting. I still am today, actually, so my sincerest thanks to technology for all its wonderful advancements. Typing wasn’t really an option, anyway. Remember: this was around 1993 or 1994, so even if you were lucky enough to have a computer, you probably didn’t have a printer.

Calling R.L. Stine was the move. Definitely.

I jotted down some talking points, because if it was really him, and if he really answered, I was going to be really nervous. There was no actual endgame with this plan. All I wanted to do was express how much I enjoyed his books, let him know that I was a fan, and thank him for his work. Should be easy enough without sounding psychotic, right?

After cracking as many of my knuckles as possible and puffing from my asthma inhaler, I grabbed the phone. It was go time. And then I was talking to R.L. Stine’s answering machine.

I don’t remember what I said, but I’m sure there was a lot of nervous stammering and inaudible mumbling. I was thisclose to speaking with a personal hero, and made a fool of myself on his machine — I was sure of it.

*****

The phone rang, but my mother was home so I didn’t need to answer it. That wasn’t a house rule, just some self-imposed etiquette to which I adhered. Her home, her phone, she answers. No one ever calls to speak with a 10-year-old kid, anyway, so I never paid attention when she spoke. In fact, she insisted that adult conversations were none of my business, and I listened.

When she handed the phone to me, I assumed it was just a family member wanting to ask how school was going and when I’d visit — as if the decision was mine. Boring stuff.

“Hi, Angel. This is R.L. Stine returning your call.”

I still remember my smile, one of those wide ones you feel in your eyes. My happiness was stronger than my shock. With split-second reasoning, I decided that this made enough sense to really be happening. I mean, why wouldn’t R.L. Stine call me back? I left a message on his answering machine and knowing who called so you can call that person back is why answering machines were made, right? (It’s not like voicemail today, reserved for those calls you intentionally ignore.)

R.L Stine didn’t sound how I expected. He wrote horror novels, so of course I imagined a raspy whisper. But this voice was affable, if not a little hesitant. I can’t recall the conversation verbatim, but I do remember when he asked how I found his number. Back in the 90s, people forgot that they had to opt out of the white pages to be unlisted.

We spoke for a few minutes, and I think I kept my cool well enough to stabilize the turbulence within. The talking points I prepared were nowhere to be found, but I don’t think my vision would have worked well enough for me in the moment anyway.

“Do you think you could come to my school and speak to my class?”

Do you think you could come to my school and speak to my class?!?!

The question stunned me as it much as it probably stunned him. A 10-year-old kid doesn’t have the right compass to navigate the murky waters between agents, publishers, and school administration to bring the most prominent children’s horror author EVER to a small fifth grade class in a Catholic school somewhere in Spanish Harlem. I didn’t have anyone’s permission; R.L. Stine probably didn’t have the time. But there was my question, floating across a phone line somewhere between my Spanish Harlem apartment and his Central Park home.

R.L. Stine played it cool, though. He thanked me for reading his books and for calling. I thanked him for calling back. I let him hang up first.

Unfortunately, he never made it to my school. I informed my teacher about the conversation with R.L. Stine, hoping that she’d get the ball rolling. I mean, I did all the legwork already, right? All she had to do was get someone to make it official. No one did anything.

I like to think he would have shown up.

*****

I did not save R.L. Stine’s phone number, especially since I never planned to actually call him again. When the updated stack of white pages arrived in my building lobby once more, I noticed that Robert Stine was no longer listed.

That’s cool. I respect his privacy. But I’m totally tweeting this to him.

One of the hardest things about losing weight and improving health, aside from finding the motivation to actually DO it, is avoiding all the tempting temptation from gimmicks designed to convince people that it’s easier than they think (looking at you, Skechers Shape-Ups).

The Nike+ FuelBand isn’t a volatile drill sergeant or an affable personal trainer — working out and becoming active is still entirely up to you — but it is a quality tool for helping you become your own motivator.

By pandering to our selfish need for feeling like accomplished adults, Nike developed a lightweight, high-tech wristband to monitor one’s activity while progressing toward self-appointed daily goals. Nike’s invented unit of measure for Fuel points gives us a score to digest, while the scientists at Swoosh let their algorithms calculate said Fuel for estimates of calories burned, steps taken, distance travelled, and total time active.

The important thing to take away here is how effective the FuelBand is in shaming you for being lazy.

No, it doesn’t insult or criticize you, because that’s not the Nike way. It just tells you what an average day is for fuel points and, depending on your competitive drive, challenges you to be better than that. It’s really open to your interpretation.

For someone like me, with a lot of work to do before returning to respectable health and wellness, the FuelBand is a daily reminder that I can and should do more — because there are digital congratulations waiting for me at the end of the day on my wrist and iPhone to keep pushing me along.

Ever since the Xbox 360 introduced achievements for gaming goals, people have joked about how relentlessly gamers pursue these tasks to measure accomplishments that have no tangible place in reality. It redefined gaming for this generation because gamerscores serve as an acknowledgment of one’s remarkable efforts.

That’s what the FuelBand does. Set a goal, and let that geek spirit carry you to it by completing miscellaneous activities for the payoff.

*****

My first day with the FuelBand began at night. It was an evening purchase at Niketown in Manhattan’s Midtown on Friday, Mar. 23. There were about 4-5 hours left in the day, leaving me with no chance to reach the 2,000 goal. The weekend thereafter was spent trying to better understand the FuelBand and which activities actually register as Fuel.

The salespeople explained that Fuel is associated more with wrist activity (which made me snicker because I’m 14) and how it relates to activities like walking or running or basketball. This is particularly troublesome for those active folks who are more into cycling than jogging. Swimmers might benefit from the FuelBand, but the technology is definitely streamlined for more traditional workouts.

To make the FuelBand work for me, it was going to need a lot more work from me.

Last Monday, I started a membership at my local gym. The decision was powered by my weight and an overwhelming desire to stop being fat. It wasn’t my first time coming to that realization and trying to do something about it. But like every failed diet and brisk treadmill stroll before it, I hesitated to improve because I feared my desire to quit when results took too long.

I didn’t realize it until right before I started writing this sentence, but the FuelBand alleviates the pressure of seeing physical results. It provides you with daily data for your activity. I can’t become disenchanted with exercise when I have a device monitoring the intensity of my physical exertion.

Impatience is a problem, especially when the projections for improvement aren’t happening at the desired pace. I want to know where the damn six pack is and when I can take my shirt off in public without shame.

But now when you don’t see the preferred results, it’s because, Shit! I was much less active today! Pinpointing the exact moment where you staggered, or even intensified your activity, arms you with the necessary knowledge to build fuel more consistently.

You look back at your day and wonder why your activity dipped in the afternoon, and then you embrace the idea of filling that time with exercise.

I’m more cognizant of my inactivity. (For example, writing this is taking entirely too long.) So I’m challenging myself to do more for longer spikes of activity — to maintain a higher level of physical exertion so the FuelBand data reflects my dedication to this New and Improved Angel.

Granted, I’m still new to this, but the logic is infallible.

Most of Thursday was wasted in front of my laptop.

I haven’t been playing around since getting this. Call me a sucker for clever marketing, but Nike’s “Make It Count” campaign has resonated with me since strapping the FuelBand on my wrist.

Escalators in the subway? Nope. Doesn’t count. I’m taking the stairs. Money clip still upstairs as I walk out the door? That used to annoy me, but now it’s cool because running back for it actually #counts.

*****

Once consumers fully embrace the FuelBand (and Nike+ fully integrates with Twitter and Android phones), one of the cooler functions of Nike+ and the FuelBand should become a more significant selling point. This is especially true if the competitive streak in you enjoys being antagonized.

We can always challenge ourselves against our own metrics, but toe-to-toe sport against friends and acquaintances is where it really gets stimulating. Right now, we have the option to link Nike+ with Facebook to track friends and their activity on NikePlus.com. It’s a barometer to gauge just how active you really are among your peers. But the network needs to expand, particularly if the company you keep on Facebook aren’t keen on the concept of a $150 wristband.

At the moment, I only have one friend using the FuelBand and he’s an athletic dude. His daily output is a great target for me, but this man was a track star in college, and I was a mediocre football player in high school. I can’t keep up with him yet. Doesn’t mean I won’t try.

Peripheral features like that will change the way we exercise. It’s still personal and independent, but social when we need it most — like having a gym partner you don’t have to converse with all the time.

Courtesy of: http://pspgamesandmedia.blogspot.com/

This is merely a drop in the ocean but, after careful deliberation, I’ve decided to delay my purchase of Sony’s new PS Vita. Yes, that feeling is the earth rumbling beneath your feet following this thunderous declaration.

But, to be clear, “delay” means that I intend to wait until the device and its software are fully recognized and established as a worthy investment. I will jump on the bandwagon after it gains a substantial amount of steam, and pretend I was always there.

Now, I’m fully aware of and enticed by the PS Vita’s specs and alleged handheld-gaming innovations. It’s also ranking very high in my sleek and sexy category. So high, in fact, that I’m looking forward to “Saturday Night Live” using the Vita to make technology hump. But I’m still hesitant. Long-time consumers know that this wouldn’t be the first time Sony’s impressed with a tech sheet for an underwhelming final product.

The PlayStation 3 disappointed for approximately two years after its release (and an absurd launch price), and the original PlayStation Portable blazed the trail before it.

*****

It’s been nearly seven years since Sony released their first PSP and I still tell war stories while pointing to my wallet’s scars from that fateful, hefty, and impulsive purchase. Sony promised a quality gaming experience in 2005 with their PSP, but left me with only a learning experience.

The most basic PS Vita is launching at the same $249 that Sony slapped on the original PSP years ago. But if you were among the early-adopting suckers buyers, then you probably remember how quickly your $249 investment escalated. For me, two new games at $40 a piece and a 1GB Pro Duo Memory Stick, priced at an absurd $129, vacuumed approximately $500 from my wallet in one afternoon.

Funny enough, a 1GB Pro Duo stick is about $5 now on Amazon. The value on technological memory might depreciate quickly and lose its value, but my human memory does not. It’s ripe, baby!

That original PSP is now an ancient paperweight. “Slim” PSP models with new colors and themes for anticipated titles, like God of War and Star Wars versions, kept hitting the market — making my original PSP look like a clunky, impossible-to-carry Zack Morris-esque cell phone.

After a little more than a year with the fat boy, I traded the PSP into Gamestop with a few games for a significant loss. I don’t remember the exact total credited to me, but I’m pretty sure it barely covered the cost of two new console games. That broke my heart.

My decision to part with the PSP happened because I wasn’t actually playing games on the damn thing. The library was dreadful and anyone arguing to the contrary is a liar. God of War wasn’t a thing yet, we were all making due with the Grand Theft Auto titles, and people weren’t pretending to really love Patapon yet, either. It was really just low-quality Madden games for me.

Ultimately, the PSP became an mp3 and video player until I accepted the iPod as a more efficient alternative. Plus, no more need to donate blood for a bigger Pro Duo chip with Apple.

In the end, that was $500 down the drain in a little more than a year.

*****

Then the PSP Go came along, slimmer and fancier with a slightly larger slide-up screen. I was drinking Sony’s Kool-Aid and, about two years ago, convinced the lady in my life to secure a Go for me. She loves me lots.

It was the smaller build and digital-download marketplace that lured me in, because I hated the clunky UMDs. Also, I’m convinced all media will go by way of the digital download in my lifetime so I felt like I was investing in the future. Sadly, the PSP Go was a colossal failure.

And that’s for a lot of reasons, actually. Here are the most significant to me:

• Launch Price: My lady didn’t pay $250, but with slim PSPs going for $200 in bundles, the initial price tag bordered ridiculous and insane. Especially when considering the need to rebuild one’s gaming library with digital copies.
• Missing Titles: Many great games on UMD weren’t readily available in the PlayStation store, continuing Sony’s trend of releasing new products that consumers can’t fully enjoy out of the box.
• Expensive Titles: If the $39.99 price point was defined for shipping costs, packaging, and printing, then why keep it the same for digital downloads? I received no physical manual or hard plastic case with my download. Prices needed slashing.
• VOLUME: This has actually been a PSP issue since before the Go model. The headphone audio quality is a whisper.
• Illogical PSP Go Cradle: The cradle was supposed to let me charge the PSP while I watched movies at my old job, but an illogical design disallowed me from plugging my headphones into the device while it charged. Which leads me to my next point…
• PSP Go Bluetooth Remote: I ordered this Bluetooth remote to hear my movies and now Play-Asia won’t leave me the fuck alone. Their newsletter’s unsubscribe link doesn’t work and they keep breaking through my Spam filter. This is Sony’s fault.

I still use it, though. My lady really enjoys Michael Jackson: The Experience. I think it needed Dirty Diana.

*****

With all that said, and my conscious efforts to be an educated consumer (and responsible adult, too, I guess), I’m still pretty damn stupid. Advertisements are made for people like me because I’m impressionable, impulsive, and frivolous.

Despite my experiences with Sony’s handheld shortcomings, all I need to see is something kinda cool and unique on the new PS Vita — beyond the advertised intents for usage — and I’ll be all in before I reasonably should. Just like my friend Shadow lured me into the PSP with talk of emulators and remote PS3 capabilities, the PS Vita will probably have an easy shot at my heart in a few months.

But I don’t see it being that easy this time around.

Once again, Sony is up to their same old tricks, selling overpriced “Starter Kits” to help us protect and carry our $250 toys from getting scratched. And worse yet, they’re still forcing proprietary memory units on us. Like the Pro Duo of old and the M2 with the Go, Sony has a special 32GB memory stick for the Vita.

This means we can’t use any extra 8GB MicroSD card sitting around the house. No, we must purchase an 8GB PS Vita Memory Card. It all feels too familiar. That $249 for the Wi-Fi only PS Vita becomes $270 once you grab a memory card. But are 8 whole gigabytes really sufficient with games consuming around 1-2GBs? Of course not. Throw two games, two movies, and some playlists on your Vita and you’re full. The 32GB memory card will run you $100.

It’s extortion.

It’s going to take a whole lot more than watered-down experiences with new Uncharted and Call of Duty titles to chip away the ice on my heart. Because when those games get old, and the online multiplayer experience proves even remotely unstable, I know I’ll be right back on line at Gamestop with a PS Vita and my fingers crossed for reasonable buyback value.

Let’s talk again when the slimmer, faster, and multicolored $200 bundles drop around the holidays.

My father and I at the Puerto Rican Day Parade ca. 1990

My memory really shouldn’t be this foggy, but I can’t recall the exact year this picture was taken. Honestly, I should probably utilize these top-notch reporting skills I possess and simply ask my mother to confirm, but I’m winging it instead.

Besides, there’s a context clue here that I want to use so I can feel like a wily detective.

The event and location go without question. It’s definitely the Puerto Rican Day Parade in New York, so I know I’m wearing polyester in June. My gut is settling on 1990 because my father doesn’t have his ponytail. In the 1980s, the Steven Seagal ponytail was all the rage, and my father — looking like the lead singer in TKA — was in that “long hair, don’t care” phase. But when he started working for the Sanitation Department, the locks got chopped because washing it was tedious and disgusting.

So, 1990 it is.

My family and some family friends of old went through the process to get involved in the Puerto Rican Day Parade. Their plan was to dress me as a Puerto Rican Uncle Sam, tossing fake money onto the streets from the backseat of a red convertible my mother rented from Avis. Dressing as Albizu Campos might have been too intense, as I was probably only six years old in this picture.

Letting dollars fly in the wind along Fifth Avenue was the height of luxury back then. Reagan Era, baby! For the longest time, I truly believed I was sending real dollars out into the breeze. Even as I grew older, wiser, and matured enough to better understand the value of money, part of me still believed I was making it rain with small bills during a parade. Kids are dumb.

There’s actually a very revealing psychological dialogue we can begin here about how formidable that experience was for me — especially when considering how frivolously and irresponsibly I still spend my money today. But, wepa! Let’s turn up the C&C Music Factory and think about it later.

I really wish I still had the outfit somewhere. That’s another thing I’ll need to do some reporting on when I remember to interrogate my mother. The only thing that remained years later was the top hat. It was nestled neatly on a shelf in a closet in my great-grandmother’s old apartment. I used to wear it while sitting on her plastic-covered furniture watching Nickelodeon and eating bacalaítos. Damn good times.

Fun Fact: The red convertible my mother rented for the parade was actually stolen that weekend. I suppose she got lost in the concept of showering New York with fake money and forgot that we still lived in the projects. We’ll blame the residual impact of Reaganomics combined with Dinkins era New York for that one.

Oh, just another day in the Los Angeles Lakers locker room. Reporters took notes while the Lake Show prepared for the shortened season with some free throws and rebounding drills.

And then someone decided to ask Pau Gasol an inappropriate question regarding Kobe Bryant’s personal life.

“I have to ask, because we are reporters and this is our job, but there’s a lot of rumors out there — there’s a lot of reports out there — about Kobe’s divorce. Do you know anything about that?” asked the off-camera voice.

An overall great day at work, I’d say. The question and Gasol’s response may not find a place in the sports pages, but at least there’s a camera and a YouTube account to feed that insatiable beast. Because gossip is the new name of the game.

I have to say, because I have a blog and a platform, that the reporter’s preface to that inappropriate question doesn’t justify her reasoning. Divorce is a personal matter, which Gasol should have no comment about, and doesn’t require any kind of inquiry — especially while all the details were just “rumors … reports.”

Is this really what you want to accomplish with your credentials and access? Terrible question, and my compliments to Gasol for doing the best he could in the moment.

We can discuss media ethics in this situation, and any lines the reporter may have crossed in her shallow attempt to manufacture a story with a salacious quote. But the crux of my beef is with the standard we hold athletes to that doesn’t apply in any other facet of our lives.

We all have opinions on divorce, and they likely vary on a case-by-case basis in accordance with our perception of the questioned marriage’s quality. These aren’t opinions we express freely. No one logically volunteers information at the water cooler about why Melissa filed for divorce from Peter — unless they’re vain and foolish.

And therein lies the problem. The reporter assumed Gasol for a fool. Not because it was her job, but because she hoped to catch Gasol speaking without thinking. His facial expression alone shows that she broke the news to him. Or maybe he was shocked that she actually brought it up, as if he could be the typical romantic-comedy friend who devises an intricate plot to reconcile Kobe and Vanessa’s differences.

None of this is to say that there aren’t ways to discuss how Kobe’s personal life could impact his performance and the Lakers who rely on him. But maybe the season could start first? Maybe a columnist can wait for an awful Kobe performance to ask how heavily the divorce is weighing on him?

And then — maybe, just maybe — this reporter can ask Gasol if he thinks Kobe’s head is in the game. That might make a pretty good story if you need to file something that writes itself.

The fact that this clip came from the Los Angeles Times is most disappointing. It’s this kind of questioning that lends credence to TMZ’s style of sloppy reporting and traffic-grabbing headlines. They’re not even giving journalism a chance.

Nike Air Foamposite Pro – Retro Blue: released July 2011, vanished from retail very quickly

I don’t want to point any fingers here (just browsers), but someone doesn’t understand the current climate of the sneaker industry — or they intentionally pressed a panic button, for no reason whatsoever.

USA Today did a great job in exploring a potential trickle-down effect from the NBA lockout, especially given the severe lack of newsworthy items from the owners-and-players meetings. But I don’t understand USA Today’s reason for quoting Marshal Cohen, chief industry analyst at the NPD Group, and then spending more than 600 words to prove him wrong.

Cohen believes the sneaker industry is in danger of losing upwards of $500 million if the 2011-12 season is lost. He’s wrong. While I’m sure he’s absolutely awesome at analyzing and projecting retail trends, I’m not convinced he fully understands the fashion-first sneaker industry.

About 33% of all basketball shoes are purchased to play basketball, Cohen said. That leaves 67% of the sales from consumers going for the association with an endorser such as Nike’s LeBron James— or with the NBA itself, Cohen said.

“The impact would be huge,” he said. ” Out of sight, out of mind. If the players are not on the court, and the kids aren’t thinking about them, they’re not going out and getting their shoes.”

No! Those of us who don’t play basketball will doom the industry. We are the 67%! Occupy Sneaker Stores, sneakerheads!

USA Today spoke to Matt Powell from SportsOneSource, and he confirmed the one point that needed to be made: Jordan Brand dominates the industry, controlling “70% of the business.” It’s been more than eight years since Michael Jordan’s final NBA game, and His Airness is still a juggernaut, commanding nationwide midnight releases for his retro sneakers. I challenge Marshal Cohen to grab his pair of the “Concord” Jordan 11 Retro on its Dec. 23 release date and tell me again that the sales impact is huge.

It’s also been more than a decade since Anfernee Hardaway’s prime, yet his Nike Air Foamposite One (and the Pro version) — in all its unique color schemes, consistent releases, and $190+ price tags — routinely sell out within hours of their release.  The shoes are rarely worn on court, most recently appearing during Magic guard Gilbert Arenas’ 2010 sneaker tour.

The “Retro Blue” Foamposite Pro attached above released well after the NBA season finished, when a long lockout was inevitable, and they sold out at most locations within a day. A “Dark Pine” Foamposite Pro released two months later with a line of customers extending deep into a nearby train station.

Now, let’s say that Jordan Retro sneakers and all styles of the Foamposite are anomalies and only represent a small fraction of the 67% Mr. Cohen claims can impact the sneaker sales. We already know that’s not true, but let’s throw it out for the sake of argument.

Cohen likes LeBron James as the chief endorser of all Nike products, so we’ll stick with the King for right now. Here’s a video from Inside the Sneakerbox, outside Mr. R Sports in Miami for the limited release of the “Cannon” LeBron 9:

For more fun, I encourage you to visit the USA Today link. The article image is a zoomed-in shot on James’ feet while wearing the “Cannon” LeBron 9 at the South Florida All Stars Classic.

There go some of the 67%, lined up outside a sneaker store in the rain, while the NBA should be playing preseason games. Also featured in the video are the “China” LeBron 9, and the “South Beach” LeBron 8. The “South Beach” colorway is a really fun pair to point out because King James never wore them on the court; yet they’re the crown jewel of Nike’s LeBron James signature series. The “South Beach” sold quickly and currently sit at around $800 or better in the resale market.

Powell went on to claim that Adidas would likely be “hit hardest,” but that’s because NBA-licensed apparel might decline — not sneakers. Therefore, the numbers are skewed.

And then USA Today drops this humdinger:

Despite the lockout, Adidas is seeing strong sales from endorser Derrick Rose‘s new signature shoe, the adizero Rose 2, company spokeswoman Stephanie Von Allmen said. Adidas’ basketball business grew 25% in the company’s last fiscal quarter, she said.

So much for that huge impact.

*****

The lockout will redefine the responsibilities an athlete has while under contract with an endorsement deal. When there are basketball games to play, athletes are expected to wear the clothes they’re paid handsomely to endorse. Therefore, while basketball remains locked out, sneaker companies are embarking on unique initiatives to keep their kicks in plain sight.

Rich Lopez, publisher of KixandtheCity.com, discussed that on Twitter recently. Damning those 140 characters, Lopez delivered a series of tweets detailing the creative strategies sneakers brands are using that wouldn’t have been possible without the lockout.

“Brands have done bigger and more creative activations around their launches,” Lopez writes. “The [Derrick Rose] event in Chicago and the [Carmelo Anthony] event in NYC are two prime examples. Neither would have been completely possible without the lockout.

“I am sure that it would have been nearly impossible for [Under Armour] to bring all of their athletes to a swanky event in NYC a week before the season.”

Like any industry, when outside circumstances project doom, it’s in the hands of creative minds to explore new and more efficient ways to maintain a product’s relevance. The sneaker industry is going to be just fine.