Bring on the meats and cheeses! Where are the dancing bears!? The people wrestling pumas!? I want to see all of it! Also, unicorns doing stand-up comedy! Robot werewolves! The Last Supper re-enacted by hydrocephaloids!
Why? Because I have returned! And it's my birthday, dammit! (No, really!). I've spent the last three weeks putting together a huge project, and today's its last day. I haven't been able to blog because I've been so busy, and since I'm going on vacation in two days, I probably won't be able to blog at all in the near future. So in grand blog tradition, here are some random thoughts/questions/observations/anecdotes that don't necessarily have anything to do with each other.
- If as a suggestion my Tivo records a show that I wrote and directed, does that make me awesome, or merely spectacular? I only ask BECAUSE IT HAPPENED, BITCHES.
- What is Minotaur? And who is Lex Shrapnel? And why doesn't the immortal Tony Todd have first billing? And is there a chance I don't Tivo this?
- Kris took me out to Morimoto on Saturday night for my birthday. We both had the $100 omakase, which is basically an eight-course meal featuring a representative cross-sample of the restaurant's offerings (all chef's choice, of course; which is what "omakase" apparently means in english). It was amazing; that's all there is to say.
The eight courses were (in order): Tuna tartare with shallots and caviar in a sweet soy sauce; snapper served in the hot oil in which is was seared; raw yellowfin tuna seved with green salad; orange-saffron sorbet (a palette cleanser); halibut topped with mushrooms and cooked in chinese white wine; kobe beef served with Japanese sweet potatoes; sashimi; and finally dessert (bittersweet chocolate cheesecake served with sorbet and banana cream sauce).
Kris doesn't care for fish too much, but she's a trooper and she got through it all because she knew I was DYING to do this. And I think she enjoyed it; as she often repeated, it was an adventure. And it was really, really, really good.
- The internet is now complete.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
good sunday reading... on monday
There's an excellent piece in the Sunday New York Times magazine by Francis Fukuyama of Johns Hopkins University. Titled "After Neoconservatism," it's a coolly rational analysis of the history of the neoconservative movement, the failures of the Bush Doctrine and what a modified foreign policy should/could look like in a post-neoconservative America.
For those who seem confident that the Democrats will retake the House in November, a cautionary history lesson in the WaPo. With it comes the unspoken notion that w/r/t the continuing dominance of the GOP in Congress, it's not necessarily America which has become more conservative (it probably has, but not to the degree that triumphalist Republicans would have us believe), but preservationalist congressional Democrats who have grown older, more lifeless and infinitely less appealing (which is definitely true).
And finally, an interesting interview at Salon with William Ian Miller, a professor of law at the University of Michigan who extolls the virtues of archaic "eye for an eye" justice in "honor societies" like medieval England and Iceland. Neither he nor the interviewer seem to realize it, but his depiction of revenge as an interpersonal and/or intertribal form of negotiation and/or communication in ancient societies pretty much exactly describes the modern anarchic system of international relations and international security.
For those who seem confident that the Democrats will retake the House in November, a cautionary history lesson in the WaPo. With it comes the unspoken notion that w/r/t the continuing dominance of the GOP in Congress, it's not necessarily America which has become more conservative (it probably has, but not to the degree that triumphalist Republicans would have us believe), but preservationalist congressional Democrats who have grown older, more lifeless and infinitely less appealing (which is definitely true).
And finally, an interesting interview at Salon with William Ian Miller, a professor of law at the University of Michigan who extolls the virtues of archaic "eye for an eye" justice in "honor societies" like medieval England and Iceland. Neither he nor the interviewer seem to realize it, but his depiction of revenge as an interpersonal and/or intertribal form of negotiation and/or communication in ancient societies pretty much exactly describes the modern anarchic system of international relations and international security.
Friday, February 17, 2006
greatness courts failure
I'm not actually watching the Olympics, but I do read the sports pages. And I've noticed that the sportswriters who are covering some of these high-profile American flameouts are being merciless:
"I didn't feel my inner peace tonight," Weir said. "I didn't feel like my aura is white today. My biorhythms were a little off. I was black inside."
Whatever. Truth is, it's all Weir-speak for this:
I choked.
Fine, so Johnny Weir is a little eccentric. But you know what? These are amateur athletes. It may say "USA" on the helmet or the uniform or whatever, but really, they're not over there for us (depsite what NBC would have you believe).
They don't owe us anything.
Yet this particular Philly scribe treats a 21-year old who's not getting paid as he will Tom Gordon the first time "Flash" blows a save opportunity as a Phillie.
Am I the only one who thinks there's something wrong with that?
The AP said Lindsey Jacobellis' "hot dogging" board-grab was inexcusable because it cost her a gold medal.
"Inexcusable"? I'm thinking a good rule of thumb for sportswriters is that they should quit if they ever start sounding like middle school teachers trying to give detention time to the athletes they cover.
And obviously none of these scribes have ever seen Tin Cup, in which Kevin Costner's character blows his chance to qualify for the US Open because he refuses to lay up (at least, that's how I remember it). He keeps trying - and failing - to make it over a water hazard that makes the world's best pro golfers pee their pants. Don Johnson's slimy character lays up and secures a forgettable finish near - but not at - the top of the leaderboard.
"Greatness courts failure," Costner's character says. Everybody remembers his spectacular failure, and he wins the respect of the golf community (not to mention Don Johnson's girlfriend, played by the comely Rene Russo).
So if Jacobellis wanted not just to win but to excel - to give a performance for the ages - who can blame her if it didn't work out? If she's OK with herself after taking her shot at greatness and falling short, who are we to criticize her? (And frankly, given the nature of snowboarding, how can we criticize her? This is not Leon Lett dancing at the end of his fumble return; this is an entire sport based on showing off).
In general, who are we to get offended when an American amateur athlete fails to bring home the gold?
"I didn't feel my inner peace tonight," Weir said. "I didn't feel like my aura is white today. My biorhythms were a little off. I was black inside."
Whatever. Truth is, it's all Weir-speak for this:
I choked.
Fine, so Johnny Weir is a little eccentric. But you know what? These are amateur athletes. It may say "USA" on the helmet or the uniform or whatever, but really, they're not over there for us (depsite what NBC would have you believe).
They don't owe us anything.
Yet this particular Philly scribe treats a 21-year old who's not getting paid as he will Tom Gordon the first time "Flash" blows a save opportunity as a Phillie.
Am I the only one who thinks there's something wrong with that?
The AP said Lindsey Jacobellis' "hot dogging" board-grab was inexcusable because it cost her a gold medal.
"Inexcusable"? I'm thinking a good rule of thumb for sportswriters is that they should quit if they ever start sounding like middle school teachers trying to give detention time to the athletes they cover.
And obviously none of these scribes have ever seen Tin Cup, in which Kevin Costner's character blows his chance to qualify for the US Open because he refuses to lay up (at least, that's how I remember it). He keeps trying - and failing - to make it over a water hazard that makes the world's best pro golfers pee their pants. Don Johnson's slimy character lays up and secures a forgettable finish near - but not at - the top of the leaderboard.
"Greatness courts failure," Costner's character says. Everybody remembers his spectacular failure, and he wins the respect of the golf community (not to mention Don Johnson's girlfriend, played by the comely Rene Russo).
So if Jacobellis wanted not just to win but to excel - to give a performance for the ages - who can blame her if it didn't work out? If she's OK with herself after taking her shot at greatness and falling short, who are we to criticize her? (And frankly, given the nature of snowboarding, how can we criticize her? This is not Leon Lett dancing at the end of his fumble return; this is an entire sport based on showing off).
In general, who are we to get offended when an American amateur athlete fails to bring home the gold?
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
nerd humor gives me the giggles
I don't really read Something Awful too much anymore, but I saw this earlier this morning, and it's given me a case of the giggles. It's a performance self-appraisal written by a disgruntled replicator repairman on board the Enterprise from "Star Trek: The Next Generation":
Those assholes only ever call me when something breaks. My chest never beeps and then says "Ensign Dupree, we are under attack, what do you think the replicator can do." I would say "a whole hell of a lot," because holy crap, it's only like the second most incredible technology ever made.
I think my favorite "incident" the repairman describes is the one that induced the giggles:
Turns out Wesley decided he wanted a "giant rubber vagina" (direct quote from Lt. Barclay) and it came out of the replicator a bit more suddenly than Wesley had expected. One end of the thing got wedged in the replicator slot and the other end ballooned out of the replicator and pinned him to the floor of his room. The engineering team had to set their phasers to shame to get him out of that predicament.
There's just something about the visual of Wesley Crusher ordering a "giant rubber vagina" from an Enterprise replicator that tickles the funny bone of my inner nerd... which, quite often, is also my outer nerd.
The rest of the article is giggle-inducing, as well.
Those assholes only ever call me when something breaks. My chest never beeps and then says "Ensign Dupree, we are under attack, what do you think the replicator can do." I would say "a whole hell of a lot," because holy crap, it's only like the second most incredible technology ever made.
I think my favorite "incident" the repairman describes is the one that induced the giggles:
Turns out Wesley decided he wanted a "giant rubber vagina" (direct quote from Lt. Barclay) and it came out of the replicator a bit more suddenly than Wesley had expected. One end of the thing got wedged in the replicator slot and the other end ballooned out of the replicator and pinned him to the floor of his room. The engineering team had to set their phasers to shame to get him out of that predicament.
There's just something about the visual of Wesley Crusher ordering a "giant rubber vagina" from an Enterprise replicator that tickles the funny bone of my inner nerd... which, quite often, is also my outer nerd.
The rest of the article is giggle-inducing, as well.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
happy valentine's day!
With a tip of the hat to I-Mockery.
I can't really talk long, as I'm leaving early today and I've got lots of work to do. I just wanted to thank Mensch and Terry for the love w/r/t a most dangerous game.
Happy Valentine's Day!
a most dangerous game
(Note: While it may seem similar to recent events, this story is fiction - pure, quickly written, poorly worded/structured non-sensical fiction. Any similarity to real people living or dead is purely coincidental, and hopefully hilarious... but I'm not counting on that last one).
Jack Wellington's car pulled up to the Aldrin Ranch with a cloud of dust in tow. Though he was about to complete his eighth decade on God's good Earth, the distinguished Texas attorney today felt the energy of a young graduate who'd just conquered the bar exam.
As Wellington's driver lowered the back passenger side window, the dry Texas heat rushed into the car - bringing with it familiar scents.
Quail. And gunpowder.
"Mr. Wellington," said a slender man clad in bright orange hunting gear. "I work for the Vice President. My name is Klaus von Richtover. I'll take you to the party."
"Well, thank you son. Much obliged," Wellington said as he hoisted himself out of the car. He usually didn't Texas his speech up too often, but he liked to see if he could impress people who were obviously not from the area.
"Of course," von Richtover purred. He drew the corners of his mouth back towards his ears. 'That must be German for 'smile,'' Wellington thought, allowing himself a small chuckle.
von Richtover quickly pivoted and turned toward the driver. "See that you stick around," von Richtover told the man in the black Cadillac. "Mr. Wellington is a very special guest."
The driver gave von Richtover a deliberate nod, and the car slowly pulled away. A cloud of dust seemed to form out of nothing, following the Caddy around a bend and out of sight.
"Well, let's get a move on, son," Wellington said. "Those quail aren't gonna plug themselves."
"No," von Richtover replied, his lips once again thinning in an approximation of a smile. "They most certainly will not."
Though he was easily twice the age of von Richtover, Wellington strode quickly towards the hunting grounds, forcing his new friend to break into a slow jog.
"Mr. Wellington," von Richtover said. "Perhaps we should slow down. If you're lucky, this will be a long day for you."
Wellington gave the younger man a hearty laugh. "I haven't seen Dick since the Austin fundraiser. I told him I'd deliver him Texas," he chirped. "I wanna shake his hand and give him a howdy-do."
"Oh, he's very... eager to do the same, Mr. Wellington. Very eager indeed."
The pair soon found themselves surrounded by brush. Before long, they came upon a pith-helmeted man, otherwise dressed entirely in khaki. His back was turned, and the sun glistening off his shotgun barrel forced both newcomers to squint.
"They say a 28-gauge shotgun is a 'ladies'' weapon," said Dick Delaney, Vice President of the United States of America. "But you know I've had 11 heart attacks, Jack."
He turned around, revealing a dumpy, bald, bespectacled middle-aged man. "Thank you, Klaus, that will be all for now." Klaus bowed neatly before trudging through the brush on his way back to the ranch.
"It's a beautiful weapon, isn't it, Jack?" Delaney continued. "No recoil at all. It's good for the heart. My wife can tell you, I don't really like the idea of dropping dead in the middle of a quail hunt."
"I understand, sir," Wellington said. "Let me just say that it's an honor-"
Delaney quickly interrupted him, as if Wellington hadn't spoken at all. "But I'm not opposed to a little danger out here, Jack." The vice president's upper lip curled into a sneer. "It's a shame your boat had to run aground on my island, of all places. A shame, indeed."
Wellington was now thoroughly amused. "Uh, your car service came to get me, sir."
"We're surrounded by thousands of miles of Pacific Ocean on all sides," Delaney continued. "It's just you and I, old friend - no longer shackled by the laws of Man."
"We're in Corpus Christi, sir," Wellington replied.
"During the Great War, I quickly learned of the most dangerous animal of all," Delaney said. "Do you know what it is, Jack?"
"Is it Man?"
"It's Man," Delaney continued. "Shocking, I know. But one learns much when he faces the constant threat of horrific Zeppelin attacks by the Kaiser's men. One learns that only a man possesses the cunning necessary to make a hunt truly worthwhile. And since you're trespassing on my island, Jack... I shall hunt you. For sport. But make no mistake; I expect and hope that you'll be able to turn the hunter - me - into the hunted - also me, but in the future.
"I'll give you a thirty-second head start," Delaney explained, turning away from his guest. "There's a jungle out there. I believe you'll be able to find everything you need to turn this contest to your advantage."
Wellington didn't want to offend the Vice President by cutting his joke short, but he felt it necessary to exchange formal pleasantries. "Sir, let me say what an honor it is to be here, and how honored I've been to be a loyal Mush-Delaney supporter."
"Oh, we're always glad to have you, Jack. Perhaps I'll have you for dinner tonight," Delaney replied. "Twenty-five seconds."
Wellington forced a chuckle. "Uh, Mr. Vice President, where's the rest of the hunting party?"
"Twenty seconds," Delaney replied, looking at his watch.
For the first time, Wellington felt fear shoot its way up and down his spine. "Sir, this is some sort of joke... yes?"
"Oh, good sport is no laughing matter, Jack," Delaney said. "Fifteen seconds. I would get moving if I were you."
Wellington quickly began looking for cover. "Sir, I've given you everything! Money, votes!"
"And if this day is mine, you'll be giving me a whole lot more. Precious organs, hair, lifeforce," Delaney droned, his upper lip curling once again. "Ten seconds."
Fear completely took over Wellington's brain and told his body one thing.
Run.
As the 79-year old took his first step, he was startled by something exploding out of the brush. He instinctively recoiled.
"Time to die, Jack!" Delaney whirled and fired. The smell of burnt powder stung his nose as he watched Wellington crumple to the earth. As he closed his eyes to savor the moment of victory, the vice president heard a single quail making its escape.
He smiled and slowly walked to where Wellington lay.
"This is extremely uncomfortable," Wellington said, tiny pellet marks covering his face and neck. "I think I'd like to go to the hospital."
"Ironic," Delaney said, staring into the distance. "We matched wits for what seemed like ages - two clashing titans were we. And in the end, he was brought down by his fear by one of nature's lowliest creatures - the cage-raised quail that he almost stepped on. Also, his hubris was his downfall... yes, hubris. That sounds good, too."
"Makes you think," Wellington said.
Delaney removed a large wooden horn from his hunting pouch and blew a single, majestic note into the late afternoon sky. Within seconds, von Richtover was upon them.
"Klaus," Delaney barked. "Take Mr. Wellington's body inside for preparation. We'll be taking the heart, the scalp, the eyes and oh... let's say... the pancreas. I'm in a fun mood today. Stick the rest in the black Caddy and let the driver take care of it. Tell him if he makes pemmican for the children, to save some for me this time."
"Can I go to the ER now?" asked Wellington.
As the German carried the trophy back towards the ranch, the vice president stared into the setting sun.
He sighed.
'Sometimes I get so bored,' he thought to himself.
Jack Wellington's car pulled up to the Aldrin Ranch with a cloud of dust in tow. Though he was about to complete his eighth decade on God's good Earth, the distinguished Texas attorney today felt the energy of a young graduate who'd just conquered the bar exam.
As Wellington's driver lowered the back passenger side window, the dry Texas heat rushed into the car - bringing with it familiar scents.
Quail. And gunpowder.
"Mr. Wellington," said a slender man clad in bright orange hunting gear. "I work for the Vice President. My name is Klaus von Richtover. I'll take you to the party."
"Well, thank you son. Much obliged," Wellington said as he hoisted himself out of the car. He usually didn't Texas his speech up too often, but he liked to see if he could impress people who were obviously not from the area.
"Of course," von Richtover purred. He drew the corners of his mouth back towards his ears. 'That must be German for 'smile,'' Wellington thought, allowing himself a small chuckle.
von Richtover quickly pivoted and turned toward the driver. "See that you stick around," von Richtover told the man in the black Cadillac. "Mr. Wellington is a very special guest."
The driver gave von Richtover a deliberate nod, and the car slowly pulled away. A cloud of dust seemed to form out of nothing, following the Caddy around a bend and out of sight.
"Well, let's get a move on, son," Wellington said. "Those quail aren't gonna plug themselves."
"No," von Richtover replied, his lips once again thinning in an approximation of a smile. "They most certainly will not."
Though he was easily twice the age of von Richtover, Wellington strode quickly towards the hunting grounds, forcing his new friend to break into a slow jog.
"Mr. Wellington," von Richtover said. "Perhaps we should slow down. If you're lucky, this will be a long day for you."
Wellington gave the younger man a hearty laugh. "I haven't seen Dick since the Austin fundraiser. I told him I'd deliver him Texas," he chirped. "I wanna shake his hand and give him a howdy-do."
"Oh, he's very... eager to do the same, Mr. Wellington. Very eager indeed."
The pair soon found themselves surrounded by brush. Before long, they came upon a pith-helmeted man, otherwise dressed entirely in khaki. His back was turned, and the sun glistening off his shotgun barrel forced both newcomers to squint.
"They say a 28-gauge shotgun is a 'ladies'' weapon," said Dick Delaney, Vice President of the United States of America. "But you know I've had 11 heart attacks, Jack."
He turned around, revealing a dumpy, bald, bespectacled middle-aged man. "Thank you, Klaus, that will be all for now." Klaus bowed neatly before trudging through the brush on his way back to the ranch.
"It's a beautiful weapon, isn't it, Jack?" Delaney continued. "No recoil at all. It's good for the heart. My wife can tell you, I don't really like the idea of dropping dead in the middle of a quail hunt."
"I understand, sir," Wellington said. "Let me just say that it's an honor-"
Delaney quickly interrupted him, as if Wellington hadn't spoken at all. "But I'm not opposed to a little danger out here, Jack." The vice president's upper lip curled into a sneer. "It's a shame your boat had to run aground on my island, of all places. A shame, indeed."
Wellington was now thoroughly amused. "Uh, your car service came to get me, sir."
"We're surrounded by thousands of miles of Pacific Ocean on all sides," Delaney continued. "It's just you and I, old friend - no longer shackled by the laws of Man."
"We're in Corpus Christi, sir," Wellington replied.
"During the Great War, I quickly learned of the most dangerous animal of all," Delaney said. "Do you know what it is, Jack?"
"Is it Man?"
"It's Man," Delaney continued. "Shocking, I know. But one learns much when he faces the constant threat of horrific Zeppelin attacks by the Kaiser's men. One learns that only a man possesses the cunning necessary to make a hunt truly worthwhile. And since you're trespassing on my island, Jack... I shall hunt you. For sport. But make no mistake; I expect and hope that you'll be able to turn the hunter - me - into the hunted - also me, but in the future.
"I'll give you a thirty-second head start," Delaney explained, turning away from his guest. "There's a jungle out there. I believe you'll be able to find everything you need to turn this contest to your advantage."
Wellington didn't want to offend the Vice President by cutting his joke short, but he felt it necessary to exchange formal pleasantries. "Sir, let me say what an honor it is to be here, and how honored I've been to be a loyal Mush-Delaney supporter."
"Oh, we're always glad to have you, Jack. Perhaps I'll have you for dinner tonight," Delaney replied. "Twenty-five seconds."
Wellington forced a chuckle. "Uh, Mr. Vice President, where's the rest of the hunting party?"
"Twenty seconds," Delaney replied, looking at his watch.
For the first time, Wellington felt fear shoot its way up and down his spine. "Sir, this is some sort of joke... yes?"
"Oh, good sport is no laughing matter, Jack," Delaney said. "Fifteen seconds. I would get moving if I were you."
Wellington quickly began looking for cover. "Sir, I've given you everything! Money, votes!"
"And if this day is mine, you'll be giving me a whole lot more. Precious organs, hair, lifeforce," Delaney droned, his upper lip curling once again. "Ten seconds."
Fear completely took over Wellington's brain and told his body one thing.
Run.
As the 79-year old took his first step, he was startled by something exploding out of the brush. He instinctively recoiled.
"Time to die, Jack!" Delaney whirled and fired. The smell of burnt powder stung his nose as he watched Wellington crumple to the earth. As he closed his eyes to savor the moment of victory, the vice president heard a single quail making its escape.
He smiled and slowly walked to where Wellington lay.
"This is extremely uncomfortable," Wellington said, tiny pellet marks covering his face and neck. "I think I'd like to go to the hospital."
"Ironic," Delaney said, staring into the distance. "We matched wits for what seemed like ages - two clashing titans were we. And in the end, he was brought down by his fear by one of nature's lowliest creatures - the cage-raised quail that he almost stepped on. Also, his hubris was his downfall... yes, hubris. That sounds good, too."
"Makes you think," Wellington said.
Delaney removed a large wooden horn from his hunting pouch and blew a single, majestic note into the late afternoon sky. Within seconds, von Richtover was upon them.
"Klaus," Delaney barked. "Take Mr. Wellington's body inside for preparation. We'll be taking the heart, the scalp, the eyes and oh... let's say... the pancreas. I'm in a fun mood today. Stick the rest in the black Caddy and let the driver take care of it. Tell him if he makes pemmican for the children, to save some for me this time."
"Can I go to the ER now?" asked Wellington.
As the German carried the trophy back towards the ranch, the vice president stared into the setting sun.
He sighed.
'Sometimes I get so bored,' he thought to himself.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
sore-ass sunday buzzed blogging
Kris and I have finally made our way to the couch, after 1) digging a car out of snow on Samson Street, 2) digging a driveway out of snow in Delaware and 3) digging kitten vomit out of carpet, bedsheets and hardwood floors. Each and every one of our muscles are sore, and we're going to get our buzz on, and nobody's going to stop us. In fact, we'd like to thank our main enablers, Mr. Duboeuf and Mr. Yuengling (and yes, Mr. Jacuzzi).
Cool Shit:
- Jon Heyman of Newsday says that the Mets' ballpark plans are being heavily influenced by PNC Park in Pittsburgh. Kris and I went to PNC last summer to see the Mets play the Pirates (you can probably find some of the pictures by following the Flickr links at left), and we both loved loved LOVED the park. Watching a ballgame there is a complete and total joy; I felt that if they were going to try to build Wrigley Field today, it would be PNC Park. So kudos to the Mets - as my boss has been known to say, "if you're going to steal, steal from Tiffany's."
- This afternoon, while driving along South 26th Street on our way to the George C. Platt Memorial Bridge, I-95 and - ultimately - Delaware, Kris and I saw a deer walking along an overpass. It might just be the coolest thing I've ever seen within the Philadelphia city limits, and I've lived in Philly for almost eight years now(!). It made me think about the weirdest things I've seen since I've been living here...
- A guy fake getting hit by a car (just about my first day ever in Philly)
- A guy's car getting towed (on my way to 7-11); said guy trying to get into the tow truck and drive away before getting pulled out and beaten by the tow truck driver (on my way back from 7-11)
- A homeless man defecating in public (on two separate occasions; and yes, they were two different homeless men)
- Ed Rendell and Morgan Fairchild drumming up support for Al Gore... together... on Locust Walk (around Election Day, 2000)
- Rocky Balboa getting filmed two blocks from my house (two weeks ago at Irish Pub, which I'm assuming means Rocky was trying to hook up with a chubby 24-year old yuppie automaton in tight black hoochie pants)
What are some of the weirdest things you've ever seen in Philly? Hmmmmmmm?
Cool Shit:
- Jon Heyman of Newsday says that the Mets' ballpark plans are being heavily influenced by PNC Park in Pittsburgh. Kris and I went to PNC last summer to see the Mets play the Pirates (you can probably find some of the pictures by following the Flickr links at left), and we both loved loved LOVED the park. Watching a ballgame there is a complete and total joy; I felt that if they were going to try to build Wrigley Field today, it would be PNC Park. So kudos to the Mets - as my boss has been known to say, "if you're going to steal, steal from Tiffany's."
- This afternoon, while driving along South 26th Street on our way to the George C. Platt Memorial Bridge, I-95 and - ultimately - Delaware, Kris and I saw a deer walking along an overpass. It might just be the coolest thing I've ever seen within the Philadelphia city limits, and I've lived in Philly for almost eight years now(!). It made me think about the weirdest things I've seen since I've been living here...
- A guy fake getting hit by a car (just about my first day ever in Philly)
- A guy's car getting towed (on my way to 7-11); said guy trying to get into the tow truck and drive away before getting pulled out and beaten by the tow truck driver (on my way back from 7-11)
- A homeless man defecating in public (on two separate occasions; and yes, they were two different homeless men)
- Ed Rendell and Morgan Fairchild drumming up support for Al Gore... together... on Locust Walk (around Election Day, 2000)
- Rocky Balboa getting filmed two blocks from my house (two weeks ago at Irish Pub, which I'm assuming means Rocky was trying to hook up with a chubby 24-year old yuppie automaton in tight black hoochie pants)
What are some of the weirdest things you've ever seen in Philly? Hmmmmmmm?
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
oh, alberto
Our nation's top law enforcement official (via Crooks and Liars): "President Washington, President Lincoln, President Wilson, President Roosevelt have all authorized electronic surveillance on a far broader scale." (emphasis mine).
OK, here's how it all went down. Skynet began to learn at a geometric rate. It became self-aware at 2:14 a.m. Eastern time, August 29th. In a panic, they tried to pull the plug. After Judgment Day, a single machine - a Cyberdyne systems model T101 - was sent back to 1790 with one mission: find Patience Connor.
This machine - this Terminator - felt no pity. No pain. No fear. Musket balls did nothing, and guns took 10 minutes to reload. And the only man who could save Connor and ensure the future survival of the human race was President George Washington.
After several encounters in the bleak urban hellscape of 1790 New York, the Terminator followed Connor and Washington to the abandoned gunpowder mill near Old Man McCoogan's farm in northern Manhattan. The two humans, by now embroiled in a passionate love affair brought on by their desperate circumstances, lured the Terminator into a trap.
As the badly wounded president lay nearby, Connor detonated a mound of old gunpowder and destroyed the machine. "You're terminated, fucker," she said.
President Washington eventually recovered from his injuries, and Patience Connor changed her name to Martha Washington. The two married and had a son, whom they named Abraham Lincoln. The future seemed bright, until Dr. Miles Bennett Dyson, director of the new National Security Agency, brought shocking news to the president.
"We've recovered some remarkable material from the gunpowder mill," he said, gingerly taking intact T101 microchips from the front pocket of his knickerbockers. "Dr. Franklin believes we can use these to build the world's first electronic surveillance system. We're calling it 'SkyNet.'"
President Washington, mindful of the intelligence such a system could provide in case there were any sort of three-lettered affair with a certain country - oh, say, "XYZ" and France - considered Dr. Dyson's proposal for a moment.
His eyes narrowed.
"Do it," he growled. "But don't tell Congress."
OK, here's how it all went down. Skynet began to learn at a geometric rate. It became self-aware at 2:14 a.m. Eastern time, August 29th. In a panic, they tried to pull the plug. After Judgment Day, a single machine - a Cyberdyne systems model T101 - was sent back to 1790 with one mission: find Patience Connor.
This machine - this Terminator - felt no pity. No pain. No fear. Musket balls did nothing, and guns took 10 minutes to reload. And the only man who could save Connor and ensure the future survival of the human race was President George Washington.
After several encounters in the bleak urban hellscape of 1790 New York, the Terminator followed Connor and Washington to the abandoned gunpowder mill near Old Man McCoogan's farm in northern Manhattan. The two humans, by now embroiled in a passionate love affair brought on by their desperate circumstances, lured the Terminator into a trap.
As the badly wounded president lay nearby, Connor detonated a mound of old gunpowder and destroyed the machine. "You're terminated, fucker," she said.
President Washington eventually recovered from his injuries, and Patience Connor changed her name to Martha Washington. The two married and had a son, whom they named Abraham Lincoln. The future seemed bright, until Dr. Miles Bennett Dyson, director of the new National Security Agency, brought shocking news to the president.
"We've recovered some remarkable material from the gunpowder mill," he said, gingerly taking intact T101 microchips from the front pocket of his knickerbockers. "Dr. Franklin believes we can use these to build the world's first electronic surveillance system. We're calling it 'SkyNet.'"
President Washington, mindful of the intelligence such a system could provide in case there were any sort of three-lettered affair with a certain country - oh, say, "XYZ" and France - considered Dr. Dyson's proposal for a moment.
His eyes narrowed.
"Do it," he growled. "But don't tell Congress."
Monday, February 06, 2006
in the interests of full disclosure...
I had a Whopper for lunch today.
I took an hour or so out of my morning to write about it, so come lunchtime I figured, "what the fuck - I might as well try it out."
Does this mean that Burger King's commercial caused me to buy their product? In an indirect way, yes.
Here's my question: does that therefore make it a "good" ad?
I took an hour or so out of my morning to write about it, so come lunchtime I figured, "what the fuck - I might as well try it out."
Does this mean that Burger King's commercial caused me to buy their product? In an indirect way, yes.
Here's my question: does that therefore make it a "good" ad?
super thoughts
- Is it me, or did most of the commercials last night look like they were done by a losing corporation in an Apprentice task? Take the Burger King "Whopperettes" commercial. It's a 60 second homage to 1930s Busby Berkeley musicals, with dancing girls dressed up as buns, beef patties and various condiments.
First of all, consider the audience. I'd like to think that we're not a nation of slackjaws, but did Burger King really expect to impress America with the concept and execution of this ad during the biggest football game of the year? "Wow, look at the costumes, and the attention to detail. This is really evocative of the 'Melody of Broadway' number from Gold Diggers of 1935, and- OH SHIT, RANDLE-EL JUST GOT FUCKING JACKED UP ON THAT KICKOFF RETURN!!! Anyway, as I was saying..."
Second, it's 60 seconds long, which for a Super Bowl commercial is an eternity without any overt irony, humor, people hitting/tackling each other and/or farting monkeys.
Third, their one feeble attempt at humor is to have the ingredients of the Whopper - i.e., the dancing girls - fling themselves on top of each other, each landing with an "oof" on top of their fellow foodstuffs as the burger gets built from the bun up.
The whole thing just smells like the vanilla product of ad agency groupthink. Like the products Apprentice losers tend to come up with, it feels like the result of an uninspired, out-of-touch creative team taking the path of least resistance when it comes to concept, then overcompensating in execution. It's as if one of them got the idea after seeing a Berkeley musical late on TCM one night, and the rest of the team went along with it because they couldn't come up with anything better. Then one guy added in the women hurling themselves on top of each other because, well, you have to have physical comedy - it's a Super Bowl ad, after all!
I appreciate the fact that Burger King was going for something big and well-done. I do. Most of the other commercials were just as disappointing, but they all likely fared better because they didn't try to obliterate our lowered Super Bowl ad expectations (see: monkeys, farting). In Burger King's defense, the production value was top-notch (it better have been at $5 million worth of airtime), and the lyrics and choreography do indeed communicate the brand message Burger King has been seeking to establish for quite some time - namely, that the Whopper and other B.K. products are comprised of quality ingredients, and that you can have them all "your way."
And the commercial actually involved the product in question, which is more than you can say for a lot of the more "clever" ads. Though I haven't stepped into a Burger King in at least three years, I must say they made that Whopper sound pretty damn appealing. And I think if this were a campaign that debuted normally at any other time of year (and the commercials were all 30 seconds), it would be pretty effective. It would certainly make me more likely to buy a Whopper than those creepy "The King" ads.
But you know what? Given the fact that it's the Super Bowl, and given the fact that they had 60 seconds during the first stoppage in play, it feels like Burger King should have done so much better. You can just hear the Donald and his underlings in the boardroom:
The Donald: You did a good job with the product, but I kept waiting for something to happen. You had 60 seconds, and it got boring. I didn't know what was going on. I dunno, maybe I'm wrong; what do you think, George?
George: Where were the farting monkeys? There were no farting monkeys. I've been in business for 60 years, and let me tell you: you need farting monkeys.
- Wow, that was a long thought. Anyhoo, congrats to the Steelers, and a word of advice to their fans: don't become Red Sox fans. Please. We all rooted with you for your guys because they're really likable and they're a great story. Don't make us sick of them.
- Was I the only person who thought that the Steelers would be told they need to face the Patriots in the "Real Super Bowl"?
First of all, consider the audience. I'd like to think that we're not a nation of slackjaws, but did Burger King really expect to impress America with the concept and execution of this ad during the biggest football game of the year? "Wow, look at the costumes, and the attention to detail. This is really evocative of the 'Melody of Broadway' number from Gold Diggers of 1935, and- OH SHIT, RANDLE-EL JUST GOT FUCKING JACKED UP ON THAT KICKOFF RETURN!!! Anyway, as I was saying..."
Second, it's 60 seconds long, which for a Super Bowl commercial is an eternity without any overt irony, humor, people hitting/tackling each other and/or farting monkeys.
Third, their one feeble attempt at humor is to have the ingredients of the Whopper - i.e., the dancing girls - fling themselves on top of each other, each landing with an "oof" on top of their fellow foodstuffs as the burger gets built from the bun up.
The whole thing just smells like the vanilla product of ad agency groupthink. Like the products Apprentice losers tend to come up with, it feels like the result of an uninspired, out-of-touch creative team taking the path of least resistance when it comes to concept, then overcompensating in execution. It's as if one of them got the idea after seeing a Berkeley musical late on TCM one night, and the rest of the team went along with it because they couldn't come up with anything better. Then one guy added in the women hurling themselves on top of each other because, well, you have to have physical comedy - it's a Super Bowl ad, after all!
I appreciate the fact that Burger King was going for something big and well-done. I do. Most of the other commercials were just as disappointing, but they all likely fared better because they didn't try to obliterate our lowered Super Bowl ad expectations (see: monkeys, farting). In Burger King's defense, the production value was top-notch (it better have been at $5 million worth of airtime), and the lyrics and choreography do indeed communicate the brand message Burger King has been seeking to establish for quite some time - namely, that the Whopper and other B.K. products are comprised of quality ingredients, and that you can have them all "your way."
And the commercial actually involved the product in question, which is more than you can say for a lot of the more "clever" ads. Though I haven't stepped into a Burger King in at least three years, I must say they made that Whopper sound pretty damn appealing. And I think if this were a campaign that debuted normally at any other time of year (and the commercials were all 30 seconds), it would be pretty effective. It would certainly make me more likely to buy a Whopper than those creepy "The King" ads.
But you know what? Given the fact that it's the Super Bowl, and given the fact that they had 60 seconds during the first stoppage in play, it feels like Burger King should have done so much better. You can just hear the Donald and his underlings in the boardroom:
The Donald: You did a good job with the product, but I kept waiting for something to happen. You had 60 seconds, and it got boring. I didn't know what was going on. I dunno, maybe I'm wrong; what do you think, George?
George: Where were the farting monkeys? There were no farting monkeys. I've been in business for 60 years, and let me tell you: you need farting monkeys.
- Wow, that was a long thought. Anyhoo, congrats to the Steelers, and a word of advice to their fans: don't become Red Sox fans. Please. We all rooted with you for your guys because they're really likable and they're a great story. Don't make us sick of them.
- Was I the only person who thought that the Steelers would be told they need to face the Patriots in the "Real Super Bowl"?
Friday, February 03, 2006
the power of love
I used to think Huey Lewis' anthem about not needing credit cards and riding trains was on the Back to the Future soundtrack because it totally rocks!.
Now it's even more appropriate.
On edit - I didn't realize you needed to click through an ad to see the video on the original link. I've since changed to link to go directly to YouTube.
Now it's even more appropriate.
On edit - I didn't realize you needed to click through an ad to see the video on the original link. I've since changed to link to go directly to YouTube.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
he stole my idea
I've always felt doing this would be a great conversation starter.
Though to be fair, I've always imagined doing it on the upper lip, or perhaps one word on each cheek. This guy's taken it to a whole new level.
Though to be fair, I've always imagined doing it on the upper lip, or perhaps one word on each cheek. This guy's taken it to a whole new level.
sorkin returns?
Oh, Matthew Perry, too.
The former co-star of the long-running "Friends" is returning to NBC to star in a still untitled series from "West Wing" creator Aaron Sorkin about the behind-the-scenes life at a "Saturday Night Live"-type sketch-comedy show.
I can only hope there's a Horatio Sanz-esque character who walks quickly through hallways and delivers razor-sharp dialogue. And lots of scenes of actors cracking up during sketches, after which Robert Guillaume (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) chides them before imparting life wisdom with a touch of humor. And when does Josh Molina join the cast?
Thanks to Kris for the heads up!
The former co-star of the long-running "Friends" is returning to NBC to star in a still untitled series from "West Wing" creator Aaron Sorkin about the behind-the-scenes life at a "Saturday Night Live"-type sketch-comedy show.
I can only hope there's a Horatio Sanz-esque character who walks quickly through hallways and delivers razor-sharp dialogue. And lots of scenes of actors cracking up during sketches, after which Robert Guillaume (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) chides them before imparting life wisdom with a touch of humor. And when does Josh Molina join the cast?
Thanks to Kris for the heads up!
Sunday, January 29, 2006
sunday, bloggy sunday
- Though their tickets webpage seems to have been designed by Samuel Beckett (no, not the Quantum Leap guy), I finally fought my way through redsox.com and secured two seats to the Mets/Sox game at Fenway Park on June 29th. Single-game tickets went on sale at 10 am yesterday, and I had registered with the site earlier in the week to save as much time as possible while ordering. So 10 am yesterday - I was gonna be there, clicking away!
Of course, I slept until 11:30 and totally forgot about the Red Sox until about 8 pm last night, as Kris and I decided to secure our Valentine's Day Penn/Princeton tickets ("cool, we have tickets... hmmm, 'tickets'... oh shit").
Now, because Fenway Park seats about 1500 people, and because Red Sox games have been made popular in recent years by the Jimmy Fallon megahit Fever Pitch, there is apparently an extremely high demand for tickets - so much so that redsox.com set up a "virtual waiting room," where one stays until he or she is randomly selected to receive the opportunity to buy single game tickets (limit of four per game, maximum of two games). This lessens the demand on the Geocities-esque bandwidth with which redsox.com is blessed.
There's no virtual magazines or virtual sick coughing kids in the virtual waiting room; just lots of disclaimers, instructions, warnings ("IF YOU BUY MORE TICKETS THAN ALLOWED, YOUR ORDER WILL BE CANCELED AND THE RED SOX WILL MAKE SURE YOU CAN NEVER VOTE OR OBTAIN A MORTGAGE"), and a little 30-second countdown timer that automatically refreshes the window; if you've been randomly selected to get to buy tickets, the window closes and you're almost home free. If not, back to 30 seconds.
RYAN
Well, shall we go?
KRIS
Yes, Let's go.
They do not move.
We had pretty much given up hope and stopped paying attention to the virtual waiting room (in favor of Chris Noth's debut episode on Law and Order: Criminal Intent, which I actually enjoyed in spite of my previous thoughts on the subject). I was checking my email midway through a routine Det. Mike Logan suspect assault, and I realized with a start that I had received my random selection into the Kool Kids Club. I was in.
And I still almost blew it. I was immediately given two tickets in obstructed view, and I said "nah, I can do better." Turns out I was wrong; for one thing, the ballpark was built during the Taft administration, and I think that pretty much every seat has its own load-bearing column directly in front of it. For another, the website began to warn me that there were only scattered single seats left. Realizing this, I spent another 15 minutes clicking on "Best Available," hoping that somebody else given two adjacent seats would be a dope like me and release them.
It worked. I escaped my existential nightmare, and Kris and I get to go to Fenway Park, sit together (something which is not to be taken for granted), and watch the Mets play the Olde Towne Team. We'll be sitting in section G22, right behind home plate. I've never been to Fenway Park (immediately outside of it doesn't really count in my mind), and I've always always always wanted to go. And now it's turned into a summer minitrip with the woman I love, to see the team I love. I can't imagine how it could be better (maybe it gets better if it turns out Pedro is pitching that night, but ESPN's Pitching Probables page isn't quite bold enough to project who'll be starting five months from now).
- OK, here's my new dilemma: leave a house devoid of breakfasty food to go secure said breakfasty food, or stay in and see if heating up Thursday night's Border Cafe fajitas is enough to get me through the morning? I love breakfast, but I also love staying in my PJs and generally sitting around on my ass. What to do? Should I stay? Shall I go? If I stay there will be trouble; if I go there will be double! (I'm paraphrasing from what I can only imagine is Waiting for Godot). Really, I could go for a sandwich and a black cherry soda from Koch's, but seeing as how I'm in Delaware, I don't think that's going to happen.
Of course, I slept until 11:30 and totally forgot about the Red Sox until about 8 pm last night, as Kris and I decided to secure our Valentine's Day Penn/Princeton tickets ("cool, we have tickets... hmmm, 'tickets'... oh shit").
Now, because Fenway Park seats about 1500 people, and because Red Sox games have been made popular in recent years by the Jimmy Fallon megahit Fever Pitch, there is apparently an extremely high demand for tickets - so much so that redsox.com set up a "virtual waiting room," where one stays until he or she is randomly selected to receive the opportunity to buy single game tickets (limit of four per game, maximum of two games). This lessens the demand on the Geocities-esque bandwidth with which redsox.com is blessed.
There's no virtual magazines or virtual sick coughing kids in the virtual waiting room; just lots of disclaimers, instructions, warnings ("IF YOU BUY MORE TICKETS THAN ALLOWED, YOUR ORDER WILL BE CANCELED AND THE RED SOX WILL MAKE SURE YOU CAN NEVER VOTE OR OBTAIN A MORTGAGE"), and a little 30-second countdown timer that automatically refreshes the window; if you've been randomly selected to get to buy tickets, the window closes and you're almost home free. If not, back to 30 seconds.
RYAN
Well, shall we go?
KRIS
Yes, Let's go.
They do not move.
We had pretty much given up hope and stopped paying attention to the virtual waiting room (in favor of Chris Noth's debut episode on Law and Order: Criminal Intent, which I actually enjoyed in spite of my previous thoughts on the subject). I was checking my email midway through a routine Det. Mike Logan suspect assault, and I realized with a start that I had received my random selection into the Kool Kids Club. I was in.
And I still almost blew it. I was immediately given two tickets in obstructed view, and I said "nah, I can do better." Turns out I was wrong; for one thing, the ballpark was built during the Taft administration, and I think that pretty much every seat has its own load-bearing column directly in front of it. For another, the website began to warn me that there were only scattered single seats left. Realizing this, I spent another 15 minutes clicking on "Best Available," hoping that somebody else given two adjacent seats would be a dope like me and release them.
It worked. I escaped my existential nightmare, and Kris and I get to go to Fenway Park, sit together (something which is not to be taken for granted), and watch the Mets play the Olde Towne Team. We'll be sitting in section G22, right behind home plate. I've never been to Fenway Park (immediately outside of it doesn't really count in my mind), and I've always always always wanted to go. And now it's turned into a summer minitrip with the woman I love, to see the team I love. I can't imagine how it could be better (maybe it gets better if it turns out Pedro is pitching that night, but ESPN's Pitching Probables page isn't quite bold enough to project who'll be starting five months from now).
- OK, here's my new dilemma: leave a house devoid of breakfasty food to go secure said breakfasty food, or stay in and see if heating up Thursday night's Border Cafe fajitas is enough to get me through the morning? I love breakfast, but I also love staying in my PJs and generally sitting around on my ass. What to do? Should I stay? Shall I go? If I stay there will be trouble; if I go there will be double! (I'm paraphrasing from what I can only imagine is Waiting for Godot). Really, I could go for a sandwich and a black cherry soda from Koch's, but seeing as how I'm in Delaware, I don't think that's going to happen.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
i like mike
Mike Lupica: Big Ben-wagon not for Giants
You know what we ultimately have in sports? The game that just got played. We're all experts on the last big thing we saw. For now, that's Ben Roethlisberger. For now. Just because he's the hottest guy going doesn't make this a cold case.
This morning, Mike Lupica again showed the world why he's among the best in his profession. Most sports columnists today fall over each other to write instant history; they feel the need to criticize for criticism's sake, as if taking a step back from hyperbole and cynicism will destroy their cred in the press box and revoke their membership in the local chapter of the Kool Kids club.
Now, it's obvious that Ben Roethlisberger is further along in his career than Eli Manning. Nolo contendere. I don't want to take anything away from Big Ben, and I don't want to give Eli props he doesn't deserve. But while Gary Myers and Shaun Powell wrote predictable "what if" columns, Lupica said something else:
Wait.
You could imagine his brand of common sense coming from the typewriter of Red Smith; Powell and Myers come off looking more like the Artie Green character from 61*. Powell in particular wrote:
Would the Giants be headed to Detroit for Super Bowl XL right now if they had drafted Big Ben over Manning?
My second-guessing gut says: most definitely.
Shaun, if you're reading this, I'll give you $20 to say that to my face. If you can honestly tell me that a Big Blue Ben would have healed the Giants' linebackers with his magic, Jesus-like hands, I'll give you $20. If you can honestly tell me that he would have lined up next to Michael Strahan and kept the Giants' defensive line from getting blown off the ball by the Panthers, $20. Ditto if you can keep a straight face while saying that Ben would have been able to sneak Troy Polamalu into Giants Stadium in a duffel bag (or something) and stuck him in a blue uniform that day.
While we're at it, maybe Ben would have been able to get Mike Vanderjagt gigs with the Cowboys, Seahawks and Vikings on the days which saw the Giants lose to them all by late field goals. Then New York would have had home-field advantage throughout the NFC playoffs, and the Giants would really be going to the Super Bowl.
My point is this: the Steelers - who came dangerously close to a 2002 Giants-esque meltdown in Indy - are a much, much better overall team than Big Blue. Big Ben deserves accolades, but it's not a quarterback alone that gets a team to a Super Bowl, just as it's usually not a quarterback alone that keeps a team from getting to one. Pittsburgh has a championship-caliber defense and a backfield that elevates the running game to an art form. Against the Panthers, the Giants had an injury-riddled, papier-mache defense. That's your main difference right there.
But as Lupica wrote, we're all experts in the last big thing we've seen.
And how do the Chargers get a pass in this eruption of second-guessing? They were arguably the most talented team in the AFC, they missed the playoffs, their "Class of 2004" quarterback has played parts of four games in two years, and they Chad Penningtoned their Pro Bowl quarterback in a meaningless season finale. But the meme is still that they're the Lyle Lanley to the Giants' brain-dead Springfielders.
Giants GM Ernie Accorsi, one of the all-time good guys in pro football, said it best.
"Unbelievable."
No matter.
Wait.
You know what we ultimately have in sports? The game that just got played. We're all experts on the last big thing we saw. For now, that's Ben Roethlisberger. For now. Just because he's the hottest guy going doesn't make this a cold case.
This morning, Mike Lupica again showed the world why he's among the best in his profession. Most sports columnists today fall over each other to write instant history; they feel the need to criticize for criticism's sake, as if taking a step back from hyperbole and cynicism will destroy their cred in the press box and revoke their membership in the local chapter of the Kool Kids club.
Now, it's obvious that Ben Roethlisberger is further along in his career than Eli Manning. Nolo contendere. I don't want to take anything away from Big Ben, and I don't want to give Eli props he doesn't deserve. But while Gary Myers and Shaun Powell wrote predictable "what if" columns, Lupica said something else:
Wait.
You could imagine his brand of common sense coming from the typewriter of Red Smith; Powell and Myers come off looking more like the Artie Green character from 61*. Powell in particular wrote:
Would the Giants be headed to Detroit for Super Bowl XL right now if they had drafted Big Ben over Manning?
My second-guessing gut says: most definitely.
Shaun, if you're reading this, I'll give you $20 to say that to my face. If you can honestly tell me that a Big Blue Ben would have healed the Giants' linebackers with his magic, Jesus-like hands, I'll give you $20. If you can honestly tell me that he would have lined up next to Michael Strahan and kept the Giants' defensive line from getting blown off the ball by the Panthers, $20. Ditto if you can keep a straight face while saying that Ben would have been able to sneak Troy Polamalu into Giants Stadium in a duffel bag (or something) and stuck him in a blue uniform that day.
While we're at it, maybe Ben would have been able to get Mike Vanderjagt gigs with the Cowboys, Seahawks and Vikings on the days which saw the Giants lose to them all by late field goals. Then New York would have had home-field advantage throughout the NFC playoffs, and the Giants would really be going to the Super Bowl.
My point is this: the Steelers - who came dangerously close to a 2002 Giants-esque meltdown in Indy - are a much, much better overall team than Big Blue. Big Ben deserves accolades, but it's not a quarterback alone that gets a team to a Super Bowl, just as it's usually not a quarterback alone that keeps a team from getting to one. Pittsburgh has a championship-caliber defense and a backfield that elevates the running game to an art form. Against the Panthers, the Giants had an injury-riddled, papier-mache defense. That's your main difference right there.
But as Lupica wrote, we're all experts in the last big thing we've seen.
And how do the Chargers get a pass in this eruption of second-guessing? They were arguably the most talented team in the AFC, they missed the playoffs, their "Class of 2004" quarterback has played parts of four games in two years, and they Chad Penningtoned their Pro Bowl quarterback in a meaningless season finale. But the meme is still that they're the Lyle Lanley to the Giants' brain-dead Springfielders.
Giants GM Ernie Accorsi, one of the all-time good guys in pro football, said it best.
"Unbelievable."
No matter.
Wait.
teevee thoughts
- I have decided that My Name is Earl sucks. Therefore, Earl Hickey has been banished from my Tivo for good.
You ever have a show that you'd like to like, and you get a Season Pass to it on Tivo, but it just keeps building up on there because you really don't want to watch two, then three, then four, then five episodes of it? That's My Name is Earl. It constantly set up potentially funny situations and resolved them without a funny payoff; plus, I got a little tired after the millionth "rednecks don't understand something the audience understands, like golf or gay people" joke.
- The Office is starting to run like a well-oiled machine... that needs oil... to run well.
Yeah.
Anyhoo, each and every episode recently has been strong, and there's this sense of momentum being created. Not many television shows have a season in which there are absolutely no weak spots; in which one gets the sense that the series is becoming something special (or, at least as special as a T.V. comedy can be). The Office is on that kind of run right now.
And no, I don't give a shit how much better the original was. So don't bother telling me.
- I just got the first two seasons of Arrested Development on DVD, thanks to some Amazon.com Christmas gift certificate action from my Uncle Jimmy. They'll be nice things to have once the show has been officially ground into dust and forever forgotten.
- A moment of silence for The West Wing. Its first few seasons were among the best ever to be produced, for any show. Hopefully that's the way it will be remembered...
You ever have a show that you'd like to like, and you get a Season Pass to it on Tivo, but it just keeps building up on there because you really don't want to watch two, then three, then four, then five episodes of it? That's My Name is Earl. It constantly set up potentially funny situations and resolved them without a funny payoff; plus, I got a little tired after the millionth "rednecks don't understand something the audience understands, like golf or gay people" joke.
- The Office is starting to run like a well-oiled machine... that needs oil... to run well.
Yeah.
Anyhoo, each and every episode recently has been strong, and there's this sense of momentum being created. Not many television shows have a season in which there are absolutely no weak spots; in which one gets the sense that the series is becoming something special (or, at least as special as a T.V. comedy can be). The Office is on that kind of run right now.
And no, I don't give a shit how much better the original was. So don't bother telling me.
- I just got the first two seasons of Arrested Development on DVD, thanks to some Amazon.com Christmas gift certificate action from my Uncle Jimmy. They'll be nice things to have once the show has been officially ground into dust and forever forgotten.
- A moment of silence for The West Wing. Its first few seasons were among the best ever to be produced, for any show. Hopefully that's the way it will be remembered...
Thursday, January 19, 2006
the onion can still bring it
"Your Offer Of Gum Seems Rather Disingenuous"
As I read this column, the words were spoken in my head by the voice of Brad Moore. Take that for what you will.
In any case, it totally makes up for the uber-disappointing "Maverick Hunter's 'Human Beings As Prey' Plan Not As Challenging As Expected". Maybe I love the concept of hunting people for sport a little too much; maybe no satirical news article could possibly live up to my hopes and dreams. I still think the concept represents a vast, untapped vein of humor, just waiting to spill forth.
The best line: "They asked about grand prizes and something they called an 'immunity challenge,'" von Urwitz said. "I had my men slit their throats."
As I read this column, the words were spoken in my head by the voice of Brad Moore. Take that for what you will.
In any case, it totally makes up for the uber-disappointing "Maverick Hunter's 'Human Beings As Prey' Plan Not As Challenging As Expected". Maybe I love the concept of hunting people for sport a little too much; maybe no satirical news article could possibly live up to my hopes and dreams. I still think the concept represents a vast, untapped vein of humor, just waiting to spill forth.
The best line: "They asked about grand prizes and something they called an 'immunity challenge,'" von Urwitz said. "I had my men slit their throats."
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
cheesesteaks!
dailypennsylvanian.com: Quakers "Cheesesteak" Leopards
Thanks to Mensch for the heads-up. I wasn't there, but as a crotchety old man, I can't imagine it could possibly compare to the magical night Palestra folk hero Dan Solomito won everybody cheesesteaks in the best Penn basketball season ever (assuming all of recorded history starts in the fall of 1998 and stops in the spring of 2002).
I bet the young kids tonight even went straight to Abner's to collect their free cheesesteaks. In our day, we celebrated free cheesesteaks by throwing random dudes through plate-glass windows, telling them "when you get to hell, tell 'em Section 109 sent you." Upon arrival, we'd immediately grab raw beef off the grill with our bare hands and stuff it in our mouths, so as not to have to wait as long as the suckers (i.e., the people in line for "cooked" cheesesteaks).
First it's a gunshot Penn student failing to quip about intact genitalia, and now this. Such pale imitations these college kids are nowadays.
In other news, in case it gets lost in the mad rush to Abner's, it's worth mentioning that the Quakers are kicking the shit out of people right now.
Thanks to Mensch for the heads-up. I wasn't there, but as a crotchety old man, I can't imagine it could possibly compare to the magical night Palestra folk hero Dan Solomito won everybody cheesesteaks in the best Penn basketball season ever (assuming all of recorded history starts in the fall of 1998 and stops in the spring of 2002).
I bet the young kids tonight even went straight to Abner's to collect their free cheesesteaks. In our day, we celebrated free cheesesteaks by throwing random dudes through plate-glass windows, telling them "when you get to hell, tell 'em Section 109 sent you." Upon arrival, we'd immediately grab raw beef off the grill with our bare hands and stuff it in our mouths, so as not to have to wait as long as the suckers (i.e., the people in line for "cooked" cheesesteaks).
First it's a gunshot Penn student failing to quip about intact genitalia, and now this. Such pale imitations these college kids are nowadays.
In other news, in case it gets lost in the mad rush to Abner's, it's worth mentioning that the Quakers are kicking the shit out of people right now.
Monday, January 16, 2006
old school
dailypennsylvanian.com: Penn student shot at 38th, Sansom
It's like somebody put Penn into the wayback machine, and it's 1997 again. The only thing missing is a classic line like "I'm just glad it didn't hit my penis."
It's like somebody put Penn into the wayback machine, and it's 1997 again. The only thing missing is a classic line like "I'm just glad it didn't hit my penis."
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