Monday, December 22, 2008

If Jerry Jones Happens to be a Big Fan of My Blog...

Yes, the Cowboys are still in the playoff hunt. Mind you, that’s not anything to do with their ability to play good football. It’s mostly because Jeff Garcia sacrificed his beautiful face only to end up losing and allowing the Cowboys to remain playoff alive. Seriously, I can’t watch that postgame press conference but I was able to find a picture of Jeff Garcia immediately after speaking to the press, sans suit.

Ok so the Cowboys could potentially win the ability to yet again lose in the first round of the playoffs! And the route they would take to get to the playoffs would involve beating the Eagles in Philadelphia and quite possibly being pelted with various car parts if the Cowboys get a big lead early enough. That’s a thrilling thought. Well, the beating Philly part.

But no Cowboys fan was feeling like this on Saturday night. Some of the more reactionary fans/friends of mine declared that they wouldn’t even watch the Philly game. This same person also swore off a favorite bar of ours after the karaoke DJ didn’t let him sing before last call. But Saturday night was not fun. In fact, much like you would adjourn to a nearby restaurant to tell misty-eyed stories about your friend and how great she was right before she became a suicide bomber. I think it’s interesting some of the points that came up during this football wake that just happened to be occurring while Texas Stadium was being put out of its’ misery. I think it hits on some very important fears and concerns all Cowboys fans harbor.

1. Texas Stadium – Philip thinks that this shouldn’t be the last year at Texas Stadium and that it’s still the #2 profit-turning stadium in the league. I have never been to Texas Stadium and have only heard horror stories about the filth and disrepair it fell into over the past 10 years. But while I can’t imagine it being very salvageable this late in the process of decaying, I don’t understand why it could not have been refurbished and renovated over a few off-seasons. Everyone at the table agreed. It’s an iconic stadium. Why did it have to fall to the recent Dallas mentality of knocking down anything with any history in order to build something newer, shinier and with bigger TVs instead of being a Wrigley Field or Lambeau for America’s Team?

2. Arlington? – Nothing made the entire table more frustrated and angry than the fact that the opportunity to have the Dallas Cowboys play in Dallas was on the table and the city blew it. Well, Laura Miller blew it. It boggles the mind to think how great a stadium in downtown Dallas could have been. Knock down the Cotton Bowl or build something just south of the Trinity to bring commerce south of the river. I know it’s about four years too late to have this discussion but the thought of Cowboy fans driving to mothereffing Arlington to watch a game is ridiculous to me and all the fans I know. The Dallas Cowboys is something so iconic that it’s probably one of the first three things people will say when playing word association with “Dallas” so it’s just completely embarrassing that the city didn’t do everything it could to bring them back home, so to speak.

3. Tickets – Well, I should amend that. I say that the thought of driving out to Arlington is ridiculous to me but it’s a moot point since I know I will never be able to afford to see a game at the new stadium. I was never able to afford to go see a game at Texas Stadium. It’s really disheartening to think of tickets to see your favorite football team in the same way you think of the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalog that comes out every year. Gee, wouldn’t it be amazing to own a life-sized replica of me made out of Legos or a child-sized helicopter for the kids? Yeah, it would and so would seeing a Cowboys game be. I understand that the Mavs were not the hottest ticket in town when Cuban started his fan-friendly pricing for last minute seats. But to his credit, even after they became the hottest ticket in town, you could still walk to the AAC and fork over $20 for a ticket as the game started. Jerry Jones is a businessman. I understand that. He’s trying to make as much money as he can. But in this season of bleach-drinking economy woes, I can’t see how anything about the new stadium (save its’ laser-shooting wheelchair ramps) that is fan-friendly.

4. Seriously, tickets – At no point was this issue hammered home more succinctly than when our table, which consisted of 6 die-hard Cowboys fans lamented the fact that no one at our table had ever been to a regular season Cowboys game. We talked about how we had planned, both last season and this season, to go before they moved to Pocket-rape Dome but could never afford it. Then Philip said technically he had been to a Cowboys game at Texas Stadium, though it was a preseason game. He told us the story of how he and his uncle had tickets which Philip had in his back pocket and which were swiped as they walked up to the entrance. He said he and his uncle were already there so they went ahead and shelled out $120 for two new tickets. It was at that point in the story that Courtney offered up, “That’s what’s wrong right there. Two preseason tickets are $120!”

5. Stop hiring jackasses – I have written many times about Jerry Jones’ belief that any press is good press and that controversy makes for a more interesting football team. Philip made a great point and one with which we all agreed. During the montage at halftime of all the memorable moments at Texas Stadium, they included the George Teague hit on Terrell Owens several times. Philip noticed that even now that T.O. has been a Cowboy for a few years and paid a show-y apology to the star at midfield, it feels great to see someone knock the shit out of him. It feels even better to see that it’s a Cowboy. Now, I personally think that Terrell Owens overreaches the term “egomaniac” and is actually a straight-up truly weird dude. But that doesn’t stop the fact that he is clearly headed towards doing in Dallas what he did in San Francisco and Philadelphia. He will never be a tenth as concerned about the team as he is about his own fame. And instead of having to delve any further into this theory about Jerry hiring jackasses, I will just say “Pacman” and be done with it. Now, on the flipside of this you have Roy Williams. A Texas native, a UT alum and a genuinely hard working and talented dude. You KNOW he wants to be here. He played his high school championship game at Texas Stadium. He was rescued from the bowels of HMS Detroit Lions to come back home and play for America’s Team, his team. I believe with all my heart that Roy Williams not only is capable of being the kind of receiver Terrell Owens is now (not that great) but I more confident in his desire to be here and to be a Cowboy and to contribute to the team. Not like his pro football career is just a way to get the word out about his birthday party.

6. Who told Tony Romo where West Village was? – Alright, I know that I said that I wouldn’t pick on Tony Romo anymore. And yes, he’s a good guy, human-speaking. But I consider those two or three bonehead 30 yard passes to no one on 3rd and 2 to be my excuse to make this observation. Tony Romo “White Backwards Baseball Hat at Press Conference” 2007 season record: 13-3. Tony Romo “Newsboy Cap and Designer Leather Jacket at Press Conference” 2008 season record: 9-6. That’s all I’m saying.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

A Particularly Disjointed Rant

It’s happening to me! I can’t believe it. I just did it. I just did the thing that my grandmother, and many senior citizens, does that drives me crazy. But you can’t get mad at them because they’re old. Now I’ve just done it so that means that either I am old and senile or…..something.

Here’s the deal. I was reading Will Leitch’s post on Deadspin about he and his best friend’s years-long tradition of vying for Dork King crowns by compiling their own personal Oscar nominations list the night before the actual nominations are announced. They even talk on the phone for hours about their choices the night before the nominations are announced. Will Leitch, you are not making this intense, burning crush I have on you any easier to justify. But that opened up a dialog between myself and the other guy who works in my cubicle who boldly stated this morning, “It’s snowing outside and I don’t feel like working today.” And by snow, he meant this:

So we started talking about movies.

Here’s the thing: I like movies. But I hate actually going to see movies, if that makes sense. I have never felt transported into a magical realm for two hours. I have never felt engrossed and completely wrapped up in the pitch black embrace of a theater. Movie theaters are usually 15 degrees too hot/cold. Concessions are expensive and the idea of 100 or so people sitting in the dark while all simultaneously gorging on junk food sounds like the subject of an upcoming Tyra Banks show about the hottest new eating disorder amongst teen girls. Or a Nine Inch Nails video or something. The worst part about movies is that other people also go to the movies. Maybe I should only go see really bad films during matinee hours. Seriously, I cannot handle other people when I go to the movies. Most of the time it’s when they laugh at something that isn’t funny and I feel alternately left out or fighting my urge to stand up, pause the film and ask each one why exactly they found that amusing. And contrary to popular thought, it’s not just people talking during the movie and it’s certainly not confined to non-art house mall cinemas. When I worked at the Magnolia Theater, we had 28 Days Later before it was on wide release. It was at one showing of that movie that an Australian woman thought it would be no biggie to bring her 4 month old child with her because “he sleeps a lot.” Apparently, times that he doesn’t like to sleep include times when there are sudden loud screams and zombie attacks brought to you in ear-splitting Dolby Digital. Weird. Other than proving that Australians have not evolved very far from their criminal lineage, this illustrates why I don’t like to go to movies. And since I don’t get wrapped up in many, if any films, enough to not do thinks like get up and walk around/make a phone call/check to see if that Jello I made is setting, viewing movies at my home is probably the best idea for everyone involved.

So I told my co-worker that I feel conflicted. I always want to see the movies that are being shortlisted for the Globes or Oscars. I usually think a lot of those movies look like movies I want to see. But there’s a vast ocean of indifference and annoyance that stands between the sentiment of wanting to see said movies and actually going to see them. It would be like if the only place in town that served your favorite meal of all time just happened to be a dentist’s office. If I were to make this a math equation, my desire to see Oscar-contender movies is less than or equal to (but most likely not) my ability to sit in a dark room with strangers and listen to them eat with their mouths open for two hours.

But that’s the point in the conversation where it happened. When naming all the movies I wanted to but was not willing to see, I listed Doubt and Milk and Gran Tourino and Frost/Nixon and then, “Christina Goes to a Wedding or Rachel at a Marriage or whatever.” That’s what my grandmother does. She is 80 so she feels like she has earned the privilege of not having to learn the actual, correct names of anything she wants to talk about. One time she told me that she saw a drummer on a PBS special who was dressed really sharply in a suit and she was surprised because, according to her, “drummers wear sweatshirts.” I really liked this theory and wanted to know who was this beat-keeping rapscallion she spoke so highly of. It turned out to be, in her words, “the drummer for Huey and the Newspapers.” That’s Huey Lewis and the News for anyone who has never had to talk about Huey Lewis and the News with your elderly grandparent. Don’t even get her fired up by talking to her about her least favorite radio personality, “Rush Lindbergh.” I think he’s probably so conservative and angry because someone kidnapped his baby. She was super bummed out when her favorite show “Dr. Quinn’s Medicine” was cancelled back in the 90’s. Now lest you think that I am in any way making fun of my grandmother, let me make it clear that she is a vibrant, intelligent and funny 80 year old woman with whom you can discuss, once you figure out that she’s referring to “Adaptation” and not “Adoption”, Charlie Kaufman films with. In fact, my tribute to the fact that she is still alive and kicking and pretty agile-minded is that I rarely correct her title or name jumbles. But I always think, “Oh man, I hope someone corrects me when I get old and change the names of everything.” Then it happened today. One week into my 28th year of life.

The worst part is that my coworker didn’t correct me and instead just nodded and went, “Yeah, that looks ok too.”

Monday, December 15, 2008

I Never Wanted to See You This Way

I went to see an old friend on Friday night. I haven’t seen this friend in a few years. But back when I was a music journalist, I spent almost every night with this friend. This friend’s name was Gypsy Tea Room. In the early to mid aughts, I did everything at Gypsy Tea Room from drinking to shouting to taking a shower upstairs. And obviously, I saw shows there. We were tight. I remember how proud she was when she won Best Venue in the Dallas Observer a few years in a row. I even remember she won “Cleanest Bathrooms at a Venue” one year. The joke there being that the bathroom at Trees had actually been mentioned in Spin Magazine as being one of the five filthiest venue bathrooms in the country. But not Gypsy. In fact, in her heyday, she had an attendant in the women’s bathroom that would sell you everything from gum to hairspray to cigarettes.

But then we drifted apart. I stopped being a music writer and stopped going to national shows as much. She had a nasty incident with skinheads assaulting and paralyzing a concertgoer at an Old 97’s show she hosted. She also had the misfortune of being located in Deep Ellum which saw crime, bad dance clubs, underage drinkers and light rail construction shoo people away in droves. Then one day I heard that my old friend Gypsy Tea Room was closing. I can’t say I was surprised. Clearly if I had abandoned her, there were others who had also abandoned her. I didn’t go back to see her on her final night because it would have seemed really superficial. After all that time of not coming by, I didn’t think it seemed right to show up just to see her off.

I heard from some friends that someone was trying to bring her back and that someone was the same owners behind The Door. The Door was a Christian-run emo club which I only entered twice. Once was to see a local band comprised of some friends. I ordered a can of Diet Coke and hustled out of there after their set was done. The second time was as a favor to a label friend who wanted me to come out and review a band called Midtown. She persuaded me to do this by taking myself and Midtown to Angry Dog and plying us with a lot of food and alcohol. I remember telling Midtown that they should cram their drinking in at Angry Dog, as The Door was a Christian club which did not serve alcohol. One of the guys from the band said something about their stage setup probably not going over very well. It was only after we all drunkenly stumbled back to The Door and the band took the stage that I fully realized what he was talking about. They toured with a huge light up sign that only read “MIDTOWN SAVES”. It went over better than expected. But I digress.

So owners of The Door did indeed take over my friend Gypsy Tea Room when their own establishment had a date with a wrecking ball. Somewhat confusingly, the name they gave to my old friend’s new incarnation was The Prophet Bar. Which was already a Dallas bar long ago. But this time, The Prophet Bar was going to serve as an all-ages music venue where kids could visit my old friend and see shows just like I used to do. Only I started hearing horror stories from some friends who went back to visit our old friend. The first story I heard was of a poorly trained bar staff, a pitifully stocked bar, expensive drinks, mixers in cans and a cash only policy. I understood that the people who took over my old friend were not big on drinking in general so that kind of made sense.

An old label friend of mine occasionally talks me into going to a national show with her. This past Friday, she persuaded me to go see the Eagles of Death Metal with her. I like the Eagles of Death Metal. I do not, unlike Axl Rose, think of them as the Pigeons of Shit Metal. My label friend told me she was on the list and I could have her plus one. The show was at The Prophet Bar. Much like me, this label friend spent hundreds of nights at Gypsy Tea Room and we talked about how nice it would be to go back and see her. We heard some things had changed but we were sure we’d still recognize her.

We were wrong. While the actual venue had only changed slightly (mind you, not for the better), what we saw upon visiting our old friend’s formerly pristine restrooms, of which she was so proud, was this:

The thin white object you see to the right of the caution sign is a discarded tampon applicator. There was no attendant, there was no gum to be purchased, there was no soap, there were no towels and there was most certainly no toilet paper. Luckily, we picked up on that before any of us “broke the seal”. As three of us girls plotted obtaining some bar napkins, I spotted an unattended stack of paper towels. These were rationed out carefully though one did go to a desperate girl who realized too late what a terrible situation she had gotten herself into. We all mourned what had become of our sweet old friend. One girl commented how, in the years that we spent attending shows at Gypsy, we never would have dared any sort of vandalism more serious than a small shout-out in Sharpie on a stall wall. Mainly, we never would have thought to promote our favorite band using this method:

While I’m sure Dear & The Headlights are an amazing musical group, I would prefer to learn of them through some sort of Recommended If You Like program or or perhaps through a friend who thinks that I would like Dear & The Headlights. It is unnecessary for you to vandalize and graffiti a toilet seat for the sake of spreading the word about your favorite band. Because it’s, at best, inconvenient and rude and at worst, filthy and vile and a surefire way to make sure I will never, in fact, “listen to Dear & The Headlights”. So it’s counterproductive as well. I do appreciate that you chose to spread that message on a toilet that had also inexplicably been knocked loose from the wall and was tilted at an angle. Thanks for not defacing the one toilet out of 6 that appeared to have both water and the ability to flush, I guess.

We headed back out to the hallway between the small and large side of my old friend to meet up with our male friends who had also decided to use the bathroom. As we waited for them to exit their restroom (which did have an advantage to ours by having a large bottle of hand soap sitting open on the countertop), I mentioned that the condition of our old friend brought to mind Back to the Future Part II when Marty McFly buys a sports almanac in the future but is verbally reprimanded by Doc and forced to throw said almanac in the trash. Only Future Old Biff overhears the conversation, picks up the almanac, carjacks the Delorean, heads back to 1955 to give the almanac to Past Young Biff which results in Marty McFly returning to a Hill Valley 1985 which resembles Compton if Compton was the setting for Mad Max. The Gypsy Tea Room bathroom looked like Rich Biff 1985 Hill Valley minus the trash can fires.

But then the boys came out of the bathroom ashen-faced. One of them reported that conditions were worse in the boys bathroom. We said that was impossible. It was then that he revealed that there was a substance on one toilet in the boys bathroom which, while no one was willing to positively identify it, appeared to be the remnants of a male having some personal time with himself. We did not believe it. Who would come to my old friend to, well, you know? I refused to believe that someone would turn my dear old friend into some sort of bukakke nightmare. But our male friend took my Blackberry into the restroom and came back (sorry) with photographic evidence that, while again not totally conclusive, was mighty persuasive.

I needed a drink so I went to the bar at which I had spent many nights in my early 20’s witnessing musical groups perform for people who were more into them than I was because they were up against the stage and not standing at the bar like I was. I saw that the rumor of canned mixers is fact. I cannot really begin to explain the pricing policy on drinks because it varied depending on which bartender (of the two) you patronized. And sometimes the same bartender would have some sort of unadvertised drinks sale while twenty minutes later, perhaps due to the economic crisis, the same drink from the same bartender would skyrocket in price. Unfortunately for me, this was the case with what turned out to be my last drink. I ended up having to make up for my cash shortfall by using meter change. Luckily, it was the end of the show and I didn’t really feel like hanging around the bloated, raped and disfigured corpse of my old friend Gypsy Tea Room much longer. Also, if I had wanted another drink, it would have been mighty hard considering that this mass of chewed, tangled and exposed wires was what we found sticking out from behind the ATM. Or former ATM, I suppose.

I wish I had never seen you again, my old friend. Sorry that kids are bad. I will remember you the way you used to be and not the syphillis-ridden Fresh Kills that you have become.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Chad Was Right

About two years ago, I liveblogged a Mavs game in which I had to apologize to Austin Croshere for clowning him so hard when he scored something like 30 points. That kind of came back to bite me in the ass because it was clearly a fluke.

I feel safe in declaring this a non-fluke. Holy hell, JJ Barea is a golden god. Seriously?

I have been a little gun shy about blogging each and every Mavs game like I used to. Well, by "gun shy" I mean that I have been super busy with real work.

But I can't help it. Seeing little JJ Barea zoom past three much larger men for two daring buckets in a row was pretty persuasive. But to follow that up with a gorgeous three made me reach for my laptop. The kid is good.

A year ago, my friend Chad decided that Barea was the guy he wanted to "root for" and proceed to do so, even in the face of some pretty embarrassing Barea sub-ins. Chad even wrote a string of improvised non-gay love songs to Barea. Many of them involved Barea and Chad going out to eat together. In a non-gay way.

15 seconds left in a tied Mavs-Spurs game. HOLY HELL.

Overtime. 107-107 at the end of the 4th quarter. Please finish over .500 this year, little Mavs. Please. This is a good birthday present for me though. Overtime Mavs-Spurs games make me nostalgic.

Barea scores the first Mavs points in overtime.


Dampier feeds Kidd who ties it with a three with 19 seconds left in overtime. I spilled some wine on my dashiki when I jumped up and down in celebration. Yes, I drink wine during Mavs games and more importantly, I wear a dashiki during Mavs games. I got it at Ross Dress for Less. It has psychedelic peacocks on it. It's amazing.

1.1 seconds left with the game tied at the end of overtime.

Dirk misses which gives us overtime #2. 116-116 at the end of the first overtime. Happy dashiki-wearing birthday to me!

Overtime II: Attack of the Killer Overtimes -

Typing in fragments. Kidd somehow steals a steal and puts the Mavs up by 1. Tim Duncan hits a three. Wine stains on my dashiki. Like Phyllis Diller on a bender on Ibiza. Wish I had a whistle.

Barea hits a three that doesn't count because of a Spurs foul.

Spurs leading by 5 with 23.5 seconds left in El Overtime Dos.

Mavs lose. 133-126 in double overtime. Ah well. It was fun regardless.

Get a Handel. Don't Bach Down. Drown Your Sorrow and Greig. Alright, I'll Stop...

Anyone that knows me knows that no one on earth can bring me more joy than my idol, Stephen Fry. Miraculously, Chrissy somehow retained the copy of Moab is My Washpot that I loaned her some 4 years ago and it was recently brought back to me, along with two other Stephen Fry books. But the delivery of these books has come at an eerily opportune time.

A debate, nay, a dialogue has begun between some friends and I. The origin of this dialogue was when I repeatedly said that I just don’t care about music anymore. This was a hyperbole on my part. Let me clarify. I love music. I always will. I cannot rid myself of liking music entirely. When I say I don’t care about music anymore, I should make sure to do air finger quotes. I don’t care about “music” anymore. Meaning that, after many years of being a faithful concertgoer, music journalist and doing marketing and PR work in the music industry, I don’t care about finding new music anymore. I most certainly do not feel compelled to go to concerts. I have beaten Alan Levy at music trivia the Barley House so I don’t feel like maybe I just don’t know enough about music. If anything, working for 8 hours a day around comic book collectors has made me keenly aware of the benefits of not correcting someone when they say that Steve Jones was the guitarist in Generation X when he only played on a few tracks on the final Generation X album which happened to include “Dancing With Myself”. The actual guitarist was Mike Derwood who also recorded a one-off single called “All These Things” under the name Empire, which sounds suspiciously like The Stone Roses eight years before The Stone Roses existed. Then after Generation X broke up, Derwood went on to form Westworld (named after the camp movie) who released a couple of albums in the late 80’s. You know, while Generation X bassist Tony James had hits with his band, Sigue Sigue Sputnik. I can go on.

See, no one needs that. No one really would enjoy having to sit through that beating of a conversation. I like what I like. I would dare say that 95% of the things I listen to came out before 1991. The 90’s were a musical beating for me. I despised and still despise grunge. I listened to The Beatles from 1991 to 1996. Things were great. But I just can’t muster up the enthusiasm to seek out whatever the kids are listening to. I don’t mean The Jonas Brothers. I mean that I can’t work myself up about whatever band from Brooklyn that people 2 years younger than me adore. I can’t keep my Vampire Weekends separate from my Cut Copys. I really liked Chromeo three years ago. They have not changed at all and yet I saw them on TV the other night and just kept thinking, “Hey it’s Chromeo. His brother is Kanye’s DJ. I wonder where he got that sweater. I need to get my sweaters out of that box in the back of my closet. I wonder if I still have that red sweater or if I gave it away. I think it had a hole in it. That was a good sweater.”

So it would appear that I have given up, right? Turned my back on any form of composition consisting of arranging notes in a melodic fashion and with a varied tempo, right? But here’s the thing. I have regressed. You see, my wonderful gay uncle is an opera singer. He has traveled the world and received his doctorate in music and sung at some of the most famous opera houses and concert halls in the world. And when I was a kid, one of the perks of this was that though we were poor, we got to go to the Dallas Opera for free all of the time. I remember one of the coolest things I ever did when I was a kid was, after a performance of Turandot, I got to run amok on the set. I got to stand in the huge pearl in the dragon’s claw. And all of the confetti that rained down during the final scene were actually pink paper hearts which I stuffed into every pocket I had. It may seem weird but going to the opera or the symphony was thrilling to me when I was a kid. Admittedly, part of that was probably because of the fact that I got to play on the sets and around all the costumes and watch the warm up in the orchestra pit.

But recently some sort of regression has happened and luckily it doesn’t involve me eating cat food and raw hamburger meat like I did when I was little. I listen to The Ticket but there are certain shows that just aren’t for me. So I started listening to WRR about 8 months ago. And gradually, it has nudged The Ticket out of my Preference 1 spot. It kind of feels weird though because I feel like I can’t talk about it too openly. I am afraid I will be accused of trying to be pretentious or trying to make a statement. But I genuinely get excited about a Maria Callas rock block or a Greig piece like I used to get juiced about a new DFA joint. And it’s made me kind of sad that classical music is seen as being the musical equivalent of that Icy Hot smell. It’s all moth balls and hold music to the kids these days. Granted, I would rather their worldly knowledge begin with things like being able to point to Africa on a map. I just miss the symphony and the opera and getting dressed up and the smell of heavy-handed dousings of Oscar de la Renta meshing with old velvet coats.

Just never make me sit through all 4 ½ hours of Die Valkyrie ever again, ok?

Monday, December 8, 2008

Please Ignore the Somewhat Optimistic Tone of this Particular Entry

Interception on the first drive. Apparently T.O. feels like he shouldn’t have to run at full speed since it’s his birthday. You know what else happened on December 7th? Pearl Harbor. Let’s see if the fine tradition of bombing continues today.


I had no idea that the Steelers hired Omar Epps as their coach.

4th and inches = Cowboys losing their goddamned minds and handing the ball to the fullback. Which, shockingly, didn’t work.

Little known fact: when Pacman Jones is on the ground immediately after letting a kicked football slip through his hands, he kicks his feet around and thrashes much like the fit I pitched when my mom wouldn’t let me go see the movie Cocktail in the theater when I was 8.

They are now looking at Pacman, who is injured. I hope it’s not his money-throwing hand.

Injury update: Pacman tweaked his shoulder, Jason Witten has a hurt ankle and, quite possibly my favorite bizarre sports injury update, Terrance Newman has blurred vision. Sounds like someone needs to lay off the pregame White Chocolate Martinis.

Maybe during halftime, I will share with you my theory on the Cowboys ongoing effort to injure themselves in the least manly, most dainty ways. Seriously? Pinkie finger? Little toe? Blurred vision? The shortlist for the next injuries include inner ear infection and ingrown toenail.

Oh wait, Holland is down now. We’ve decided it’s probably early-onset menopause.

Tony Romo, on 4th and 2, throws the ball to……well, I don’t know how to put this……the turf? The turf approximately 10 yards past T.O.

Now the fun part of this game is guessing what the next Cowboy injury could be. I’m saying Flozell Adams gets beheaded in the 3rd.

There’s 6 minutes left in the first half and the score is 0-0. Against the #1 Steelers defense. Methinks the Dallas defense, if they are able to not do things like come down with random obscure Medieval diseases, are not too shabby either.

While it has in no way been pretty, I am totally okay with us going into the half tied at 3-3.

I just invented a device that can be fit on any Dallas Cowboys player which, should they try to call a time out when they have no more time outs, gently shocks them in the genital region.

Third quarter in the first Steelers possession, Orlando Scandrick sacks Big Ben. That’s kind of like me beating Andre the Giant at a thumb wrestling match.

Apparently, also like how Pearl Harbor was a big surprise, T.O. will linger in the end zone while Tony Romo scrambles and scrambles some more until somehow the ball ends up in his precious hands for a touchdown. I have no idea how that worked.

Man, Steelers fans sure to hate their own team. Steelers down 10-3 to the Cowboys and the fans seem ready to collectively lynch their own team. You people in Pennsylvania really have to find some sort of outlet for all your home-team-booing, battery-throwing anger.

They just announced that Jason Witten had to have x-rays on his chest. Which confirms our theory that someone would suffer a nipple sprain.

Big Ben sacked again for a loss of 6 yards. Seriously, this Cowboys defense is not that bad. Not that bad at all.

I have a theory that Wade’s coat is filled with Honey Buns.

Steelers denied on the 4th down. Ouch.

Bradie James down. At this point, we are guessing it is a sudden case of the bubonic plague.

Bradie James is back. Apparently even archaic diseases can’t keep the Dallas defense down.

Romo was intercepted. Which results in a Steelers touchdown. And then the Cowboys collapsed. Completely. It really doesn’t matter because, even though this wasn’t a “must win” game, we are still building a campsite deep within Deep Shit country. Awesome. I feel GREAT about the game against the Giants!!! Go Mediocre Cowboys!!!!!

We are now consoling ourselves with some shots of tequila and a Smiths playlist.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Justice League Strikes Hard

Wow, it’s really not been your week if you are a spoiled athlete who believes that you are beyond reproach or above the law. And since it’s rare that I get to say that, let’s now recap the “Classless/Homicidal/Clumsy Jocks Got Their Comeuppance” that occurred this past week:

1. You may have heard that Plaxico Burress shot himself. In the club. In the leg, in the club to be specific. It turns out that none of the following are good ideas:
- Taking a gun to a nightclub
- Storing said gun your waistband
- Wearing sweatpants
- Storing a gun in the waistband of a pair of sweatpants
- Drinking while carrying a gun
- Drinking while carrying a gun that is unregistered in the state where you, your sweatpants and the gun are currently located
- Grabbing for said gun through your sweatpants when it inevitably dislodges itself from the waistband area of your sweatpants and starts decending down the leg of your sweatpants
- While performing this manuever, grabbing the gun in the trigger region of said gun
- Also while performing this maneuver and grabbing the gun in the trigger region of said gun, holding a glass of wine in your other hand
- Not putting down your glass of wine to free up more than one gun-grabbing hand
- Putting innocent teammate in position of being a possible accomplice, as this kind of situation is a felony weapons charge kind of situation
- Immediately calling team doctors and team personnel, which could later implicate them
- Inquiring as to where one could be treated discreetly in a non-hospital setting, knowing that hospitals must report any gunshot victims they treat
- Receiving treatment at hospital emergency room but offering a false name to hospital staff
- Being a doctor that treats a gunshot victim in your emergency room but then neglects to report said victim to the authorities
- Already being the pain in the ass member of the team that doesn’t show up to practice and doesn’t play

2. You may have heard that OJ Simpson was sentenced to a minimum of 15 years in prison today for reprising his role as a bumbling idiot that he has played in such projects as Naked Gun, Naked Gun 2 ½ and his own life since 1994. It turns out that none of the following are good ideas:
- Robbing people
- Robbing people while an accomplice brandishes a gun
- Robbing people while an accomplice brandishes a gun you requested he bring
- Robbing people you know of memoriblia of yours that they now rightly own
- Losing said memoribilia as a result of a civil suit settlement in which you were found guilty of murdering your ex-wife and an innocent bystander
- Murdering your ex-wife
- Murdering the mother of your children
- Murdering an innocent bystander
- Commiting perjury
- Beating said ex-wife violently for years before you murdered her
- Only confessing to being guilty of said murder, of which you were aquitted, when you write a book about it for your own profit

3. You may have heard that Sean Avery, toolbag supreme, was suspended for making comments about a player on the opposing team dating his “sloppy seconds” in a pre-game interview. Let’s face it, it would only be surprising if Sean Avery didn’t say something like that. Let’s not forget that the only limit he puts on his own abhorent behavior is not ejaculating on a 60 year old grandmother's face. It turns out that none of the following are good ideas:
- Being Sean Avery
- Being Sean Avery and alienating your entire team
- Being Sean Avery and have already been kicked off the LA Kings for said behavior
- Being Sean Avery and not being a good enough player to afford you the ability to run your mouth as you so desire
- Being Sean Avery and not being able to find one person in the entire National Hockey League who has a single compliment to pay you personlly or professionally
- Being Sean Avery and having a butterface
- Being Sean Avery and having to figure out how you will get the same media attention you are used to receiving whilst playing in the minor leagues

And on that note, I am now going to start getting ready for my birthday party tonight. It’s a fancy dress affair so you know what that means….Wear your nicest (non-bloodstained) sweatpants, grab a glass of wine, maybe put on your best pair of leather gloves and ski mask and preen in front of the mirror for an hour before you leave, bemoaning a world full of your sloppy seconds. It’s time to par-tay.