Your Transtional Period Quizo Update

I am not going to speak at much length as to the Eagles loss yesterday. There is precious little to say. By any objective measure a season in which your team reaches the conference championship is an unqualified success. That the Eagles defense chose said conference championship to be terrible is unfortunate, but it is no more than that, and life goes on. 

A team that everyone had written off as hopeless two months ago was ten minutes from the Super Bowl. As I have said here previously regarding the Eagles, and as I have recently taken to saying to the Chelsea fans who are wailing and gnashing their teeth at our current dip in form, there is a distinct difference between not winning everything and not winning anything. I'm not saying that professional sports are some lame equivalent of "everyone gets a trophy day" at the local under-8s, but success is not a binary proposition. There are shades of grey between total success and total failure, and if you are really so dissatisfied at being no worse than the third or fourth best in the world at something I would politely suggest that you will find life in general to be an increasingly frustrating enterprise.

Put another, less prosaic way: the Eagles made the NFC Championship for the fifth time in eight years, and if you don't think that's pretty fucking good you are wrong and stupid.

I admit that I was fairly distraught for a little while after the game yesterday until I changed my mood in a manner I will describe shortly, but if you are still writhing in agony over the outcome and are in dire need of feeling better I suggest you go grab yourself a copy of Friday's midseason premiere of Battlestar Galactica, which will cheer you up by the virtue of reminding you that there are things far, FAR more depressing than the Eagles losing the NFC Championship, foremost among them Friday's midseason premiere of Battlestar Galactica.

I will avoid major spoilers for those who have not yet seen Friday's episode, but suffice it to say that it brings the concept of a really depressing hour of television to places I didn't think were possible. There are sad and/or depressing episodes of TV to be sure; the finales of MASH, China Beach, Deep Space Nine and Quantum Leap immediately spring to mind, but Friday's BSG blows right past depressing into pure, downright existential despair.

There is a moment from the episode, and you know what I'm talking about if you've seen it, where things are happening and everything is bopping along and then suddenly you shout "HOLY FUCK!" at your television and you realize that more than any show currently on television BSG is seriously playing for keeps. It was never silly sci-fi twaddle to begin with, but these last ten episodes are a shift in the show's essential question from "how do we survive in a dangerous and complicated world?" to "would the last person who even bothers to draw breath anymore kindly make sure they turn the gas off before they go?"

Much like being down on the Eagles, not watching Battlestar Galactica is wrong and stupid.

Now, personally, I lifted my post-game malaise by hitting my Netflix pile and popping in a movie. My choice ended up being "Michael Clayton," which now means that I have finally seen all of last year's Best Picture nominees just in time for THIS year's on Thursday morning. The movie was good enough, I suppose – that George Clooney is quite dreamy after all – but I can now state with certainty that 2008 was a pretty meager year for Best Picture nominees. Between the "good-but-meh," almost perfunctory well-made-edness of Michael Clayton, the hideously overrated Juno – and I mean HIDEOUSLY, I don't know in what kind of fucked-up parallel universe this paper-thin wisp of a movie is a Best Picture nominee, and don't even get me started on what a cruel joke that Best Screenplay Oscar is – and the baffling pointlessness of There Will Be Blood and No Country, the fact that Atonement did not win Best Picture in a walk is something of a mystery to me. It is the flat-out best movie of those five in a walk, and as you might have guessed, deviation from this point is – say it with me – wrong and stupid.

For the record, my guesses at Best Picture this Thursday are Benjamin Button, Slumdog, The Dark Knight, Frost/Nixon and Revolutionary Road, the last of these because a) I hate Sam Mendes and b) the world hates me. It never ceases to amaze me that I am one of the only people who recognizes the fact that Mendes needs to be shot and soon, not just for continuing to make his ponderous, overwrought, God-I-wish-I-was-doing-anything-but-making-movies movies, but for the fact that he is keeping Kate Winslet from the rest of us. So, yes, he needs to die. Or at the very least go back to the theatre (where he is actually quite good) and stay there. And also become gay.

JLK

Your "It's a Goddamn Christmas Miracle" Quizo Update

Before we get to the meat of this week's missive, a quick request: is anyone today going to be very near the Utrecht art supply store on Broad Street? I need something from there and am not able to go into town to get it. If you can do this favor for me, I will grant you a great largesse this evening, bearing in mind that vis a vis the distressingly-specific item I require the usual true Grail/false Grail rules will apply. Please drop me a line if you are able to conveniently swing by the place.

Anyway, onwards.

The phrase in this week's title was actually spoken by me twice in the last four days. The first came on Christmas day, when for the first time in recorded memory everyone in my family got perfect gifts.

Now understand that buying gifts for my parents is alternately an exacting and excruciating process. Shopping for my mother is the former. While her tastes are so complex as to make the Minoan labyrinth look like the straightaway at Daytona, if you can hew close to certain high points - cozy British murder mysteries, Magnum PI, and the collected works of Sinbad - you're pretty much okay. Shopping for my father, on the other hand, is one of the greatest exercises in futility known to man. The house is littered with stacks of books, movies and various gadgetry that were gifts for Christmas, birthdays, Father's Days, etc, that lie unwatched, unread and unused. Not that he is rude about receiving such things, he just never seems to DO anything. Like, ever. It's quite amazing, really; my father is probably the best-read person I have ever known and I have NEVER SEEN HIM READ A BOOK. So getting gifts for Dad is quite tough as it's an amazing chore to get him something he will actually lay hands on more than once.

This year I decided to obviate both of these problems by getting something that they would BOTH use to great extent: a new television, a big flatscreen hi-def job. I had a very nice one picked out and bought up, and on Christmas I had a friend with a hatchback (so as to fit the box on the back deck) give me a ride over to the Death Star to pick it up. This was at maybe 10AM on Wednesday morning. You may recall that early on Wednesday there was a bit of bother with an ice storm, but by 10 it had gone away and everything was clear. I, however, on the way to the car, managed to find the only remaining patch of ice in all of Northeast Philadelphia, slip on it, and bang up my knee pretty badly. It didn't seize up completely until later in the day so I managed to get the TV home all right, but when my knee DID seize up later that night I was presented with a considerable problem.

Since I had long since decided to present the TV as a Santa-style come-downstairs-on-Christmas-morning-and-oh-my-god-there's-a-TV-there! sort of gift, I was left with the difficulty that once my parents had gone to sleep (at 2 in the bloody morning), I now had to not only hook up a brand new large LCD television and dispose of the old one in complete silence, but I had to do all these things on one leg. The fact that I managed to complete this Herculean task should not be understated. That part in and of itself was a minor goddamn Christmas miracle, but it did unfortunately mean that I was basically immobile on Christmas Day.

Come the blessed morn I woke up and, not wanting to ruin my Santa Claus moment, laid awake in bed for a solid two hours waiting for my parents to go downstairs so I could hear the great gasps of surprise and joy. After lying awake for two hours I heard them both go downstairs and, not hearing any gasps of any kind after about ten minutes, I hobbled my way down the stairs.

"What the FUCK?!" I said. I gesticulated wildly at the new television. "No reaction? Seriously? NOTHING? Brand new big-screen TV and it gets NO FUCKING REACTION?"

"Actually," my mother said, "it fits in with the room so well we both walked past it the first time without noticing."

"WITHOUT NOTICING?" I was still shouting, I feel perfectly reasonably.

"Without noticing, well, this is funny," my father said.

It was at this point that I stopped shouting and wildly flailing my arms about long enough to realize that in front of the Christmas tree was a complete set of brand-new golf clubs with one of the oversize decorative bows that we normally hang from the living room light fixtures stuck to it. As my father just got a new set of clubs, I just received a new golf bag from them for my birthday last month, and my mother does not play golf, these were clearly for me.

I wistfully handled the bow, looked at the TV, and said, "I should have thought of this."

"It's sure as hell not three coats," my father said.

Eventually the full-on present-opening commenced. I ended up with the clubs - which are, amusingly, decked out in white, black and orange - and a GPS for my car. My mother got the camera she's been dying for from my father. She gave him a plane ticket to go Spring Training again this year. They both got an astonishingly awesome TV from me.

Once we had coffee and breakfast, I looked at them and said, "is it just me or did everyone get absolutely perfect gifts this year?" This has never happened before, not even close.

We all agreed that everyone had.

"That," I said, "is a goddamn Christmas miracle."

My second utterance of that phrase in the last few days came last night around 7PM when I finally accepted the fact that the Eagles were going to make the playoffs in what has to be the most incredibly unlikely way possible. I had read on some football website that going into Sunday the Birds had something like a 5% chance of making the playoffs. They might have beaten the Cowboys, sure. And the Bears or the Vikings MIGHT have lost, just slightly maybe, and there was a very poorly-packed snowball's chance in hell that the Buccaneers would blow it as two touchdown favorites against the Raiders, but there was basically ABSOULTEY NO WAY IN THE ENTIRE MULTIVERSE that all three of these things would happen.

By kickoff at 4:15 not only had both the Bears and Vikings lost, but the Bucs somehow DID blow it to the Raiders, and as the game was starting I sent around a text to my friends urging them to contribute to a fund that would allow us to send Al Davis a quart of fresh human blood as thanks for opening a playoff window for the Eagles. (Come on, you know he's a vampire. Or that he at least bathes in the stuff.)

The Eagles had a window. The stars had all aligned, save one. They just had to beat the Cowboys and incredibly, unbelievably, the Eagles would make the playoffs. It was going to be rough, though. The Cowboys are no pushovers. They're still a fantastically-talented football team, and the Eagles policy of "never cover the tight end" would only make someone as good as Jason Witten even more dangerous. And, hey, Tony Romo can't dick it up in December forever, can he?

About 90 minutes later, after Pacman's second mistake in 90 seconds had given the Eagles a total of ten free points, I sat there open-mouthed, staring at my television in disbelief. Eventually I found words and said aloud to my otherwise empty living room, "you've gotta be fucking KIDDING me."

As halftime struck I called my father, in Florida with my mother to visit his aunt.

"The Cowboys have basically quit," he said. "The game is pretty much over. But don't discount Andy Reid's ability to fuck this up."

"Even he would have to try pretty hard to blow this one," I said.

"This is the Eagles," he said. "Never forget that." So I went to watch the second half, waiting for the Eagles to blow their lead and return to normalcy.

When Merrill said, "there's a timeout on the field! The score is, and we are not drunk, 34-3 Eagles!" I realized that this was actually going to happen and I was possessed by a strange euphoria.

After the game ended I just sat there, not quite comprehending the ridiculous sequence of events that had led to this point. I looked over at the tree, all lit up, thought about a happy family with perfect gifts, two weeks off from work, and the Eagles in the playoffs on a new big screen TV, and just smiled and again spoke to the empty room:

"It's a goddamn Christmas miracle."

If all those things happening at once aren't that, folks, I don't know what is.

JLK

Your End of the Line Quizo Update

We now join our regularly-scheduled Quizo update, already in progress.

- is freaking ridiculous,” I say. I told my father over and over again that I don’t like going to Caesar’s, that bad bad things happen at Caesars, but now I find myself not only at Caesar’s, but in a walkway suspended several stories ABOVE Caesar’s, blindingly turning my head to and fro trying to find my father so I can a) give him his stupid Koffee Kake, and b) get the fuck out of Caesar’s.

When’s he going to start talking about it?

“I’m on the walkway,” my father says.

“Dad, there’s like five walkways,” I say. “Telling me you’re on ‘the walkway’ is about as helpful as the traffic report on NPR.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” I say. The problem now is that not only am I at Caesars where bad bad things happen, which is enough to start giving me a panic attack in and of itself. I am also trapped in a glass walkway hanging over Pacific Avenue, which brings with it fears of heights, enclosed spaces, crowds, plexiglass, strangers, unsafe construction, gravity, and having cars driving under your feet. By now all of my neuroses are fighting each other for supremacy. I start to think it will be like Highlander. They will compete for The Prize, and there can be only one. I’m rooting for fear of unsafe construction.

He has to mention it eventually.

As I can feel what is most definitely a panic attack coming on I realize that given how often I go to Atlantic City a well-developed fear of unsafe construction will actually end up being quite

Come on, he can’t ignore it forever.

debilitating…

I’m sorry, can I help you?

We were just wondering when you were going to say something about the game.

Game? What game?

You know. Yesterday.

Game yesterday? Oh! You mean the MLS Cup Final. Oh. That was a great game. Really fantastic. I mean, I know I’ve knocked the MLS in the past but that was actually quite something. It wasn’t the Liverpool-West Ham FA Cup final or anything, but it was definitely the most entertaining MLS game I’ve ever seen. You gotta give up the love for Hey-Dude. Fantastic game. Loved it.

No, er, we don’t even know what sport that is you’re talking about there. We mean the Eagles game.

The what?

The Eagles game.

I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.

Yesterday? The Eagles played the Ravens?

Ee-gulls? Is that some kind of sports team? I really don’t know what you’re referring to here.

The Eagles!

Was it on at the same time as 24 last night? Because that was pretty good too. Not great, I mean, not like season 5 great, but it was better than the end of last year.

The Philadelphia Eagles! Our football team! They got embarrassed by the Ravens yesterday! You had to watch at least part of it!

I’m really sorry, but I honestly don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Football? We don’t have a football team yet. It doesn’t start until 2010. I’m already signed up for season tickets.

AMERICAN football!

Sorry, I got nothing. “Eagles?” Never heard of them. Unless you mean the band that they mention in The Big Lebowski. “Man, I really hate the fucking Eagles!” Heh. Classic.

Ed Reed had the longest inter -

YES! FINE! ARE YOU FUCKING HAPPY? I admit it. I watched it. At least, I watched it until the end of Kevin Kolb’s second series. By then the MLS final was about to start and I couldn’t stand to watch anymore. It was like the end of a Lifetime movie, sitting by my young wife’s hospital bed as she died of Congolese Cattle Influenza or some other disease that Could Happen To Your Family, doing my best not to cry as she bravely tries and fails to cling to her last breath. Because the days of enjoying football are over. Oh, they’re over.

We have entered a new era, people, and let me be the first to say to all the Eagles fans/racist fucks in this city: congratulations. You got what you wanted. Welcome to life after Donovan McNabb. It is a dire, fetid swamp full of poisonous lichen and vengeful mediocrity. The sign over the gates of hell reads “abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” If there were a gate to this place it would read “be careful what you wish for,” though I suppose at the end of the day the underlying sentiments are largely the same.

Come on, now, that’s very negative.

Eagles fans are about to learn that the difference between not winning everything and not winning anything is like the difference between having robot-assisted micro-laser brain surgery and having a drunken veterinary assistant perform your appendectomy with a tuning fork. The next few years of Eagles football will be the latter. This isn’t so bad, though, since with the tuning fork around you’ll be able to keep your screams of agony from watching the Eagles on perfect pitch.

Okay, that’s some awfully unpleasant imagery, don’t you think?

The future, people, is bleak.

You’re very pessimistic, you know that?

Well, all right, not all of the future. There is one good thing to look forward to.

Oh, thank God! What is this impending ray of sunshine?

It’s next year. The first Sunday in February, 2010. Super Bowl Sunday.

I’ll be sitting there in front of the TV in my Chicago Bears #5 jersey. With my feet propped up in a recliner I’ll be popping some (non-alcoholic) champagne, smoking an expensive cigar, calling every single person who ever said they wanted Kevin Kolb or Jeff Garcia or AJ Feeley or whoever to start for the Eagles. I’ll be calling every one of them and laughing my ass off.

You are such a horrible person.

And then the next year, I’ll be doing it again.

single gunshot

THUMP

Remember – the price of getting what you want is having what you once wanted.

JLK

Your Growing Malaise Quizo Update

You ever have one of those stretches where everything lands in that grey, squishy space between right and wrong? Where things aren’t “oh my god this is awesome!” but they aren’t “oh my god this is terrible!” either, they’re just sort of “oh my… uh… yeah… so, that happened.” I’m sure we’ve all been there a time or two, had periods where everything is just comfortably mediocre, where our life events are like buying a new shirt and then getting home and realizing it’s half a size too big and taking the tags off and wearing it anyway. On the great sine wave of life we’ve all had times like these, those times between the highs and lows where things just hover around zero for a while. And for the most part we shrug these things off because, hey, that’s life. You take the good, you take the bad.

That is, if you’re most people.

You ever have one of those stretches where everything is mediocrity and squishy greyness and you overreact to it so outrageously, so vehemently, that you actually cause dangerous spikes in OTHER people’s blood pressure?

Let’s take a look back at this past weekend, shall we?

Friday – “this is a criminal waste of valuable resources.”

I normally play poker on Friday nights. This is a good thing. I legitimately enjoy the company of the people I play poker with, and it forces me to interact socially with other humans, which, I’m not going to lie to you, is something that given the choice I would probably opt out of in general. This past Friday I did not play poker for two reasons. The first was that it was raining.

Now, before we get carried away here, let me invoke the words of the great John Sullivan concerning rain: “it’s just rain, I’m not gonna melt.” No, my mortal fear of driving at night in the rain comes from long, long ago, back in the ancient mists of forgotten time when I, for a fleeting moment, was a student at Lehigh University. For some reason I was at a book signing at a Borders on Lancaster Pike and I had to drive back to Bethlehem in my old car – dubbed The Millenium Falcon by my friends not just because we were giant nerds but because as my then-roommate put it, “it’s big, it’s fast, and it breaks down at the worst possible times” - in the middle of the night on an unlit highway in a furious rainstorm and the only tape in the car was a collection of JG Thirlwell remixes of “The Downward Spiral.”

Suffice it to say, folks, that this is what we in the theatre call “EXCEEDINGLY BAD.” I got back to my dorm quite literally shaking with fright and nerves, and ever since the idea of driving at night in the rain has caused a fear reaction in me similar to what gazelles must feel when they hear that first lion’s roar out on the savannah.

Now I HAVE driven under these conditions – just not happily – but the weather was only half of why I didn’t go out. The other half of why I didn’t play poker on Friday night was because the expansion pack for World of Warcraft had come out the night before and I, in a remarkable combination of self-aggrandizement and stupidity, decided that the confluence of release date and weather was God’s way of telling me to stay home and play WoW on Friday night. So I did. Until about midnight, when I suddenly stopped playing, looked at my monitor, and said, “what the fuck am I doing?” This began a brutal series of self-recrimination wherein I spent a solid ten minutes chastising myself with thoughts like, “what the hell is wrong with me, I should have gone to the poker game, this is dumb, I don’t even like this game that much anymore, I’m certainly not very GOOD at it, there are a billion other things I could be doing with my time, I hate the world,” etc etc. Eventually I calmed myself down by firing up FIFA 09 on my 360, dialing the difficulty all the way down to the easiest level, and pounding on some Korean team with Chelsea (final score 14-1). I’ve said many times that you can play World of Warcraft or you can play video games, and I think I may have finally chosen the latter.

Saturday – “I guess Tosca isn’t for everyone.”

After some comical shenanigans involving birthday parties, air fresheners, and his fluid concept of time, Nick and I made it up to see Quantum of Solace on Saturday night.

Yeah.

Let me just state in my typical hyperbolic fashion that the only thing worse than a bad movie is an okay movie that could have been great. And don’t misunderstand me – Quantum of Solace could have been great. It could have been really great. In fact, the way to have made it great is so simple I can hardly believe no one did it. All you needed to do was have someone walk up to Paul Haggis, who co-wrote the screenplay, and say, “look, Paul, we know you’re hot stuff now. You’ve got the Oscars and the money and whatnot and that’s great for you. It really is. We couldn’t be more proud. Fantastic. But, Paul, we’ve got to be honest with you, if you come anywhere near another James Bond script again we’re going to break every one of your fingers one by one with a ball peen hammer. I hate to put it that way but that’s really how we feel about it. Nothing personal, of course. We love your work. Love it. We’re big fans. Now if you could do us a huge favor and just fuck off and write another script about race relations or euthanasia or whatever social issue you just discovered this fucking week actually exists and leave the James Bond stuff to those of us who know what we’re doing, yeah, that would be just fantastic. Yes, fuck off, thanks. That’s a good lad.”

How do you go from such a tight, well-written, perfectly-constructed film like Casino Royale to the messy, spineless, occasional-flashes-of-brilliance-but-otherwise-incoherent Quantum of Solace? You hire Paul Haggis to do a rewrite. God, I hate that guy. I hate him so much. This isn’t a case like Die Another Day, which was just absolute garbage from beginning to end, this movie actually had a couple REALLY excellent bits in it. Daniel Craig and Judi Dench continue to be utterly fantastic – I would watch a 2-hour movie of just M and Bond talking about, like, life issues and stuff – and there are moments where the film transcends the typical Bond-movie glop that Haggis tries to drag it back into which keep it just barely in “real movie” territory. Because, let’s face it, even the best of the old Bond movies – and this is coming from someone RAISED on them – are really fucking stupid, and I’ll take an okay “real movie” with James Bond in it over a great “Bond movie” any day.

You know your movie has problems if Nick – who, though he is like a brother to me as much as anyone who I am not actually related to and who I would probably kill if offered enough money to do so and thus is really more like a half-brother or a distant cousin or something, has zero artistic or aesthetic sense whatsoever – asks after seeing it “why was that scene in the movie?” When people who have no knowledge of screenwriting WHATSOEVER can identify structural flaws in your screenplay that is when it is time to get a new writer.

Daniel Craig is still awesome, though.

Sunday – “Mike, this is a case of the terrible versus the pathetic.”

In a similar vein to the conclusion of my thoughts on Quantum of Solace, when my FATHER is summing up his thoughts on the Eagles game with an impression of the Comic Book Guy – “Worst. Football Game. EVER.” – your football team has SERIOUS FUCKING PROBLEMS. You can’t beat the Bengals in SEVENTY-FIVE MINUTES of football? Seriously? SERIOUSLY? THE FUCKING BENGALS?

As an unabashed Donovan McNabb fan I will be the first to admit that he had what was probably his worst game since his rookie year yesterday. But, hey, here’s a thought – if D-Mac is having a bad day maybe we could, I don’t know, what’s the word for it, oh yes, RUN THE FOOTBALL! YOU HAVE BRIAN WESTBROOK! GIVE HIM THE FUCKING BALL!

The Eagles ran the ball 18 times yesterday. They threw it 58 times. You cannot play football this way. I don’t care if you have the worst running back in the NFL let alone the best whose talent is being wasted by that pass-happy fuck with the headset, you CANNOT BE A SUCCESSFUL TEAM PLAYING FOOTBALL LIKE THIS.

Merrill said it best, I think, when he opined about halfway through overtime, “if there was ever a game which neither team deserved to win, this is it.” If you are the Eagles and not only can you not beat a bunch of meatsacks like the Bengals but you actually come a hairsbreadth from LOSING to them a couple times, things have to change. That is it. The Eagles should have blown this team out by 30 points. Instead they tie, and only because Shayne Graham was the first kicker to miss a field goal against the Eagles in something like 800 years. You almost lost to the BENGALS.

Andy Reid has to go.

Monday – “Is it safe?”

I got word from Oprah’s yesterday on their choice of speed round topic and I have deemed it perfectly acceptable. Actually I think it’s kinda neat. I look forward to what I can do with it. So make sure to put a stop to them tonight, because though they get to pick a speed round after winning three times in a row, if they pull back-to-back three-peats everyone will have to address Palestra Jon as “El Jefe.” And no one wants that.

JLK

Your Divided We Fall Quizo Update

Well, folks, I hope you enjoyed the show from Pat Burrell yesterday, since it’s pretty likely his time as a Phillie is rapidly nearing its end. They’re sure as hell not going to pay him no 15 million bucks next year, and unless he’s willing to return for a lot less money he’ll be plying his slow-footed trade elsewhere come 2009. The Phillies re-signing The Bat certainly isn’t out of the realm of possibility – the numbers I most commonly hear bandied about are that the Phillies would be happy in the 5-7 million range – but I wouldn’t exactly ratchet my hopes all the way up.

For some inexplicable reason I have been a large fan of Pat the Bat ever since he arrived in Philadelphia. No one is quite sure why, although it might have been because I finally found a Phillies starter I could beat in a footrace. It certainly wasn’t for his, er, shall we say, extracurricular activities, which anyone who has been to a bar in the tri-state area the last 10 years can tell you a detailed story about. It’s interesting to note that since his engagement and marriage the Bat’s form has gotten much more consistent. Since the Bat had spent his previous years prosecuting… how to put this… an extremely exhaustive search for his one-and-only it makes perfect sense that his newfound contentment should provide such a soothing influence.

I, for one, am pleased by the fact that Pat the Bat has actually expressed a desire to stay in Philadelphia. I hope he does. They might replace him with someone who has actual speed, and that would make me sad.

Prior to the series I had predicted Phillies in 4 – I’m always right, in case you hadn’t heard – and I like the Phillies over the Dodgers and ManRam in 6. Beyond that, I shall not speculate.

While the Pat the Bat show and the attendant series-clinching goodness was going on, however, there was some OTHER sports stuff that involved a word just a single vowel away from “clinching” going down at the Linc. My thoughts on that debacle are documented elsewhere on the tubes (I’ll point you to it if you’re really interested), but suffice it to say that prospects are not looking good on the American football side of things. However, when one considers that Chelsea beat a very talented Aston Villa squad yesterday and the Phillies moved on to the NLCS, the Eagles’ buffoonery aside yesterday still has to count as a positive sporting day.

Moving on.

Last week while the House and Senate dithered over which version of the atrocious bank bailout bill to pass, this little exchange went on amongst the countries of the EU:

EU: The US banking crisis is going to spread over here! Sacre bleu! We must do something!

Ireland: Okay, we’re going to fully guarantee all deposits in our banks. That way our citizenry won’t run on them and cause a massive depression. Jesus fucking Christ are we sick of depressions in this country.

Greece: Hey, that’s not a bad idea. We’re gonna do that too!

Germany: What? What? You cannot do such a thing! This plan will destroy European banking! Nein! Achtung! Guten morgen!

Ireland: Okay, have you READ a history book? We really don’t handle hard times very well. We have this bad habit of “everyone dying” when this sort of shit goes on, and the United States isn’t exactly the “cheap starving refugee labor” market that it used to be.

Germany: You cannot! Ich bin ein Berliner! Mein lamen!

France: Perhaps if all the great nations of Europe got together and talked about this we could figure out a way to fix le market terrible!

Germany: Ja!

Italy: Si!

UK: I say, capital idea.

Spain: Hello? Hellloooo? Is anyone home? Hellllllooooooooooooooooooooo? (no answer) Fucking France.

France: So, how shall we prevent les disaster economique?

Germany: Well, we’re going to… er… (mumbles) have our federal government fully guarantee all bank deposits.

Ireland: I’m sorry, what was that?

Germany: Hm? What? We didn’t say anything.

Spain: (pounding on door) HELLO?! WE’RE STANDING RIGHT OUTSIDE, WILL YOU PLEASE LET US IN? HELLLLOOOOOOOOO?! (muttering) Fucking France.

It’s like a soap, only if Erica Kane had nuclear weapons. (And I spoke more German.)

Two more things to note before we go: one, Quizo attendance the last few weeks has moved past “just short of disastrous” into “actually disastrous.” I don’t know what the story is there, but we need to get some more bodies back on a regular basis and pronto. On a similar note, Alias Pseudonym Undercover is once again going for their third win in a row tonight, so please show up and stop them. It is a statistically-proven fact that the more teams there are the less likely it is that one specific team will win, or something. I don’t actually really know a single goddamn thing about statistics, but it sure sounds plausible.

JLK

Your Insider Information Quizo Update

Okay.

There have been some complaints about last week's speed round.

A small smattering (is that redundant?) of these complaints were about the topic of the speed round, to which I say, "shut the fuck up." As I noted on the top of the sheet, for more than three years now we have done the Eagles starting lineups every goddamn year the first week of football season. EVERY. GODDAMN. YEAR. It is not often that I am so depressingly predictable, but tradition is one of those things I tend to get prickly about. And so we will continue to do the Eagles' starting lineups the first week of football season, until either I die or the entropic heat death of the universe. I, for one, would not take bets on which will come first.

Then there are the complaints about a certain team's performance on the speed round, and allegations of - GASP! - cheating.

Now on the surface I can see how having an actual member of the Eagles fill out your Eagles' starting lineup speed round could be considered an unfair advantage of sorts. However, after consulting the Royal and Ancient Rules of Quizo I made the determination that having the answer to a question tell you that he is, in fact, the answer to a question does not constitute cheating in the strictest Quizo sense. (It is, remarkably enough, considered cheating in chess.) It's certainly not a "whoever wrote this paper doesn't know anything about Kurt Vonnegut" type of situation. So, we congratulate Pelti and Drago on having the foresight to happen to sit next to Stewart Bradley last week.

But we certainly have big things on tap for tonight, one of which will at the very least prevent a repeat of last week's shenanigans, unless the St. Joe's Hawk (curse his black soul) ends up drinking next to Das Boot.

First and most important it is vitally, dreadfully, fantastically important that everyone remember that tonight is a special Monday Night Football Edition of Quizo, which means that we will be starting at SEVEN (7)(VII)(sept)(sieben)(a David Fincher film) in the PM, and that you also remember that the speed of MNF Quizo would put the Flash to shame. We do this partly because I would not want to subject our loyal Quizo brethren to the horror of trying to answer trivia questions while surrounded by hordes of obnoxious Eagles fans, and partly because I want to get home in time for the game. So, basically, I'm a giver.

Second and almost as important - more, perhaps, to some - Alias Pseudonym Undercover, fresh off Brian's summer exile in Delaware, will be going for their third win in a row tonight. I must implore you to not let this happen, as these are guys you do not want choosing a speed round. Or, I dunno, maybe you do, since the look on their faces when they see what I do with whatever ridiculous topic they pick should be well worth the trouble.

JLK

Your Back In The Saddle Quizo Update

Notes from under the floorboards this week:

- So, yeah, the Eagles are pretty freaking good. I wouldn't get too wild just yet - the Rams are not, suffice it to say, a full set of examination papers - but if the Birds can beat the Cowboys next week I think we can be legitimately optimistic. DeSean Jackson appears as though he might be the real deal, and HOLY CRAP Asante Samuel is awesome. The Eagles aren't going to win by 35 points every week, mind you, but a man can dream.

- After playing the first 10 hours or so of Half-Life 2 probably 3 or 4 times in the last couple years I picked up The Orange Box a couple weeks back and I am determined to get through the whole thing this time. I just got to the part where the game moves from cool and intense to freakishly weird (super gravity gun!) but I have this nagging feeling that the game isn't actually GOING anywhere. This is at least partially because by this point in the first game you at least knew what the hell was going on, whereas now as near as I can tell I'm just flinging furniture at aliens for the hell of it.

- On the TV front, I am finally caught up on Supernatural and Friday Night Lights and have moved on to Rome, which is probably not as hilarious a show as I am finding it. I dunno, I just think it's funny that around the whole backdrop of the Roman revolution and Julius Caesar destroying the Republic there's these two guys who basically stumble around through the whole thing accidentally causing all of it. The show is great, though, don't get me wrong. It's hard not to be when you've got a hell of a cast - sweet zombie Jesus James Purefoy's Marc Antony is a freaking ANIMAL - and you're basically making a 13-hour version of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar crossed with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Also being by FAR the most expensive show in television history helps. If I was spending $8 million an episode I'd probably make a pretty good show too.

- For those interested in such bookish, nerdly things, Brad Meltzer is going to be at the Chester County Book Company on September 17 and Neil Gaiman is going to be at some secret undisclosed location that is almost certainly the Center City Borders on October 1. The Meltzer deal should go quite well, that store is very nice and the the crowd fit very well in there. Plus Brad is very cool. The Gaiman thing, I dunno, man. The last time I went to a Neil Gaiman signing two thousand people showed up, and I'm pretty sure even half as many people at the Borders on Broad Street would cause the building to explode like a microwaved potato. Unless there is some other gigantic super-Borders around here that I am unaware of (hint: there is not). And Neal Stephenson's new book comes out this week. Yay! The sun? What's that?

- I caught on TV this past weekend the director's cut of Aliens, which I'd never actually seen (that cut, at least). The extra stuff doesn't do a whole lot for me, honestly; the bit with the colonists at the beginning, meh, and frankly the movie wasn't any worse off without ten minutes of footage about robotic machine guns. Yes, they're Aliens and yes, they're trying to kill us, Jim, WE FUCKING WELL GET IT. Two things did particularly strike me after seeing it for the first time in maybe ten years. For starters, for how much we remember it as this super-intense non-stop action blowout, it actually takes a LONG time to get going. Here's a trivia question for you: how far into Aliens is the first shot fired? Answer: NINETY-FOUR MINUTES. The second thing that you realize: that unlike a lot of things, Aliens IS just as good as you remember thinking it was when you were young. Going into it I actually expected to be a little disappointed, thinking it couldn't possibly live up to my memory of it as a drunk, obnoxious film student (as opposed to the sober, obnoxious Quizo Guy I am now). It does. No movie called "Aliens" really has any right to be that good, but it is. Interesting side note: after watching it I went online to read about it and found this whole exegesis about how Aliens is an allegory for the Vietnam War, right down to the fact that the Colonial Marines' vehicles and stuff were specifically designed to look like US Army equipment from Vietnam. Wild, huh?

- Finally, after an abortive attempt at Quizo last week, there is a rumor that my parents will show up again tonight. That is, to the more disturbingly competitive amongst you, some kind of enticement for some reason. It's not so great for me; all it means is that I have to listen to my father complain about the geography questions, which over ten years of playing Quizo with him I have never once seen him get a single one of right. For some real fun tonight, ask my dad what he teaches. For some more fun, ask him how he got the splints that are currently on two of his fingers. When you are done I will be waiting in the usual spot to receive your pity.

JLK

Your "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer" Quizo Update

You know, it occurs to me that your special teams have to be really, REALLY bad to make the Packers look good. I mean really, really, really, REALLY BAD.

On a positive note, the Philadelphia Binge Festival - it's like the Fringe Festival, only less healthy - opens next Tuesday with my production of Patrick Marber's "Dealer's Choice" in the restaurant at the Dark Horse Pub. Shows are Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday Nights at 8 and Saturday afternoons at 4, September 18-29. Tickets to the show are a scant ten dollars. Doors will open ( i.e. I will be standing in the doorway, glaring at you, demanding money) 90 minutes before showtime, though if you want to eat/drink/whatever I strongly recommend arriving no later than an hour before curtain - I learned last night that I can't fit as many people into that room as I had previously, and space is going to get taken up very quickly. I'm a fan of early arrivals for pretty much everything in general, but in this case not only do you get a good seat but after paying me (thus putting a temporary halt to the glaring) you then get to take your time eating the... er... delicious dinner the DH provides.

It is worth noting at this point that my mother has always claimed she married an Italian so she would not have to spend the rest of her life making Irish food. Short of teaching me how to read and write I consider this to be the smartest move she's ever made.

It is worth noting further that I have been reliably informed by a number of sources who I consider quite trustworthy that the food at the Horse is excellent. I would not think for even a second to disparage the fare the DH provides, more that I am disparaging the entire genre to which it belongs, i.e. Irish/English cuisine, which by any reputable measure is absolutely repulsive. They say Scottish food is based on a dare; I would contend that Irish food is (or at least should be considered) a form of biological warfare and thus banned under the Geneva Protocol. That said, I have been repeatedly told that if one actually desires to take ones' life into ones' hands, the food at the Horse is a top-notch exemplar of Irish cuisine.

Of course, one year back when I was young my father got an unfortunate pang of nostalgia and asked my mother if we could do the traditional Italian dinner on Christmas Eve, which if you are not aware consists of seven different kinds of fish (aka, in typical Italian-American pidgin, "the Seven Fishes"). This was a poor choice on his part. This is not, I must add here, like the time a few years back my sister called us from her home in San Francisco on December 24 to tell us that her and her friends were "doing like we did way back in the day and eating the Seven Fishes," as she rattled off a menu consisting of lobster, crab, shrimp, mussels, oysters, sea bass, and scallops, leading to my comment "those aren't the Seven Fishes, those are seven things that live underwater, and five of them aren't even fucking fish."

It is worth noting yet again that - to my understanding - no one actually knows what the "official" Seven Fishes are supposed to be, so don't bother going to look them up, thinking I'm going to ask what they are tonight. I am not. If you sort of Rube Goldberg the Seven Fishes and construe it as seven Mediterranean fish that likely would have been part of a large dinner in actual Italy, well, you are in for one goddamn disgusting dinner. In terms of "worst Christmas ever" the year of the Seven Fishes ranks right up there with the year my dad - technological genius that he is - tried to book his and my mom's vacation plane tickets online and put them on a flight out on December 25 instead of 26 and we didn't even HAVE Christmas. If you really think about it I believe you'll come to the conclusion I did, that a smoking ruin of a Christmas is at least as bad (if not actually worse) than one where you eat eel.

On second thought, maybe the whole "reading and writing" thing was #1 after all.

Anyway, as far as the show goes, I am told the demand to see it amongst the legitimate theatre community is pretty hopping, so if you want to see it - and I sincerely hope you do, I would very much like everyone to - I would get back to me as soon as you can to make reservations. It's going to fill up fairly quickly. And the show is freaking awesome, which is always nice. Plus you get to eat and drink! (And drink, and drink, and drink...) What could be better than that?

(Hint: it's not seven different kinds of fish.)

JLK

Your Sports Bar Non-Quizo Non-Update

I have a question for all the good Quizo folk.

As you may or may not have heard, my production of Medea is currently up and running at the Second Stage, 2030 Sansom. Tickets, as you may or may not have heard, are $20. As you may or may not know, said tickets can be gotten at the box office at 215-563-4330 or at our website at www.prosfromdovertheatre.com.

That's not why we're here today, though.

As we all certainly know, the Eagles are playing on Saturday night at the same time my show - Medea, perhaps you've heard of it - is running. Now I will be able to catch most of the first half while the show is running, but I have some people coming and we will want to watch the remainder of the game after the show ends.

I've been trying to come up with a place near the theatre to watch the game, but the only option I can think of is the Irish Pub, and after watching the NFC Championship there two years ago suffice it to say that is not an experience I want to repeat.

So, if anyone knows a good place to watch your garish American football in the general vicinity of 20th and Sansom, or within a short walk/cab ride from there, please let me know. I realize that almost anyplace with decent televisions is probably going to be pure insanity, but if we know someplace that isn't definitely put that at the top of the list.

Many thanks.

JLK

Your "Good News, Bad News" Quizo Update

Okay, the goddamned "f" key on my keyboard here at work isn't functioning properly - you really have to stab at it quite forcefully to make it work - so if it occasionally gets dropped please bear with me. Also bear with me while I try to compose an e-mail while avoiding the letter "f."

Are we all glad to be back? After a terribly long break for the holidays - which a quick OCD glance at my calendar reveals we'll have again this year - we are back in the Quizo swing of things tonight. And, in the spirit of the soon-ending holiday season, my gift to you is this: there is only one "clue" in this e-mail, and it's pretty simple. So don't wrack your brains. Enjoy.

Last night I was watching the Eagles at my friend Mike's house, and we are (literally, all of us) sitting on the edge of the couch as the Eagles line up a field goal with three seconds to go. After Eli Manning basically stopped being Eli Manning in the fourth quarter ( i.e. started regularly throwing the ball to his own team) and the New York Football Giants had clawed their way back into a game they had no right being in in the first place, it had come down to this.

My thought process while David Akers and Koy Detmer line up the kick:

"Well... if they win, that's a win in a playoff game. But if they win that also means that there will be a game during my show next Saturday night. A loss wouldn't be so bad. I'd get a good house on Saturday night. But I'd feel bad about it because the Eagles had to lose to get it. And no one wants to lose playoff games. And oh, god, on a field goal at the end. What if what happened last night happens here? Koy's better than that punk-ass in Dallas, no worries there. No blown snap here, no sir, not our Koy. I want the Eagles to win, but I want people to see the show on Saturday night..."

Then the kick went up and split the uprights, and my thought process became this:

"YEAH! Fuck. OH YEAH! Fuuuuuuuuuck . YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAHHHHH! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"

I was terribly conflicted about this whole thing until I realized that I know someone who lives quite literally around the corner from the theatre, so at worst I will miss the very beginning of the game (when the show starts) and a little bit near halftime (when I have to open the doors after the show ends.) So I still get to see the game, and my thinking is that there probably isn't TOO much overlap between the Eagles and Ancient Greek Drama fanbases, so I should still get a decent house for the show.

By the way, Chrissy, I'll be watching the Eagles game at your house on Saturday night.

Oh, and by now this should go without saying: Medea, opening THIS WEDNESDAY! at the Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom Street, tickets $20. How to get tickets, you ask? There are two ways. The first is by calling the box office at 215-563-4330 and leaving a message. The second is by going to our website, at:

http://www.prosfromdovertheatre.com

I strongly recommend the website. The voicemail fills up very quickly and, frankly, I'm just too goddamned lazy to check it that often. Surely we all know this by now.

Plus it's got hot chicks with knives, what else do you want from the theatre?

(Please don't ask what she does with the knives.)

JLK

Your Quizo Update, A Day Late and a Dollar Short

I hope everyone has enjoyed the holiday weekend. I know I did.

For Christmas I received the gift of warmth.

I mean this quite literally.

Christmas morning with the fam (aka "my parents"), we're opening gifts and I get to one of mine in a largish box. I rip the paper off and open her up to find a lovely Izod golf jacket, perfect for those early spring days. Not that I would ever actually PLAY golf in it, as whatever golf gene allowed both of my parents to coach the sport did not get passed on to me. While I can rip a 58 at St. Andrew's on Tiger Woods 2006, my actual golf skill is quite limited, and by quite limited I mean largely nonexistent.

(That reminds me; I need to pick up Tiger Woods 2007.)

Later on in the gift opening extravaganza I come across another large box, and upon opening it find a nice winter coat in a beautiful deep crimson.

"Your leather jacket isn't warm enough when it gets REALLY cold," my mother says. Fair enough. Quite thoughtful.

Towards the end of the present line I have one more large box left. Off goes the paper and the box lid and I find...

Another winter coat. Navy blue this time.

Now there are two interesting things about this coat:

1) The coat is made by a company the owners of which are guys I have, on occasion, played poker with in Atlantic City.

2) It is, by all observations, a second winter coat and third coat overall on the same Christmas morning.

I express my confusion.

"That's in case the first one doesn't fit you," my father says. "Plus, it's from a company called Double Down. That's funny. Because, you know, you play poker. And your mother's right, that leather jacket isn't warm enough when it gets super cold out."

It occurs to me at this point that the guys who make this coat, while nice and reasonably good manufacturers of clothing, are terrible card players. It also occurs to me that my parents are so worried that I will catch the vapors walking the mean winter streets of Philadelphia that they felt it necessary to get me not one, not two, but THREE coats for Christmas this year.

I then realize, after examination of the discarded wrapping paper and noticing the truly wretched wrapping job done on the boxes that my father actually got all three, so Inadvertent Parental Gift Duplication Theory does not apply here.

Funny old world sometimes, ain't it?

There were other gifts as well, all wonderful, but none frankly as funny as three coats.

Then the Eagles absolutely beat the living shit out of the Cowboys, which is about as nice a close to a Christmas as one could ask.

And HERE'S something of interest to at least two or three people. Tonight and tonight only I am honored - HONORED, I say - to be filling in for Quizo Legend Johnny Goodtimes whilst he vacations. I'll be taking over trivia duties at O'Neals (2nd and South) at 8 and The Bard's (20th and Walnut) at 10. I've never done two Quizos in one night, so this should be interesting, inasmuch as me going crazy would probably be something worth watching for sheer entertainment value.

If I don't see you tonight (or somewhere else along the line) everyone have a good New Year's weekend. We're off again Monday, so I'll see everyone in two weeks at the Dark Horse. Drive safe, be good, avoid evil.

JLK

Your 16 Unanswered Points Quizo Update

They say in football - in your garish American football, that is - that defense wins championships.

If this is the case than the Eagles are farther away from winning the Super Bowl than they ever have been since the team's founding, since as near as I can figure the Birds have the worst defense in the history of sports. You heard it here, folks, and I'm standing by it: worst defense in 3000 years. The freaking mascot could cover his defensive assignments better than the first team does now. And he could probably play linebacker as well, which isn't really a case of playing the position "better" since the Eagles apparently have abandoned the idea of even HAVING linebackers at all.

Yesterday DID see what will go down as one of, if not THE Premiership goal of the season in Chelsea's 1-1 draw with Arsenal, which for my money was also the single best "real football" game of the year so far. 90 terribly entertaining minutes, although towards the end Dr. Matt (of previous runaway winners I Did Zidane's Sister) and I argued over the commentators' use of the word "absorbing" to describe the action as I thought that unfairly likened the game to a paper towel.

So as sports days go yesterday ended up 50/50 on the good/bad scale - I can't rate the Eagles' win as "good" since the defense makes me want to, like, ritually cut myself. Like the guy in the new Stephen King book, which I am still 200 pages from the end of. This theatre thing (Medea, opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20) really eats into my books-and-video-games time. Don't even get me started on the fact that I have three unwatched episodes of Grey's Anatomy on the DVR.

You thought I wouldn't work the Medea (opening January 11) reference in there (Second Stage, 2030 Sansom) this week? For shame (tickets $20).

JLK

Your "A Tale of Two Weekends" Quizo Update

A friend of mine is fond of saying "a plan is just a list of things that don't happen."

Note to self: screw you, friends.

As I was laying the groundwork for it, my weekend was supposed to look something like this-

Friday: Sleep late. Sit around. Have lunch with friend in from Miami. Go to comic shop and get 1 or 2 books. Drive to Harrah's, play poker, try to not lose.

Saturday: Sleep late. Go to fully-booked 4-hour audition for Medea (opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20). Be blown away by one person who is so much better than everyone else for each part that show casts itself. Go directly home immediately thereafter, have people over, play Guitar Hero II.

Sunday: Wake up early, go to Dark Horse. Watch Chelsea beat Manchester United. Go home, sit around, play more Guitar Hero II. Watch Eagles lose to Colts, hopefully not horribly.

As it happened, the weekend actually looked more like this –

Friday: Sleep way too late. Wake up far too late to have lunch. Realize upon waking that I am planning to go to a comic shop across the street from Willow Grove Mall on Black Friday. Curse own stupidity. Brave insane holiday traffic. Go to comic shop and leave with bag weighing approximately 74 pounds (Absolute New Frontier… how I love thee…). Get home. Hurt elbow carrying absurdly heavy comic shop bag out of car. Go to Harrah's. Not only lose, but watch friend who drove me down there win $500. Proceed to lose $40 on Price is Right nickel slot machines. Watch friend win another $300 on selfsame slot machine. Contemplate suicide.

Saturday: Oversleep again. Wake up to find that 8 actors have cancelled their audition – 5 thought it was the day before, 2 forgot that they were already in something the same weeks as my show (Medea, opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20). Consider feasibility of genetically engineering plague to kill all actors (note to self: consult Dr. Chill about collaborating). Go to bar to pick up keys to theatre. Listen to Max tell me why he, an high school soccer player/bar back with no theatre training, should be allowed to audition for my show (Medea, opening January 11 at Second Stage, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20). Seriously consider killing Max, possibly with aforementioned plague. Go to theatre. Have way too many good people show up and realize show will not cast itself. Spend two hours arguing with managing director over who to call back. Get call that other friend is in from Egypt for one night only, wants to go out for drinks. Cancel plans for Guitar Hero II. Go to parking garage to find that they have lost my car keys. Have managing director drive me all the way home to get spare car keys. Meet friend in from Egypt at obscenely crowded jerkoff bar that charges me $2 for every ginger ale I drink. Contemplate murder-suicide.

Sunday: Inexplicably wake up too early. Tired from not getting enough sleep. Show up at Dark Horse a solid hour before game starts to find no seats. Find pub full of Manchester United fans I've never seen before. Consider fact that United fans who only show up for big games should be shot, or possibly plagued. Sit uncomfortably in very crowded bar. Watch Chelsea not beat Manchester United. Develop screaming migraine on way to car after watching Chelsea not beat Manchester United. Upon arrival at home headache prevents further playing of Guitar Hero II. Take migraine medication, cease caring about anything for about 4 hours (Darvocet... how I love thee...). Return to reality. Curse selfsame reality. Friend offers me Eagles and a ridiculous 15 points. Take ridiculous point spread. Watch Eagles lose by 24. Headache returns when game ends. Contemplate suicide bombing.

And my birthday is on Thursday.

Yay.

This is my life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

(Or, as that friend of mine from Miami is fond of saying, "actually, John, I'm pretty sure it's ending much faster than that.")

JLK

Your "I'm Melting! I'm Melting!" Quizo Update

A WHOLE lot of things to get to this week, so let's get started.

Thing the first: let me quote, for a moment, the comic genius of Leonardo Leonardo from the abortive Clerks cartoon series when he told the Prime Minister of Canada: "NO! It's not evil spirits, it's just RAIN." Our attendance last week can only be described as piss-poor, which I must assume can be attributed to the fact that we had some weather. Trust me, folks, it won't hurt you. You can come to Quizo in the rain. No ill will befall you. Unless, of course, you are some manner of international superspy a la James Bond, in which case Dr. Chill may take offense and would attempt to befall some ill upon you. That strikes me as unlikely, however.

Thing the second: speaking of James Bond, I saw Casino Royale this past weekend. It is outstanding. I highly recommend it. I don't recommend it as much as Superman Returns, but still rather highly. Daniel Craig proves that ugly is the new not-ugly, and for the first time in the 21-movie series Bond points out the fact that martinis (vodka martinis especially) pretty much taste like lighter fluid no matter how you make them. And not the good tasting lighter fluid either, the really disgusting kind that kinda tastes like a martini. Note well that there will be... perhaps not a preponderance, but slightly less than a preponderance of Bond questions this week, because I really like James Bond movies and I really REALLY liked Casino Royale.

Thing the third: Thanks to Democrats finally getting their act together and winning control of the House and Senate two weeks ago, my theatre company's plans to produce Sam Shepard's "The God of Hell" - a play about the importance of Democrats getting their act together and winning control of the House and Senate - have had to be altered somewhat by the fact that we were in possession of a play written 18 months ago that is now dated and irrelevant. Instead we are now producing Euripides' "Medea," which (as near as I can figure after extensive research) has never been performed in Philadelphia. (Opening 8PM January 11 at Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20) So I essentially have the Philly premiere of a play written 2500 years ago. The theatre is a cool business sometimes.

Thing the fourth: We put up our audition notice this weekend, and now the inbox for my theatre company has been flooded with headshots and resumes. Medea (opening 8PM January 11 at Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20) is a 20-something woman, so I have spent all morning going over pictures of gorgeous actresses, deciding which ones I want to consider spending the next ten weeks with. The theatre is a cool business sometimes.

Thing the fifth: Someone needs to inform the Eagles that the NFL season is, in fact, 16 games long, and not 10. This will be the second year in a row where thanks to injuries the latter half of the season is essentially useless, which if nothing else makes scheduling rehearsals on Sunday afternoons in December and August a lot easier for me. We had a serious problem with our first show when we had performances on nights when the Eagles were in playoff games. As it was last year, this does not look to be a problem this time around (Medea, opening 8PM January 11 at Second Stage at the Adrienne, 2030 Sansom, tickets $20). Come on, lottery pick! Oh, wait, wrong league.

Thing the sixth: My birthday is next week. Next Thursday, to be precise. My last birthday in my 20s. Just letting you know.

See everyone tonight.

JLK

Your Wretched Atrocity Quizo Update

The "wretched atrocity" being what happened at the Linc yesterday, obviously.

I wonder: if the Eagles actually ran the football - which given the preponderance of winds on the field exceeding 200mph might have been a good idea - would Andy Reid, like, actually explode, or spontaneously combust, or otherwise cease to exist in some horrible yet entertaining way? Because for that I would actually go to an Eagles game. That sort of thing is worth seeing live. Of course, that would require the Eagles to have a running game, which they don't do even when it is PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE TO ACCURATELY THROW A FOOTBALL.

I am mildly distressed with yesterday's result, as you can see. Losing to a team from a division as abysmal as the AFC South (and what are the now-undefeated Colts doing in the South anyway?) is surely the last straw.

My distress was abated somewhat when I went to see The Prestige last night, which is an excellent film. I mean, really, Batman versus Wolverine would have had a hard time going wrong in the first place, although I am informed by a friend of mine who actually is a practicing magician that magicians do not, as a rule, repeatedly attempt to kill each other on stage that often. Yeah, something like 5 magicians have been killed trying to steal the secret to making the Statue of Liberty disappear, but "dying on stage" is supposed to be a metaphor.

JLK

Your More Wedded Bliss Quizo Update

My wedding marathon is finally over, after hitting two in the span of 24 hours this weekend. Fun was had, but I am seriously getting too old to carouse this much.

I am stone dead tired, so let me just say that your obtuse clue this week is weddings. Hopefully I will remember that when I actually make up the quiz tomorrow.

Remember, we are starting at 7 o'clock this week to accomodate the Eagles on Monday Night Football.

I am going to pass out now, if it's all the same.

JLK

Your Clueless Quizo Update

So I was going to do a thing telling the story of how last week I met the author of the #1 book on the New York Times bestseller list, thus bringing my total of authors I've met who were #1 on the bestseller list when I met them to two. Then I looked today and the book dropped to #2. Since I'm not about to ask a question about who's #2 on the bestseller list at this moment, that rules that out. For the record, it was Brad Meltzer last week. He's a hell of a guy. And, also for the record, it took Meltzer six books to reach the top spot, whereas the other guy got there his second try. I still think it's funny that people who write comic books can sell 8 zillion regular books and none of the reviews or anything ever seem to mention comics. Bastards.

Then I was thinking about doing a thing on, I dunno, local sports generalness, but I think everyone knows the Eagles won convincingly yesterday, and I'm assuming that the Phillies' half-game wild card lead will explode at some point in the next seven hours, possibly due to a plague in the locker room, or the stadium catching fire, or a plague in the locker room catching fire. This is the Phillies we're talking about, after all. No lead, no matter who it's against, is safe.

Then I saw a story about how the sequel to the Fantastic Four movie - which was pretty awful to begin with - is going to have the Silver Surfer in it. Is, in fact, going to be ABOUT the Silver Surfer. This brought to mind the thought that, like Ghost Rider, the SIlver Surfer is one of those things that looks cool when someone draws it but looks pretty fucking stupid walking around on a movie screen (or surfing, as the case may be).

Then I remembered last week when Nick (of runaway winners I Did Zidane's Sister) thought that the subject line of the e-mail was a clue and went and memorized all kinds of crap about Guns 'n Roses (who I am listening to as I type this, in fact, in a completely random occurrence). I decided that putting clues in the subject line as a regular thing was far too ridiculous, and that this week there would not only be no clues in the subject line, but that there would be none in the e-mail whatsoever.

And then I decided I'm a big liar. Well, not so much decided as remembered.

Enjoy.

JLK

Your "It's So Easy!" Quizo Update

How to lose a football game in two simple steps:

1) Gain more than 400 yards of offense, rack up a 10 point lead, and get the ball with 5 minutes left.

2) Look down at your nametag and realize it says "Andy Reid."

Clock management? Running the ball with a huge lead at the end of the game? Naaaaaaaah...

What is it with Eagles coaches who win Coach of the Year?

JLK

Your Journey Into Mystery Quizo Update

This week's update is coming a day early since I'll be comms-down all day tomorrow. Consider it more time than usual to get yourself prepped and ready. It's not going to be a regular thing, so don't get your hopes up. Apologies for length as well, this one turned out to be something of a tome.

I was at the pub on Saturday morning to watch Chelsea's 2-1 win over Charlton when I mentioned to the assembled throng that I would be watching the Eagles game at friends of mine's new house, which was in someplace called "Royersford." I asked if anyone knew where this place was and I got multiple answers, none of which were remotely similar.

"It's out 202 someplace, I think. Down near Westchester."

"No, no, it's out near Reading."

"I think it's in Montgomery County... or Chester County... or near Norristown... or maybe not."

Royersford is, in actuality, none of those places. People who know me well will grudgingly admit that one of my few useful skills is my ability to pretty much find the best way to get anyplace within my sphere of geographical knowledge (producing plays is not really a "useful" skill). The western limit of said sphere, however, is right around the King of Prussia mall, so of course I got directions that had me going way the hell out 76 (to KoP, aka "my limit") and then way the hell out something called 422. When you get in the car and realize that the directions to a place you've never heard of include a ROAD you've never heard of, that is not a sign that things are going to go well for you.

I had to meet my producing partner at the mall to pick up the scripts for our next show on the way. If you've never been to King of Prussia Mall, suffice it to say that getting into the parking lot is quite easy. Getting OUT of the lot and onto a specific road going someplace you actually want to get to is another matter entirely. As we were talking I asked if he knew how to get onto this mysterious 422.

He said, and I am quoting here, "I dunno. But we can ask the car."

He was driving his father's new Benz which apparently has some sort of navigation system whereby you put in an address and it tells you how to get there. Like, vocally. As you're driving it will say "turn right here, then look for a right soon thereafter." We put in my destination address and got elaborate directions, even how to get out of the parking lot we were in. It's quite well-spoken and pleasant; I would have expected a German car to be a little more condescending.

On the way out there I kept seeing signs for places I had only ever heard of in fevered whispers and never really believed existed, like "Trappe" and "Oaks" and "Valley Forge." Heading out 422 I saw a very large, very dark cloud bank hanging over the landscape. After a few miles I realized this cloud bank was not, in fact, clouds, but was something emanating from a pair of cooling towers, and it occurred to me that driving TOWARDS the nuclear power plant may not have been the best move long-term health-wise.

I finally arrived at the house, which one actually gets to by parking in the lot of the high school behind their conehead development and cutting through the baseball fields, and when I got out of my car I just stood there, looked around, and said to myself:

"Where the FUCK am I?"

This is what happens when you step outside your limits.

At the very least, the Eagles put up a very convincing win over the hapless Houston Texans, even in the face of what the TV commentators (who we had to listen to because Merrill Reese was 6 seconds ahead of the TV feed) called the best drive in Texans history. The afternoon was only sweetened watching the Cowboys game, when someone said "anyone remember the Bounty Bowl?" and we all had a good laugh. Buddy Ryan, man, those were the days. The freaking Bounty Bowl. Good times.

Bear in mind that we now have a semi-functional website again, this time at

http://quizo.blogspot.com

The new site will have, at the very least, reposts of the weekly e-mail and the recaps I used to do at the old site, for which (if you can believe it) I've actually gotten requests. Perhaps some other stuff as well, as I think of it. So there you have it.

Finally, also bear in mind that the subject line of this week's e-mail is also one of my patented obtuse clues to a question this week.

See you all Monday night.

JLK