I am torn about how to process what took place in yesterday's playoff games. On the one hand, the Cowboys lost, which is always good. On the other hand, the Giants won, which is never good. As an Eagles fan it is difficult to weight these two outcomes successfully.
However, on the plus side, the New York Football Giants' win yesterday means that the NFC Championship will feature the Giants and the Packers at the once-again frozen tundra of Lambeau Field - seriously, how awesome was that on Saturday - and if both Eli Manning (who people are now pretending is actually good) and Brett Favre (who people are now pretending is not older than Yoda) both stay true to form the conference championship should feature, by my calculations, approximately 317 interceptions. That's sure to be entertaining. And the Patriots are playing, I dunno, somebody. Who gives a fuck. I can't even be bothered to watch them anymore.
Speaking of entertaining, did anyone catch the new Terminator show last night? I had heard good things about it for some time and after viewing it was pleasantly surprised that once you get past the fact that aside from a great twist towards the end very little actually HAPPENED for that first hour (boy meets girl, girl turns out to be killer robot from the future, girl robot from the future hits man robot from the future with truck multiple times) it was damnably well done. It's certainly better than Terminator 3, which it essentially replaces, and it would get a pass from me on that alone.
JLK
Showing posts with label your garish american football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label your garish american football. Show all posts
Monday, January 14, 2008
Monday, October 29, 2007
Your Poorly Worded Quizo Update
Not a whole lot to say this week - I want to get this done and down so I can go back to Guitar Hero 3. So, highlights:
- Perhaps in response to the Royal Flush I found myself against last week, the poker gods saw fit to award me a straight flush (to the queen) this past Friday night, my first in about five years. It followed a pretty good run of cards on my part, and when one of the people at my table asked how I kept getting such good hands I joked "I'm sleeping with the dealer," and when she gave me an odd look I was momentarily mortified while I wracked my brain trying to make sure that I was, in fact, joking.
- I was at a Halloween party on Saturday night, and such parties can be tough when you don't really dress up in costumes. After being repeatedly asked "and what are you supposed to be?" like I'm some half-witted six-year-old prowling the streets of Mayfair on Halloween night in a mismatched Eagles shirt and Phillies hat I started responding "I'm an optimist." No one seemed to believe that; not the sober folks at any rate. The drunk people just sort of stared at me blankly. Mission accomplished? I don't even know.
- During the Eagles game yesterday, Dick Stockton described Darren Sharper as - I am not making this up, this is word for word here - "the leading all-time interceptor of the active kind." I really miss the days when Merrill Reese was in sync with the television broadcast and we could just turn off the TV and turn on the radio and be spared such inane ravings. Merrill's tendency to occasionally Yoda up his commentary aside - I always loved comments like "and shaken up on the play is William Thomas" - at least I didn't have to listen to crap like that. Also, Brian Baldinger predicted the Redskins would hold the Patriots to "about twenty five points," which I suppose makes him slightly less than half right. Stockton and Baldinger may be the worst commentary team in football, and on a landscape that includes Boomer Esiason and the team of Joe Buck and Troy Aikman, whose combined IQ numbers something like 11, someone needs to make it so Merrill is back in time with the TV before I throw something. Give us Moose Johnston at least, please.
All right - La Grange awaits on the Playstation.
JLK
- Perhaps in response to the Royal Flush I found myself against last week, the poker gods saw fit to award me a straight flush (to the queen) this past Friday night, my first in about five years. It followed a pretty good run of cards on my part, and when one of the people at my table asked how I kept getting such good hands I joked "I'm sleeping with the dealer," and when she gave me an odd look I was momentarily mortified while I wracked my brain trying to make sure that I was, in fact, joking.
- I was at a Halloween party on Saturday night, and such parties can be tough when you don't really dress up in costumes. After being repeatedly asked "and what are you supposed to be?" like I'm some half-witted six-year-old prowling the streets of Mayfair on Halloween night in a mismatched Eagles shirt and Phillies hat I started responding "I'm an optimist." No one seemed to believe that; not the sober folks at any rate. The drunk people just sort of stared at me blankly. Mission accomplished? I don't even know.
- During the Eagles game yesterday, Dick Stockton described Darren Sharper as - I am not making this up, this is word for word here - "the leading all-time interceptor of the active kind." I really miss the days when Merrill Reese was in sync with the television broadcast and we could just turn off the TV and turn on the radio and be spared such inane ravings. Merrill's tendency to occasionally Yoda up his commentary aside - I always loved comments like "and shaken up on the play is William Thomas" - at least I didn't have to listen to crap like that. Also, Brian Baldinger predicted the Redskins would hold the Patriots to "about twenty five points," which I suppose makes him slightly less than half right. Stockton and Baldinger may be the worst commentary team in football, and on a landscape that includes Boomer Esiason and the team of Joe Buck and Troy Aikman, whose combined IQ numbers something like 11, someone needs to make it so Merrill is back in time with the TV before I throw something. Give us Moose Johnston at least, please.
All right - La Grange awaits on the Playstation.
JLK
Monday, September 24, 2007
Your "Why, Jose, Why?" Quizo Update
I was at the bar on Wednesday night for my show - a little bit on that in a little bit - when my phone rang. It was Bill, a friend of mine who is a supporter of Manchester United.
"You been reading the papers?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I'm at the pub for my show. What's up?"
"Your boy Mourinho just quit Chelsea. It's all over the fucking news," Bill said.
"Yeah, very funny." I am certain this is a windup.
"I'm serious! The board had some kinda bust-up with Mourinho, he walked the fuck out."
"Come on, man, this isn't funny," I say, though I am starting to get worried. I'm fairly certain Bill wouldn't mess with me in this way, but I'm not 100% sure. Then my phone beeps. I have a new text message. I keep talking. "Where'd you read that?"
"It was in the Sun!" Bill says, indignant. The Sun is vaguely the British equivalent of the New York Post - they are not above completely making things up if it suits their bizarre pseudo-journalistic aims. "After your pissant little draw last night - "
"Come on, Bill," I interrupt him. "You oughta know better than to trust what you read in the fucking Sun..." My phone beeps for a text message again.
Then it beeps again.
And again.
Then it beeps for an incoming phone call.
It is at about this point I realize this is not a windup.
Jose Mourinho has quit his job as manager of Chelsea.
As shocking as the news was at the time what would come over the next four days would devolve very quickly from bad to worse to ridiculous, the most egregious element being that Jose was actually FIRED. Five trophies in three years? Not good enough. I won't go over the entire story in detail here - if you're really interested there are a number of very interesting articles on the subject in The Guardian - but suffice it to say Chelsea has, in the course of the last five days, gone from nouveau-riche international football powerhouse to broken, dejected laughingstock.
I was at the pub again yesterday to watch the Chelsea-United match and Brian of Alias Pseudonym Undercover made the comment that "firing Mourinho is like firing Bill Belicheck." I responded that no, not exactly, firing Mourinho now is like firing Bill Walsh three days before the 1988 NFC Championship. It is lunacy. It TRANSCENDS lunacy. It is a decision that exists in some dimension of capricious, brain-damaged insanity beyond the bounds of known time and space. Did you see that movie "Event Horizon?" It's like the evil dimension in that. I know, the movie sucks, yes, but it has Sam Neill and Larry "I Refuse To Call Him Laurence" Fishburne and it works for the analogy I am trying to create here.
On the plus side, after Chelsea's loss to United yesterday morning, the Eagles went and scored eight touchdowns, even if those throwback uniforms are truly hideous. I hope you weren't playing fantasy football against anyone who had an Eagle on their team. Ouch. Of course, I played against a guy who had Tom Brady. And Marion Barber. And my first five draft picks COMBINED for a total of seven points yesterday. God, I hate the world.
On the show tip, I'll toss up the URL for the thing one more time - www.phillybinge.com - but basically if you don't tell me in the next, like, twenty-four hours when you're coming, guess what? You're probably not going to get tickets. Dealer's Choice is the best show and the hottest ticket in Philly. Everybody and their goddamn brother is coming to see this thing this week. When I said last time that if you roll up at 7:45 on some show night you were probably going to get seats, but they wouldn't be very good? Yeah, I lied. If you roll up at 7:45 some show night without reservations you're not going to get a seat. Bummer for you. Good for me, as this thing ended up costing dump trucks full of money, but bummer for you. It's really quite good. Remarkably good, in fact. It's a shame so many of our fine Quizo folk probably won't get to see it. Like I said - you've got maybe 24 hours before the run sells out. Get on it.
The only downside of producing the hottest show in Philly is that I constantly get asked the question "so what are you doing next?" It felt weird saying "nothing" or evading the question, so now I've settled on the answer, "it's this great new show called 'Going Back To College For My Education Degree.' It's really long and tickets are REALLY expensive."
JLK
"You been reading the papers?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I'm at the pub for my show. What's up?"
"Your boy Mourinho just quit Chelsea. It's all over the fucking news," Bill said.
"Yeah, very funny." I am certain this is a windup.
"I'm serious! The board had some kinda bust-up with Mourinho, he walked the fuck out."
"Come on, man, this isn't funny," I say, though I am starting to get worried. I'm fairly certain Bill wouldn't mess with me in this way, but I'm not 100% sure. Then my phone beeps. I have a new text message. I keep talking. "Where'd you read that?"
"It was in the Sun!" Bill says, indignant. The Sun is vaguely the British equivalent of the New York Post - they are not above completely making things up if it suits their bizarre pseudo-journalistic aims. "After your pissant little draw last night - "
"Come on, Bill," I interrupt him. "You oughta know better than to trust what you read in the fucking Sun..." My phone beeps for a text message again.
Then it beeps again.
And again.
Then it beeps for an incoming phone call.
It is at about this point I realize this is not a windup.
Jose Mourinho has quit his job as manager of Chelsea.
As shocking as the news was at the time what would come over the next four days would devolve very quickly from bad to worse to ridiculous, the most egregious element being that Jose was actually FIRED. Five trophies in three years? Not good enough. I won't go over the entire story in detail here - if you're really interested there are a number of very interesting articles on the subject in The Guardian - but suffice it to say Chelsea has, in the course of the last five days, gone from nouveau-riche international football powerhouse to broken, dejected laughingstock.
I was at the pub again yesterday to watch the Chelsea-United match and Brian of Alias Pseudonym Undercover made the comment that "firing Mourinho is like firing Bill Belicheck." I responded that no, not exactly, firing Mourinho now is like firing Bill Walsh three days before the 1988 NFC Championship. It is lunacy. It TRANSCENDS lunacy. It is a decision that exists in some dimension of capricious, brain-damaged insanity beyond the bounds of known time and space. Did you see that movie "Event Horizon?" It's like the evil dimension in that. I know, the movie sucks, yes, but it has Sam Neill and Larry "I Refuse To Call Him Laurence" Fishburne and it works for the analogy I am trying to create here.
On the plus side, after Chelsea's loss to United yesterday morning, the Eagles went and scored eight touchdowns, even if those throwback uniforms are truly hideous. I hope you weren't playing fantasy football against anyone who had an Eagle on their team. Ouch. Of course, I played against a guy who had Tom Brady. And Marion Barber. And my first five draft picks COMBINED for a total of seven points yesterday. God, I hate the world.
On the show tip, I'll toss up the URL for the thing one more time - www.phillybinge.com - but basically if you don't tell me in the next, like, twenty-four hours when you're coming, guess what? You're probably not going to get tickets. Dealer's Choice is the best show and the hottest ticket in Philly. Everybody and their goddamn brother is coming to see this thing this week. When I said last time that if you roll up at 7:45 on some show night you were probably going to get seats, but they wouldn't be very good? Yeah, I lied. If you roll up at 7:45 some show night without reservations you're not going to get a seat. Bummer for you. Good for me, as this thing ended up costing dump trucks full of money, but bummer for you. It's really quite good. Remarkably good, in fact. It's a shame so many of our fine Quizo folk probably won't get to see it. Like I said - you've got maybe 24 hours before the run sells out. Get on it.
The only downside of producing the hottest show in Philly is that I constantly get asked the question "so what are you doing next?" It felt weird saying "nothing" or evading the question, so now I've settled on the answer, "it's this great new show called 'Going Back To College For My Education Degree.' It's really long and tickets are REALLY expensive."
JLK
Monday, September 10, 2007
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
Monday, February 12, 2007
Your "If You Build It, He Will Come" Quizo Update
Normally, once I'm done with a show (Medea - you may have heard about it) I like to take something of a mini-vacation to unwind. I couldn't do so last weekend because of Quizo Bowl 3 and the Rex Grossman Is the Worst Quarterback in the History of Everything Bowl, but I finally got my chance this past weekend, and oh what a vacation it was.
I slept. I watched season 2 of Battlestar Galactica on DVD. I played Guitar Hero.
That's pretty much it.
It was very restful
I got back sometime last night and was subjected to trying to watch television with my dad. In the past this has been... I would say "trying" experience but that doesn't quite cover it. "Excruciating" experience is a bit closer but still comes well short of the mark. Let's see what thesaurus.com can give me:
"acute, agonizing, burning, chastening, consuming, exquisite, extreme, grueling, harrowing, insufferable, intense, piercing, punishing, racking, rending, searing, severe, sharp, shooting, stabbing, tearing, tormenting, torturesome, torturing, torturous, unbearable, unendurable, violent"
Hmm... agonizing is good. Dunno about rending or stabbing necessarily, I don't think it ever actually broke the skin. Ooh, punishing, torturesome and unendurable, now THOSE are good.
So, as I was saying, for the longest time watching TV with my dad was punishing, torturesome (which GMail's spell check insists is not actually a word) and unendurable. He's one of those people who will constantly barrage (assail, bombard, batter, beset, beseige, ooh, cannonade) you with the most annoying questions while you're trying to watch something. "Who's that guy?" "What are they doing here?" "Is that guy somebody?" "What's going on?" "Now who's THAT guy?" "Why is that guy talking to that other guy?" "What are they talking about?"
And so forth.
This would go on the entire length of what you were watching, making actually viewing something almost impossible. At first I would remain calm and say "just watch the show, Dad" but he would never let up until a point a few months ago when I was trying to watch Lost and he started in on it and I finally just shouted "I WILL KILL YOU WITH THE FUCKING PLAYSTATION IF YOU DON'T STOP DOING THAT."
Now, at least, the questions have considerably lessened in output and have become somewhat relevant (accordant, applicatory, appurtenant, conformant... are those WORDS?) and, on occasion, can actually produce an amusing (agreeable, cheerful, comical, gladdening... gladdening? what the fuck is "gladdening?" I swear thesaurus.com is just screwing with me now) exchange. Take this from last night's Galactica:
Dad: Why does that guy have an eyepatch?
Me: The Cylons took his eye from him.
Dad: When did they do that?
Me: Uh.. for a while there the people were on this planet and they were, uh, occupied by the Cylons... it was kind of an Iraq allegory thing -
Dad: Eyepatch Dude is kind of a jerk.
Me: Yeah, well, he's still kinda pissy about killing his wife.
Dad: He killed his wife? Why?
Me: Well, er, when he was in prison his wife collaborated with the Cylons to help him out. And then when he found out about it he killed her.
Dad: Why are they acting like he's so important? I've never seen him before.
Me: He's the XO of the ship, Dad, he's been around the whole time.
Dad: Even before the Cylons took his eye?
Me: Yes, before that.
Dad: These people all seem really upset all the time.
Me: Life on Battlestar Galactica is not pleasant, no.
(we watch in blissful silence for a few seconds)
Dad: Wait, I thought Cylons were robots.
Me: They are robots.
Dad: But they just called that chick a Cylon.
Me: She is a Cylon.
Dad: You just said Cylons were robots.
Me: They... well, they ARE robots. Most of them. But some of them are robots who look like people.
Dad: Robots that look like people.
Me: Yes.
Dad: Where did that guy come from? The one the other chick is talking to. Is she a robot who looks like a person?
Me: Yeah, she's a robot... the guy... okay, see, he's a real person, and you thought he was crazy cause he talks to this vision of that blonde chick that only he can see, but then you found out later that one version of the blonde robot chick actually sees HIM in her head, and so that's pretty cool. So that's not really him, okay, that's just the vision of him in her head that only that specific robot can see. Because, you see, there's lots of copies of each KIND of robot, but only that ONE copy can see the guy in her head, so -
Dad: I'm going to bed.
All these years of frustration (annoyance, contravention, dissatisfaction, impediment ) and all I had to do to get him to shut up was to answer his questions.
JLK
I slept. I watched season 2 of Battlestar Galactica on DVD. I played Guitar Hero.
That's pretty much it.
It was very restful
I got back sometime last night and was subjected to trying to watch television with my dad. In the past this has been... I would say "trying" experience but that doesn't quite cover it. "Excruciating" experience is a bit closer but still comes well short of the mark. Let's see what thesaurus.com can give me:
"acute, agonizing, burning, chastening, consuming, exquisite, extreme, grueling, harrowing, insufferable, intense, piercing, punishing, racking, rending, searing, severe, sharp, shooting, stabbing, tearing, tormenting, torturesome, torturing, torturous, unbearable, unendurable, violent"
Hmm... agonizing is good. Dunno about rending or stabbing necessarily, I don't think it ever actually broke the skin. Ooh, punishing, torturesome and unendurable, now THOSE are good.
So, as I was saying, for the longest time watching TV with my dad was punishing, torturesome (which GMail's spell check insists is not actually a word) and unendurable. He's one of those people who will constantly barrage (assail, bombard, batter, beset, beseige, ooh, cannonade) you with the most annoying questions while you're trying to watch something. "Who's that guy?" "What are they doing here?" "Is that guy somebody?" "What's going on?" "Now who's THAT guy?" "Why is that guy talking to that other guy?" "What are they talking about?"
And so forth.
This would go on the entire length of what you were watching, making actually viewing something almost impossible. At first I would remain calm and say "just watch the show, Dad" but he would never let up until a point a few months ago when I was trying to watch Lost and he started in on it and I finally just shouted "I WILL KILL YOU WITH THE FUCKING PLAYSTATION IF YOU DON'T STOP DOING THAT."
Now, at least, the questions have considerably lessened in output and have become somewhat relevant (accordant, applicatory, appurtenant, conformant... are those WORDS?) and, on occasion, can actually produce an amusing (agreeable, cheerful, comical, gladdening... gladdening? what the fuck is "gladdening?" I swear thesaurus.com is just screwing with me now) exchange. Take this from last night's Galactica:
Dad: Why does that guy have an eyepatch?
Me: The Cylons took his eye from him.
Dad: When did they do that?
Me: Uh.. for a while there the people were on this planet and they were, uh, occupied by the Cylons... it was kind of an Iraq allegory thing -
Dad: Eyepatch Dude is kind of a jerk.
Me: Yeah, well, he's still kinda pissy about killing his wife.
Dad: He killed his wife? Why?
Me: Well, er, when he was in prison his wife collaborated with the Cylons to help him out. And then when he found out about it he killed her.
Dad: Why are they acting like he's so important? I've never seen him before.
Me: He's the XO of the ship, Dad, he's been around the whole time.
Dad: Even before the Cylons took his eye?
Me: Yes, before that.
Dad: These people all seem really upset all the time.
Me: Life on Battlestar Galactica is not pleasant, no.
(we watch in blissful silence for a few seconds)
Dad: Wait, I thought Cylons were robots.
Me: They are robots.
Dad: But they just called that chick a Cylon.
Me: She is a Cylon.
Dad: You just said Cylons were robots.
Me: They... well, they ARE robots. Most of them. But some of them are robots who look like people.
Dad: Robots that look like people.
Me: Yes.
Dad: Where did that guy come from? The one the other chick is talking to. Is she a robot who looks like a person?
Me: Yeah, she's a robot... the guy... okay, see, he's a real person, and you thought he was crazy cause he talks to this vision of that blonde chick that only he can see, but then you found out later that one version of the blonde robot chick actually sees HIM in her head, and so that's pretty cool. So that's not really him, okay, that's just the vision of him in her head that only that specific robot can see. Because, you see, there's lots of copies of each KIND of robot, but only that ONE copy can see the guy in her head, so -
Dad: I'm going to bed.
All these years of frustration (annoyance, contravention, dissatisfaction, impediment ) and all I had to do to get him to shut up was to answer his questions.
JLK
Monday, February 05, 2007
Your Return to Normal Quizo Update
After the... shall we say... generally adverse reaction to last week's e-mail I have once again returned to our regular format, providing you with your weekly dose of sarcasm and misery. This is not to say that I don't hope people occasionally laugh - though recent evidence indicates I am somewhat deficient in that specific area - but misery is more interesting, most of the time.
A brief wrapup of recent events:
Saturday morning saw Chelsea beat Charlton 1-0, which when you consider that Charlton may be the worst soccer team in the entire world (including, like, the Wissinoming under-11s) is not that great a result, especially when Andriy Shevchenko could have had about 4 goals if he would only remember that the key to scoring is to not kick the ball directly at the keeper. Chelsea's win did put us a scant three points behind Manchester United, though that certainly wouldn't last ( c.f. Sunday morning, a bit later)
Saturday night was Johnny Goodtimes Quizo Bowl 3, which my team would have won if I were not such a goddamned idiot. There was a time when I actually played Quizo quite regularly, but since it passed recently I have apparently gotten out of practice and am now subject to pathetic mistakes that cost me and my teammates many hundreds of dollars. I would hang my head in shame were I capable of shame or guilt; as it stands I merely get pissy at my teammates for not catching and correcting my wrong answers.
Sunday morning Manchester United was playing at Tottenham, who have an excellent record at home (9 wins of 12) and with a draw would close our gap on United to 4. Hell, a win would keep it at 3. Of course, neither of those things happened, Tottenham got absolutely thumped AT HOME 4-0 and drive United's goal difference into 6 figures. I spent most of Sunday morning and Sunday afternoon muttering "fucking Spurs..." to myself until just before the Super Bowl when I did my back carrying laundry, preventing me from going anyplace other than my couch for the game.
Then, of course, the game came on, and the Sex Cannon's antics made all the pain go away. We love you, Rex - never change. Not one bit.
Then Peyton Manning won the Super Bowl MVP and I got pissed again because he certainly doesn't deserve it. There's no justice, I swear.
JLK
A brief wrapup of recent events:
Saturday morning saw Chelsea beat Charlton 1-0, which when you consider that Charlton may be the worst soccer team in the entire world (including, like, the Wissinoming under-11s) is not that great a result, especially when Andriy Shevchenko could have had about 4 goals if he would only remember that the key to scoring is to not kick the ball directly at the keeper. Chelsea's win did put us a scant three points behind Manchester United, though that certainly wouldn't last ( c.f. Sunday morning, a bit later)
Saturday night was Johnny Goodtimes Quizo Bowl 3, which my team would have won if I were not such a goddamned idiot. There was a time when I actually played Quizo quite regularly, but since it passed recently I have apparently gotten out of practice and am now subject to pathetic mistakes that cost me and my teammates many hundreds of dollars. I would hang my head in shame were I capable of shame or guilt; as it stands I merely get pissy at my teammates for not catching and correcting my wrong answers.
Sunday morning Manchester United was playing at Tottenham, who have an excellent record at home (9 wins of 12) and with a draw would close our gap on United to 4. Hell, a win would keep it at 3. Of course, neither of those things happened, Tottenham got absolutely thumped AT HOME 4-0 and drive United's goal difference into 6 figures. I spent most of Sunday morning and Sunday afternoon muttering "fucking Spurs..." to myself until just before the Super Bowl when I did my back carrying laundry, preventing me from going anyplace other than my couch for the game.
Then, of course, the game came on, and the Sex Cannon's antics made all the pain go away. We love you, Rex - never change. Not one bit.
Then Peyton Manning won the Super Bowl MVP and I got pissed again because he certainly doesn't deserve it. There's no justice, I swear.
JLK
Monday, January 22, 2007
Your "Life is Once Again Pain" Quizo Update
If anyone is keeping track of such things - and I severely doubt that anyone is - you may recall a Quizo update from about a year ago (February 27, to be precise) which occurred after I spent an entire weekend moving out of my old apartment and moving a bunch of furniture out of my old office. This, as you may recall, led to a significant amount of physical pain and the infamous "pain" speed round.
Well, folks, we're back there again. And, let me remind you, pain can take on many forms.
First we have the sort of pain caused by seeing something so strange, so odd, so unbelievably weird that you get that tickle in the back of your brain that you realize is your actual consciousness writhing in agony.
Saturday night, upon returning from the theatre, I found an instant message waiting for me on my computer. Now normally I am very good about putting up an away message so that people think I am not just ignoring them when I am unable to receive one of the many thousands of IMs I get on a daily basis. This one said:
"Is this John?"
I looked at that and realized that the only way someone could have actually GOTTEN my IM is if I gave it to them or they read it on the Quizo website, which is essentially the same thing as me giving it to them. OBVIOUSLY, yes, this is me. Who else could it be? Let's look at my IM for a second: "LSUKozemp." It's been that for almost ten years. There are only something like 25 people named Kozempel in THE ENTIRE UNITED STATES, and as far as I know I am the only one who went to LaSalle, and I am for damn sure the only one who a) is, in fact, me and b) tells people "my IM is LSUKozemp." At that point I am seriously starting to worry that someone is out there who not only managed to obtain (through whatever means) my IM but for some deranged reason thinks that SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME WOULD BE USING IT.
Put another way: did one of you IM me this weekend? If so, I was at the theatre. Sorry. Leave a name next time.
Speaking of theatre, this week is your last chance to see Medea, playing at the Second Stage at the Adrienne, tickets $20, box office 215-563-4330 or www.prosfromdovertheatre.com. And that's the last time we'll hear about that.
There was also emotional pain this weekend, though thankfully it was all sports-related and thus reasonably minor. Chelsea lost to Liverpool on Saturday morning, which - though painful - was made considerably easier by the fact that the 7:30AM starting time meant that there were reasonably few Scousers at the pub and those who were there were, frankly, surprisingly well-behaved.
Then, on Sunday afternoon while watching the conference championships, we had two little muddles. First, the Chicago Bears' embrace of a cold weather running offense means I was denied one of the greatest pleasures of the NFL, i.e. watching Rex Grossman - aka "Sexy Rexy," aka "Rextasy," aka "The Sex Cannon" - throw interception after interception and generally be the worst, most hideously overrated and undertalented quarterback the NFL has to offer. That displeased me greatly. There are few things more entertaining than watching Sexy Rexy completely self-destruct.
Then, of course, came the AFC Championship. After a first half in which it seemed that Bill Belichek and Tom Brady's Faustian bargain was going to come through big-time once again, Peyton and the Colts fought back to take the lead.
The situation, then, is that the Patriots have the ball on the 20, with 54 seconds left, down 4 points.
I said to my father at this point, "well, clearly, the Patriots are going to win."
Note well the fact that Tom Brady - who I am largely ambivalent towards but hate his fans with unbridled passion - has engineered an astonishing SIX game-winning drives in the postseason. Tom Brady, in that respect, is the Jack Bauer of the NFL. 4 down, minute to go, 80 yards - yeah, he's got them right where he wants them.
Then he threw an interception and... and... it suddenly became clear that something is dreadfully WRONG with the world. Hence more emotional pain.
And, on a final and physical pain note, yesterday morning I was awoken by an incredible, earth-shattering pain in my left leg which has since been determined to be a cramp. I maintain that if this is a cramp it is no ordinary cramp, but the Mayor of Cramp City in Cramp County in the United States of Crampia on Planet Cramp in the Cramp Galaxy. I mean, fucking OW. It still hurts. This is why I may still be walking with a cane tonight, because there is a good chance I will be unable to fully flex my left leg. But, hey, House teaches us that leg pain and cane usage is an excuse to be cruel and aloof and not give a damn about other people's feelings.
So, well, at least now I have an excuse. Thanks, House!
JLK
Well, folks, we're back there again. And, let me remind you, pain can take on many forms.
First we have the sort of pain caused by seeing something so strange, so odd, so unbelievably weird that you get that tickle in the back of your brain that you realize is your actual consciousness writhing in agony.
Saturday night, upon returning from the theatre, I found an instant message waiting for me on my computer. Now normally I am very good about putting up an away message so that people think I am not just ignoring them when I am unable to receive one of the many thousands of IMs I get on a daily basis. This one said:
"Is this John?"
I looked at that and realized that the only way someone could have actually GOTTEN my IM is if I gave it to them or they read it on the Quizo website, which is essentially the same thing as me giving it to them. OBVIOUSLY, yes, this is me. Who else could it be? Let's look at my IM for a second: "LSUKozemp." It's been that for almost ten years. There are only something like 25 people named Kozempel in THE ENTIRE UNITED STATES, and as far as I know I am the only one who went to LaSalle, and I am for damn sure the only one who a) is, in fact, me and b) tells people "my IM is LSUKozemp." At that point I am seriously starting to worry that someone is out there who not only managed to obtain (through whatever means) my IM but for some deranged reason thinks that SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME WOULD BE USING IT.
Put another way: did one of you IM me this weekend? If so, I was at the theatre. Sorry. Leave a name next time.
Speaking of theatre, this week is your last chance to see Medea, playing at the Second Stage at the Adrienne, tickets $20, box office 215-563-4330 or www.prosfromdovertheatre.com. And that's the last time we'll hear about that.
There was also emotional pain this weekend, though thankfully it was all sports-related and thus reasonably minor. Chelsea lost to Liverpool on Saturday morning, which - though painful - was made considerably easier by the fact that the 7:30AM starting time meant that there were reasonably few Scousers at the pub and those who were there were, frankly, surprisingly well-behaved.
Then, on Sunday afternoon while watching the conference championships, we had two little muddles. First, the Chicago Bears' embrace of a cold weather running offense means I was denied one of the greatest pleasures of the NFL, i.e. watching Rex Grossman - aka "Sexy Rexy," aka "Rextasy," aka "The Sex Cannon" - throw interception after interception and generally be the worst, most hideously overrated and undertalented quarterback the NFL has to offer. That displeased me greatly. There are few things more entertaining than watching Sexy Rexy completely self-destruct.
Then, of course, came the AFC Championship. After a first half in which it seemed that Bill Belichek and Tom Brady's Faustian bargain was going to come through big-time once again, Peyton and the Colts fought back to take the lead.
The situation, then, is that the Patriots have the ball on the 20, with 54 seconds left, down 4 points.
I said to my father at this point, "well, clearly, the Patriots are going to win."
Note well the fact that Tom Brady - who I am largely ambivalent towards but hate his fans with unbridled passion - has engineered an astonishing SIX game-winning drives in the postseason. Tom Brady, in that respect, is the Jack Bauer of the NFL. 4 down, minute to go, 80 yards - yeah, he's got them right where he wants them.
Then he threw an interception and... and... it suddenly became clear that something is dreadfully WRONG with the world. Hence more emotional pain.
And, on a final and physical pain note, yesterday morning I was awoken by an incredible, earth-shattering pain in my left leg which has since been determined to be a cramp. I maintain that if this is a cramp it is no ordinary cramp, but the Mayor of Cramp City in Cramp County in the United States of Crampia on Planet Cramp in the Cramp Galaxy. I mean, fucking OW. It still hurts. This is why I may still be walking with a cane tonight, because there is a good chance I will be unable to fully flex my left leg. But, hey, House teaches us that leg pain and cane usage is an excuse to be cruel and aloof and not give a damn about other people's feelings.
So, well, at least now I have an excuse. Thanks, House!
JLK
Thursday, January 11, 2007
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
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
Monday, December 11, 2006
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
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
Monday, September 18, 2006
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
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
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