Monthly Archives: January 2007

Blades of Glory

So tomorrow is February and thus begins The Dead Month in sports (since the Super Bowl was canceled this year and all). Faced with a month of navel gazing and wearing out my Faith Rewarded and City of Champions DVDs, Jim at ICED Media came to my rescue and sent me the trailer for the new Will Ferrell/Jon Heder figure skating comedy, “Blades of Glory,” asking me if I could do anything with it since it’s tangentially sports-related.

Four things:

1) I’m totally gonna go see anything Will Ferrell is in since I haven’t been able to stop quoting “Taladega Nights” since the first time I saw it in a margarita haze,
2) Yours truly actually was a figure skater for fourteen years so there’s nothing I like better than snarking on the sequined set,
3) The movie also stars Will Arnet and Amy Poehler of the tragically canceled “Arrested Development and

Herewith, the trailer:

And if that’s not enough to get your ass to the theater, some stills from the movie:

This could be the entire movie. I would be fine with that.

Phenomenal costumes, to be sure.

Ahhh, ice princesses. Perfect for parody.


Thanks, Jim!


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Actually, I’ll be taking an airplane. Unless something goes horribly, horribly wrong.

Anyway, I’m out ’til Sunday night and since I won’t be bringing my laptop to Michigan (yes, I’m going to Michigan in January and I am fully aware that makes me a crackhead although weather reports are telling me that it will actually be considerably colder in Boston than in Michigan this weekend so who’s the crackhead now, hmmmm?), I won’t be updating. I probably won’t be sleeping either because that is the way of things

So before I go, I would like to share with you an email I wrote to Kelly earlier this week:

You will appreciate this. So I’m cleaning my room on Saturday in a fit of nervous panic and I came across an old issue of the Sporting News. Last year’s NFL Preview issue. Naturally, that corky-lookin’ mama’s boy also known as Peyton Manning was on the cover because all sports magazines published in the United States, Canada and Chinese Taipei are contractually obligated to feature either Manning and/or Derek Jeter at least fourteen times per respective season. I was going to throw it across the room and started wondering if I could fashion a voodoo doll out of a magazine cover when I realized that I must have saved it for a reason. So I flipped it open. Sure enough, there’s an article on “Power” (whatever that means in pro sports) where they interviewed a bunch of athletes and asked them what they considered power, etc. So there’s this picture of Tom Brady with the sweat and the eyeblack and the basically WINNING AT LIFE and the interview goes like this:

SN: Who do you consider the five most powerful people?
TB: Michael Jordan, Donald Trump, Jesus Christ, Bill Belichick and Tom Brady, Sr. (Not “dad” but “Tom Brady, Sr.” And I love that Jesus rates more powerful than Billiam but slightly less so than Donald Trump.)

SN: What superpower would you like to have?
TB: The ability to read minds. (Really, Thomas? Guess what I’m thinking. Go ahead, guess. Now lick your fingers and guess again.)

SN: Who’s been your greatest source of power?
TB: My family and friends. (And in my head, I added, “and Troy Brown.”)

See, there are sometimes when I think it would be absolutely impossible for me to love Tom Brady more. And then I find something like that and…I just…LOVE!

Oh, and this is the point of this email. Also in that issue? “Working out with Rudy Seanez.”

“Rudy Seanez throws hard. But he works out harder. MUCH harder.”

It was almost too much to handle.

Kelly’s response:

(1) But HOW DOES RUDY WORK OUT? Because I’m guessing it’s by eating babies two at a time.

(2) I would have said Michael Jordan, Belichick, Jesus, but that’s just me.

My point being…possibly I am a crackhead after all. It’s the Dead Times, people. The only thing to watch on TV is the mentally deficient and/or delusional people on American Idol auditions. I’m gonna just have to start making shit up re: sports. (Not that that’s exactly a departure but, yeah.) I believe I’ve already theorized that Theo signed Beckett because he wanted a hacky sack buddy.

And, by my count, the J.D. Drew: Will He or Won’t He? day count stands about about 6 squillion.

I…can’t even talk about Trotter. Pretending that’s not happening, actually.

So, what’s up with you guys?

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For the record…

…some things I wish to make clear.

  • Yes, that made me cry.
  • Yes, I broke things.
  • Yes, I still love Tom Brady.
  • No, apparently the Patriots DON’T have a defense.
  • Yes, I will be forced to watch the Food Network at the gym for the next two weeks because if you think I’m watching any of the HYPE TO EAT THE WORLD, you’re sniffing glue.
  • Yes, I am seriously considering the wisdom of raising your children as sports fans.
  • Yes, I used roughly forty-seven variations of the word “fuck” in all parts of speech when I talked to my mother as the game was ending.
  • No, I do not want Peyton Manning to just win his goddamn Super Bowl already so everyone will stop talking about it because? THEY NEVER WILL.
  • No, I don’t want the Bears to win either because Rex Grossman is not a real boy.
  • Yes, I am rooting for Team Rogue Meteorite.
  • Yes, I think I still have the flu and have wanted to throw up continually for a week and STILL I was forced to leave my apartment twice and walk around in 20 degree weather because I cannot handle this shit.
  • Yes, I’ve named my resulting ulcer “Pat.” (He’s located right next to “Wally” who tends to flare up during the summer months and into October.)
  • Yes, I think this is just about the least interesting Super Bowl match-up possible as America now hates the Bears for beating America’s adopted team and anyone who I care to associate with hates the Colts so…blah.
  • No, I don’t believe I’ll be watching the Super Bowl.
  • No, I don’t care if that makes me petty or shallow.
  • Yes, I take this shit way too personally.
  • Yes, if I see that dude who works at the hardware store on the corner wearing his Colts hat tomorrow morning, I will likely go in and smack him upside the head with a paint can.
  • Yes, I will be out of town next weekend and the LAST THING I will want to talk about is football.
  • Yes, I want baseball season to start now.

That cover everything?

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Theo Epstein vows to set aside more time for writing his own songs. It’s important to take time for oneself even while running a championship caliber baseball team. He resolves to compose more songs in the style of Pearl Jam, but not just like them, obviously, as he’s his own musician. Sample titles include ‘Evener Flow’ and ‘Even More Flow.'”

The newest edition of InSite Magazine is out. I’ve got a new column in there this month co-written by Amy and Marianne. Get it while it’s hot.

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Theo Epstein: Patriots Fan

(Millar’s just showin’ some love.)

Since I spent all of yesterday in a fevered state, you’ll forgive me if I haven’t quite grasped the fact that the Patriots actually beat the “best team in football” San Diego Chargers and have advanced to the AFC Championship game next weekend vs. the Colts in Indianapolis.

Frankly, I was prepared to lose this game. I didn’t want to, obviously, and I firmly believed that if anyone had a shot against San Diego, it was the Pats. But I thought they were going to have to play absolutely flawless football. Turns out, not so much. Brady threw three picks, the team couldn’t buy yards and it seemed, for a while there, like LT and his homeboys were just gonna run away with it. And then, something happened. Something that, I swear, only happens to the Patriots of late. Maybe it’s Belichick. Maybe it’s Brady. More than likely it’s a combination of the two as well as a team full of extensively prepared players who didn’t feel like playing golf just yet. But somehow, things went the Pats’ way and they were the ones left standing at the end of the game. Bloodied and bruised and sore, no doubt, but standing. And good for them. I am proud of my boys. They did it without any bullshit calls in their favor and through sheer force of will, it seemed. But they still did it. And that’s what counts.

For the record, I don’t want to go into the whole LT is pissed about the dancing or the whatevercakes except to say three things. Thing one: If you don’t want a sack or touchdown dance mocked, don’t create one to begin with. Thing two: perhaps you shouldn’t talk mountains of shit BEFORE the game (and also probably you shouldn’t take steroids but hey, who cares about that, right?). And thing three: Next time, win, and you won’t have these problems.


So because I’ve spent most of the day fielding roughly sixty-nine million text messages from people wondering if I’m still breathing or if I swallowed my tongue when the refs ruled on that interception-turned fumble recovery-turned first down, I’ve been wandering around in much of a haze and occasionally going, “Wait. How the HELL did we win that football game?” I’m still not sure. So I took solace in Imaginary World, as I am wont to do. Today, Imaginary Football and Imaginary Baseball World met and craziness reigned supreme.

“You know what one of the best things about the Pats winning yesterday was?” I said to Marianne, apropos of absolutely nothing.

“Um, the fact that you get so see Tom Brady on TV for another week and you want to have ten million of his babies?”

“Point, yes,” I said, “But that’s not what I was thinking.”

“The fact that there’s now a chance that someone will forcibly remove Peyton Manning’s head from his body and parade it around after the game, thus earning the ire of Tomlinson who obviously has an opinion about this?”

“Hee, that would also be awesome. But no.” I said.

“Okay, shoot,” Marianne said.

“I love that you just know that Theo was totally fucking stoked about it.”

“Oh my god,” Marianne said, “Of course he is.”

“He’s all calling up his friends from his days in San Diego and shit talking them.”

“He’s so hungover right now,” Marianne theorized, “He’s all walking around his house in his ‘Risky Business’ flannel and boxers with a backwards Patriots hat and air guitarring to ‘Welcome to the Jungle.'”

“Dude,” Marianne said, “There is little to no chance that he didn’t drunk dial Belichick after the game last night.”

“He so did,” I said, “He totally called him and was all ‘DOOD! You are the fuckin’ MAN!'”

“He’s all, ‘Bro, no, for real, d’yawanna coach the Red Sox?'”

“No, I know we got Tito and all but like, if he dies or sumthin’ d’you wanna coach?'”

Marianne kept going, “Because you know he thinks that Tito is totally paying for that World Series with his life, slowly, and eventually, he’ll be just a head in a jar, sitting on the bench and yelling at Manny to keep the fingerpaints in the clubhouse.”

“Which is clearly where Belichick comes in,” I said.

“Clearly,” Marianne agreed.

“Theo totally wants to be Tom Brady’s best friend.” I said.

“I’ll bet he calls him, or like, almost calls him, he’ll dial all but the last number,” Marianne said, “and then he’ll get all nervous and hang up.”

“Like, ‘What am I gonna say to Tom Brady?'” I said, “He’s Tom Brady. He’s like, woah.”

“And then eventually he calls him, like ostensibly to tell him congratulations or something, from one winner to another, but he’s kind of nervous.”

“Because he forgets that Brady is a giant dork.” Marianne said.

“Exactly,” I said, “And they end up talking about ‘Star Wars’ or whether ‘Crash’ or ‘Before These Crowded Streets’ was a better Dave Matthews Band album.”

“Absolutely,” Marianne said.

“I love Imaginary Theo World.” I said.

“Me too,” Marianne replied, “It might be my favorite of all the Imaginary worlds.”

“Doesn’t hurt that Tom Brady hangs out there,” I said.

“And there’s a rockin’ soundtrack,” Marianne said, while throwing rock horns.

So…yeah, we lead rich inner lives. That, and I might still be running a fever.

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(Photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Um, apparently we won the football game? CRAZY.

I woke up this morning with a stomach bug and had already spent most of the day throwing up BEFORE the game even started. So imagine how I was about halfway through.

This team is going to kill me. And if they don’t, the Red Sox surely will.

It’s like everyone said, don’t bet against Tom Brady and Bill Belichick. You just…don’t.

Certainly took everything they had though, didn’t it?

I don’t even want to think about next week’s apocalyptic fucking football game (TM Beth) yet. I think I’ll just bask in the glow of this one for a day or so.

I’ll have more tomorrow, kids. But I gotta get the stomach under control.

::high fives Pats fans::

Way to go, boys. Way to go.

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World’s Best Babysitter

In the interest of fairness, I think I should share a bit more of the madness that occurred on Sunday during the game. Reading the previous entry, it appears I was rational and in control of my senses at all times. This is simply not true. I was reading over the emails sent between Amy and I during the game and I have come to the conclusion that we should probably be trapped, tagged, caged and studied by scientists. So herewith, a discussion.

Me: Sometimes Kevin Faulk likes to pretend he’s a receiver and when it results in a touchdown, I think we should encourage this.

Amy: He is sort of like an international man of mystery, assuming identities.

Me: Mr. Versatility. Although he has to share that title with Troy Brown.

Amy: They are probably BFFs.

Me: Much the way Corey has taken a shine to the young buck, Lomo.

Amy: Does Corey Dillon have babies? Because there is no way that Lomo is not his babysitter.

Me: He does. According to Killa and his wife have a daughter named “Cameron.” I want to say she’s like five.

Amy: She is BFFs with Lomo and braids his dreads. Fact.

Me: And the reason he had to cut them is because she accidentally got bubble gum in them. But it ain’t no thang.

Amy: He probably let her cut one just for fun because little kids love cutting hair. And he did that because she can’t cut her own, or Killa’s gonna have words with Lomo.

Me: Lomo is the best babysitter ever.

Also, at one point, it appears I declared, “We are going to die in this place watching this football game. Bears are going to eat us.” For the life of me, I cannot tell you what I meant by this. But there you have it.

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