Monday, May 31, 2004

Linda Intolerance

Linda Cohn is the Tim Meadows of SportsCenter. She's the anti-Phish, the anti-Jim Brown, hanging around way past her prime. It's likely that she never even had a prime, but if she did, it clearly wasn't this current 40-year-old Slutbag McGee character she's trying to pull off nightly. During the late Sunday SC, she looked just sliiightly more like a hooker than Larry David's date to the Dodgers game. I'd say that she's slept with the entire cast and crew over there in Bristol, but you know that Steve Berthiaume would rather rabidly suck off the Red Sawx than oblige Linda's advances. You still owe Linda $200, she wants her $200 scrilla. Give'r her scrilla.

A frustrating note from that same late Sunday SC with Slutbag McGee and Rece Davis...On Memorial Day weekend, when we pause to remember all the people who lost their lives building the Jefferson Memorial, but more importantly when we celebrate the unofficial kickoff to summer, there wasn't a single baseball highlight until thirty minutes into the show. A quick breakdown of the first half-hour of Sunday's SC:

Set I: Pistons/Pacers highlights > 10 minutes of sub-par, barely credible analysis by Three Replaceable Guys, Commercial, Indy 500 highlights* > 10 minutes of unnecessary analysis (why?) of Buddy Rice's (who?!) victory, Interview with Buddy Rice, Commercial, NASCAR Coca-Cola 600 highlights**, Shameless Self-Promotion Cross-Promotion Top 100 Moments of the ESPN Era plug***, Commercial, BASEBALL HIGHLIGHTS.

*Cars went around in circles
**Cars also went around in circles here
*Slutbag McGee's plump thighs clearly revealed as she's shown standing next to a floating plasma screen

Why so much coverage of the Indianapolis 500, fellas? Next year, here's the plan: Show the fuckin' race highlights, show the fuckin' milk drinking, throw in a 10-second sound byte from the winner, next fuckin' highlight. The only way this turns into a 15-minute package at the top of the show is if the winner of the Indianaplis 500 is lactose intolerant and he dies in the winner's circle. Otherwise, it's a non-story, move on (dot-org).

So they just interviewed Jarome Iginla's father during the third period of Game Four of the NHL Finals. The exchange started off this way:

Unnecessary Blonde Woman Reporter: "Your son is finally getting some of the attention he deserves..."
Iginla's Father: "Well, he tries his best -- of course nobody is perfect except for one man, Jesus..."

I really can't argue with that, Jesus is a pretty cool dude.

Frustrated with ESPN too? Here's one man's take on the network's recent troubles.

Saturday, May 29, 2004

A Day's Worth of Brain Clutter

Apparently a giant tidal wave is supposed to flood Manhattan, and then I guess the whole thing's supposed to freeze over. It looks utterly devastating. This, though, is the only information I've been able to glean from the television commercials. But I guess the concept intrigued a whole lotta people more than it did me, because the movie's expected to rake in $100 million at this weekend's box office. In somewhat related news, the city today was absolutely gorgeous, not a cloud in the sky. Probably the best weather day of 2004. So I'm thinking this movie is gonna be kinda bunk (I've rarely used the word "bunk," that is until a recent political scandal saw the Governor of Maryland refer to multiculturalism as "bunk").

Big budget disaster flicks are usually a recipe for artistic and entertainment disaster. I mean, Deep Impact contained armageddon themes and featured serious natural destruction, but it was arguably one of the worst blockbusters ever green-lit. OK, I'll even give you a 16-year-old Elijah Wood outrunning a hundred-foot tidal wave on a motorbike with his new bride on the back pegs. But a black president? C'mon, at least make it a little realistic, fellas.

Speaking of black presidents, I watched about twenty minutes, maybe a half hour of Black Spring Break 2: The Sequel on Friday. I'm serious. We tuned in late, but apparently a poor man's Shaq with Down Syndrome lied to this spoken word poet, whose poem was entitled "Please Don't Lie to Me." Then a pimp came out of nowhere to give Slow Shaq's depressed buddy a handle of gin. Slow Shaq's depressed buddy proceeded to drink the whole bottle. As he's leaving a video suicide note in his hotel room, the "Love-Making Maid" broke in and sexed him up real good. Oh, then the pimp somehow finds his way to Slow Shaq's hotel room and gives a heartrending monologue about the meaning of friendship. The budget for this movie was most likely in the $240-$275 range, and somehow it still kicked the shit out of Deep Impact.

It's Fleet Week in Manhattan, and all of a sudden every woman in the city is attracted to men in uniform. I heard even the waiters at Friday's are getting laid at will. That was my sorry attempt at a new and improved joke about Fleet Week (and I know there's an honorable discharge in your face joke in there somewhere)...I'm ridiculously tired of the "I'm thinking about renting a sailor's costume to score some chicks" routine. Last time I laughed at that joke was the mid- to late-80s. And here's a quick public service announcement, while I'm feeling salty about this issue: Work on some new material, folks, some of you are atrociously unfunny. I'll miss a joke here and there, it happens. But some people out there look like John Starks in Game Seven of the '94 NBA Finals, chuckin' shit up there, nothing's fallin' down. Let's raise the bar, folks.

I answered a burning question this weekend: Just who is the ultimate "That Guy"? Is it J.T. Walsh? Is it Dan Hedaya or Peter Stormare? Occasionally some of these folks will come along and transcend the phenomenom altogether. Somehow you'll never bother to learn their real name, but you'll always call them by the character's name with which they're most associated. Classic example: Shooter McGavin. Who the fuck cares what this guy's name is? Shit, Shooter McGavin thinks his fuckin' name is Shooter McGavin. But after thinking about this for like eight or twelve hours, I discovered there really is clear-cut champion here. And that man is Stephen Tobolowsky. Raise your hand if you can accurately identify Stephen Tobolowsky. Exactly.

But Tobes is actually the King of the That Guy realm...he's Shooter Times Three. Some people know him well as Ned Ryerson. Ned! Ryerson! Needle-nosed Ned, Ned the Head. Case Western High, Ned Ryerson! I did the whistling belly-button trick at the high school talent show. Bing! But other people know him as the strangely sexy Mary McDonnell's prey in the underrated film Sneakers, Werner Brandis. Hello, my name is Werner Brandis. My voice is my passport, verify me. And then there's the cult of Memento, who consider Tobolowsky's Sammy Jankis character as one of the keys to deciphering the movie's meaning. Personally I'm a Ned Ryerson guy, it doesn't get better than that character for me. He's one for the ages...just thinking about his well-delivered dialogue makes me smile downstairs. I don't really know what my point is here. But I do know that Stephen Tobolowsky should be a celebrated man, in a freakishly popular Christopher Walken kind of way, and I'm just trying to get the ball rolling. (Also, check out the man's the IMDb trivia page -- he turned down the role of Al on Home Improvement and he was almost murdered twice in one week by different people. Classic Ryerson.)

When was the last time Mike Fratello even looked at a fuckin' telestrator? How can Marv Albert still be recognizing this guy as "The Czar"? Is Marv just Fratello's personal state-owned mass media, I mean, when he's not wearing women's panties and biting the backs of kinky lovers? I'm boldly predicting that a popular uprising among the telestration proletariat will strike down Fratello and anoint Cris Collinsworth the new Czar.

Who the deuce ratified the Taxi Rider's Bill of Rights? And are the Cabbies working on a Cabbie PATRIOT Act that can deny your right to a "courteous, English-speaking driver"?

Friday, May 28, 2004

The Aftermath

Sure, maybe it wasn't the exact sandwich I was going for. But it was close and, in my mind, a far more bold and manly sammie than I set out for. You see, they didn't have the cole slaw. Seriously, they had all of the other mayonaise-based salads. But to not have the king, cole slaw, the captain, the pillar of the mayonaise-based salad community. I mean how sexy is this old broad making slaw? Really, if you're going to have immitation crab legs salad or one of those carrot/raisin debacles, you better damn well make certain to have slaw. So, not looking to stray far from the cabbage, I turned to an old friend: Sauerkraut. It worked, though it didn't provide the creamy, cool counterpoint that slaw would have. But I think it did its cabbage cousin proud, adding a pickled brine element that cut through the horseradish. And the brisket, supple, not stringy. A tender beef if ever there was one. The bun was seeded, sesame-like, and soaked in juices, mushy. Topped it off with a Dr. Brown's Black Cherry. Suffice it to say, it's like a bar mitzvah celebration in my stomach right now. This'll be great when, in a few days, I'm sitting poolside, shirtless, and the party is still going strong.

So post-sandwich, I walk into seadog's and I says to him I says, "You're right. That is one hell of a sandwich." He said, "Oh you got it huh? I'm still not sure you're man enough for that." And I said, "Well if not, then you better come get it" and pointed to my gut. Then I hit him with the haymaker, "I had to go with kraut." He guffawed and then realized that this was a MORE manly sandwich. Epic, in fact. That shut him up right quick. "Fiedler drives the boat, chief!"

My Sandwich Saga

So the weird guy who sits across the hall from me all day told me about this fantastic sandwich some weeks back. He's a real douche of a guy sometimes but he's also a salty seadog. He quotes Quint from Jaws, a guy who I'm sure scarfed down a few mean sandwiches in his day. "Hooper drives the boat, chief, drives over to that floating sandwich emporium in the middle of Long Island Sound so's I can get me a Monte Cristo. Hoopah!" So anyway, seadog attorney has been boasting of this legendary sandwich for some time now. It's a warm brisket on a hero, topped with horseradish and cole slaw, a real celebration of jewish meats and the piquant condiments that often accompany them.

This sandwich has become my white whale. I proudly proclaimed last week that I was going to procure said sandwich with my own money, despite the fact that my employer Funberg provides me with lunch free of charge from any of a number of craptastic delis. Of course, I didn't wind up getting the sandwich cause I'm a cheap bastard and instead got a terrible "make-your-own-salad". So I asked seadog where the sandwich place is and he said he wouldn't tell me where it was because, as he put it, "I'm not man enough to eat a sandwich like that"...justifying this absurdity by asserting (as he does ad nauseum) that he raced on a catamoran or schooner or some vessel in a real competition. He also let me know that I couldn't handle the horseradish, saying something ridiculous about "horsepower" and "rpm's". I countered with a "Fuck you, I've eaten sandwiches bigger than you, seadog....bigger than you OR Dennis Connor."

Anyway, I'm getting this sandwich today, just to show seadog who's the real man around here, and, well, cause I'm hungover and really hungry, and with the holiday and all.... I just figured that everyone would want to know, especially busy body Ace over there with Throbbs. So, wait, with baited breath, until noon, cause then I'm going to get this bastard, and take it down. I plan on breathing horseradish all over this bitch and giving you the details. Tune in...

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Slack LaLane: Getting Started

Welcome to Slack LaLane. Brought to you by Minolta: From the mind of Minolta...aaand by Enterprise: We'll pick you up. Enterprise.

Thanks Roscoe.