How I survived the Great Blizzard of 2010

When they canceled the buses and it appeared there was no way out of Uptown, I wish I could say I was not afraid. It is only in facing the indifferent challenge of the wild places of this world that a man finds his character, and I decided in that moment, "No. I will not die here, today, on Lyndale Ave."

My first task was to use the only resource at hand, the drifting, blowing snow that stung my eyes and soaked my clothes, and turn my direst enemy into my dearest friend. I knew the blustering north wind would allow me little time to find shelter, so working as quickly as I could I was able to fashion snow into crude bricks and build a wall against the wind, and brick by brick, curve that makeshift wall into an igloo. The dire nature of my situation allowed only a brief rest for my aching muscles and a well-deserved hot chocolate from Bob's, before I once again returned to carving out the tiniest niche of survival from the cruel winter sky.

It would have been too easy to succumb to the temptation to sink into that wet, white embrace of the snowbank upon which I'd built the igloo that was to be my new home but I simply had to waterproof it, and there was only way to do it. I simply had to find a seal. I don't know how long I waited behind the shrubs of that deserted lawn, hoping the white snow drifting over my shoulders would help me blend into the landscape, and cursing the passing cars that were almost certainly spooking the wildlife, until I finally saw it.

Pacers 128-124 Timberwolves

I felt Target Center's security guard was disconcertingly thorough in searching my pants last night. She didn't find anything, because the only thing I carry that causes pain and sorrow isn't in my pockets. When I got inside I really wondered why she even bothered checking me for weapons, since I would have had to cross over two sections to find anybody to fight with. If all three stages are going, I honestly think the Guthrie could draw bigger crowds this winter.

The Timberwolves players also greeted me with the same disturbing sort of misdirected enthusiasm. Apparently the gameplan for the evening was to beat the Pacers by creating opportunities for 20 foot jump shots and playing defense by fouling. With all these career 30% 3-point shooters eager to prove their (lack of) range I kept wondering why Pekovic wasn't more involved, since he's been billed as the first banger the Wolves have ever had at center... when I checked the box score I understood. Due to a mixture of work, apathy, and friendly waitresses I came a bit late, and I missed out on seeing Pekovic foul out in 10 minutes. Sadly he doesn't play defense either. And incomprehensibly the Pacers couldn't take advantage... this mess went to overtime!

Three Words That Should Exist

Just spreading the health, man

This Monday after declining to shake hands with an actor I was jokingly accused of having hypochondria, which I thought was doubly unfair. For one thing I was obviously sick and not just fretting over the possibility, but more importantly the reason I don't touch actors when I'm sick is for their health, not mine... these are people who can't muddle through work with sore throats and a ghastly post-nasal drip. So is it still hypochondria when it's confined to an irrational concern for the health of other people? And a really particular group of people at that. I can't possibly start telling people I have a crippling case of xenohypothespichondria and then explain the whole thing, but it seems like there has to be some succinct way of putting it.

And situations do arise where a brief, natural explanation is necessary, like when I was working the stage door while sick a couple years ago, and I greeted a black actor I'd met previously at a reading. He extended his hand warmly in friendship, and my white guilt made me really afraid of a clumsy excuse to not shake his hand. If I could just spit out "I have xenohespichonthi..." well whatever my condition is called, it'd be much easier and I'd worry less that people thought I didn't want to touch their dirty hands. What me, paranoid?

What's with all the jumping between buildings?

I will try to avoid spoilers for Inception, Kick-Ass, and A Standing Long Jump... or at least keep them cryptic.

I've been kind of down recently. This is I'm sure a great surprise since normally I'm like a hooker in a bathtub: I have hope in my soul-- or however that goes. But it's true, I've been down. And I'm not usually a superstitious person unless I think it's funny for some reason, but I do sometimes get suspicious about the messages the universe is sending me... like when I keep seeing people jumping between buildings. Not really, thankfully, (because that would really depress the hell out of me, but it's been a surprisingly specific theme in the last month or so.

First there was A Standing Long Jump at this year's Fringe, starring a couple people I swear God put on earth to be watched in James Craven and Ali Dachis, and the magical Namir Smallwood. The standing long jump is a metaphor for those moments in life where one has to take the leap with someone, or see them pass out of our world forever. But the metaphor plays out in a couple of literal leaps from the roof of one building to another, knowing that at least somebody's going to fall short and plummet four stories to the alley below.

17 Things I Learned in 17 Shows at This Year's Fringe

1. Teachers do a lot more than run through the pages of a textbook. (Pardon My French!)

2. Joe Mauer is very forgiving. (Two Truths and a Lie)

3. Making a deal with the Devil will leave you smelling of rotten eggs. (The Damned Audition)

4. Ghosts are cool. (Rachel Teagle Believes in Ghosts)

5. Jack Chick is an underrated comic genius, even if he probably doesn't realize it. (The Jack Chick Plays)

6. Native Americans really are portrayed exactly like the mentally challenged. (Sad Carousel)

7. See You Next Tuesday is not a good last thing to say to somebody. (See You Next Tuesday)

8. Dancers are cool. (O(h))

9. Ikea is the new cruising spot. (Naked Yoga and Other Gay Love Stories)

10. Henry IV is the first Star Wars prequel. (Kill Will)

11. Taking your clothes off can be good for you. (Kathy Jensen is Pretty)

12. Cell phones are annoying. (That Sara Aziz!)

13. Whether you realize it or not, the world will keep moving forward in your absence, and you will never return to a place and time you've left behind. Also, chicken cacciatore is not always easy to come by. (Amaretti Angels)

14. Shel Silverstein is a dirty motherfucker. (An Adult Evening of Shel Silverstein)

15. Bowties are cool. Actually this one was from Doctor Who, but one of the 17 shows I saw had nothing to say about anything and I had to come up with something.

16. You may only get one chance to make the leap... don't miss it. (Standing Long Jump)

17. The glam rock, heavy mascara shredded everything look is coming back, or at least it should. (Garage Band)

Rufus Gets His Hair Cut (one show only)*

After letting my frighteningly agitated and sometimes violent friend Dewdrop cut my hair, I thought there should be a way to capture that drama, and there are certainly worse things being performed out there. So before next year I'll have to grow my hair back and my mountain man beard, and then at show time we'll put a few things in place: me, Dewdrop, a pair of scissors, a pair of clippers, a chair, a hand mirror, a roll of gauze, and a giant drop cloth.

Through the process of ever sillier haircuts and abstract chunks shaved out of my beard, and her attempts to sell me on her artistic vision mixed with threats to stab me with a pair of scissors, and my attempts to escape before things get worse will test our friendship and our will, as we each struggle to define our role and decide with what standard of grooming we will live or die. One performance only, since I will obviously have to grow my hair and beard back, and allow the probably quite painful scars to fade.

It might be terrible, but I guarantee a few good reviews for offering the audience a something real, which can't be reset and replicated for the evening show, which is one of the promises of live theater: the anxiety and the haircut will both be real. Now I just need a $50,000 grant to develop my script, and to finance all the shampoo and conditioner I'll need to use all year to prepare my mane.

(*-Kathy Jensen is Pretty and Rachel Teagle Believes in Ghosts have definitely sold me on the marketing value of putting my name up front. Also on the value of offering weird southern groceries as a promotion, but that's another story.)

"it’s strange to be here, the mystery never leaves you", Rosy Simas Danse at Bedlam

I’m generally a major skeptic of dance as an art form. I freely admit, I’ve seen some groups use movement as a critical part of a larger work but when it’s all about the dance I usually find myself wishing I’d sat closer to the door. (No joke, the last time I saw a dance show I seriously considered climbing down the back of the risers and sneaking out the fire escape.) I believe it’s an inherent flaw to the art form, that there’s just something about dance and musical theater that it way too easily turns into heavy handed pretention and repetition, high-strung divas so busy sniffing their own farts they miss that the restlessly bored audience got the whole point in the first three minutes... in short, keeping my attention with dance theater is harder than dubbing a Nicholas Cage movie into Cantonese*.

With that in mind, I have no idea what possessed me to hike down to Bedlam on Friday night for "it’s strange to be here, the mystery never leaves you", a new dance work presented by Rosy Simas Danse. Realistically even the dancers don’t want me there, scowling and jaded and about the worst audience member a dance company could ask for, grabbing a chair up front scowling and rolling my eyes. And after work I really wanted nothing more than to sink into my couch for the night, not shower, change clothes, and head back out into the damp washcloth of humidity this city has been all summer, but some instinct whispered “Go see something. Anything. Find some life somewhere tonight."

To my surprise, I loved it, and I couldn't take my eyes away (even for the cute baby dykes in matching knee-high ring socks sitting next to me). And here I really thought getting stuck with a front row seat was going to be a brutal exercise in forcing a smile and taping my eyelids open. As often seems to happen when people like me who are decidedly not dance aficionados see something we love, I can’t really find the words to explain what I saw in it or why it moved me about all three pieces of the show. I can say that the wet, naked finale in which several dancers gathered in a gentle downpour of water and then slid and spun around the slick stage was beautiful, and oddly reminded me every time I’ve tried to explain sports to art folks: sometimes in that sweaty, emotional celebration of the body you see something brilliant happen. So I may have been selling you short, dancers.

When I got out of the show it was that perfect moment as the heat of the day started to break, and I borrowed a free city bike and rode home with the buzz of that show still in my legs. Everything in the world seemed fresh and fragrant and calm, and I became aware of that paradoxically energized, lavender tranquility that I have spent fifteen fevered years searching for and found in only a few disconnected places, like watching the waves crash into the taiga on Selwyn lake, sweated into the sheets of a certain blonde, or the Baha’i temple in Evanston that seems suffused with it it’s left a purple vein flowing all the way back into the heart of the city… but as usual, I digress.

In short, I simply felt good walking out of the theater that night. And that’s why for all my endless whining, I keep crawling back to the big G, keep dragging myself kicking and screaming to shows when my eyelids and my legs are ready to come tumbling down… because sometimes you see something beautiful and it washes away the rest of the day.

Keep spinning, dancers... I hope we can see this work presented again.

*-He never opens his mouth!

Career Advice for Amstelbooij

The way I see it, you have three choices:

Singapore autumn
warm rain and money splashes
ladyboys blossom

Neon streetlights blinking
At night the city screams
a thousand diamond dreams
Christopher Street winking

There once was a banker from Gold Street
Who moved to Brooklyn but got cold feet
Fifteen dollars for the zoo!
I Can't believe it can you?
Now back in Chi walking his old beat
 
I think that pretty much sums it all up, don't you?

On Bikes and Pedicabs

I like the initiative behind providing free (sort of) bikes in Minneapolis, to try and make the place that much more liveable and get a few more cars off the roads. I can't say whether it will work and be sustainable, but after examining the pros and cons, I'm definitely a huge fan. And considering that the majority of the installation costs are paid and the machines seem to be solar powered, I would think it wouldn't take too much in fees to justify maintaining the system, although I wonder where they'll store all those bikes.But here's what I like about them:

The Last Mile
I don't know how many of the target market of downtown commuters will jump on these bikes, but it is great as an easy option to make a couple stops without having to walk miles in between or the achingly slow and disconnected mess that is our public transit system. Plus you don't have to sit next to that guy on the #14 line who just bought a new machete to cut people's hands off with (of all the people to accidentally make eye contact with, I just had to pick him). The frustration of transit does make me wish the system was expanded just a bit more, with a bike rental stand at each LRT station so you could hop the train to the right neighborhood and then take a bike to the Seward Co-op, the Smitten Kitten, Chris and Rob's or your favorite not quite on the transit map destination. It's much cheaper to add a bike kiosk to an under-served intersection than to re-route a bus line, and that's why I think it's a cool last mile solution. (Technically there's actually nothing stopping me from using my own bike for this purpose, but read on.)

Traveling Light, or the second most fun I've had in a cemetery

I really enjoyed this show, in which Theatre Pro Rata borrowed the Layman's Cemetery to stage a late night meeting between playwright Joe Orton and Beatles manager Brian Epstein in 1967 London, a few weeks before their ghastly deaths. For this one night, Epstein and Orton get to discuss art, sex, identity and clothes, and a taste of a world in flux as they argue, exchange clothes, and tangle with the police. It ties the deafening scream following the Beatles to beginning the decriminalization of homosexuality, and the larger and brighter world we find ourselves in when the violence of control is banished by the light. It achieved this best through WPC Foster laying bare the tragedy of Orton and Epstein's deaths, making me ache to see them finish what they'd started, plundering a sweet grave and birthing something beautiful with Orton's edge and Epstein's finesse, driven by the romantic power of the Beatles, and maybe also through the grotesque metaphor of the title.

But actually never mind about all that, that's not really the reason to go see it. Go see it because it's fun. Go see it because it's moving. Go see it because it's funny. Go see it because it just works.. putting so much dated counter-culture kitsch into one play, from the Beatles to swinging 60's London to nasty bathhouse humor to a gimmicky setting and the safe culture wars of a half century ago under the banner of the Sgt. Pepper's cover in most hands would make for a deathly tiresome masturbatory fantasy, but in this case playwright Lindsay Harris Friel and Theatre Pro Rata find the heart in all of it that drives the pulse of a bloody, sweaty breathing play. The kind of play that delights as it gently tugs on the creases of the brain, adding like a dream to our memories. It's the kind of show that makes me want to go home and write, until I remember I burned out long ago and I have nothing left to say.

So yeah, I liked it. Maybe it's just that the button-down chick with handcuffs in the graveyard was a deep scoop through the memories of another time in my life when I stood closest to love and art and death, so I hope others will try it and decide for themselves. I do recommend a bit of bug spray, and perhaps not drinking a liter of water then forgetting to scout out a bathroom beforehand... when I got out everything was closed, and by the time I caught my train home my back teeth were floating. (That may have been more information than anybody required.) And if you do take a chance, consider the worst case scenario is you have a cool hipster story about attending a show in the graveyard, right?*

More details and a study guide are available on Pro Rata's website:
http://www.theatreprorata.org/home.htm

*-Actually the worst case scenario would be my friend who may have gotten bit by a bat and may also be hallucinating the presence of a giant clown in her backseat, but I think it's still worth it.

The 2010 NBA Draft, or Why Can't I Stop Crying?

The short version: the Wolves went into this draft with five picks, cap room to make trades, a crown jewel to trade (Jefferson) and a few morsels (Gomes and a couple point guards) and came out of it adding Wesley Johnson and Martell Webster, and losing Ryan Gomes. None of the other picks will make a difference next year.

About the only thing I like about this draft is the Wolves used their second rounders to stash a couple centers away in development. Paulao Prestes sounds interesting if a bit raw, but he's young and can be stashed in Spain for a bit longer. it's got to be good for a team that's been weak in the middle for 20 years to have a center nicknamed King Kong. With a really late pick they grabbed another center, Hamady Ndiaye. He's 7 feet tall, a good defender and has a decent jump hook, all things that would be a delightful surprise to see combined into a Timberwolves player... I think for the first time. He'll hopefully be stashed on the Sioux Falls Skyforce for a year or two and then make the end of the bench someday.

I really shouldn't be this excited about prospective future bench players, but for many years under Kevin McHale the Wolves didn't take the draft seriously, throwing in a draft pick on every trade, and they conspicuously ignored Europe and never got anything in the second round. They still can't figure out what to do with first round picks, but at least we've started to use Europe and the D-league to bring more talent to the franchise. Where it's completely wasted, since the young players on this team all end up being cut or traded for proven stiffs who have the dubious distinction of being a “veteran” presence, or put another way, guys who know how to lose.

A Declaration of Independence, or Suck it England

This past year my sister married a wonderful Englishman, and while it has been a great joy to have him join my family, I find there is no room in my heart for his football team and it's delusionally arrogant fans. Accordingly, I submit the following:

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the sporting bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all fans are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of sporting glory. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that associations long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future entertainment. --Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former friendship. The history of the present Queen of England is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over the beautiful game. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.

She has conspired with her subjects to create an endless series of excuses for failure... cited most often is the dreaded misfortune of being scored on by the best player in the world. (Maybe they've got something here... what reasonable person could predict that Ronaldinho would turn up in Shizuoka in 2002 and snatch an easy victory away from the clear world favorites? Or that a referee would mistakenly allow a goal in 1966, sorry I mean '86? Bad luck, Germ- I mean England.)

She has joined the European conceit that all tournaments must be reachable by train from St Pancras Station; the presence of footballers from Asia, Africa, Latin America, and these United States has apparently not served to make her majesty or her subjects aware that football is played in places not listed in her trusty 1966 Michelin Guide to Western Europe.

She has sent Wayne Rooney out in the world with spiked boots and in so doing, has fomented his homicidal rage and total disregard for the sanctity other people's testicles.

She has allowed her subjects to claim that beating a tiny nation 45 times in 110 matches (and losing 41 times) constitutes “total dominance”, in violation of all the laws of mathematics.

She has repeatedly laid claim to inventing the game of football, before inviting in a succession of Scots, Frenchmen, Swedes and Italians in a futile attempt to teach her subjects how to actually play it.

Her predecessor George VI endeavored through her newspapers to obliterate the achievements of the United States and her sportsmen, by binding all into a conspiracy to alter the news from Belo Horizonte on June 29^th 1950 and proudly present England as 10-1 winners in the next day's paper. (If you only have access to English newspapers, you may not realize that the actual score was 1-0 in favor of the United States.)

She has given us only one successful national team coach in the last 20 years: Glenn Hoddle, a man who did his part to promote physical fitness by claiming that disabled people were paying for the sins of a previous life.

She has, through her instruments the Football League and its several clubs, conspired to overprice every man of that nation with an English accent and a pair of boots, then whined endlessly about how nobody with any financial sense (like the rest of Europe) wants to pay £50m for the right back from MiddleofNowhere United.

She has sent her subjects out in the world armed with the cutting edge tactics of the 1950's, meaning every international company has a club team that tries to avoid passing to the English guys, knowing they'll just close their eyes and boot it upfield.

She has endeavored to turn the most innocent among us away from the game of football, by only allowing the ugliest, most terrifying members of her society to take the field, chief amongst them the monstrous creature whose unnatural, mechanical movements make a mockery of the grace and form of man... put another way, one look at Peter Crouch doing the robot and the world's children will be so paralyzed with horror, they'll never kick a football again.

She has through her instrument the Football League confined our players to the bench, no great sin until they were needed by their mother country, in which case they suddenly became indispensable to their club and unavailable to play for their country.

For transporting us beyond seas to be tried for pretended offenses... oh no, my mistake, that one was King George. (Sorry.)

She is at this time transporting large armies of savage mercenaries in England tops and Burberry caps to complete the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the head of a civilized nation. (Except for the Burberry caps, we actually submitted this complaint to King George too.)

She is at this time transporting large armies of foreign mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the head of a civilized nation. That's not a repeat, this time I'm talking about the WAGS.

She has conspired to impose upon us her servant David Beckham, his irritating wife, their incomprehensible whining accents and his collection of stupid haircuts. Sentencing disgraced members of the Empire to transportation was bad enough, sending them here is unforgivable.

In every stage of these oppressions we have petitioned for redress in the most humble terms: our repeated petitions, including a friendly invitation to play in a tournament we held in the summer of 1994 have been answered only by repeated injury. A Queen, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to call herself a sports fan.

Nor have we been wanting in attention to our English brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their clubs to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over our players. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends.

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States Soccer Federation, in General Congress, assembled for the 50^th anniversary of Joe Gaetjens' famous goal, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all friendly rivalry between them and the state of England, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and put a serious smackdown on the Three Lions come Saturday. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.

Bob Bradley

Arizona: Robbie Findley

California: Carlos Bocanegra, Jonathan Bornstein

 Maurice Edu, Landon Donovan, Hercules Gomez

District of Columbia: Oguchi Onyewu

Georgia: Ricardo Clark

Illinois: Brad Guzan, Steve Cherundolo, Jonathan Spector

Indiana: DaMarcus Beasley

New Jersey: Tim Howard, Michael Bradley, Jozy Altidore

New York: Edson Buddle, Benny Feilhaber

Texas: Clint Dempsey, José Torres, Stuart Holden

Virginia: Clarence Goodson

Washington: Marcus Hahnemann

Wisconsin: Jay DeMerit

P.S. After all your years of bragging and telling us we don't know anything about football you really can't win by anything less than five goals without hanging your heads in shame... so even if you win, you can still suck it, England.

This calls for drug-addled poetry

After several days of ever-growing pain, the combination of sleep deprivation and prescription drugs has made me a bit goofy. Desperately needing something else to take the edge off, I came to the only logical conclusion: Drug Addled Poetry... and it's working. (By the way, in my head this introduction TOTALLY sounds like the opening to the A-Team.)

Can't believe the pain I'm in
Swelling void of missing tooth
Wow, I need more vicodin

For each hurt and in each sin
Acts of men but hid in youth
Can't believe the pain I'm in

Rue and guilt come with hurtin'
Part ego, but mostly truth
Wow, I need more vicodin

Poppy or scars, who will win?
Can the priest-king say the sooth?
Can't believe the pain I'm in

Will Ramsey let him slide it in?
PJ asks from in the booth
Wow, I need more vicodin

How did that gay porn creep in?
And what the fuck is a sooth?
Can't believe the pain I'm in
Wow, I need more vicodin.

To persistent pokers

 

Poke.

Poke.

 

Poke.

 Pokemon.

 Poke.

 Poke.

Poke.

 Pokerface.

Poke.

 Poke.

Just saying, keep poking me like that and somebody might poke you back.

Twins 5-2 Red Sox, or Opening Day

I still remember my first Twins game a quarter of a century ago, in the blue embrace of the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. I learned two truths that day: that Kent Hrbek was the greatest man alive, and that the New York Yankees were the pure distillation of evil. (I still tend to be a bit manichean in my sporting outlook.) I also learned that ice cream is somehow better when served in a baseball helmet. But even after a lot of years of fond memories of the Humptydome I was really looking forward to outdoor baseball, seats that faced home plate with unobstructed views and just in general not watching baseball in the air-conditioned corner of a football stadium. I'd been dying for a year to get a look inside the limestone walls of the new place, our first real baseball stadium in my lifetime (besides Midway Stadium). Still, thinking back to that first game I probably should have expected it, but I was surprised on opening day by how much I missed the old place.

After the yawning expanse of the Humptydome where on a clear day you could sort of make out Torri Hunter under the giant wall of folded up seats in the outfield, Target Field just feels really small. I used to wonder how in the hell Jim Thome and Justin Morneau could hit the upper deck in right field, but Jason Kubel's homer on opening day just seemed like it had no trouble clearing the wall. It will take a while to grow on me, this cozy little field with its beautiful facade and Minnesota fir trees in the outfield, but it's already seducing me with the promise of fresh air and ample bathrooms. It's a new experience going to a sporting event in Minnesota where nobody shouts "Shoulder to shoulder, squeeze in!" while I'm urinating (and nobody giving me odd looks for standing shoulder to shoulder when it's not crowded).

Do Not Disturb the Kraken, and other mediocre re-imaginings

Seriously, keep the Kraken where it is. I know that sounds like something I'd say in the Captain's hot tub (possibly about that floating lobster) but it's still good advice: nobody needed to dislodge the Kraken this movie season. The Kraken looked like it was on a nice career swing in the last ten years after turning a cameo in Fellowship of the Ring into a feature role in the Pirates of the Caribbean sequels, and I know the Kraken's gotta eat, but it's still sad to to see so many talented people (Liam Neeson, Ralph Fiennes, Mads Mikkelsen and Polly Walker, amongst others) slumming it in a movie that's sold by one of the worst A-list actors working today... I think Sam Worthington is the new Keanu Reeves, doing for facial expressions what Keanu did for awkward line readings. On the other hand, bad as she is in this movie Gemma Arterton is still a delight to the eyes as a brunette (Strawberry Fields the oil-covered red-head secret agent was one of the highlights of Quantum of Solace). Honestly Hades was so bad in this movie I was sure he was played by William Hurt, like my brain wouldn't accept the idea of somebody as professional as Ralph Fiennes going that far over the top.

Timberwolves 108-99 Kings, or how I learned to love Darko

(Forgot to actually post this two weeks ago, whoops. Fortunately nobody will read it anyways, so no harm done.) When I saw the Wolves beat the Kings, had certainly been a while since I saw them fail to execute a fourth quarter meltdown. I have to admit, I was a bit surprised. With a handful of games left in the season the Wolves have locked up the second biggest batch of ping-pong balls in the lottery. The Nyets won the head-to-head and clinch the worst overall record by virtue of having blown 20+ point leads in both games against the Wolves... basically the worst tank job I've ever seen outside of pro wrestling. I have two concerns over the eventual flop of the ping-pong balls: whatever kind of talent the Wolves might be able to add next year, and a rather low stakes gamble I made on a season ticket.

Sadly in a 2-player draft it's hard to imagine the league allowing the Timberwolves a crack at one of the top two players (there's a reason they hold the draft behind closed doors). They can't make it too obvious they're getting screwed, so I'd guess they're looking at the #3 overall pick which means my crappy "Pay the Pick" season ticket will cost $3 a game and I can only hope the Wolves do their homework and use a top 5 pick to find a player that has some impact. With six draft picks and 3-6 spots opening up on the roster next year, somebody's got to change up the dynamic of this team so by mid-December I'm not already thinking about rebuilding for next season.

What the hell is going on in Vancouver?

I don't know if they just got confused and thought they had until 2012 to prepare, but everything about the Vancouver Olympics is so slap-dash and even dangerous, if I were Canadian I'd honestly be ashamed of this.

Every time I turn on the TV somebody's getting hurt. NBC's decision to show that endless loop of Nodar Kumaritashvili flying into the support post at 90 mph was certainly grotesque, but it's amazing to me that it happened in the first place, that after trying to add inches to Canada's penis by having the fastest track ever there was just zero consideration for the possibility of an athlete losing control at the bottom, where the speeds are highest. Part of the fun things about the Olympics is that it gets athletes from smaller countries and smaller sporting programs involved in a global event, but that does mean there will be a wider range of skill and experience amongst the athletes... to be completely unprepared for the possibility of a crash after repeated warnings is just criminal.

Fare thee well, your Eminence

His Eminence Brian Cardinal and his expiring $6.75m contract is expected to officially be traded to the New York Knicks tomorrow morning, bringing the Cardinal era of Minnesota basketball to a close. It's hard to believe I'll never again see his Eminence come in for three minutes to give somebody else a breather, something he did every fifth game or so. Honestly, Cardinal was a nice player for the end of the bench who had a great attitude, came in and worked hard, and had very nice three point range especially for a forward. On the other hand he made $6.75m, and that's just insane. The funny thing is New York is just clearing roster space and shaving a little off their payroll in preparation for another trade, so the Wolves could theoretically take Cardinal right back when the Knicks cut him. This would clearly be worth it, just so they could still keep Cardinal's main contributions to games: the self-consciously creepy "This is ladies night!" promo he used to do on the big screen.

In exchange for Cardinal's expiring contract, the only thing the Wolves get for sure is Darko Milicic's slightly more expensive expiring contract. Darko was insanely drafted #2 overall just behind King James but ahead of Carmelo Anthony, Dwayne Wade, Chris Bosh, and many other people who've had more memorable careers. (That was the year the Wolves drafted Ndudi Ebi and Rick Rickert so I feel your pain, Detroit.) The fact that he was a consensus top three guy with Carmelo Anthony and Carmelo Anthony does speak to his heretofore unrealized potential and 7-foot true centers don't grow on trees, so I'm glad to see the Wolves take a chance on him even if he does plan to go back to Europe at the end of the year. The Wolves desperately need a presence in the paint, and currently their options at center are stick-thin Ryan Hollins and Oleksiy Pecherov who's been buried on the bench for months. If Darko sulks until April and never gives the Wolves a chance we haven't lost anything besides a bit of Glen Taylor's money, but given the lack of progress three years after McHale blew up the team and started over, I would have liked to see a more substantial shake-up before the trade deadline.

Tiger Woods is a Weird Guy

I have to admit, I don't watch a lot of golf and I'm not that familiar with Tiger Woods oeuvre. It also always seemed to me that especially in his younger days Tiger conducted himself with a lot of poise amidst the discomfort a lot of people clearly experienced when he joined the tour, by which I mean the closet racism of people who saw him put on his first green jacket and couldn't quite put their finger on what just didn't seem right to them about that picture. As a public figure I believe Tiger Woods may have done more in the last twenty years to undermine unconscious racial barriers than anyone except President Obama (and maybe Oprah until she shut down her book club because there were no more books worth reading). So for that reason I've never really wanted to speak ill of Tiger but now I've started to explore Tiger's world through his video game, and from that and the glimpse into his personal life we're getting from the furious media storm surrounding his extramarital affairs and intramarital being chased by a blonde with a big stick affairs, I'm starting to think there's just something a bit off about this guy.

Vikings 34-3 Cowboys, and other random bits about football

I know I'm late in commenting, with the impending big game, but after six days I still remain giddy over the epic beat-down the Vikings gave the Cowboys. It's always funny when the national media picks a losing horse to ride, and they had all but guaranteed victory for the Cowboys... to show the depth of their disrespect, the crew calling the game was former Cowboys quarterback Troy Aikman (logical) and to balance that out... Joe Buck, who wouldn't stop wailing in horror when Randy Moss pretended to drop his pants and moon the Green Bay crowd in the '04 play-offs, and pouted when the Eagles referenced that in a TD celebration the following week. Being in the stadium one of the best moments was after the first turnover when it got so loud I thought my ears were going to bleed; I guess watching the game on TV had its own special moment when a speechless Aikman and Buck pouted and refused to call Sidney Rice's first touchdown. The bizarre contention that the Cowboys woes were due to the missed field goals and the Vikings putting an exclamation point on it with the final touchdown... that's just pathetic, to offer any excuse for a team that loses by five scores besides simple incompetence.

What does this weekend mean for the Vikings?

I suppose I could just wait two days and see what happens, but I've been trying to figure out all the play-off implications of this week's games. One thing is settled about the NFC play-offs: New Orleans has backed into home field advantage throughout the play-offs. Green Bay will probably be the top wild-card team, but it's down to the Vikings, Cardinals, and the winner of the Eagles vs Cowboys game to decide who finishes 2nd, 3rd, and 4th in the play-off seeding, and to figure out how Packers and Eagles or Cowboys will fill out the wild cards. Here's how it works from the Vikings perspective:

Vikings beat Giants - if the Vikings win, they immediately check the score of the Eagles-Cowboys game.


If the Cowboys win, the Vikings have a bye week and home field against everybody but New Orleans, and would likely play the Cardinals in the divisional round (or potentially the Cowboys, Packers or Eagles).
If the Eagles win, the Vikings do not get a bye week and would host the Cowboys in the first round, then hypothetically travel to Philadelphia. They would only return to the Dome after a win over the Eagles if the Packers or Cardinals were to bump off the Saints.
Other amusing consequences: The Packers and Cardinals likely play a repeat game the following week (unless the Cowboys beat the Eagles).