Why I Threw Away My #28 Jersey

I need to stop buying sports jerseys. Or at least of active players, because I have some sort of curse laid on me where these guys always manage to quit their team in either bitterness or disgrace, assuring I never want to wear the damn thing again. I still think the Wolves nucleus of the late 90's broke up because my then girlfriend convinced me we needed matching jerseys of "the cute Italian guy", who then held the team hostage through free agency negotiations until most of the Wolves free agency priorities signed elsewhere, then beat a path out of town complaining that the weather and our asshole players would keep anybody else from signing. He went on to develop seizures and blow out his knee, while that girlfriend cut off contact with me. When I lay a whammy, I lay it good.

This fall I've seen a few inside-out Adrian Peterson jerseys, much like the one I've had on my closet floor since we found out about Peterson's excessive approach to disciplining a four year-old. As long as #28 was banned from the sidelines, it seemed gauche to see it in the stands. Now we're close to finding out if Peterson has served his suspension and may return to the Vikings, and I'm really not sure what I want to see happen. Thanks to the national attention on Ray Rice, the NFL has been exploring new territory in terms of domestic violence and it's not clear if players like Rice and Peterson could be suspended indefinitely by a powerful commissioner or if they might return to active duty with the league.

Like many, my first instinct was horror. I used to love watching Peterson play. I've seen powerful runningbacks, I've seen speedy running backs, and I've seen crafty guys who kept their feet moving, but it's amazing to see him be all things at once, making contact, bouncing away from it then dragging tacklers a a few more yards. I even like his nickname ("All Day") and his Sportscenter commercial. But I don't want to get excited about the brutal, punishing force inflicted on other men with the thought in the back of my head of Peterson applying the same determined, explosive force to his son. From what I hear it's worse if you saw the pictures of the marks he left on the boy.

So I was ready to write him off until someone reminded me of the upbringing of abusers, and the finality of our judgements on these men. Everybody has a right to earn a living, and what might serve us the best would be to reach out and educate them about what the consequences of what they did, and stop this cycle from continuing. Or do we cast somebody out of society entirely when they break the boundaries, no rehabilitation or redemption possible? I don't think it's a coincidence that this was brought up to me by somebody from one of America's remaining African-American theater companies, considering that running back is a position that chews up and spits out so many black bodies. One of the comments made frequently about Ray Rice was that the Ravens and the NFL were right to dump him since at 27 he is on the downslope of his career, used up, no longer of any use to us, and certainly not worth investing in. Admittedly Rice and Peterson have both been paid well for their time in the league, and are not being tossed back into a squalid poverty like all the orphan boys Daddy Warbucks grew tired of, but how many blow their one opportunity before reaching a payday?

It's also interesting to consider a couple of other public figures who I became disillusioned with in the last year: Hope Solo and Orson Scott Card. Others have briefly brought up Solo's name in conjunction with Peterson and Rice, after she was arrested this summer following a violent altercation with her teenage nephew. The comparison breaks down in several ways, since there is not the same mismatch of physical power between a teenage boy and an adult woman, and we'd already seen Solo on the other side: her husband (former NFL tight end Jerramy Stevens) was arrested for a domestic violence incident that was dropped when Solo wouldn't cooperate with police. The odd thing is Solo has kept her position with the US National Team, so this is who we're sending to Canada under an American flag to tell the world who we are. She gets a second chance, but I truly doubt a black NBA player would make the Olympic team with a reputation for beating up children.

Peterson did explain away taking a switch to his son as being no different from the way he was raised, the classic "I turned out okay" argument, but not everybody feels the need to continue the pattern. Cris Carter, former Vikings star and also a father, talked honestly about his own upbringing with a mother who in frustration and desperation resorted to violence with her children. It's moving to hear Carter say his mother was doing the best she could and the best she knew how. Carter clearly understood what his mother did, he loved and forgave, but knows his mother was still wrong. And that's part of what's been missing from Peterson's case so far: any sense that he deserves what has befallen him.

Peterson avoided most major consequences, getting probation, a fine, and community service which is not as much of an imposition for somebody whose job gives him more than half the year off. He said the bare minimum of appropriate things, that he "regrets the incident" and "accepts responsibility", both of which I think could be safely assumed of anyone who gets caught, but also added that he just wants to put the incident behind him. Which would be great for him, if we could all now just forget about him whipping a small boy so hard he leftbruises and cuts on his buttocks, legs and testicles. But I really just can't. Peterson is not just going back to pumping gas, minding his own business, he's trying to be an entertainer and a public figure. Just stopping is not enough, if he wants to be a public figure we need him to publicly do better. Michael Vick even said as much, advising Peterson to consider how he, Vick, has dealt with his own horrific foray into dog-fighting by becoming an activist for animal rights, doing something to make amends and prevent further abuse, even though by doing so he constantly reminds everyone about what he did. Instead of putting it behind him, Vick got out in front of it.

Is that fair of me to expect Peterson to embrace one of the worst things we know about him, brandishing it like a scarlet A? Can't I appreciate his game, his accomplishments, like we often separate historical figures and artists from their work? The Declaration of Independence was written and ratified by slave owners, and countless prima donnas and dictatorial directors have produced amazing films and music. It's easier to do when the work is separate from the person, which is not always possible when you're contributing financially or psychologically to someone's ability to do the wrong thing. This is why I finally dumped all the Orson Scott Card books I had in my house. I was disappointed to find he held awful views on homosexuality, but I appreciated the words he put on paper, his stories which were not full of anti-gay proselytizing, but when it turned out he was still actively campaigning against gay rights, taking every dollar we pay him for his work and putting it towards making strangers miserable. I can't pay him, and I can't look at his name on my shelf anymore, no matter how much I feel like I learned from just reading his notes on Maps in a Mirror.

When it comes to athletes it's more complicated. Kobe Bryant has successfully put the alleged rape of an 18-year old girl behind him by not talking about it, settling with the victim who stopped talking as well, giving people nothing to keep it alive until everyone got bored enough to drop a ten-year old story. So it doesn't really change anything: I disliked Kobe before and I can't stand him now. But that doesn't work for Peterson, because I have to root for him: I wore his damn shirt. I can boo Kobe, Peterson I have to actively cheer on and possibly contribute to a vision of himself as a misunderstood good person, on his side in a "him against the world" scenario. Wearing purple he would also be representing me, representing an entire state in our eternal struggle against Wisconsin.

So what am I asking him to do? Prostrate himself and apologize to me? If I made a laundry list of things I'm ashamed to have done to people I think it would be clear I don't have a right to judge. But let me tell you about my two favorite Vikings. #80, Cris Carter, came to the Vikings after being waived by the Eagles, completely out of control with his substance abuse. When anyone comments on the man he became as a Viking, a leader, a legend, a minister, a winner of the NFL's humanitarian award, he reminds them he's also a former crackhead. To Carter, screwing up and hitting rock bottom was part of the journey that made him a man who could be proud of himself. Carter was also proud of the Vikings for taking a stand and refusing to put Peterson in a Vikings uniform until his case was settled. If I met Cris Carter I wouldn't ask him about his drug abuse, like being a fan of his gives me some claim to that part of his life experience: I know that he owns it, and that has always been enough for me to resepct Cris Carter and be glad to see #80 in the Ring of Honor.

So until Peterson is able to own his mistake and try to rise above it rather than slyly burying it beneath him, I will be saddened by his presence on the sidelines and hope the Vikings trade him. And I will be in the stands, rooting for our runningbacks Matt Asiata and Jerrick McKinnon, wearing a faded #93 jersey. Because it turns out there is no curse (or offensive lineman) strong enough to bring down the immortal John Randle. (Big Dog gotta eat.)

On Miley Cyrus, Open Letters, and Sinead O'Connor's Butthole

I wanted to comment on a couple of links a friend posted on Facebook to the Sinead O'Connor open letter to Miley Cyrus regarding her video for "Wrecking Ball", which continued on Miley's twitter responses, another open, angrier letter from Sinead, more tweets from Miley, and finally another open letter from Amanda Palmer to Sinead O'Connor commenting on the whole situation. I'm sure it has continued on beyond this point, as more minor celebrities try to jump on the opportunity for self-promotion, and professional commenters fill pages. Fortunately I am above all that, since my pageviews confirm nobody's actually reading this but Russian spammers.

For the benefit of my two friends who might read this, neither of whom is quick to follow pop-culture twitter controversy, here's a brief recap. Sinead O'Connor wrote an open letter to Miley Cyrus which I will paraphrase as, "Not to sound like your mom, but I watched your Wrecking Ball video, and please don't be such a whore," which prompted Miley's twitter response along the lines of, "Oh look, it's the crazy lady who tore up the pope's picture on SNL twenty years ago." And it went downhill from there, to lines like: "Unless you're not too busy getting your tits out." That last one I think is a direct quote. In print is it "tits" or "teats"? I think the late Robert Heinlen has me confused on that point.

Why on Draft Day the name on my mind is Manti Te'o

With the NFL draft taking place today, one name is on my mind: Manti Te'o. If you're not familiar with the Manti Te'o scandal, I commend you on consuming better media or at least eating at home instead of sitting next to me at a diner that has ESPN running 24/7. But here's the short version: an outstanding Notre Dame linebacker in his senior season was struck by tragedy right before the biggest game of the year as his fake girlfriend and his real grandmother both died on the same day. This tragedy inspired him to new heights and rallied his team around him, and the power of this narrative made Te'o a Heisman contender and probably put Notre Dame in the national championship game, since the participants are partly decided by polling sportswriters and coaches as to who they would like to see in the Big Game, narrative can still trump quality. And two facts illustrate what a heavy narrative this was for this college football season, for two reasons. The first is the scope of the media coverage: I know literally nothing about this college football season (or really any other season in the last fifteen years) that is not somehow related to Manti Te'o. And second, Alabama's overwhelming victory and 265 yards rushing show that the spectre of Te'o's dead girlfriend was the only reason to want to see the Irish in that game. Seriously, this was such a debacle that college football may have to finally implement a real play-off system... Te'o's fake dead girlfriend actually broke college football, meaning they might have to turn it into something I'd actually watch.

I don't even care that much what the hell happened, what Te'o knew and when he knew it, why somebody would create and perpetuate this hoax, or the seven levels of bizarre behavior that went on in a man having a romantic relationship entirely over twitter with another man pretending to be a woman without ever meeting her, hearing her voice, or even seeing a live image in an era where every laptop has a webcam, or expecting anybody to believe he wasn't in on it... pulling that hoax off without Te'o being in on it seems like it would have been harder than dubbing a Nicholas Cage movie into Cantonese, but I actually don't care either way. What I do care about is the tremendous comedy potential of all of this, especially considering the degree to which football is something I share with my dad.

Watch Where You Put Your U-lock, or reflections on annoyance

They tell you the universe has a sense of humor... they just don't tell you it's not funny. All I could think about this morning was little frustrations: my sticky front brake, not having enough time, and being hungry halfway through class. So then I get out, think I have just enough time to eat lunch and get to work for the rest of the day, and some clown has managed to get her U-lock around my brake line so I can't leave. (I admit I was briefly tempted to lock my bike to hers and just walk to work... let's see how YOU like it.)

So I get to spend my time between class/work walking over to the theater building to see if there's anybody working in a shop who will loan me an allen wrench so i can disconnect my brake and get free (but first I leave a strongly worded note about minding where you put your lock). I catch the lighting supervisor heading to his office in between meetings, disconnect my brake to get free and see a couple random nuts and washers fall that I swear did not come off of my bike (or hopefully don't do anything important), catch Bill to give him his tool back, and race back to work, while realizing too often the universe's idea of humor being really lame practical jokes ("Oh you're in a rush? Haha, locking up your bike!")

On Olympic Women's Archery

So far I think what I've enjoyed most from the London Olympics (besides my sister dressing my nephew in such blatant support of team USA) has been women's archery. I was initially intrigued to watch because during the Beijing Olympics I happened to stumble across the men's gold medal team match between Italy and South Korea, which was one of the more understatedly dramatic sporting events I've ever seen, with lead change after lead change, pressure ebbing and flowing onto each team as each arrow struck... so I thought it'd be fun to see some more archery. Plus I find Koreans to be a bit smug about their two big sports (short track skating and archery) so it's always fun to potentially see a giant killed.


Once I tuned in I was further intrigued and enchanted by a couple things, one being the venue. The archery is taking place at Lord's Cricket Ground, so you have this beautiful old building behind them and the green lawn, very cool. And the first match I saw had American girl Miranda Leek who's out there wearing this baseball cap cocked off to the side to keep the sun out of her eyes. Very cute, very gangsta. They keep raving about how The Hunger Games has caused this big surge in interest in archery for kids, and I have to think Leek in her cock-eyed cap is probably going to help.


I will happily admit I get the most entranced by women who scare me just a little bit, and a woman who can hit the 10-ring from 70 meters with a bow is definitely sexy. I keep thinking of Nicholas Cage in The Weatherman, when he notes that people have started treating him with respect now that he walks around New York City with a bow and arrows slung over his shoulder, and I can't help but picture these women walking around with a bow and a full quiver. "Hey baby, you need some fries to go with that shake?!" "Uh, have a nice day. Ma'am."


By the way, some may say by finding high level women's sports such a sexy affair I am diminishing the athletes, looking at this exhibition of women with power and control and confidence and only seeing sex. I think this is unfair, because for one thing sports really are about the body, and these athletes are showing what a magnificent thing a woman really is. Not "cute", magnificent. I also find I actually enjoy the sports the most where they wear real, practical uniforms (watching beach volleyball or gymnastics with teenage girls in ever shrinking leotards just makes me feel creepy). Plus every woman I've ever been to a sporting event with has breathlessly latched onto some male athlete for reasons that extend beyond their game stats, and if I have to hear about Ricky Rubio's shaggy mane, or the unmentionable places somebody wants to put a Joe Mauer home run ball, I figure I can admit to wanting to marry a Norwegian handball player (crashing into defenders and whipping balls into the corners... Jeg elsker deg.)


In the end, another gold medal for South Korea who has really produced the stiffest competition for the past few years, proudly boasting that the South Korean Olympic qualifiers were a tougher competition than the actual Olympic tournament. But I'm really impressed with the two Mexican ladies who climbed the medal stand with her, for hopefully starting another sporting tradition for Mexico even though beating the South Koreans turned out to be even tougher than dubbing The Weather Man into Cantonese must have been. Although I now must admit, I'm a little concerned for our post-apocalyptic future if the Mexicans can shoot this well.

So This is England, huh? (The Rest of It)

I told myself I'd write something every night I was in England. That didn't happen. Still, here's my muddled together thoughts on everything I did and saw, with some events possibly rearranged and forgotten. And as always, I continue to be amazed by Blogger's ability to format things in an unexpectedly unreadable fashion.

Day Three – Patria et Familia

The real reason I went to London was to meet the newest member of my family, who turned out to be pretty damned awesome. Going four months old, he's already completely unflappable, drinking in the priest and the chapel at his baptism with this statesmanlike calm, relishing a quiet afternoon in church before heading back to another hectic cabinet meeting with his stuffed animals. The only thing that got him a little upset was having some cold holy water poured over his head, which I would have thought would be welcome on a hot afternoon, but he brightened right back up as soon as the priest gently toweled him off. Dressed to the nines and enjoying the spa treatment: definitely my sister's kid. I love this guy.

The priest's message to all of us, parents and godparents, beyond the quick highlights about the importance of Jesus Christ and eternal salvation, was Fear and Love. We are all entrusted with a responsibility to teach this little guy to live without fear, a lesson I which more people would learn (myself included). Love he should find in abundance in this world from his mum and dad and friends and family, and no matter what other disappointments people throw at him he'll always have his crazy godfather from America looking out for him. His godmother is my cousin who's super-organized and professional and will help him to believe he can get everything right the first time, and if it doesn't work out he's got me make him laugh away tears and spin him around to try again. It was a really good day, and my only regret is nobody took the opportunity to ask the Godfather for a favor... maybe that's only at my daughter's wedding.

Since I was in England over the 4th of July, my sister threw an epic Independence Day party, covering the whole house in red, white and blue, 160 cupcakes laid out like the American flag, and I added one more touch by bringing my brother-in-law a replica of the polite but strongly worded note Thomas Jefferson drafted for Fat George. Guests of note included my nephew all proudly decorated in his US Olympic colors, a farmer who used to till half of Latvia, and an intensely creepy cardboard figure of Uncle Sam. I am constantly amazed how my sister can take things to the most enthusiastic extreme but still maintain this air of class around the whole affair. A confusing but endlessly fascinating contrast.

Day Four - The Mighty Bowels of the English People

I really do enjoy being a dorky tourist, riding around on open topped bus and hearing terrible tour guide jokes. It is almost always rewarding when one can lose the self-consciousness "sophistication" and be able to just take in new things, and get excited about seeing the Tower Bridge opening. Or going into the National Portrait Gallery and staring for much longer beyond the "appropriate" amount of time at the visage that somebody else may have taken weeks to properly capture. There is that pronounced need for the Sofisticati to be themselves seen in the act of seeing, to make sure their audience understands the entirely higher level they're seeing things on. This creates my favorite uncomfortable art gallery moment: the time limit on how long one is allowed to look at an image of a nude woman before moving on or commenting on the technical aspects, the brush strokes, the artist, or anything to make sure nobody thinks you're just enjoying what you see. Because clearly that would not be art.

The root word of tourist is tour, and I was quite struck by how much of the tours I took were devoted to the mighty bowels of the English people. On a bus tour of the city, they make a huge point of explaining the existence in modern London of Fleet Street, covering the open sewer and threat to health and sanitation that was the Fleet River. The Tower of London is sure to point out Water Street, laid on the filled in moat that used to surround the Tower and filled up with enough raw sewage it could be smelled miles away. And I swear over half the tour of Shakespeare's Globe was devoted to how bad the place smelled, being filled with the unwashed masses passing around buckets in the yard to answer the call of nature. That being said, the Tower of London tour was full of bloody stories of torture and severed heads, all told by a distinguished 40-year infantry veteran with a very commanding demeanor and an earthy charm that didn't distract from his sense of occasion, while the tour at the Globe was given by a young woman whose bizarre, pausing speaking style was not enhanced by a make-up job applied by the late Amy Winehouse. I can certainly tell you which one of those tours I'd recommend.

The many stories of the mighty English bowel may take a strong stomach, but they aren't the most disturbing thing I encountered in Jolly Olde England. It also takes a strong stomach to hear the legend of the ravens of the Tower of London, not because of the story itself, but because of what the superstitious, pagentry-obsessed fuckheads who came up with that country's whole "watery tart throwing a sword" system of government. But anyways, the story goes that if the ravens ever leave the Tower of London the monarchy will fall, and to insure that such a thing never occurs the raven master or whatever he's called clips the wings of some of the ravens so they can never fly away. If your reign is dependent on the superstitious maiming of birds, denying them the joy of flight that is their birthright, isn't it about time to move on? On my way out I was watching this little future serial killer chasing ravens trying to kick them, and I really wish somebody would let the black birds decide their own future.

On a happier note, one great thing about being a tourist is I get to go to the theater and officially not care about what's going on backstage. I'm actually pretty good at this usually; as long as the play actually good I'll buy into their fictional world. But I still sit down to my plush balcony seat in London's glittering West End and the first thing I notice are... the ellipsoidal spotlights fastened to the front of the balcony. I was curious how they attach and power everything, and how it's dressed, and what might be different from the little bit I've learned. I'm just eternally grateful that unlike many (real) theater people I can still forget about it once the show starts, because the unbridled joyous laughter of One Man, Two Guvnors would have been a hell of a sad thing to miss while looking for the trap doors and audience plants and everything else peeking from behind the curtain. The woman who brought me in to the theater (where I'm sitting right now) told me that for 50 years she has approached everything from the perspective of an audience member, and I'm glad that still continues to be my favorite vantage point. I love being a tourist.

Day Five - Exit Through the Gift Shop

I love gift shops. I'm such a sucker, even for the store at the Big G where I used to uncrate all the new stuff and buy a new Intelligent Homosexual shirt every time I needed a clean shirt. So of course I had to go back and raid the Globe gift shop for everything I felt I could justify, stopping short on only a few items that I couldn't possibly fit in my bag... and still regretting I didn't just shell out for the folio recreation of Macbeth. Yes, I'm a shameless sucker, but my most ridiculous shopping expedition turned out to be a great idea.

Back in 4th grade, one of my best friends introduced me to the magic, the mystery, and the magnificence that is Dr Who. As the years have gone by the zippers on the monsters became more apparent, and I will occasionally cringe at the acting performances for a show that tried to do drama on a children's television budget, I've still never quite been able to outgrow the magic of the time traveling police box full of eccentric geniuses and the ladies they hung out with who were hot and strong... like a really good cup of tea. So I took the tube out to find this Doctor Who store, in the slightly less glittering East End of London.

When I got back, everybody asked when I got back if I saw any Olympic venues, and I guess I saw that weird spire thing out the window of the tube, so that was one mission accomplished. I don't know if that thing is the Olympic Torch (put out by London rain) or whatever, but there it was. More interestingly, popping out of the train at Upton Park, I felt for the first time like I was in another country. Funny accents? We have those in America... plus I hang out with actors, who all think they have the best funny accent. But out there with a largely South Asian sub-culture, a very different retail selection, it reminded me a lot of going out to the Thieves Market in the Indian section of Singapore. It's not quite so bright or lively in London, but it's still a trip to get out of Bayswater and the City and see another side of old Londinium.

I also liked walking past the Boleyn Ground, proud home of West Ham United Football Club, with its only slightly cheesy looking castle turrets which may or may not be haunted by one of Ms Boleyn's former maids who may or may not have lived there. Okay, not as imposing as one might hope, but I do like urban stadia (using the British plural for snootiness) with huge walls and stands rising up out of an actual city. My favorite thing about Verona is the first view of the ancient Roman amphitheater right in the middle of town, dominating the skyline like a giant breathing in all the air... compare that to the sad lumps Giants Stadium and Brendan Byrne Arena appear to be rising up (kind of) out of the swampy Meadowlands. I just think The colossal roar of the crowd should echo into the streets, keeping the party going as the fans flow out into the street and back into the rest of the life of the city... not just shut the fuck up and get back in your car so you can sit in traffic. So yes, I am quite relieved that the new Vikings Stadium will not be located in some ex-burb that I can't even place on a map.

As far as trinkets from my favorite things in London, I have a few. I have a stuffed raven from the Tower of London, because I liked their quietly alert character, the majesty of the White Tower and the dream of flight. I have a small fake lego replica of the Tardis, because it reminds me of one of the vibrant spirits of my childhood. I have a book from the National Portrait Gallery because I like the salty, warm beauty of real people. I have a sweatshirt from the Globe that says "Hood make not monks" (Henry VIII) because I am a dorky tourist. And I have a picture of me holding my nonplussed nephew, just because he's awesome and I love him. And that was my few days in London.

So this is England, huh? Day One/Two

So apparently you're not supposed to order pancakes outside the United States, and nobody told me. The ones I got were certainly edible, fresh and fluffy and covered in blueberries, so I don't know what the fuss is about, but I still feel obligated to pass on that bit of advice. It seems when we go to war with a country we do introduce them to McDonald's, but thus far we have not passed on the elusive secret of making pancakes that don't suck (throw the first one away).

In other areas of human culture, this England place seems alright. My first day I spent dealing with jet lag, severe compression issues from fitting into an airline seat and riling up the seemingly demonically possessed nerves in my back and legs, and just really getting to know the newest member of my extended family, who unfortunately still regards me like he's thinking, "Mommy, why is the guy from The Hangover in our house?" So today I got to spend some quality time wandering about and just getting the feel of the place, before catching a bit of culture in the National Gallery (apparently Titian has started painting again or something) and the surprisingly interesting National Portrait Gallery. It seems obvious in retrospect, but it honestly never occurred to me how much I would love such a place, despite my constant visual fascination with random people, like the guy in my sister's favorite breakfast nook who looked just like Stephen Yoakam (the actor, not the country singer). And no, it wasn't actually Stephen Yoakam unless he suddenly became an English builder and started wearing dusty jumpsuits, and... well, you know when certain British men look really sophisticated and statesmanlike but then they start talking in this high, squeaky cartoon character voice with no consonants besides F's and Y's? Yeah, it wasn't Stephen Yoakam. But the portrait gallery was really interesting, from beknighted actors (Dame Judi and Sir Ian) to fiancees who agreed to come over and pose naked to aged aunts... who also agreed to come over and pose naked... interesting stuff.

But the best thing today was getting to see The Globe, which I will profess is a special place, even though I certainly had my doubts. I'm not big on nostalgia and the weight of the past, and I rarely let it all in about "hallowed ground" preferring to let things be built in the moment, but this one really did get to me, partly because it isn't what it claims to be. It's not the theater of Shakespeare, where the Bard himself once trod the boards, and it could so easily be a kitschy museum piece turned into a theme park for tourists, some deadly throwback straight out of Vegas or Epcot, but it's not. Recreating the old wooden theater with uncomfortable benches, interrupted by rain and pigeons and the roar of jet engines as life goes on in the city brought forward the spirit of the theater, not just the bones, the spirit of this place just across the river where stories came to life in dangerous ways and the armies who clashed at Agincourt could come alive and squeeze into this tiny wooden O.

Twenty minutes before showtime I was standing outside looking at the muddy river and downing this fantastically earthy garlic smoked cheeseburger in the fading rain, but then I never had to go back inside. I didn't have to leave my real world, senses and belly all filled, in order to enter theirs. Musicians came out and started playing until they'd fought hard enough for our attention to begin, which seems like the dirty secret of the opening of every Shakespearean play: he knew somebody was going to be talking the first few words, if not more, so nothing was presented to a darkened, hushed audience collected into a single receptive body. The sun was shining, people were making out, a couple wide-eyed nerdy girls had their chins raptly thrust onto the lip of the stage, and we were all together in that space. My boss's boss's (boss's) boss talks about how he won't do Shakespeare in Elizabethan era regalia, tights and wooden sets because it all looks like something pulled out of a museum, and it's dead. Peter Brook talks about the Deadly Theatre as the laborious recreation of an image of something we all agree theater used to be, or is supposed to be, assembled rather than born. This was the opposite: alive and awake to the world, and refusing to play dead. Only this time around instead of boys playing ladies, it seems ladies now play boys.

A final note about English cuisine as I've experienced it so far: there's really a lot of meat going on. Some of that is the insistence by my friends and family that if there's L'Entrecôte to be had in town, we must go. (I've now gone in three countries on two continents.) And the garlic smoked cheeseburgers at the Globe really are good, maybe not £6 good, but good. But a side of bacon turned to be like, a SIDE of bacon, and I really thought there might be something else in a meat pie, like some vegetables or something. On the other hand, my brother-in-law's pub makes a really nice onion soup... won't find at the Onion Garden (ironically). And who am I kidding, I'm tempted to buy a groundling ticket just to go back and have another garlic-smoked cheeseburger.

Next: How to Celebrate the 4th of July in England Without Anyone Beating the Star Spangled Bejeezus Out of You

Top 10 Reasons I've Been Out of Work For 3 Months

10. Back in October I ate a Grumpy's meatloaf sandwich, and I only recently came out of the coma.

9. With the snow and ice making it hard for me to take my bike out, I tried taking an MTC bus somewhere. Just a few more blocks to my destination and about 1800 stops where people need to negotiate the route with the driver like it's a damn tuk-tuk.

8. I decided to shave my beard off and I couldn't remember how, so it's been taking a while.

7. Too busy writing Collateralized Debt Obligation: the Rock Opera.

6. I drank a potion that unleashed my dreadful alter ego, Edward Hyde, resulting in a maelstrom of mischief and a lot of missed days at work, because that guy never clocks in. (Actually I should use this excuse to explain my behavior more often.)

5. I wanted to feel what it was like to be an aging suburban hipster, so I thought I'd start with breakfast at Hell's Kitchen. I didn't want to leave because I'm sure any day now my table will be ready.

4. An Impinged nerve in my back prevented me from sitting and standing, and the theater has a tragic shortage of hammocks. This one's actually true.

3. I was tragically paralyzed by obsession with Japanese number puzzles. Actually this one's kind of true too, if anybody wants to stage an intervention and delete the KenKen app off my phone.

2. I can't focus on anything until I finish work on my Batcave style lair, so I can once again return to prowling the streets as the masked crime fighter Quirinus. If Phoenix Jones can run around pepper-spraying people until they're bright orange and choking, why can't I?

1. Way too busy trying to think of a 10th joke for this stupid list.

Zebras 103, Wolves 101

My experience with the Wolves the last few years did prepare me for one thing: I went in knowing the Wolves would lose. And with two minutes to go I knew  Dwayne Wade was going to come up with a clutch shot to kill us and nobody on the Wolves was going to stop him. So my Timberwolves negativity wasn't entirely unwarranted. But despite that little my reward to my pessimism, the Wolves did also provide evidence that things may have changed.

Pessimism does come easily to me right now after the increasing frustrations of the last few months, so I expected a few things besides a Wolves loss. For one, I thought they'd get massacred by Dwayne Wade and his two friends, and where the '08 Wolves are fondly remembered because they'd put up an entertaining fight until opponents turned up the intensity in the 4th quarter, I figured this game would see the Heat up by 30 and clearing the end of the bench by the half. Imagine my surprise when the Wolves were actually leading the game at halftime, and forced a complete game effort by Miami's superstars. I also thought Lebron James would beat Michael Beasley like a rented mule and then chew his way through the rest of the Wolves collection of tweener forwards like the cast of Alien. I wasn't totally wrong on that one since Beasley doesn't have the quickness to stay in front of Lebron (who finished with 34 points and two rebounds short of a triple double) but it wasn't nearly the sad spectacle I was expecting. And to be fair, stopping Lebron is harder than dubbing a Nicholas Cage movie into Cantonese: if the guy had any heart he'd be the best player in the league.

The A-Team meets Leverage

The A-Team is gone...

The A-Team loomed large in my childhood. They were larger than life characters, living these impossible lives and somehow juggling an impossible number of projects, personal and charitable. And given the Boomer mania for remaking old properties, it seemed inevitable that at least some production company would think if they could find them, maybe they could hire... the A-Team.

It was hard to imagine anybody making that work since those characters are so firmly bound in a particular time and place, and a much broader, comic-book kind of storytelling than you would get away with today. Silliness certainly still abounds on television (rolling my eyes at NCIS Los Angeles is a guilty pleasure) but these shows all take themselves deathly seriously, try to ground every detail and populate themselves entirely with world-weary veterans and doe-eyed trainees with harsh lessons ahead of them. There are certainly echoes out there of George Peppard's cigar-chomping grin and his enigmatic confidence, but Dirk Benedict wrote a scathing commentary on the timidity of producers and certain flavors of feminism meaning his signature characters were gone forever (Katee Sackhoff says he was less of a dick about it in person), and it seems clear: Mr. T is the only actor alive who could wear 50 lbs of gold jewelry and still be so intimidating as to frighten away even the barest trace of a smirk.