The Worst Movie You Ever Saw In The Theater

Need some filler for today, and frankly, I feel like writing even less than usual (yes, that is possible). Everyone seemed to be in a chatty mood yesterday over rob's pending sports free agency, so was hoping to channel that interactivity and make this a sort of open thread post.

The title tells you where I'm headed...what is the worst movie you ever saw in a theater. I believe I have mentioned this more than once in this space before, but for me it is a dead-heat photo finish between two films, "Warlock" and "Graveyard Shift", with Graveyard Shift winning by a rat's nose. Because I am incapable of doing a post without YouTube clips, here are the trailers for each film:

Graveyard Shift



Warlock



Join me in the comments, won't you, and regale us with tales of the worst movie film you ever saw in a theater. Or don't. I don't care. You're all jerks, anyway.

They Shoot Tight Ends, Don't They?

I think we both knew this would happen, but I know that doesn't make it any easier. But we had some great times, didn't we?

I'll always remember October 27, 1991, when you were 7-0, but the Giants took a 13-0 lead into halftime at the Meadowlands. That douchebag friend of ours called to rub it in, and we all knew what was going to happen next. You rolled New York in the second half on the strength of two Mark Rypien to Gary Clark touchdown connections and a Chip Lohmiller figgie. We gleefully transposed that very same douchebag's name into any premature jinx from that day forward. It was probably my favorite moment in our relationship.

I loved the championships, too, it goes without saying. In your day, you were something to behold. You were so classy, so loyal, so...Gibbsian.

But in May 1999, you changed. I tried hard to rationalize it, to ignore my gnawing doubts, to focus on what should have been important. But that asshole you started hanging out with changed you. Where once you valued doing things the right way, you started looking for shortcuts. Where patience and persistence once reigned, flash and cash became your currency. After the litany of Deions and Georges (soooo not Gheorghes) and Smiths and Ol' Ballcoaches, you almost seemed to recognize what you'd become.

And then there was Donovan. And Beck. And Rex.

I didn't change. You did.

Today, sadly, you finally went too far. As The Washington Post's Mike Wise eloquently notes:

For every bad move, every moment of utter chaos in Ashburn — for every Albert Haynesworth, Adam Archuleta and all the other bad actors, for every impulsive free agent buy, draft pick or Jim Zorn hire that Snyder regretted, for every tight end or offensive lineman suspended because of a positive drug test — Cooley became the one, true thing fans could rely on every Sunday.

(Man, I'd almost forgotten about Zorn. How could you?)

Cooley. You let Cooley go. I resisted this for so long. Against my better instincts, I continued to care, even as you reduced the sainted Joe Gibbs to a confused timeout machine, as you turned Mike Shanahan into a hack, as you blithely trashed your good name again and again and again. But Cooley, man? Cooley.

So this is it. I'll always remember the good times. But I'm done. You're not my team anymore, and I'm not your fan.

I don't know what's next for me. I can't root for an NFC East squad, for sure. And though I had a childhood fondness for the Patriots, it'd be gauche for me to jump back on that juggerwagon. The Lions are interesting, as are the Texans. And it's no secret how tight I am with Jim Irsay, so I might be checking into the Luck/Fleener thing. But I'm not in a hurry. I've got fantasy football to get me through, and though it's a one-season stand, it's something.

See ya, I guess. Hope you have a great life. But it's better for both of us this way.

Honor, Again

I've long respected and admired the haka as performed by New Zealand's athletic teams, mostly the rugby All-Blacks. It's among the most uniquely impressive displays in sports.

I had no idea.


The haka performed in the clip above honors the life of one of three New Zealand soldiers recently killed in action in Afghanistan. The feral, anguished quality of this haka marks it as entirely different than the almost joyous celebration that sporting hakas represent. It's spellbinding, and it's chilling, and it's amazing in its emotion, anger, and honor.

Godspeed, brave warriors.

 (h/t to Teejay's boy Andrew Sullivan)

This Week in G:TB Sesame Street Eulogies

A post count post about a Count? Dave, is that meta?

Anyhoo, sad news down on Sesame Street this morning, as the voice of a legendary character (and thus, in my mind, the actual character) has passed away.

Jerry Nelson, the puppeteer who taught innumerable children to count over the years as the voice of one of Sesame Street’s most popular characters, died Thursday in his Cape Cod home. He was 78.

Not only was Nelson the voice of the numbers-obsessed Count von Count, but he was the man behind Camilla the Chicken and Lew Zealand, two minor but terrific Muppets. The Count, er, Nelson's funeral is expected to be a star-studded affair, with Count Chocula, Vampira, the sparkly kid from Twilight, and Nosferatu just some of the luminaries expected in attendance.

Before we go...here's the Count, the Mets and I'm Keith Hernandez:

 

Is It Over Yet?

The following is a partial list of the things that interest me more than do the 2012 Boston Red Sox:

• The Minnesota State Fair (better than a 50/50 chance I'll be there on Tuesday night)
• Food poisoning (better than a 50/50 chance I had that last Saturday during OBFT19)
• Professional sports in Hampton Roads, Virginia
• Avril Lavigne's wedding plans
• Skip Bayless
• The Small Argon Near Misser
• Craisins
• Randy Chinese pigs 
• Randy Travis' naked driving skills
• This paddleball game
• Scooping the litter box
• Preseason NFL Football (I have yet to watch a down)
• My heroin habit
• Rob Dibble's opinion about Stephen Strasburg
• Face-Kinis
• The novels of Susan Sontag (which are self-indulgent, overrated crap)
• Cactii

A Very Special Fashion is Dumb

All over America, kids are preparing to head back to college, including one of our own. Men's Health, keeping up with the times, offers the fashion-forward young man advice on how to make an impression while rocking your college's colors. And in one case, how to clash like Todd Akin at Lilith Fair:

The summary for this, entitled "The College of William & Mary", reads thusly:

Don't limit yourself to the team's colors; taking the theme so literally is neither stylish nor necessary. With pants like these, everyone will know you're rooting for the Tribe.

They'll also probably guess you're a hipster dipshit who needs a belt and probably should've had Mom put together a few matching outfits before she sent you off to school. On the bright side, the whole ensemble can be yours for $320. Unless you want the jacket, too, in which case you'll need to call Salvatore Ferragamo at 800-628-8916 for pricing.

Loading Up the Family Truckster, Destination College

rob's email to me this morning:
You should do an ‘off to school’ GTB post today.

OK. Sure. Tomorrow the two best Benjamin Buttons-esque parentalish figures will be taking my new sister-in-law to her freshman year of college, down I-95 in Virginia. I contend there is no way all the stuff she has packed will fit in the car, despite best efforts at Car Packing Tetris. BaconBaking contends she is great at Tetris, and thus those skillz will apply to this packing effort. We shall see.

I just hope tomorrow is not the same oppressive heat and humidity as when I moved in 18 years ago to Dupont Hall in Williamsburg. "Oh, sweet, I chose to go to college in a Dagobah-like swamp. Great choice, Teej."

There. Not much of a post, but we needed something up. And here is your obligatory Billy Madison clip.

OBFT 19 In the Books

Hangover cat don't give a shit.

Not an Ersatz Blog Post

Hello, Friends.

Thought we'd give you a tiny, tiny glimpse of how the stars spend their leisure time.

We note with some sadness that this blog post is 100% live, and that it took the author roughly 30 minutes to overcome his drunkeness/exhaustion/coke rage/acid trip in order to actually post this. Sadness, because our favorite non-GTB blog appears to be serving up ersatz sentences while its purveyor is next in line for the heroin.

Pre-OBFT Filler: Sucky Helmets and Soccer Hotties

Quite a few of the folks who frequent this space will be headed down to the Outer Banks tomorrow for the 19th (right, 19th?) edition of the Outer Banks Fishing Trip, or OBFT for the uninitiated. rob has promised some sort of OBFT post for tomorrow, but in the meantime, we need some filler. Tiny suggested showing everyone these horrendous Virginia Tech alternative helmets that were revealed the other day (via SB Nation):

Yep, those are a traveshamockery. rob also requested more pics of Alex Morgan, so here's that too (via the glory that is Google Image search):

Adios, folks. See you on the flip side. And for those headed down to the Martha Wood Resort Cottage and casino, don't forget those atrocious t-shirts. There are patrons of Tortuga's we need to impress/appall.

Sportcoat Punk

In the comments section several days ago, Clarence sung the (much deserved) praises of the only band that matters. I thought he'd like to see what punk rock looks and sounds like when it gets to be our parents' age. (Hint: it's different, though not in a bad way.)


By way of comparison, the same song, just a few years earlier:

The Godfather

I am by no means an expert in the gangsta arts. I typically defer to Mark and Zman in matters rap, hip hop, sneaker, and DJ. But I do enjoy a good juxtaposition, and quite like finding stories about people who connect across cultures.

Wan Joon Kim is a 79 year-old Korean immigrant. In a great many ways, his story is not all that different from so many of his contemporaries - emigrated from Korea with very little to his name, dug in with both hands to his chosen business, worked his ass off, and built a successful business.

But Wan Joon Kim didn't open a dry cleaning shop, or a bodega, or any of the other establishments the stereotype would have us expect. Instead, by simply recognizing what the market wanted and acting on it, he became the Godfather of Gangsta Rap.

Kim was one of the early vendors who rented space when a sort of indoor swap meet opened in an empty Sears building in Compton, CA in 1985. When he realized emerging hip hop music represented an underserved market, he became its unlikely go to source.

Says underground rap star Bobby Wilson,  “I think he understood my struggle, more than anything. It saved my life."

Kim's wife Boo Ja and his kids helped run the business, and developed relationships across what might seem a yawning cultural gulf. From the article linked above:

Eric “Eazy-E” Wright, who started Ruthless Records to record his raps and that of his seminal group, N.W.A, would bring Kim his 12-inch singles. Boo Ja Kim treated rappers like her children and would scold: “Eric, pull your pants up!”

Kim's Cycadelic records sells more Latin music today than rap, continuing to focus on what sells on the ground in Compton. Wan Joon doesn't work as much as he used to, either, letting his son, Kirk, man the store these days. But his legacy as one of the most prominent early distributors of gangsta rap music is secure. And he professes not to particularly care for rap itself, but his understanding of its purveyors is what drew me to this story: “This music I don’t like. But I understand where they come from. They’re speaking from their hearts and their minds. I understand that.”

Breaking Ankles, Hearts

Chris Paul made Coach K do this:


And made me do this:

Riot Grrrls

Vladimir Putin is, to put it simply, a badass. He's a former KGB agent, an imposing physical presence, a man who cultivates an intensity and mien of intimidation. His Wikipedia entry suggests that he flies military jets, engages in martial arts, tranquilizes tigers and polar bears, rides motor bikes, drives race cars, shoots darts at whales, scuba dives, and plays ice hockey, not necessarily all at the same time. (For Dave, I note that I had Putin's visage in my head as I imagined how Sokolov looked in Neal Stephenson's REAMDE.)

And yet, with all that, like men from time immemorial, he finds himself confounded and at least a little bit scared of the indomitable passion of a group of unreasonable women. (Unreasonable used in the most approving manner, in this case.)

Pussy Riot are a punk band/performance art collective made up of ten or so women, a group whose made it their business to protest the current state of Russian political affairs, bringing them into direct conflict with Putin - a type of conflict his typically direct style seems somewhat ill-equipped to manage, at least from the perspective of public relations.

Several members of the band were arrested in March after a particularly provocative performance at Moscow's Cathedral of Christ the Savior. Their subsequent harsh treatment at the hands of the state has made them a cause celebre, with human rights activists, governments, and the obligatory posturing Madonnas and Bjorks of the world standing in solidarity.


And so on the one hand we have the the patriarchy heavy handedly enforcing its hegemony, while women once again appear to be the saner and more patient sex. As it was in the beginning, so shall it be for a while longer.

Still think I prefer the Sex Pistols, though.


In case your Russian is a bit rusty, here are the lyrics:

 St. Maria, Virgin, Drive away Putin
Drive away! Drive away Putin!
(end chorus)

Black robe, golden epaulettes
All parishioners are crawling and bowing
The ghost of freedom is in heaven
Gay pride sent to Siberia in chains

The head of the KGB is their chief saint
Leads protesters to prison under escort
In order not to offend the Holy
Women have to give birth and to love

Holy shit, shit, Lord's shit!
Holy shit, shit, Lord's shit!

(Chorus)
St. Maria, Virgin, become a feminist
Become a feminist, Become a feminist
(end chorus)

Church praises the rotten dictators
The cross-bearer procession of black limousines
In school you are going to meet with a teacher-preacher
Go to class - bring him money!

Patriarch Gundyaev believes in Putin
Bitch, you better believed in God
Belt of the Virgin is no substitute for mass-meetings
In protest of our Ever-Virgin Mary!

(Chorus)
St. Maria, Virgin, Drive away Putin
Drive away! Drive away Putin!
(end chorus)

Gheorghe-pourri Lives

It's baaaaaaaack..."Gheorghe-pourri", the excuse for me to clean up the G:TB editorial drafts. Let's jump right in:

rob:

"untitled"

Something about Pussy Riot and Vladimir Putin's fear thereof

"untitled"

Flat-D Flatulence Deoderizer | ColonialMedical.com http://www.colonialmedical.com/flat-d-flatulence-deoderizer-P-1004.html

Some breaking news from TR, unless he has talked himself down off the ledge:

"Declaring for Fandom Free Agency.  Coming to Terms with My Broken (Sports) Marriage."

It is with a heavy hear that I am officially announcing my break-up from the New York Knicks.  It has been a wonderful ~30 years, but I feel that our relationship is now irrevocably broken, and I must move on.  I would like to thank the 1980's players such as Bernard King, Gerald Wilkins, Marc Jackson and Patrick Ewing who led me to the team, and the warriors who gave this team an image in the early/mid 1990's, including Charles Oakley, John Starks, Pat Rileyand even Xavier McDaniel.  I would also like to thank the players who kept the fire alive in the post-Riley era, which featured ugly (though highly competitive) basketball, notably Larry Johnson, Marcus Camby and Allan Houston.

I have very little to say about this franchise over the last twelve years.  It has been a consistent churn of mid-level talent that bore the stamp of mediocrity imprinted on it by Isiah Thomas.  The team challenged my heart over and over again, and has finally broken it.  I feel nothing for these guys.  A younger, idealistic version of me might still idolize the team and its superstars, but the adult me, with finite free time and finite discretionary income, has decided to take my talents elsewhere.

The constant in the narrative of failure this millenium has been owner Jim Dolan.  I pin the blame for the failure of this marriage squarely on his tubby shoulders.  He has run this franchise like the frenetic spoiled brat he remains in his mid 50's.
s.


I'm pretty sure Rich Danko, Levon Helm and Robbie Robertson are all rolling in their grave over this sacrilege. And Robbie Robertson ain't even dead yet. 

zman wheeling out his hype machine for notoriously humble Kanye West:

"Mighty Healthy G.O.O.D. Music"

Kanye West continues to dominate, this time by borrowing the drum line and a line or two from "Mighty Healthy," one of my favorite Ghostface songs.

There are actually quite a few more items in drafts that need to be cleaned up, but these should suffice for now. Carry on.

Fashion is Dumb: "The Fifth Element" Edition

It's been awhile, but this morning I am bringing back one of my favorite semi-recurring features here at G:TB, inspired by the horrendous photo below I found while surfing Tumblr last evening for Olympic ass shots and poorly written/drawn rage comics. This ensemble seems to be Ruby Rhod meets Grace Jones, with a furry penis hat as a topper. Simply ghastly.

Added bonus: the T-1000 seems to be talking to someone off to the left in the photo.

Courtesy of this imgur link

Seven Minutes of Terror

From the mind of Marls:

With all due respect to our Olympians, this week’s most impressive performance by the United States may be taking place over 36 million miles away. By the time you read this we will have either taken a huge step forward in an effort to advance our understanding of the cosmos or we will have crashed $2.5 billion worth of space junk into Mars.

While I understand that G:TB’s staff usually limits their science discussions to Rob’s musings on the Large Hadron Collider, I thought that audacity of NASA’s Curiosity Lander deserved a post of its own.

Back in November of last year, NASA launched the Mars Science Laboratory spacecraft with the intent of landing a golf cart sized Curiosity lander on Mars. The size of this latest Mars lander created some enormous challenges with regard to landing it safely on the planet surface. Namely, how the hell do you stop the f’ing thing? At about 1:25 EDT on August 6th, the spacecraft traveling at 13,000 miles per hour starts its decent into the Martian atmosphere and begins what NASA rather theatrically calls “7 Minutes of Terror”. I thought that might be hyperbole until I watched this video.



For those of you too lazy to watch the video, essentially it details (using some groovy movie trailer music) the six stages required to land this sucker, including a heat shield, supersonic parachute, rockets, and a “skycrane”. All of this will be done without assist from mission control, which gets information from the craft on a 14 minute delay meaning the lander’s fate will be sealed 7 minutes before anybody could do anything about it.

The scientists in the video seem really sure that this is going to work. I have to admit, I’m not nearly as confident in the ability for this seemingly MacGyverized plan. That being said, good luck smart chicks and dudes, make us all proud. Just please don’t wear lime green high-tops and a diamond encrusted grill to the presser.

Joy

This is my favorite moment of the Olympics thus far. Though if Andy Murray manages to win gold today, his reaction will be an all-timer.

Looking at you rob

Who likes dreamy indie rock featuring a frontwoman with a voice wrapped in gauze? Does the idea of an upbeat Beach House or Nico album interest you? Then check out Echo Lake.

The G:TB Parenting Chronicles

We don't often get serious in this space, but on occasion we find it important to change the tone, to put down our noisemakers and silly toys and provide sober commentary on the issues of the day. Many in the G:TB are parents, or will soon be. As ostensibly upstanding members of our various communities, the lessons we impart upon our children are vital, both to their wellbeing and to the ways in which they engage the world.

In this the first installment of our Parenting Chronicles (and given our editorial strategy, I'm quite certain there will be at least 1-3 more installments), we bring you a lesson in fatherly communication. The image below depicts a text exchange I had with my wife just last evening. My wife's texts are in white, mine in blue. Don't let your enjoyment cloud the obvious and important takeaway:

The honeymoon filler rolls on...

As many of you know, the Teej is not a fan of heights. Well, to be accurate, I am not a fan of any height from which you can fall and die. For instance, I have no trouble being on the roof of a two-story house...from there you'll just fall and break something. But, if I happen to be in Ireland at the lovely Cliffs of Moher, overlooking the ocean from a treacherous cliff, well then you'll see me like this:

Bonus clip from The Heights:

Look, Pictures of Restaurants

Do I know how to post gripping filler, or what? Here are the only two places we found on the Emerald Isle during our journey which highlighted my surname. Kinda shocking, if you ask me:

Also, here is a bonus storefront pic, just for Greg: