In case anybody was wondering, yes, I’m still alive — and here with a cliff notes version of the weekend that was. I’m in the midst of an exhaustive editing session, by the way: the essay is coming together nicely, and with a couple more weeks of masochism I should be just about there. In the meantime, here’s where I’ve been since last we touched base:
- The Vikings ended up stomping the Kansas City Chiefs 27-16 in the exhibition opener. The NFL Network finally got around to televising the game earlier this evening; while I know it’s only the first game of the exhibition schedule, anybody who watched Daunte Culpepper lead a quick and brutally incisive opening drive should consider themselves duly warned that the Vikings are very much for real this year. NFC North preview forthcoming; in the meantime, why not read what Sports Illustrated‘s resident football guru Peter King had to say about his visit to Packers’ training camp?
- The Blue Jays took another series from Baltimore — and just as they should have swept Detroit last week, so too should Toronto have swept this series also. Since I lambasted the Jays last Monday and officially wrote them off in 2005, they’re 5-1. What this means I don’t pretend to know.
- Eric Lindros is a Leaf — and yes, this makes me happy, especially since we didn’t have to give anybody up in exchange. If he stays healthy, he’s a steal at $1.55 million; if his head injuries act up again, at least we gave him a chance to pull on the blue and white sweater before his career came to a premature end. Aren’t we a charitable organization?
- Saw The Aristocrats last night. The premise, in case you haven’t heard: a group of some seventy-five comedians riff on an old vaudeville joke about a husband, his wife and his fecal matter (trusty ol’ Wikipedia sums it up thusly). Going into the theatre we were warned that the movie was crude — surely the understatement of the century, given the next seventy-five minutes were devoted to jokes about underage sex, beastiality, oral sex on dead relatives and more uses of the dreaded “c” word than you could ever imagine. The point of this exercise, I think, was to make some sort of comment about the role of individuality in shaping our society…but for fear of sounding like a total prude, there has got to be a better way of doing it than by assaulting the audience with five hundred uses of the word “fuck” (at least half of which came from the mouth of Gilbert Gottfried). I feel as though this is the sort of movie that will get the pseudointellectual wanks in our midst all foamy mouthed as they extol its many virtues, but by the first fifteen minutes the joke has worn very, very thin. Also — and again, call me a prude — I’m of the opinion that excessive swearing and/or sexual explicitness do not a funny joke comprise, yet far too many of the comedians seem perfectly content to swear as often as possible and hope it generates laughs. At first, it did; after a while it got boring, and while there were some genuine moments of inspiration — the mime, for instance, or Kevin Pollack’s Christopher Walken impersonation — the majority of the comics on hand were completely useless. To me, good humour needs an iota of intelligence; if you’re of that opinion as well, then steer clear of this movie.
- Thanks, Beth and Alex, for that “no funny stuff” pact–I did a black light swoop of the guest bedroom and found no incriminating evidence.
- Last night, I got embroiled in a conversation slamming jam bands…and then magically, and completely unexpectedly, it turned into a collective vent about the evils of Pink Floyd. Up until last night I felt virtually alone in my hatred of Floyd (with the notable exception of HLP Paul, of course). Last night, however, I found out I wasn’t alone; the experience made me want to open a telephone hotline for other music fans who once felt as lonely as I did. Thanks, Matt, Camille, Hilary and Luke!
- According to what I’ve been hearing, I have exactly twenty-five hours of adolescence left in me. If that’s truly the case…well, it’s been emotional.