Weekend Report

I don't know about you guys, but last week felt like a long limp towards an increasingly distant finish line. And so this weekend has been all about recovery, by which of course I mean "doing nothing but watching Scandal, only occasionally venturing forth to drink beer with friends."

Thus, not much to report. I did watch the Saturday night Habs/Leafs game at a Habs bar. I had to get the old Dryden t-shirt out of storage. Last year's strike really burned me on hockey, and I had maybe watched half of a game this season. But I'm glad I went. It might have been the wings, or maybe it was our 4-2 win, or maybe it was even the beer talking (it was totally the beer), but it was a lot of fun.

Now, I'm hoping for a more productive week. Because beer and addictive TV is great and all, but sometimes a girl's got goals.

Mr. Nice Goon

Another year, another English Canadian film is anointed by some mysterious marketing power. The francophones can be counted on to support their movies, but we anglos need prodding. We need the kind of prolonged campaign that covers every surface in Toronto with marketing, the kind of offensive usually only mustered by the CBC for its comedies (ie, the reason why when I sleep, I dream of Mr. D, which may be why I also wake up screaming.) This year's candidate seems to be Goon, judging from bus stop ad saturation. Sadly, it's not an adaptation of the cult horror comic. Instead, it's about Doug, played by Sean William Scott, a loveable hulk with fists of steel and a brain of cotton candy. Doug finds his calling on the ice as an enforcer, getting on the rink only to mash somebody's face into pudding. I might have found the movie funnier in another year. But after a season dominated by player safety and concussions, a season which also started with a string of dead enforcers, it's hard to chuckle. I may have even found it funnier on another day, but the theatre was almost empty that weeknight. But even playing a decade ago to a full house, Goon would have some issues. Scott's endearing, and Liev Schreiber as Doug's more philosophical rival goon is great, but they're both in a movie that's mostly predictable. An example: Doug's disapproving father is trying to save face at shul, using his other, doctor son. But that's before this other son bounds away to meet up with his partner. I immediately calculated the likelihood that the partner was either another man (90%), or a ridiculously trashy shiksa (10%). And lo, the partner arrived, and verily, he was fabulous. Sadly, Slap Shot still does it better, and it's almost 40 years old.

Try Not to Analyze the Hype

SOPA would be a terrible, terrible thing. My friend Max thinks so, and I believe him. If you're Canadian, you can sign this call to action. If you're American, sign this petition or contact your congressperson directly. The pressure seems to be working, so keep it up. Plus, it's always fun to make Rupert Murdoch angry.

The past week has been a bad one for two people. If, in fact, they are people, and not just constructs built by the online commentary-critical complex to suits its needs. In the sporting world: Tim Tebow, mediocre quarterback, Jockey spokesman, litmus test for your thoughts on religion/the universe at large. From the music sphere: Lana Del Rey. One got spanked 45-10 by Tom Brady and the Patriots, ending the playoff run of the Denver Broncos, while the other mumbled her way through an SNL appearance. I can't say that I bear any personal ill will to either of these fine young Americans - well, maybe Tebow, a little, based mostly on that Super Bowl anti-choice ad - but I was glad as the implosions played out.

In a few months, Lana del Rey generated the kind of media studies analysis Madonna writhed around for years to make possible, and Tebow hit that sweet, sweet intersection of sports, religion and the American news cycle. Klosterman wrote about him, the New Yorker wrote about him, even Canada discovered him and wrote about him, but the article was kind of awful, so let's ignore it. With both of these kids, I resented the constant churning of the explaining machine. My response to them is not a mirror of my feelings on larger issues. And why concentrate on religion, or "authenticity," when the question of whether Tim or Lana are decent at what they do should be tackled first. Actually, in Del Rey's case, WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THOSE LIPS ought to be issue number one. At the height of Tebowmania, the NFL produced photos of what Tim Tebow's babies would look like with various celebrities. Using the same cutting-edge technology the NFL has at its disposal - that is, a free site - I have created Lana Tel Bow. Because clearly, they belong together.

I majored in cultural studies, I have my license to analyze, but there's a difference between that which illuminates, and that which strives for profundity but only gets page views. Here's to getting a break from the latter.

Patrick Chan And Figure Skating Drama

THE CANADIAN PRESS/Jacques Boissinot

There's a lot of drama in sports, but there's no sports drama like figure skating drama. For one thing, there are sequins. Canada had some recently, when a months-old interview with Patrick Chan surfaced on Reuters. Chan said he felt unappreciated in Canada, and compared it to the support he likely would have experienced competing for China. The Canadian public... proved him correct by largely reacting with indifference. But I could have predicted the response of people who did care, like this Globe and Mail letter writer:

"His reflections on how much more support he might have if he were skating for China seem insensitive to the fact his parents were fortunate to leave an oppressive Communist regime and find a welcome home here."

This may be all the defense I can muster for someone who gets to wear a "billowy red shirt and black slacks accented with slashes of red" as part of his day job, but the insensitive thing might be comparing his thoughts on which nation claps louder for a triple lutz to ignoring an oppressive regime. The real question may be how much any country should care, or pay for, athletics programs that seem to function as the bragging chips of nationalism. But that’s a question that could fairly be asked of any amateur athlete, and not just one whose parents happen to be Chinese. Overall, this all takes away from the real news in skating: Half of the French ice dance couple was dressed like an honest-to-Set mummy for their free skate. My word.

My Team, Mon Amour

This post was inspired by something ridiculous I read on Grantland. Bill Simmons got a letter from a reader who compared the Buffalo Bills to a bad relationship. And I quote (in part), "You know, the kind where you are dating a guy and he eventually becomes comfortable with you and feels like you are such a good pal he no longer has to impress you by buying gifts and taking you to nice dinners and next thing you know you are in a relationship that is so non-exciting you decide to break it off." Which made me think- what if I described all of my favourite sports teams as oddly specific and extremely detailed boyfriends? Read on to see what happens when a simile is pushed too far.

Hi, honey(s)! (Photo: Andy Lyons/Getty Images North America)

NFL
The Green Bay Packers: They're like that boyfriend you have that perfect relationship with, and it irritates everybody else. Eventually you take the irritation nationwide by being profiled in the "Vows" section of the New York Times. You'll say stuff like "I always admired his/their integrity, notably the fact that they are the only publicly owned team in the NFL" and they'll say stuff like "She was always there for me, we could collectively talk to her for hours" and then there would be a picture of you getting married in Central Park or whatever. Some years might be rougher than others, but you'll always work through your problems with a package vacation at a Sandals resort.

NHL
The Montreal Canadiens: They're like that French-Canadian boyfriend you had in university, who wore scarves really well and came from a preeminent Montreal family, but had a lot of baggage. Now and then he would have a meltdown and destroy your apartment, or maybe just a part of Rue Ste. Catherine. Every year you figured would be *the* year, but he never really brought home the hardware and eventually you stopped expecting him to. Now you dodge his calls.

NBA
The Memphis Grizzlies: They're like that boyfriend you had because you were both 10 and you thought the drawings of angry grizzly bears on his duotang revealed a tortured soul. He had a rat tail and you held hands by the chainlink fence. Then his dad got transferred to an office in Memphis right after Christmas. You're not sure what he does now, he might have been on strike for a while, but you're sure that's he's long since stopped spelling "neighbour" and "colour" with their proper u's.

MLS
The Toronto FC: They're like that high school boyfriend you dated for no other reason than geographical proximity. Eventually you broke up when you went to school in another province, and he started working at Milestones Bar and Grill.

MLB
N/A: You don't have a baseball team/"boyfriend." You hate baseball. If baseball teams have to be boyfriends, then you are an out and proud baseball lesbian.

Bill Simmons: In which B.S. is literal

I liked Bill Simmons, but I shouldn't have. There were warning signs. The love for the forces of Evil embodied by all Boston sports teams. The quality he has, native to that same city, of sounding like he's SHOUTING even when he's not. What is it? An intonation? A cadence? Is every Bostonian dictating a telegram at all times? "YES. LARRY BIRD. THE. LEGEND." But, most telling of all, he was buddies with Adam Carolla, King of the Douchenozzles.

But I couldn't resist his eagerness, and so I would listen to his podcast regularly. Even when he was talking about some random point guard, or whatever, he made me care because he seemed to know every statistic, every play, from memory. He was an earnest beacon in the gloomy age of Deadspin. But then he started Grantland- a hot stew of 6 parts sports, 3 sports pop culture and 1 part Klosterman- and my love died.

I called the time of death at 9:13pm last night, after finishing "Hackery in the First Degree," Simmons's rant about The Killing's season finale. I'll admit that I haven't seen a minute of any of the Killing's first season, much less the finale, so I won't speak to his issues with the show. But I will talk about his issues with women. Or, more pointedly, his apparent belief that there is an implicit, but binding, contract that requires all female leads on TV to reach basic standards of hot-itude. "Our heroine" he writes "was a redheaded detective named Sarah Linden, a poorly written character who didn't wear makeup, kept her hair in a sexless ponytail, and wore the heaviest sweaters anyone has ever worn on television."

You could, at least, blame CSI for that statement, since that show and its many clones demonstrate- nightly- that a woman's greatest investigative strategy is to bend over and thrust her cleavage in the general direction of a cadaver. Also, that foot chases are best conducted in stiletto heels, whether they're over New York City pavement or Florida swamp. But CSI can't be blamed for this:

I think they were trying to humanize Linden, which was obviously hard because you can't humanize a "strong" female character when she's dressing like a lumberjack.

I'm still trying to parse that statement. Maybe Bill Simmons meant to say that The Killing did such a poor job of characterizing Sarah Linden that her wardrobe had to do all the work. And he just worded it so that what it sounds like he's saying is "Practically-dressed women can't be compelling characters." Or maybe that is what he meant to say, and Carolla's rampant asshattery is contagious. I would love to think the former. Come on, Simmons was there for the '90s, so he's seen Fargo, and there's no way Marge Gunderson in her sensible parka is anything but human and wonderful. But I can't. He just seems so aggrieved in the rest of the article, entitled to a resolution in the first season, or at least a spoiler when that didn't happen, that I feel he sees himself entitled to a hot actress too. Even if it defies all sense of reality to have a busy homicide detective put on a full face before going out. All The Killing owed him was a well-written season, something it evidently failed to do, but it never really needed to succeed at finding Bill Simmons a sexy actress.

American Splendor, Soccer-Style

I went out to watch the Ghana/USA match today. Bros were very much in evidence at the bar. Polo shirts, two USA jerseys... and a whole lot of hilarity. Seriously, I don't understand why the rest of the world has such a hate on for American fans. They're brash, loud and amazing. If I wanted a classy kind of fan, I would watch more polo.

Anyway, even though I was cheering for Ghana, I found these following drunken bon mots so frigging priceless, I had to record them in this here blog. Please imagine them slurred, it's essential to the effect:

3. "Sliiiiiiide, you dumb prick!"
2. In response to the British announcer giving the 2-1 score: "We knoooow, you British fuck!"
And my personal favorite, keeping in mind that the Ghanian jerseys were red:
1. "Kill the redcoats!"
It's funny because it's historical.

On Watching Your Team Lose

Today, I did something I had spent the past couple of weeks bitching people out for doing. I walked out of a hockey game early, just because my team was losing, and I knew they were going to lose the game entirely, and I just couldn't watch it happen.

So, I'm a hypocrite. However, I'm a sympathetic hypocrite. Getting into hockey over the past few weeks has been a lesson in transference. Once you start caring about the sport, the guys on the screen aren't just a random collection of guys with skills and high salaries. They're a representative of you! They play well, and you have hope for your future. They play poorly, and suddenly your streak of bad luck stretches all the way to the TV screen and you have to turn it off.

However, you've already started to behave in completely irrational ways. You start bargaining. "Let them win this game and it will make up for the crappy interview and terrible day I just had. Let them lose and I'll realize that I'm cursed."However, this makes no sense. First of all, there are dozens of fans on the other side doing the exact same thing. Are you praying in Montreal? Then somebody in Philly probably did the same thing. And, judging from tonight's score, it seems like they did a better job than you.

Clearly, it's mostly up to the people on the ice, as well as people behind the bench whether your team wins or loses, no matter how much you hope, pray and wear the hell out of your jersey. So why bother? Why should I have bothered to stay for the rest of the game?

First of all, there are the standard reasons. Sports end up connecting you, just like the shoe commercials predict. Trite, but true. I watched Montreal beat Washington, eating pickled eggs in a tavern, yelling just as loudly as the rest of the people there even though I was English* and under 45 years old. It's also good conversation fodder when you're on breaks at work. And there's something heartwarming about seeing entire metro cars turned red because everyone has their Habs gear on after a win.

Then there's the other reason. It's about perseverance. No matter how much they're sucking, teams can't just go home before the final buzzer sounds. And even once it does, they'll just be back next year. It's Sisyphean - and, since we're going that far - a lesson in existentialism.

Unless, of course, someone sells your team and then they end up moving. In which case, maybe you really are cursed.

Texts From Last Period

Don't worry, there will be a Post of Substance tomorrow, but for tonight I wanted to share perhaps the most Canadian communication I have ever taken part in. My friend Jo couldn't watch Game 7 tonight (and thus missed out on its blessed result), so I was put on text duty to keep her informed of the score. Between things like "4-0. I don't even know. 4-0." and "They did it! 5-2 final score." There was this little nugget of maple-flavoured goodness:

"Don cherry's suit is purple velour [sic] with satin trim tonight."

Mumble, Grumble, Go Habs Go

Events have conspired to turn me, a person who hated all sports except for college football, into someone who's avidly watching the Montreal Canadiens' run in the NHL playoffs. I thought for sure that the charmingly gap-toothed Ovechkin would get them, but they beat the Caps. And then I thought the Penguins and Sidney Crosby's questionable facial hair would do it, but goddamn it, they sent it to game 7. Now I'll proudly suffer those maudlin Tim Horton's ads, Don Cherry's suits and the terrible new Hockey Night in Canada theme just to watch a game.

I would like to say that I have a certain sympathy for Jaroslav Halak, because I often feel like the 200th-odd pick in life, but the truth is I lack his hand/eye coordination, so I'll just say I enjoy seeing this diverse and annoyingly abrasive city come together, as one... so that it can likely destroy a small part of itself in celebration of a win.

Post-Game Show

So, the Tim Tebow ad aired and in a fairly toned down manner. Basically, it's just his mom saying that he's her miracle baby, but although he's all grown up now she still worries about his health. Then there's a note that you can check out the full Tebow story online, along with the name of the organization and the slogan "Celebrate family. Celebrate life." You can YouTube it if you want.

I can't decide if I'm glad the ad is so toned down as to be non-confrontational, or if it's a little underhanded and sneaky. In either case, it certainly wasn't as off-putting as this ad.

What's up with the growly serial killer voice? Why is it acting as if, say, carrying around someone's lip balm is the most degrading thing ever? Christ, it's a 2 inch-long tube, just stuff it in a pocket somewhere and try and develop a sense of confidence that's not so freaking fragile.

Still, I think the pro-choice credentials of Scott Fujita were responsible for the Saints victory somehow. Well, along with the hard work of Drew Brees and that interception by Tracy Porter.