If you have kids, you might want to check out NORAD's Santa Tracker tonight. Its Cold War technology put to excellent use.
Have a great Christmas and New Year, see you in 2008.
35 minutes ago
"After all these years, I've never once seen him phone in a performance."
Jack and Diane, two teenage lesbians, meet in New York City and spend the night kissing ferociously . . .
Petrino didn’t tell players when they were being benched, or why. Some found out when they got to the stadium on game day. Joey Harrington found out from reporters in a news conference that he might not start at quarterback that week.
Petrino took exception last week when I asked him about the possibility of leaving the Falcons for a college job (I was giving him the benefit of the doubt, and figured he would wait until after the season).
“My plans are to be here, there’s no question about that,” he said. “I get asked the same question every day, and that’s my plan.”
And now his plan is taking him to Arkansas. At least 13 games covers a full college season.
Okay. If you haven't heard of "Achewood," here goes:
Imagine Winnie the Pooh's Hundred Acre Wood. Now. Empty it of all the
adorable stuffed animals suffering from ennui, honey-cravings and
blustery weather. Then re-populate it with stuffed animals suffering
from clinical depression, drug cravings and blustery rageaholic
Oh, and make the Hundred Acre Wood a suburban California house.
That's "Achewood." Sort of.
Achewood defies categorization or description, but a brief, futile
attempt at a synopsis would go something like this: A bunch of cats,
some robots, a bear and an otter who's 5 years old, live together in a
fictional neighborhood called Achewood, which you might usefully think
of as a grown-up, suburban, stoned version of Pooh's Hundred Acre
US tennis legend John McEnroe expressed his concern on Friday that organised crime, such as the Russian mafia, could be infiltrating tennis. The former world number one believes that threats to tennis players or their families could be forcing them into throwing matches. "The thing that worries me is that mafia types, like the Russian mafia, could be involved. That's potentially pretty dark and scary," McEnroe told The Daily Telegraph.
JUDGING FROM her reaction, Jocelyn S. Kirsch may have received the best Christmas present of her life in 2003.
Her father, Dr. Lee Kirsch, a plastic surgeon from Winston-Salem, North Carolina, shipped her a package containing a pair of silicone breast implants, she told her fellow Drexel University dorm residents. Kirsch, then a freshman, said it was her father's Christmas gift.
Kirsch quickly showed off the implants on her dorm floor, according to classmates familiar with the story. . . .
By senior year, Kirsch had no contact with any of her freshman friends who, perhaps, had seen her body before her father's Christmas gift. She also took down any photos on her Facebook page from before her sophomore year, said the two former friends.
Scott Sexton, the metro columnist for the Winston-Salem Journal, interviewed Kirsch's high school friends who described a troubled young woman with a penchant for lying and for sticky fingers.
[Tinkling overlay of Vanessa Carlton's "A Thousand Miles"]
Tony Romo sits in front of a vanity mirror in a room dimly lit by candles. He's wearing an elf's hat. He smiles faintly but with determination. His mind seems distant. He turns to a small TV to his right, sees Peter King reporting from Minnesota. Suddenly wistful, his smile fades to nothing.
Behind Romo, a closet door silently glides open.
"But how, you were -- "
King reveals a small jewelry box, sweeping it over Romo's shoulders to his face. He opens it slowly.
"It's for your cock," King whispers sweetly.
It starts off with a breathtaking shot of Gotham City in broad daylight. The camera swoops into this big glass skyscraper the way only an IMAX movie can. It was stunning. Then BOOM! One of the windows in this big glass skyscraper is blown out. It then cut to two thugs in ugly clown masks (the ones we saw in the first publicity stills that were released months ago) shooting a zip line down to an adjacent rooftop.
Cut to the street as we see another thug waiting on a street corner with his clown mask in his hand. We’re looking at him from behind and can’t see his face. A van pulls up and the thug puts on his mask and jumps in to join the rest of the clowns. The clown who’s driving is bitching about how this Joker guy who planned the heist didn’t even bother to show up and questions why they should cut him in on any of the loot. There’s an awesome line from one of the clowns about The Joker and how he wears make-up as “war paint” to scare the crap out of people. Very cool stuff.
The two clowns in the skyscraper dramatically swing down to the rooftop while the clowns in the van enter the bank guns a blazing.
One of the rooftop clowns disables the silent alarm and comments that the alarm isn’t going to the cops. Once the alarm is halted, his partner shoots him dead.
Comic books exploded when Bill and myself were about ten years old. They'd always been popular and we'd always collected and enjoyed them, but a surge of popularity brought out collectors and special editions and all the shit we've learned to deal with from breakfast cereals and television punditry. Kids were replaced by old men with backing boards, and eventually the kids and the old men became one, and 9 out of 10 kids you met collected comics for the money they'd never see and gave you the most turd-burgling stink-eye if you took the literally, figuratively, and creatively worthless SPIRITS OF VENGEANCE out of its polybag. It was a grand and miserable time for all involved, and as a result now Spider-Man wears flying armor and the good writers we lost, guys like Alan Moore, are busy writing graphic novels about how Snow White loves fucking the Seven Dwarves in a metaphorical Future Paris or whatever.
You don't need to know about this. Comics were once for kids and now they're for the adults who loved them as kids but suddenly became adults with no upward motivation. Talented people did and still work on comics and as immature and goofy as any hobby can be, they should be respected and admired for their work. We don't hate comics. I'm a little more bitter about the loss of innocence than Bill, but we both don't appreciate Garth Ennis having Superman demand blowjobs in a comic and expecting people to call him a genius.