I Like Things That Are Great
The soccer game was a particularly joyous occasion today, since Toronto F.C. didn't just score their first goal, they also notched their first win in franchise history. While this is good news for the team, it's bad news for fans with creative chants. I laughed out loud at a chant early in Saturday's contest --- a surprisingly large group of fans started singing "All we are saying/Is give us a goal," to the tune of the John Lennon song. It was pretty clever. Next up, a citation of every man on the TFC roster to the tune of We Didn't Start The Fire.
If you're looking for a band name, you could do a lot worse than a two-word name with 'fight' as the second word. The possibilities are endless. Clown Fight. Duck Fight. Hamburger Fight. Ant Fight. Almost any noun can be used as the first word and it still sounds cool.
I've never asked her this, but it's a pretty solid bet that my friend Paige (originator of the 'Paige Six' blog that can be found on my blogroll) has been propositioned at one time or another with a phrase along the lines of, "Hey Paige Six, how about some Paige sex?"
I'm getting wider. Normally my weight gain has been limited to my gut and ass, but now I think that my bone structure is somehow morphing from a circle into a gradually expanding rhombus. Perhaps the Plastic Man picture on this blog is more accurate than I had thought. On the bright side, I may now be able to pull off the nickname of the Wall. What's more wide and solid than a wall? Nothing, that's what. It even rhymes --- I can call the blog, "Wolivision."
I was in Markham last night eating and bowling with my friend Joanne and her boyfriend. The evening got off to a late start after Joanne and I missed our turn off of Highway Seven and ended up driving through pretty much all of Markham before realizing our mistake. Despite my first name, I'd never actually been to Markham before. What a perfect place to indulge in narcissism. "Where do you live, Mark? "Oh, I live in Markham. Near the Markville Mall. On Mark Street. In Mark Manor. With my roommate, Marky Mark Wahlberg." Ooh wait, forget that Wall nickname. If I got wider, people would just call me Mark Wall-berg instead. Dammit. That's a bad vibration.
By the way, is Markham made up of one big shopping plaza, or just a thousand mini-plazas? It was hard to tell. Do people actually live there, or just shop there? Or is it a society entirely based on commerce, like the Ferengi in Star Trek?
Fighting through Toronto's traffic only to drive onto the Don Valley Parkway is like being punched in the face continually for a half-hour, and then suddenly getting a ten-minute back massage from Yunjin Kim. I love the DVP. I legitimately think it's the most scenic part of the city. The rolling hills, the artistically-arranged concrete overpasses, the glorious wide lanes. It makes me feel like I'm in Los Angeles.
I haven't forgotten about you, Lakeshore Boulevard! You're also awesome. I'm happy that my house is relatively near the intersection of Lakeshore and the DVP. It's like sharing a manger next to Jesus.
The announcers for the Professional Poker Tour sound exactly alike. It makes for an unsettling broadcast. It's like listening to Vin Scully call a Dodgers game by himself, but if Vin had schizophrenia. Vin should do this for a game, just for the hell of it. They're not going to fire him.
If I worked for Tostitos, I would totally sponsor the PPT or other professional poker tournaments. Whenever I watch poker, I get an unbearable urge to eat chips. Think about it -- every other sentence on one of those shows is, "He's reaching for chips," "He's put half his chips into the pot," "Chris just added 50,000 chips to his stack." It's subliminal advertising at its most insidious. By the end of the show, I'd walk over my own mother for a bag of chips (p.s. happy mother's day, Mom! I just admitted I'd sell you out for snack food!) This kind of viral marketing doesn't work for other sports. You'll never see the Transylvania tourism board sponsoring a baseball game. Or a summer theatre production of a Midsummer Night's Dream sponsoring a hockey game. In the latter case, the summer theatre group probably has a better promotional system than the NHL does anyway.
Not to brag or anything, but remember last year when I noted that the Blue Jays were 42-24 when I was in the press box for their games and 41-50 when I wasn't? Just look at this season. The Curse of the Polibino has spread to not just the team's record, but their general health and well-being. Back injuries, arm injuries, appendicitis --- all that's missing is a player to miss a game with scurvy. And, it should be noted, Toronto's record this season with me in attendance; 1-0. Without me: 14-21. I'm just saying. J.P. Ricciardi, if you're reading this (and I can pretty much guarantee you're not), you're a stat guy. You find stats that other teams overlook in order to sign players, ala the Moneyball philosophy. These win shares cannot be ignored. And I can be had for less than a quarter of what you're paying Victor Zambrano.
THE ATOMIC BLONDE -- My review
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