Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

Our favorite whimsical medical comedy may be migrating networks! Next fall, it looks like ABC, owned by Disney, which also owns the Buena Vista-produced show, is picking up the steady survivor for its penultimate episode arcs.

While this news isn’t totally surprising, it is fairly bizarre. NBC, which is on the upswing, was committed to the show for six-plus years and is reluctant to air the final 18 episodes next season? Seems weird. But, you know, this definitely mitigates the increased scrutiny of a certain ABC behemoth show which clearly harvested its entire premise(s) from Sacred Heart’s wacky residents.

In our corner, we’re simply relieved that our favorite show will finish out its run (We’re also hoping the series will wrap before Zach Braff ages in dog years any further…) and we’ll see some of our best friends off in style. So six-ish episodes or so begin in April, and it will be just like seeing an old friend…

The Oscars? So totally yesterday. Sean Salisbury canned? So totally five seconds ago. Nope, here at Mister Faded Glory, we’re working up to a big finish to the year in college basketball – finally ready to cast aside the bonds of winter, The Wire, and numerous other responsibilities before immersing ourselves in hoops. Which is fairly sad, because back when we starred at basketball in high school, we got excited about Bracketology in freaking October. But what can you do.

But before our annual likes-and-dislikes tournament stock watch, we’re dabbling in pro basketball. Because, you know, according to large corporate behemoth Web entities scarfing up the best NBA minds, the league is back! (What are we supposed to do? Talk Spring Training? Tell you that Diablo Cody went to Iowa?) It’s back, and largely because of a litany of one-sided trades that supposedly stacked each conference. So we’re told. Anyway, here’s our quick judgments to each trade, in chronological order, nearly too late to be worthwhile.

• Pau Gasol to the Lakers for a handshake. At first I thought Jerry West was working undercover for the Lakers during his stint as GM of Les Griz. Instead, I learned he’s gone (Who knew?) and it’s the former Celtics GM – Chris “Vin Baker at any price” Wallace running the show. (Yes, I learned this from Simmons. Shut up.) For the Lakers, this was a great trade. Fantastic. Not many teams are able to rebuild this quickly and this effectively. For the Grizzlies – seriously, how does Javaris Crittenton help a squad with Mike Conley and Kyle Lowry? (Also of note. I’m a big fan of Hakim Warrick and Rudy Gay. So trade them, Chris!)

• Shaquille O’Neal to the Suns for Shawn Marion et. al. The zeitgeist on this one was astounding. At first the reaction ranged from: WTF are the Suns doing?! into the lukewarm endorsements of You know, Marion was a jerk and Shaq can be rejuvenated, and this could work. Shaq is a 36-year-old big man about ready to fall down a well, blah, blah, Marion is a 29-year-old malcontent, blah blah. Well, I’m still in the first camp. I think this was stupid and reactionary, and I think the Suns took a backseat to the Lakers with this very trade. Marion was the lone Sun with any hope of offering some sort of defensive presence, and I can’t rationalize trading away your best player (There, I said it) and only defensive player for someone who’s washed up. Call me crazy. If they missed Kurt Thomas that badly (like everyone said), he was available. (Shipped to the Spurs for a pick.) And that was the team a suspension away from going to the finals. Now, they’re much more than a suspension away.

• Jason Kidd to the Mavericks for anything not nailed down. I don’t get this one, I really don’t. Sure, Kidd is OK, sure, he can kind of help, and sure, the Mavericks look shellshocked after their haunting finals loss in 2006 and upset to the Warriors in 2007. But honestly, they just got older, just got worse defensively, and maybe tacked a win or two onto a team destined to finish sixth in conference. And shelled out a boatload of picks, and traded away promising Devin Harris, and couldn’t unload the contracts they were trying to jettison in the first place. I understand the need to win-now with a current roster, but they’re not all that old, and, well, they’re not going to win now. Secondly, at what point is Avery Johnson accountable for this mess? Maybe I’m alone here, but virtually no media criticize a coach who was figuratively depantsed in his last two playoff series and now apparently can’t motivate a talent-laden roster to win during the regular season. Not saying he’s the problem, or the lack of solution, but he doesn’t deserve the free pass.

• Mike Bibby to the Hawks. I like this move. Atlanta didn’t give up much, and they’re inching closer to relevance with some fairly good players. I’ve always liked Bibby as a player, he’s got ice water in his veins and can play the passing point if he has to, but also can score. If only the Hawks hadn’t selected Marvin Williams that one year. Over Chris Paul, no less. Woof.

• Lebron gets a whole new team. Sure, they may have landed the best players in this deal – but the deal was chock full of crappy players. I guess Larry Hughes‘ exodus is addition by subtraction, but quite honestly, who knows? And I can’t quite bring myself to care.

Quick day today, we’re almost out the door for the weekend. However, you’ve no doubt read my personal hand-wringing over the versimilitude of The Wire’s questions and themes during the final season, which wraps up on March 9 (March 3 for us on-demanders).

Occasionally Newsweek does some solid work, such as dispatching a critical and well-versed fan of The Wire to interview executive producer David Simon. (Newsweek’s corporate partner Slate, for example, dispatches snooty journalists to decry all seasons of the show. Seems to me a real journalist supremely defensive of the medium wouldn’t be writing for an elitist maxi-blog. Zing! Also, that’s me, the pot.)

Simon offers an extreme amount of insight into the final season, and delivers several accurate defenses of his season five themes. Simon’s copy typically reads like a bitter, jaded professor, but he allows vital insight into the careful crafting of the penultimate season, and nicely hints at the coalescence of all his narrative themes.

We can’t print spoilers, but suffice it to say a line at the end of Episode Eight neatly sums up everything about all five seasons. In two more weeks, it will be over, and like a book you can’t wait to finish, can’t bear to put down, and spend full nights immersing yourself, we’ll feel powerfully exhausted, deeply saddened, and somewhat vacant when it’s gone.

We’re brimming with positivity today, about to craft the most gushing post you’ve seen at Mister Faded Glory since, well, ever. But you see, 2007 was practically a banner year for cinema, and we can’t help but be satisfied as we unfurl our own red carpet, recounting our laundry list of favorite films. Though we lamented a lackluster summer, we had an arduous time fashioning our top ten list, which is fairly unheard of. You see, we hate nearly everything. But 2007 was so deep, plenty of solid films not making the cut here – Rescue Dawn, Ratatouille, Into the Wild - would have rocketed near the pinnacle of previous years.

For example, only a few memorable films populate recent years. Consider a forgettable 2006 (United 93, Little Miss Sunshine, The Departed, The Prestige), a solid 2005 (Batman Begins, The Squid and the Whale, Capote, The Weather Man), an apparent year of whimsy: 2004 (Sideways, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Anchorman, In Good Company) and a top-heavy 2003 (Lost In Translation, Mystic River, The Station Agent, Open Water). It was a struggle to include four memorable films from each of the last four years, especially 2006. I almost included Just Friends on this list, just because I was pleasantly surprised. Just Friends!

At any rate, it was a great year to take in a bevy of memorable, thoughtful, entertaining movies. We’re not the only ones beaming – films nominated for the Academy Awards are mostly worthy, unlike previously awful winners like 2005′s Crash, 2004′s Million Dollar Baby, Lord of the Whatever. In fact, even though a certain snubbed musical artist won’t be performing, the Oscars are actually worth watching again. Odds are, we’ll see a fair flick win the prize on Sunday. And since you didn’t ask, here’s our movie recap of 2007, including the year’s top nine movies – I’ve reserved a spot for There Will Be Blood, which I haven’t yet seen. Though P.T. Anderson has disappointed me before (critical darling Punch-Drunk Love may be, in fact, the worst movie of all time), I’m certain Blood will find an eventual home in our top ten.

• Worst movie of the year: 300. I pity you if you joined the critical, cultish groundswell enamored of this dopey, glorified cartoon. How Frank Miller (The Dark Knight Returns) can claim this hokey mess, I’ll never know.

• Solid if unspectacular: Juno/Knocked Up (Apparently movies showing the snarkier side of pregnancy were “in” during 2007. This bodes well for us someday – wait, Ms. Faded Glory, you’re white as a sheet!), The Simpsons, The Savages, Into the Wild and Reign Over Me (Yes, once again I was totally duped into seeing two lackluster movies solely because of Eddie Vedder/Pearl Jam‘s involvement. Not bad like Big Fish, but you get the idea. On the plus side, I managed to avoid I’m Not There.).

• Actually, you know, pretty good: A Mighty Heart, The Bourne Ultimatum, Eastern Promises, Ratatouille, Rescue Dawn, Transformers (!)

• Missed: Superbad (skeptical), The Diving Bell & Butterfly (title already bores me), Atonement (from the Roger Clemens of fiction), Hot Rod (are you kidding?), Sweeney Todd (Please.), all those trilogies like Spider-Man 3, Pirates 3, Ocean’s 13, etc.

• On my to-do list: Blood, The King of Kong, Sicko, Jesse James and the interminable title.

And, with zero further ado:

9. Zodiac. I’m a sucker for any David Fincher stuff (The Game is in my film Pantheon) and this measured, intense, cerebral investigative drama was very good, if a little long. Released two months earlier, it would have been your Best Picture of 2006.

8. Live Free or Die Hard. Shut up, you saw this coming. Flawed, but fantastic. Yippee Ki-Yay, mother[EDIT].

7. Breach. Suspenseful and engaging fact-based political thriller featuring Chris Cooper but also starring Ryan Phillippe, for crying out loud. Yes, read it again if you don’t believe me.

6. Chinatown. What?! I finally got around to seeing Chinatown, the father of film noir as we know it, and it’s great! Oh, quit complaining. Just tack Eastern Promises on the end of this list and stop grumbling.

5. Paris, Je T’Aime. Surprisingly bewitching compilation of short films, each based in a separate Paris arrondissement. The Coen Brothers‘ dark subway comedy Tuilieries is hilarious, Alexander Payne‘s solitary tourist tale 14e is inspiring, Isabel Coiset‘s Bastille is poignant, and Oliver Schmitz‘ Place des fêtes is heartwrenching. An outstanding compilation, and a perfect, fractured window into a fascinating city.

Now for the really good stuff. I’ve ranked these, but enjoyed all of them immensely and almost equally. And I’m aware I’m being more positive in this post than, well, ever.

4. Michael Clayton. Smarter-than-usual legal thriller bolstered by Tilda Swinton and George Clooney. Clooney‘s weary, desperate, haunted lawyer/fixer/demon is a career performance. A swift piece featuring shades almost entirely of gray and extremely well done.

3. 3:10 to Yuma. Is it a retelling? An action movie? A western? Who cares. Yuma is a strong, insightful adventure brimming with drama and conflict bubbling between intense Russell Crowe and Christian Bale performances. As kids, Tombstone was our rewatchable, instant-classic, badass western. This is better.

2. Gone Baby Gone. My most surprising movie of the year (I probably expected less because of its stupid title) yet gripping, detailed and excellent. Echoes Mystic River because of the writer, style and setting, but a seismic mystery drama featuring a career performance by Casey Affleck and pained stalwarts Ed Harris and Morgan Freeman. Bonus points for two crucial character-actors from The Wire – Oscar-nominated Amy Ryan (Beadie) and Michael K. Williams (Omar!). Gone Baby Gone‘s drama drips with questions, struggling characters, and an unyielding moral dilemma you’ll remember long after walking out of the theatre.

1. No Country For Old Men. As you know, I’ve never been a Coen Brothers fan (Yes, I detest The Big Lebowski and Raising Arizona. No, I don’t care what you think). Where some see genius  I’m simply exasperated, annoyed, or indifferent by films typically trying too hard to be different. No Country, however, is their instant opus. It’s enthralling, deep, invigorating, and sublime – and despite what you’ve heard, the ending is genius. Each character sparkles with ambiguity and authenticity, and deserves more than a simple blurb. The three principals are outstanding – Josh Brolin‘s cocksure, earnest confidence, Tommy Lee Jones‘ skeptical, weathered resolve, and Javier Bardem‘s – well, just see the movie. A memorable lack of theme music lends legitimacy, urgency, and fear to No Country‘s backdrop, and the Coens harvest West Texas accents as well as they do Minnesotan, New Yorker, Deep Southern and Bluegrass. A fantastic effort, and considering Paris, Je T’Aime, the Coens had a pretty darn good year. And then they woke up.

“I don’t think I’ll go back next year. Getting too commercial. Supposed to be about the grammar.” – Bart Simpson.

Bear in mind, I’m only a former copy editor, not a linguist or stylebook professional. But I’m still an amateur stickler for grammar, callously correcting friends when they misplace “well” with “good” or “sit” with “set.” Now that I think about it, I’m probably somewhat of an irritant. Sports discourse, however, often prompts ridiculously mangled colloquialisms and earworms that perhaps morph into homicidal justifications. I’m certain I’m not alone in my annoyances. For instance:

1. I sure hope this post can get untracked. I always wonder about this phantom word – it started showing up years ago, I can’t really remember where, only that hearing announcers or talking heads use this euphemism, as in “Hillary Clinton’s campaign needs to get untracked,” or “Nick Anderson has missed four straight free throws and needs to get untracked.” SI’s cranky Dr. Z agrees with me in his seminal announcer ratings, and now, it seems as though the screeching “untracked,” has fully displaced the presumably correct “on track,” The phenomenon has also fully extended to print, fairly often. My reaction is always the same: “Seriously, that’s a word?” We wouldn’t describe a capsized train off its rails as “untracked. “(Uh, we also wouldn’t describe it as capsized.) I assume the usage of “untracked” started as announcers endeavored to sound intelligent, assuming a longer word indicates more smarts than a short phrase. They’re wrong.
2. Here’s a guy who’s aware of the irony of pointing out linguistic failings caused by lengthening sentences but presses on. A favorite new drinking game of mine during any sports event or radio show involves a hearty sip each time an announcer describes a player or athlete with the preface: “Here’s a guy who…” The topic could turn to the Joker, for example: “Here’s a guy who murders thousands of innocents on his whims, and here’s a guy with the audacity to leave a chemical smirk on each grinning face.” That sentence could be 6 words shorter and a hundred times less irritating. Here’s a guy who began hammering into our skulls the most grating preface ever foisted upon the sportscasting medium, with us, the listeners, as victims. Thank you, Paul McGuire. (Bam!)
3. My final, most recent head-scratcher is “crop up.” Often used to describe new, sudden challenges or new obstacles ahead, this phrase appears to be a misused derivative. Ergo, “Mark Prior is feeling great, but his elbow problems could crop up again.” Cropping is a practice used by page designers and photoshop savants, at one time it was actually done physically. Crops also are plants that yield food or goods. In my estimation, somewhere along the line “crop up,” was substituted for “pop up” and the rest is history. But why? Who started this? Is it just hundreds of coincidental speech ticks? Perhaps by an editor suffering a brain cramp during a weekend TV news cycle interview. Perhaps simply exacerbated by sports announcers assuming “pop up” is too generic. (Or naughty, we suppose.) But I can’t confirm this, I mean, not without researching (scoff!). What do you think?

You know how we feel about Tony Kornheiser. You know how we feel about NASCAR (Respective: Love, Hate.) That said, we can’t understand ESPN’s refusal to end the Tony Kornheiser MNF experiment, especially when ABC kept Dennis Miller around for only two years. Miller actually tried to understand football and offer a minimal amount of depth.Tony, however, scarcely deviates from two or three stars or generic Worldwide-Leader-sanctioned talking-point trends handed to him by dunderheaded production editors, simplifying the game too much for its audience. (Favorite crank Dr. Z also has lashed into production editors and MNF, and the ESPN Ombudsperson also disdains the trend).

On Tony’s radio show this very morning, however, Mr. Kornheiser opened with a riff on NASCAR, which he doesn’t care for or understand, etc. (we buy that ,we feel the same way). Kornheiser, in his infinite TV wisdom, however, also decried Fox’ “goober” announcing team, after both members whooped it up or embraced southern Nascar culture, or apparently sounded like hayseeds. He assumed this signified a Fox trend antithetical to ESPN’s Nascar marketing – that is, instead of trying to cross the sport over, courting casual fans or the bourgeoisie, Fox instead was cultivating NASCAR’s base audience, instead assembling a solid telecast for real fans.

Tony further opined that this marketing practice may not cast a wide net, but it also doesn’t sabotage the current fan base’s goodwill. He has a familiar point, see above. He also described NASCAR’s current level in the zeitgeist, asserting the sport already has reached its greatest popularity and returning to its current cluster of diehards was an effective way to sell the product.

If you package your product well, for example – even “real enough” for the true fans, people will come. Each sport’s popularity reaches a layperson saturation point among its outlying base. The resulting correction is for media coverage and sports governance returning to the sport’s niche – and this may mean “goobers” for NASCAR, stat geeks for baseball, wingnuts for hockey, you know. Tony stopped short of calling Fox’s apparent strategy to abandon the layfan genius, but he seemed to assent. Maybe he’s right.
So our question: Tony, when is your meeting with the Monday night bosses?

Does today, you know, the supposedly-sacred “pitchers and catchers report” spring-training day denote the shift from all that’s wrong with sports into all that’s correct, decent and pure?

I know, I know, you’re gagging along with me, but consider it for just a minute.

The cheating, or allegations, or murky denials and shifting of accountability – we’re completely awash in it. For example, after yesterday’s fallout from the manufactured drama of the he said-mac said Roger Clemens hearings, most of us are pretty much exhausted with Clemens‘ repeated efforts to cast anyone within his circle in front of the firing squad – Andy Pettitte, Andy Pettitte‘s wife, Clemens‘ nanny, Clemens‘ wife, his lawyers, agents, major league baseball, and whoever. The message? Never Clemens’ fault. Nothing. (Competing journalists Verducci and Bryant both have compelling summations of the saga.) The truth is, I doubt the DOJ is going to be able to complete a nebulous perjury charge just because of the stringent and difficult burden of proof with any perjury charge. Clemens’ camp knows this. They had to have known it, all along, and thus began the circus.

Still, however, the lack of a smoking gun or the lack of a case-closed prosecution doesn’t exonerate Clemens. Sure, McNamee chose a bad career path and is now coming clean in the face of plenty of distrust and allegations, but pointing at McNamee’s demeanor or past as something significant doesn’t damn his testimony. So he rolled on his bigger fish boss – we rely on this stuff in a courtroom all the time. Rarely, however, do we have the corroborating evidence of (1) the Pettitte family’s testimony, (2) the Knoblauch family testimony, (3) Medical records of Clemens akin to steroid use, (4) impending confirmation of DNA, and not to mention (5) unholy baseball statistics. His story has legs, no matter if he’s a drug-dealer (Grandstanding words, not mine) or not.At the end of the exercise, it was scarcely more than a rough day on Clemens and an annoying day for all of us glued to sports coverage. For anyone to assume we’d have a final verdict or answer would have been fallacious, and we knew this, but we all still watched.. Hopefully there’s enough circumstantial evidence and arrogant actions to allow BBWAA members to forbid Clemens from entering the Hall. But we suspect not. (We are surprised, however, that faced with a pressure-packed situation rivaling Clemens‘ playoff or World Series starts in the 1986, 2004 and 2005 playoffs, that the bloated gasbag didn’t fake an injury. It would have been perfectly characteristic for a phantom Clemens injury to suddenly pop up, and the All-Star walk out of the room, assuming he’d escape blame, scorn, or accountability once again.)

We’ve never made a secret of our disdain of Kelvin Sampson, gleefully picking against him in almost all tournament matchups he’s faced at Wazzu, Oklahoma, and now Indiana. Sure, he has some deep runs, but conversely, we’ve had a happy upset or two pay off in the past – including an Elite Eight pounding at the hands of our chosen favorites. (Someone diagram a 2-3 zone for Kelvin!) Now, Sampson has put his current university at a crossroads, and let me allow Dan Shanoff to elaborate:

Sampson doesn’t just cheat; he cheats while on probation for cheating… then cheats his employer when they inquire about his cheating while on probation for cheating.

Anyway, who would ever have guessed that Indiana might once again be yearning for Steve Alford.

Yeah, the Bill Belichick and Arlen Specter and Matt Walsh thing. Much as I’d like to see Belichick disciplined by the league or the Patriots get even more of what’s coming to them, I’m afraid everyone involved in this whole Pats-cheating debacle is blowing more smoke than creating fire. Probably some truth to all of it, probably more egotism, probably more grandstanding. Such is the trend, it seems.

Finally, we can’t let another fantastic ESPN Ombudsperson report pass without calling attention to it. She’s fantastic, and once again hit on the crux of the extreme problem with football announcing – especially in Monday Night Football. It’s the producers – and not just ESPN’s, but the entire industry’s.

You see, football is still a relatively new sport. Compared to its peers baseball and basketball, it’s changed a lot over the past century, and its context has changed the most. However – Monday Night Football is no longer a quick burst of sports to the uninitiated – rather, it’s an extension of an entire lifestyle. Networks, however, still treat MNF and other marquee broadcasts with kid gloves – as though they have to cater to an unlearned or obtuse audience, many tuning in for their first football game. And this isn’t the case.

Football has been in people’s lexicon or worlds now for nearly as long as baseball, it’s been a Pop Warner league and high school and Sunday afternoon ritual for millions of families, spectators and participants. And it doesn’t need to be explained to an audience as though they don’t understand the concept of the forward pass. It also doesn’t need to be dressed up with a pop culture rundown, or ridiculous storylines that are solely filler during the week, and distractions to bored corporate workers at best. The game will suffice, called crisply, accurately, and with an occasional bit of whimsy. With sports coverage, I’ve always been of the mind that if you go cerebral, the audience will follow. For NFL coverage producers, however, they usually assume the converse.  The Ombudsperson, to her credit, hits right on this. NFL producers are cheating us, the viewers.

Anyway, like we said, pitchers and catchers report. And on a final note, thanks to TV Barn‘s Aaron Barnhart for linking to our latest War on Slate chapter (and tending to agree) in the TV News Ticker. We appreciate it – and hopefully any visitors here directly from his news feed won’t be turned off by impending and blistering Cubs coverage coming up in the coming days (We kid, we kid). Those trends again. We guess.

“But I bought into it. I bought into it, big time. I’m part of the problem. (smack).” Nick Nolte as Head Coach Pete Bell, Blue Chips*

I’ll admit it, I fell right into their trap. You remember my mea culpa, right? (Actually, it’s the last thing I wrote. Eep.) Well, it stands. But after earnest soul-searching, I’ve discovered the cause of my mistake.

I’ve totally been Slate-d!

I fell right into their trap, and as a holier-than-thou, fully elitist snob, I began an inquisition into the folly of The Wire’s Season Five bend, specifically its Baltimore Sun story arc, pointing out even the most minimal flaw.

Now, after episode 6 and 7, it’s plainly clear that The Wire isn’t fully epitomatic of the exact minutiae of all the institutions it covers. Instead, it relies on story – and remarkably so on symmetry, themes, character duplicity, archetypes, stereotypes, and conflict. Duly noted – it’s not an expose, it’s a novel, or a TV show. And, if you consider it one of the greats (as we do), then it’s best to enjoy it instead of nitpicking each intricacy. It’s impossible to fully appreciate or even accurately review a show while looking down your nose squarely at readers. But that’s become Slate’s critique of The Wire. This is nothing new, however.

• Remember? Slate’s hard-hitting evisceration of Fletch? Not funny!
• How about their whine or opine about Mr. Obama’s presidential candidacy? He’ll fail!
• Scoffing at writers’ strike results? Not enough!
• Enjoy delicious chocolate? You’re gonna die!
• Seriously, dude. French wine – and french sommeliers – are so passe.
• Pfft. We knew the Patriots were bad. But you snark sharks are so worse.
• Did you hear Amy Winehouse was a trainwreck? You’re so uncouth! She’s a genius!
• Still using PC or Mac desktops? Sigh. Loser.

And of course, The Wire, debated ad nauseum, on a tete-a-tete beginning as a lively read and healthy discourse for fans who crave reaction to each and every episode and moment. However, in step with Slate’s consistent attempts to dramatically cast aside the shackles, trends, and zeitgest of all conventional wisdom, it’s turned into petty, bitter sniping about the show. Aaron Barnhart and Tim Goodman are critics of The Wire — these two ninnies from Slate appear increasingly aghast that neither was consulted for each plotline strand and character reaction. And well they should have been, they understand The Wire on so many more levels than us.

Read more

Well, a little bit anyway. When last we discussed the phenomenal The Wire, I attempted to deconstruct (or go totally meta) just because the media characters weren’t fleshed out with the seemingly proper amount of depth – at least to me. And I still think they’re a little absolute – Gus and his bosses, in particular, but, well, like, Marlo isn’t absolute? Freamon?

So I let myself get caught up in the swirl, but with episode five, I returned to earth, returned to permitting The Wire to take me where this layering, encircling novel sought to go – and it really crystallized in episode five, as some of the more fantastic elements started to weave back together before a promised crescendo at The Wire’s finale. There’s no reason to nitpick certain aspects of the characters when at no time does The Wire‘s universe operate so far outside of versimilitude that it merits abandonment. It ain’t 24, for crying out loud.And this all arrived home to me as I watched McNulty‘s (Dominic West) scene at the newspaper budget meeting. I’ll try not to spoil Read more

Well, normally I wouldn’t gloat, or smite, or twist the knife. But normally the powerhouse juggernaut losing a Super Bowl isn’t due for the karma slap-to-the-face that our New England Patriots finally received tonight – on the heels of weird, come-from-behind losses, the cheating and spygate stigma, affably cocky press conferences, running up scores, the stupid tradition of running onto the Super Bowl as one unit (Grrr), a ridiculously overbearing and cocky fan base, a ridiculously cocky publishing corps, and a deal with the devil that seemed destined never to run out.

And the lasting image of the Patriots’ failed perfect season will be that of Coach Bill Belichick slinking off the field with one second still remaining on the clock. I’m waiting for some member of the media to call him on this, but none probably will (Except MJD, however). How is it that every single coach at every other level of football knows they need to (1) remain on the field, and (2) shake hands, but this motherfucker can circumvent the rules, trot onto the field, and skate into the locker room with his disgusting garish shortsleeved red hoodie once told the game wasn’t over? The smug, condescending crybaby would have taken his ball and left if he could have. But we’ve seen this before – that’s Belichick. Lack of professionalism. Lack of respect. Lack of class. Were it not for his petulance, we’d instead remember this game as a legendary Super Bowl alongside 49ers-Bengals, Giants-Bills, Patriots-Panthers, and Rams-Titans. Well, good riddance to them. Good schadenfreude to us Colts fans, still smarting from our own choke.

You know what’s different between these 18-1 Patriots and the last two 18-1 teams? The 1985 Super Bowl-winning 49ers and the 1986 Super Bowl-winning Bears? People will remember those two teams. This final, upsetting failure couldn’t happen to a better group of guys. Good-bye, good riddance.

Finally, congrats to both teams on a great, enthralling Super Bowl. And congrats to the sports landscape – finally, this perfect season garbage is kaput. Good job, Giants. (Sigh of relief.)