 |
| Iron Man 3 5.3.13 |
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| 42 4.12.13 |
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| Star Trek Into Darkness 5.17.13 |
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| Man Of Steel 6.14.13 |
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| Pacific Rim 7.12.13 |
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| The Wolverine 7.26.13 |
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Kick-Ass 2 8.16.13
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Saturday, March 16, 2013
Let's All Go To The Movies 2013 Style
Friday, February 15, 2013
UNDISPUTED.
 |
| Michael Air Jordan. The Greatest of ALL Time. |
The Greatest turns 50. Wow. Father time remains undefeated but young Michael still lives on if only in our memories.
ESPN: MICHAEL has not left the building.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Did You See Jackie Robinson Hit that ball?
 |
| April 13, 2013 |
Did you see Jackie Robinson hit that ball?
It went zoomin cross the left field wall.
Yeah boy, yes, yes. Jackie hit that ball.
And when he swung his bat,
the crowd went wild,
because he knocked that ball a solid mile.
Yeah boy, yes, yes. Jackie hit that ball.
Satchel Paige is mellow,
so is Campanella,
Newcombe and Doby, too.
But it's a natural fact,
when Jackie comes to bat,
the other team is through.
Did you see Jackie Robinson hit that ball?
Did he hit it? Yeah, and that ain't all.
He stole home.
Yes, yes, Jackie's real gone.
Did you see Jackie Robinson hit that ball?
Did he hit it? Yeah, and that ain't all.
He stole home.
Yes, yes, Jackie's real gone.
Jackie's is a real gone guy.
By Woodrow Buddy Johnson & Count Basie (1949)
Sunday, February 3, 2013
AP is MVP AD!
To put a nice finish to what has to be one of the greatest days in Minnesota Vikings history Adrian Peterson wins both the MVP and Offensive Player of the Year Award! Combine this with Cris Carter getting his nod from the NFL Hall of Fame and ... well... this old Viking has a little " dust" in his eyes! Whatta day!!
At Last ....
 |
| CC Rider gets the call! |
Saturday, October 13, 2012
I stumbled across this article one beer fueled night. It truly is THE sports fans defining statement on being a die hard fan...or really any fans defining statement on being a fan of anyone you don't know... heart breakingly true. Justin Halpern, YOU are the man ....
Originally posted at Grantland
Your Favorite Team Doesn't Give a Damn About You
The writer of Sh*t My Dad Says on Exhibit A: The Chargers
By Justin Halpern on March 7, 2012
In the last 20 years, I have only missed seven Chargers games. I watch them every Sunday, and if the game is blacked out locally, I crowd around the radio like it's 1944 and I'm listening to FDR give a speech about the Nazis. Five years ago, when I was waiting tables and barely making rent, I spent three hundred and thirty dollars on an authentic LaDainian Tomlinson jersey. I did that partially because I needed to swap out my Steve Foley jersey after he was shot by the cops, but also because I wanted to show my support for the team I loved. And after this season there is a decent chance that the team I have spent thousands of hours — and way too many dollars — supporting will leave San Diego.
The Chargers have been in San Diego since 1961, and in that time they've established themselves as the Nicolas Cage of the NFL: Every 10 years they seem to pull it together and have a decent showing, but mostly they're just embarrassing to watch. But in the 1994-95 season, they made it all the way to the Super Bowl. Although my dad is from Kentucky, he is a Chargers fan. He moved to San Diego in 1971 and fell in love with the team. He won't wear a jersey, and the first time he saw me in mine he said, "I would never wear a goddamn jersey that belongs to a grown man. That's for children and the woman who is currently fucking that man." But he never misses a game, and follows the team as closely as I do.
For Chargers fans like us, that '94-95 Super Bowl run was a big one. I was 14 years old, and watching the Chargers was my favorite activity that didn't require a box of tissues. My dad and I watched every playoff game in our living room, he sitting in his worn-out brown recliner in a gray sweatsuit, me sporting my Junior Seau T-shirt jersey on our brown couch. For the Super Bowl, we kept the same routine, in hopes the outcome would also be the same. It wasn't. The San Francisco 49ers beat the hell out of the Chargers, 49-26. My father watched silently, and I tried to keep my reactions to screams and fist clenches, but early in the fourth quarter, when Steve Young tossed his record-setting sixth touchdown to a wide-open Jerry Rice, I leaped from my seat on the couch, ran up to a pillow that had fallen on the floor, and kicked it as hard as I could. The pillow ricocheted around the wooden walls of our small living room and landed on top of the mantle, where it knocked into my dad's prized possession: a 50-year-old ceramic jug of Kentucky bourbon that had been handed down to him by his father. My dad had been saving that bourbon for an unspecified special occasion. A few years before, a friend had asked him if he'd had a drink from the bourbon on the night I was born, to mark the birth of his child. "Didn't even think about it," he said. "People shit out babies every goddamn second. That bourbon was crafted with love and patience."
I watched in horror as that pillow knocked into the bottle, which started to wobble slowly toward the edge of the shelf, where it had sat for as long as I could remember. In what felt like slow-motion, I leaped over our coffee table toward the mantle, arms outstretched, but I was too late: It tumbled to the floor before my eyes, shattering into three large pieces, emptying all that precious brown liquid into our rug. In 20 seconds, it was as if it had never existed. I froze, then slowly turned around to look at my dad. The look on his face is a look I've since seen on many of my friends who are parents. A look that says, "I am having serious doubts about my decision to have children." Then, before I could find the words to apologize, he got up and walked out the front door without saying a word. From our living room I saw him walk up the street and disappear into the darkness.
Four hours later, at around 10:30 p.m., I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed when I heard the front door open. A moment later, he appeared at the bathroom door, beads of sweat on his forehead. "Dad, I'm really sorry about — "
"There is not a scale available with which I can accurately measure how much I want you to shut the fuck up right now, but trust me when I say it is in your best interests to do so," he said calmly.
"Okay."
"Okay. I understand you love the Chargers. You root for them; you want them to win. It kills you when they lose. But let me tell you a little story. Back when I was practicing medicine in Oklahoma, there was a doc in obstetrics who used to like to go to titty bars. And there was this particular titty bar not too far from the hospital where he'd go every chance he got. And this was Oklahoma, which ain't exactly the big leagues of titty bars. I shouldn't say that, that's rude. Anyhow, this doc, he got real sweet on one of the strippers there. And he started coming back from lunch and telling everybody how he was sure this girl was sweet on him too, and that she was telling him he was different than the other guys, and blahbitty fuckin' blah. This goes on for a few months. Then, on Valentine's Day, he shows up at the titty bar with a bunch of flowers to ask this stripper to be his girl or whatever. Guess what happened."
"She said no."
"No. He never even asked her, 'cause when he walked in she was grinding her ass on some guy's hard-on. He took a swing at this fella and got a beer bottle to the head, like an asshole. Which, for future reference, is the only way you can get a beer bottle to the head: like an asshole," he said.
"Wow. That sucks."
"Not really, because he was a stupid sonofabitch. What he failed to recognize — that any sane human being would — is that a stripper is always gonna be just nice enough to you to keep you coming back, but at the end of the day, she doesn't give a fuck about you. You're just a hard-on she rubs up on for money. That's her job. And guess what? That's the same goddamn way the San Diego Chargers and any other team feels about you. So the next time you want to get up and kick something, remember this: Your favorite team don't give a fuck about you, so why the hell should you let them ruin your day? Or, more important, destroy a sacred bottle of bourbon?"
I thought a moment. "What happened to that doctor?"
"He became the head of obstetrics. His name's Hal Ashland. Good guy." Today, the Chargers are threatening to move to another city if they don't get a new stadium. Fans in San Diego are calling radio shows and writing angry blog posts, saying that if the Chargers left they'd feel devastated and betrayed. And that behavior is no different than that of most sports fans around the country. Every time our favorite team does something selfish, for purely business reasons, we take it personally. Because we want to believe that they love us as much as we love them. But they don't. They just rub up against whoever has the most money. So if we choose to be Hal Ashland, let's stop getting surprised every time we get a beer bottle to the head.
Originally posted at Grantland
Your Favorite Team Doesn't Give a Damn About You
The writer of Sh*t My Dad Says on Exhibit A: The Chargers
By Justin Halpern on March 7, 2012
In the last 20 years, I have only missed seven Chargers games. I watch them every Sunday, and if the game is blacked out locally, I crowd around the radio like it's 1944 and I'm listening to FDR give a speech about the Nazis. Five years ago, when I was waiting tables and barely making rent, I spent three hundred and thirty dollars on an authentic LaDainian Tomlinson jersey. I did that partially because I needed to swap out my Steve Foley jersey after he was shot by the cops, but also because I wanted to show my support for the team I loved. And after this season there is a decent chance that the team I have spent thousands of hours — and way too many dollars — supporting will leave San Diego.
The Chargers have been in San Diego since 1961, and in that time they've established themselves as the Nicolas Cage of the NFL: Every 10 years they seem to pull it together and have a decent showing, but mostly they're just embarrassing to watch. But in the 1994-95 season, they made it all the way to the Super Bowl. Although my dad is from Kentucky, he is a Chargers fan. He moved to San Diego in 1971 and fell in love with the team. He won't wear a jersey, and the first time he saw me in mine he said, "I would never wear a goddamn jersey that belongs to a grown man. That's for children and the woman who is currently fucking that man." But he never misses a game, and follows the team as closely as I do.
For Chargers fans like us, that '94-95 Super Bowl run was a big one. I was 14 years old, and watching the Chargers was my favorite activity that didn't require a box of tissues. My dad and I watched every playoff game in our living room, he sitting in his worn-out brown recliner in a gray sweatsuit, me sporting my Junior Seau T-shirt jersey on our brown couch. For the Super Bowl, we kept the same routine, in hopes the outcome would also be the same. It wasn't. The San Francisco 49ers beat the hell out of the Chargers, 49-26. My father watched silently, and I tried to keep my reactions to screams and fist clenches, but early in the fourth quarter, when Steve Young tossed his record-setting sixth touchdown to a wide-open Jerry Rice, I leaped from my seat on the couch, ran up to a pillow that had fallen on the floor, and kicked it as hard as I could. The pillow ricocheted around the wooden walls of our small living room and landed on top of the mantle, where it knocked into my dad's prized possession: a 50-year-old ceramic jug of Kentucky bourbon that had been handed down to him by his father. My dad had been saving that bourbon for an unspecified special occasion. A few years before, a friend had asked him if he'd had a drink from the bourbon on the night I was born, to mark the birth of his child. "Didn't even think about it," he said. "People shit out babies every goddamn second. That bourbon was crafted with love and patience."
I watched in horror as that pillow knocked into the bottle, which started to wobble slowly toward the edge of the shelf, where it had sat for as long as I could remember. In what felt like slow-motion, I leaped over our coffee table toward the mantle, arms outstretched, but I was too late: It tumbled to the floor before my eyes, shattering into three large pieces, emptying all that precious brown liquid into our rug. In 20 seconds, it was as if it had never existed. I froze, then slowly turned around to look at my dad. The look on his face is a look I've since seen on many of my friends who are parents. A look that says, "I am having serious doubts about my decision to have children." Then, before I could find the words to apologize, he got up and walked out the front door without saying a word. From our living room I saw him walk up the street and disappear into the darkness.
Four hours later, at around 10:30 p.m., I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed when I heard the front door open. A moment later, he appeared at the bathroom door, beads of sweat on his forehead. "Dad, I'm really sorry about — "
"There is not a scale available with which I can accurately measure how much I want you to shut the fuck up right now, but trust me when I say it is in your best interests to do so," he said calmly.
"Okay."
"Okay. I understand you love the Chargers. You root for them; you want them to win. It kills you when they lose. But let me tell you a little story. Back when I was practicing medicine in Oklahoma, there was a doc in obstetrics who used to like to go to titty bars. And there was this particular titty bar not too far from the hospital where he'd go every chance he got. And this was Oklahoma, which ain't exactly the big leagues of titty bars. I shouldn't say that, that's rude. Anyhow, this doc, he got real sweet on one of the strippers there. And he started coming back from lunch and telling everybody how he was sure this girl was sweet on him too, and that she was telling him he was different than the other guys, and blahbitty fuckin' blah. This goes on for a few months. Then, on Valentine's Day, he shows up at the titty bar with a bunch of flowers to ask this stripper to be his girl or whatever. Guess what happened."
"She said no."
"No. He never even asked her, 'cause when he walked in she was grinding her ass on some guy's hard-on. He took a swing at this fella and got a beer bottle to the head, like an asshole. Which, for future reference, is the only way you can get a beer bottle to the head: like an asshole," he said.
"Wow. That sucks."
"Not really, because he was a stupid sonofabitch. What he failed to recognize — that any sane human being would — is that a stripper is always gonna be just nice enough to you to keep you coming back, but at the end of the day, she doesn't give a fuck about you. You're just a hard-on she rubs up on for money. That's her job. And guess what? That's the same goddamn way the San Diego Chargers and any other team feels about you. So the next time you want to get up and kick something, remember this: Your favorite team don't give a fuck about you, so why the hell should you let them ruin your day? Or, more important, destroy a sacred bottle of bourbon?"
I thought a moment. "What happened to that doctor?"
"He became the head of obstetrics. His name's Hal Ashland. Good guy." Today, the Chargers are threatening to move to another city if they don't get a new stadium. Fans in San Diego are calling radio shows and writing angry blog posts, saying that if the Chargers left they'd feel devastated and betrayed. And that behavior is no different than that of most sports fans around the country. Every time our favorite team does something selfish, for purely business reasons, we take it personally. Because we want to believe that they love us as much as we love them. But they don't. They just rub up against whoever has the most money. So if we choose to be Hal Ashland, let's stop getting surprised every time we get a beer bottle to the head.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The Return.
If I have to tell you who D'Angelo is you may be on the wrong blog. Anyway, Hell may be freezing over with reports of him touring and possibly, just maybe, sorta kinda, planning on releasing a NEW album THIS YEAR! Please Sir...may I have another!
GQ Interview.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
The Bear Necessities.
Like my old man used to say" sometimes you get the Bear and then some times he gets you...then again some times you kick the bears fucking ass".
I miss my dad.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
"Let's All Go To The Movies"
2011 has decided to kick your ass. Good luck and God Speed!
Battle:Los Angeles 3/11/11
Sucker Punch - 3/25/11
Scream 4 - 4/15/11
Fast Five - 4/29/11
Thor - 5/6/11
Hangover 2 - 5/26/11
X-men: First Class 6/3/11
Green Lantern - 6/17/11
Transformers: Dark of the Moon - 7/1/11
Captain America: The First Avenger - 7/22/11
Cowboys and Aliens - 7/29/11
The Thing 10/14/11
Mission:Impossible - Ghost Protocol 12/16/11
Monday, December 27, 2010
Teena Marie: Lover Girl Gone at 54
Wow. Just Wow. The Voice. Rest in piece Lady T. You will be sorely missed. Michael Jackson, Luther Vandross, Isaac Hayes, and Teena Marie are adding one heckuva a great sound to the almighty's background band right about now. We love ya!Entertainment Weekly
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Me, Woo, and the Red Cliff
Those that know the Doughy know how I feel about Asian Cinema in general and John Woo in particular; at their best both are mandatory experiences! For many of us, a Hong Kong based John Woo film is the gold standard. Films such as "Bullet in the Head"," The Killer", "Hard Boiled", and "A Better Tomorrow" gave Western audiences a glimpse into the Eastern film making sensibilities of a true maverick. Woo , at his best is as much of a genre defining director as Sam Pekinpah or Sergio Leone; that's praise I don't give out easily!
For many of us Woo's attempts to translate his artistry to the American audience in a Hollywood environment have come up short. Sure he's had his moments ( Face/Off was superb) but for the most part Woo just wasn't for lack of a better word "Woo" enough anymore.
I'm happy to say that's all changed with his triumphant return to Asian cinema with 2008's amazing "Red Cliff".
To say Woo's 2 part epic is outstanding just doesn't cover it. It's truly a visual feast for the eyes that brings a smile to any long time fans eyes. Imagine taking the epic battles Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings Trilogy, the visual flair of Yimou Zhang's Hero, and mix with action sequences that made Woo for a time one of the most imitated directors in the field; if you can conceive of this blend you can get an idea of how amazing "Red Cliff" truly is.
Plenty of other sites can give you a plot synopsis and historical notes far more in depth than I can ( or want to) but I tell you this: If you have any interest in seeing a epic visual spectacle that does not rely on 3d gimmicks, boring seen it all before cgi, and regurgitated baby face action stars, than this film is for you.
One important note: be sure to see this film in the unedited 2 part international version. From my understanding the original version is chopped down to a bite sized Western version running time of 148 minutes from the intended 280 minute time. Various character building moments are removed and therefore MUCH of the emotional impact of the film is sacrificed. Sadly, this happens more often than not when opting to see the Western version of many Eastern films. Damn Shame.
Official Red Cliff Site
Wikipedia Red Cliff Article
Collider Red Cliff Film/ Blu Ray Review.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
That's more like it Mr Stark.
Well with a blockbuster opening both domestically and at the foreign box office it's safe to say the world likes Iron Man...they really do.
Friday, December 11, 2009
DAMN TIGER?!
It took a story this bizarre to return me to blogging (sorry kiddies, I've been busy). Tiger, my man, to quote the legendary Bill Dukes: " You know you done fucked up right"? As a result of serial cheating on his wife (or more accurately as a result of being caught serial cheating on his wife), Tiger just announced moments ago he is taking a "indefinite leave from golf" . This has to be the most ridiculous case of a powerful influential man throwing it all away for a series of low class tramps in history. Congrats Tiger ...your the best ever!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
I MAXXED!
I'm not easily impressed.
I just saw Star Trek on IMAX. I am currently extremely impressed! The cast, the plot, the nods to the long time fans,the special effects, IT'S ALL THERE! This movie was filled to the gills with impressive visuals, made all the more palpable by the 5 million square yard IMAX screen, but that was just part of it. This film has heart! EVERYONE of your favorites gets a chance to strut their stuff. Pine gives us a young James T. Kirk that is different but still resonates with Shatner's iconic performance, Zachary Quinto plays Spock with layers and nuances that show he was THE only choice for the role, Karl Urban simply IS Leonard "Bones" McCoy ...somewhere DeForest Kelly is smiling down! The entire cast brings thier "A" game.
J.J.Abrams has rebooted this series in much the same way Christopher Nolan brought Batman back from the dead. Prediction: This franchise MAY just "live long and prosper"!
J.J.Abrams has rebooted this series in much the same way Christopher Nolan brought Batman back from the dead. Prediction: This franchise MAY just "live long and prosper"!
http://www.imax.com/
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Pooh vs. Pork
This was damn funny...well as funny as a joke about a world wide pandemic CAN be anyway.
Huffington Post
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
...Old Blue Eyes is Back...
"When all is said and done there's nothing else to say or do"
Darryl Dawkins
Lovetron
My beloved North Carolina Tar Heels have brought the National Championship trophy back to Chapel THRILL where it belongs. One Shining Moment indeed!
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