irrational hatred: james franco

Because that James Franco post from last night probably didn't make sense to anybody other than myself, I suppose I should explain where it came from and also, as a consequence, revisit an old gimmick of this here blizzog: the Irrational Hatred file.

Apparently, I like to discuss my irrational hatred during the Olympics, as the two previous entries were Anton Apollo Ohno and Michael Phelps. You probably don't remember them and I most certainly wouldn't, had I not irrationally hated them, but they were gold medal winning Americans with douchiness and arrogance to spare, respectively.

Maybe it's my recent infatuation with Charlie Sheen's epic WINNING meditations that has me reenergized to delve back into this (remember kids, Charlie Sheen says that you have to love violently and hate violently: there's no in between.) but I feel like last night's Oscars was probably the tipping point for this post about my irrational hatred for James Franco.

Yes, folks. James Franco.

I can hear you already: "James Franco? How can you hate James Franco? I love James Franco. James Franco's so, like, cool and, did you see him at the Oscars? James Franco looked like he was high and, like, James Franco seems really nice and like... James Franco James Franco James Franco..."

Well, I'm sorry, but I do hate him. And since you're here and still reading, I might as well tell you why.

For going on a good year, it feels like I have been unable to escape the endless barrage of stories painting James Franco as a renaissance man. Maybe it was just a coordinated effort by his people to get him the Oscars gig, but it felt like every magazine I opened or website I visited had some version of the same story going on Franco.

It goes something like this:

James Franco is not a man: he is a swirling storm of creativity that converts oxygen into art. James Franco is a renaissance man. James Franco doesn't sleep. James Franco is an actor and a fiction writer, who has found the time go back to school and complete a handful of graduate programs in New York. He's got an art collection opening in Berlin and he's probably an astronaut or, if not that, at least a classically-trained 12-string guitar player and a red seal chef and solar energy lobbyist and animal trainer."

I go to nytimes.com for some news and BOOM, James Franco header about how he's attending graduate school and writing a collection of short stories while also acting. He's GQ's Man of the Year because he's so... awesome. He's in the Gazette, the Mirror, the Hour... all the stories say the same thing.

James Franco is playing Alan Ginsberg. James Franco is a writer. James Franco is a renaissance man. James Franco invented chess and churns his own butter.

Well, so what? He's playing Alan Ginsberg in a movie; it doesn't mean he's Alan Ginsberg (someone who I don't irrationally hate, for the record.) I read one of his short stories, which was published in a glowing blog post I masochistically read. The story wasn't bad or anything. It was alright. I mean, it didn't suck, but it's not like I could tell you what the story was about six months later. Something about photographs and a girl and bad memories?

I think that's what I'm trying to get at with James Franco: does the fact that he is merely doing a lot necessitate the kind of acclaim he is receiving?

I mean, I've seen a few of his movies and it's not like I think he's a bad actor. I actually thought he played a pretty good spurned, loner best friend in Spiderman... and I didn't revolt against the 90-some-odd-minute James Franco soliloquy that was 127 Hours (which I again masochistically put myself through.) But the kicker is that people just LOVE James Franco and they absolutely SWOON OVER James Franco and when I ask why that is, it's always... "he was funny in Pineapple Express as that stoner."

That's it.

I feel this comment - which I trolled out from an latimes.com blog about the Oscars - sums up the pro-Franco sentiment perfectly:

A beautiful soul indeed. Thanks Linda...

People love him, but they don't really know why. Maybe my irrational hatred is necessary for the universe, in order to balance out all of that irrational Franco love out there?

With James Franco, are we confusing ambition and potential with achievement here? If so, why do I feel like there's something empty (and almost immoral) about celebrating that?

I didn't watch much of the Oscars really last night - other than to see that bat-shit crazy supporting actress broad from the Fighter go out-of-body during her acceptance speech and also to pray that Kirk Douglas didn't die during his monologue - but the brief glimpses I caught of co-host James Franco had me again questioning what all the hype is about. Sure, he was sort of funny and looked sort of comfortable up there, but I just didn't get it... Was anyone captivated or taking aback by his presence? (Other than good old Linda, of course.)

I think if anything, people should be applauding the talents of James Franco's PR staff for making us all love JAMES FRANCO, when really, he hasn't done all that much to warrant it. Has he? Am I missing something? I feel if Charlie Sheen had James Franco's publicist, we'd all be spewing GNARLYISMS and loving/hating each other violently.

So there, that's my opinion. There's my beef. That's why I irrationally hate James Franco. It's nothing personal (and remember, this is IRRATIONAL hate, people) but it's just something I had to explain, once and for all.

Note: The reason I irrationally hate him could also be due to the fact that he has that inexhaustible reserve of energy that I can't comprehend and because he isn't limiting himself to just one domain. Note for Note: I am a lazy c-word. And irrational hate is easy. Three times a Note: Ironic then perhaps that I would devote an hour to writing/poorly researching a post devoted to irrationally hating someone I haven't met. Fourth Note: I haven't yet decided whether I irrationally hate James Franco with violence. Sorry, Charlie.

santa sheen

He just keeps giving and giving and giving.

This is the youtube equivalent of that Seinfeld bit where George sneaks the salami sandwich and TV into the sack. Pure GNARLYISMS!

If Santa Sheen keeps on like this, I'm not going to have any option but surrender to WINNING!

this just in...

James Franco read a book.

He's so awesome!

10 things i learned about sports tonight

It was a moderately noteworthy night in Montreal sports here, with the TIM HORTON'S Heritage Classic and all, so I met a couple friends at one of the city's best (read: cheapest) sports bars, located in the heart of the gay village (read: correctly.)

It's been a while since I sat down in front of a wall of television screens at the Sports Station for a good ole fashioned night of sports osmosis. We were surrounded by acronyms - NHL, NBA All-Stars, WWE, ATP - and even some bass fishing superstars, as they all scrapped it out for screen supremacy and after my fair share of the brews from our $16 4-L pitchers and a $7 burger combo, I feel like I learned some things tonight and since I nearly died on my way home, with Sherbrooke from Lafontaine to Papineau basically one malicious strip of ice, I realized how fragile life is and, therefore, how important it is that I pass on these vital tidbits.

So with that: a TOP 10 LIST!

10. Canadian tennis fans have a reason to be excited

Even though he lost to Andy Roddick in the finals of some garbage tournament tonight, this Milos Raonic kid really has some juice. Now I know that no one cares about tennis, but if you haven't watched it in a while, well, there's a Canadian who can win a tournament with his serve now. A friend of mine who is a nationally-ranked player has a whole lot of good stuff to say about this guy, so I'm gonna go ahead and co-sign.

9. Two of the NBA's ten best players look like Wire characters

Now maybe you can tally this up to the fact that I've been deep into the Wire these last few days, but while watching the first half of the NBA All-Star game tonight, I couldn't help but think that two of the league's best players look a lot like the leaders of Baltimore's West Side.

Avon Barksdale = Kevin Durant

Stringer Bell = Amar'e Stoudamire

Come on, admit it. I'm right. They both look alike? Don't they?

I couldn't stop seeing the parallels while I watched, but maybe keep in mind that I'm the same guy that said Jacques Martin looks like Fievel from Fievel Goes West and that one of my buddy's mom's looks like Canadian Olympic curler Russ Howard.

I apologize.

8. Lenny Kravitz is still alive

I couldn't believe it either. Somehow he wiggled his way into the NBA All-Star starting line-up intros and it seemed like he was on TV for like 15 minutes. The All-Star game was muted so I couldn't hear what he was playing, but let me guess...

American Woman, followed by Are You Gonna Go My Way, followed by Fly Away.

Either way, the entire time he was on screen we were trying to remember the chick he used to be banging.

7. Kobe Bryant is totally unlikeable

What made him less palatable: the mock sincerity and humility he showed when shaking Bill Russell and Ms. Bill Russell's hands court side or him jacking up like a bazillion first half shots in the All-Star game?

Kobe, we know the game is in your house. We know you want to win MVP in front of the home crowd. We know you are the two-time defending champ. But damn man, let the game come to you and take over later. You don't need to drop 21 in the first half on like 30 shots. People are gonna defer to you later, because they semi-respect you.

Come on!

(P.S. I only watched the first half.)

6. Andy Roddick is bald

Cheap shot, but on the last point of his championship set against Raonic, he dove and his hat fell off. He hit the beauty winner, but it was revealed that he is Ryan Getzlaf/Herc from the Wire bald. I wouldn't have noticed it, except he reacted oddly to the situation. Instead of celebrating a championship won on an amazing winner, he rushed to put his hat on and then got up somewhat hesitantly and put his hands in the air, relieved. All in all, it was very unRoddick-like.

I laughed to myself... until I remembered he's banging Brooklyn Decker.

And then I ordered myself another drink.

5. Mike Cammalleri and Brian Gionta are pansies

Guys, it's -10C, you don't need to be doing the whole balaclava, over-the-ears get-up for the game just because it's outside. I mean, Brent Sutter and Fievel didn't even cover their ears, but you guys felt it suitable to dress like you were skidooers in Yellowknife. I think that right there says enough about the Habs' toughness this year.

4. Jerry Lawler is a face *

Somehow, Jerry "Burger King" Lawler is a face?!?!? WHAT? How could anyone ever cheer for this guy? It's been 18 years and I still don't forgive him for this...

Lawler got what was coming to him tonight though. He got beat down hard by the Miz.

Note: Who would have thought that in 2011 Jerry "the King" Lawler would be capable of a 15-minute main event match and Bret "the Hitman" Hart would be walking around like a fragile relic.

Note #2: WWE, listen to me, you've got to stop doing that Wrestlemania board promo thing. They keep shooting people with this camera angle so that this gigantic Wrestlemania board hanging in the rafters appears behind them and it's so obvious they are only doing it so they can use it later in promos. It probably looked cool the first time they did it, but they're doing it for every match.

Note #3: I realized tonight that the WWE is all about branding. That's it. Catch phrases and finishers and that's it. I bet some of the best and most creative ad execs grew up as wrestling fans.

Note #4: My buddy huuuuuuh-Reeeehn sums up Lawler's old school appeal perfectly: "How ridiculous is the one piece unitard? What the fuck?"

Note #5: Did you know that Triple H has a movie coming out?

Check this:

Is that curly haired kid the evolution of the ginger from the Big Green. Man, talk about a crap sandwich. I actually can't wait to see this thing. Bad Movie Marathon Entry #1.

3. RDS hockey exists with Joel Bouchard's hair

Maybe the most disappointing part of the evening: RDS covered up Joel Bouchard's hair during tonight's game. I didn't think I could watch a Habs game here without seeing Joel Bouchard's rubbery, unnatural doo.

If I had paid money to watch the game, I would have asked for it back.

Apparently the Habs weren't all that impressed either, because they chose to drop that gigantic coiler out there tonight. To be truthful though, it didn't seem like people were all that fired up for tonight's game.

Note: By the way, search 'Joel Bouchard' on google images and I guarantee you will not find a more out-of-er results for a quasi-celebrity. You would expect the kind of 'passed out, looking gonzo' results that come up from a good friend's facebook photos, not from a 'respected' professional hockey commentator.

2. Lebron is illuminati

Or maybe he was just shouting out his boy Jay-Z. Or showing off his favourite geometric shape.

Nah, I'm gonna go with the secret society angle. Oh Lebron, I saw it. You guys were all dancing around during your introductions and you were goofing around until, right at the end, you threw up the diamond sign right before the cameras panned away.

As the message board fanatics say "in before the illuminati shitstorm/"

Yep, we have irrefutable proof that Lebron supports the globalists' agenda, people. Lebron, like illuminati brothers Jay-Z and Eminem and Diamond Dallas Paige, is just a puppet in the Rockefeller and Rothchild plan for global enslavement.

DDP - Drive Down Proletariat?

1. Do not cut from a Habs game to Bass fishing in Montreal

The Sports Station in the Village has about 40 flat-screens pasted to the walls. When I arrived, 90 percent of the TVs had the Habs-Flames game, with the remaining screens showing the end of the Roddick-Raonic match. Once that ended, they all went to the hockey game. At one point, during the second period, the manager of the bar decided to throw the NBA All-Star game on because someone had asked.

Unfortunately, the manager wasn't paying too much attention because he threw on a bass fishing show. I didn't notice, because I was facing a wall with seven flat-screens, but the people facing me starting making a scene since two of their three screens were showcasing a snake slithering through some water.

The manager came over and reassured everyone that he was trying to put on the basketball game, but the bass fishing continued and, with the game still close, people started to lose their patience. At one point, the fisherman's line tensed up like he caught something and we all started to cheer. He reeled the puppy in and his buddy scooped it up in the net. The fisherman grabbed the fresh-water fish and posed with it and we all went crazy. The manager got the picture and he quickly turned the game back on.

Sadly, that was probably the only thing that Habs fans got to cheer about tonight.

* Sports Entertainment tidbit

walking conscious

If I ever find a serious job, I think I'll have to get it written into my contract that I can't be held responsible for any tardiness, absenteeism or poor job performance caused by the sleep I've lost from viewing the Wire. As an addict would say, I'm powerless to fight it. I just started re-watching it online - at sidereel.com - and ever since, I've been crashing later and later and even getting up super early every morning to check the next episode (you know, cause Megavideo understands the Wire's potency and only allows you to watch it in 72-minute intervals. It makes you confront reality for at least 30 minutes before letting you jump back in again.) Even though I know Kima's going to get shot or Wallace is on his way back to the West Side pit, I can't help sitting through it and that pushes my departure time from the apartment back further and further every morning.

On Friday, I pushed it the furthest I have yet. I didn't even notice what time it was when the episode ended and so when I saw it was 9:40, I nearly lost my shit. I've got a 35-minute walk to work and I was still laying in bed. So I hustle-bustled and was out the door in my gigantic winter coat, forgetting of course that it had rained the entire day previously, meaning it was like +5C and Montreal was a gigantic puddle concealing a sheet of ice.

Being late, I sped-walked to work, but any time I thought I'd save and all the effort I was exerting was wasted on a decision I made to cut through Parc Lafontaine. Terrible idea. The 'snow' was ice, covered with slush and water. It was messy and the sidewalks and paths are all 'code level: orange' dangerous, in Homeland Security talk.

I'm kind of frustrated because I'm late and I'm sliding all over the place like Bambi learning to walk on ice. (obscure reference?) I'm rushing and slipping and worrying about whether today would be the day I caught shit from my superiors, Ervin Burrell-style, but every step I take flushes those thoughts away because the ground is so awkward and potentially hazardous that I have to concentrate on where to drop my feet to make sure I don't fall.

It's really odd to be conscious of walking. It really is. It's something that I take for granted. Each step put me on precarious ground, so I had to use all my conscious thought to carefully navigate each stride. But after a while, I came to the realization that I didn't know how that would help, since I could predict where my foot would land, but there was no way to know exactly how it would feel once it went down and how that would affect my balance. It was like I was trying to be conscious of something that I still wasn't completely in control of because my body was going to self-adjust regardless of what I did intentionally.

It was a bizarre distraction, that I forgot immediately once I got to the thawed and cleared sidewalks.

I can see now though why those robotics engineers have so much trouble creating robots that can walk, because they have to calculate each variable and adjust for that and it's something that's programmed into us without us even being completely aware.

Anyways, I got to work and went from walking on ice to walking on eggshells. No one seemed to know I was late and so I guess I'll be pushing the limit again on Monday.

swag

d.p.a., baby

Back when I was still just getting comfortable in my pubes, a few years before the Y2K Bug changed our lives forever, I found myself manning the grill in a McDonalds kitchen, flipping burgers, snacking on nuggets and pickles (try it) and working, unknowingly, as an WWF proselytizer.

I wore a Stone Cold t-shirt (later replaced by an eyebrow-raised The Rock.) I had a WWF hat. I even, embarrassingly, taped as many WWF Raws and Smackdowns (and eventually, WCW Monday Nitros even) as I could and I even went so far as labeling them. Oooh, this smarts.

Anyhow, back then it was all about catch phrases, and one of the best came from Mr. "Stone Cold" Steve Austin. The Texas Rattlesnake (what a name!?!? Shit, am I proselytizing again?) was a paranoid dude and he taught his minions to watch their backs by wearing his patented "D.T.A.: Don't Trust Anyone" shirt.

I loved that slogan and I probably would have purchased that shirt for myself if our Wal-Mart sold it. (And I probably would have ended up on some pre-9/11 version of a no-fly list too.)

I bring this up now because I recently witnessed something in the underground mall beside the metro near work that made me recall that motto.

I'd say I buy lunch about 90 percent of my workdays, usually because I'm too lazy or, more often, too late in the morning to make myself a sandwich to take with me. So me and my rag-tag group of coal miners head down to either the Promenade or the EC (Eaton's Centre) where we try to get in a sufficient amount of commissary in our alloted 30-minute break period (minus the five to eight minutes we burn waiting for the elevator and walking to the food courts.)

This daily walk takes us past the entrance to the McGill Metro station and down a corridor that I affectionately call the "Hallway of Broken Dreams." There are people huddled along the walls in various states of disrepair. There is the guy with the super red face, who is dressed nicely enough that you think he might be a genius, serial killer. (I have actually seen him cash his change in at one of our Promenade food joints, too. He asked for a five like he was going to deposit it in a bank account. For this reason, it has never even crossed my mind to give him any money.) There is the fat, white, balding, bearded guy with face tattoos who I never try to make eye contact with because he's always smiling and he doesn't look like he should legally be allowed to smile because a smile doesn't look right on his face. There is the tall black dude who comes up to you with his empty fast food cup but doesn't ask for money... he just puts out the cup. I'm not really sure why he does it though, because he is typically dressed better than I am and I have to be done up all business casual (BiziCajji.) And then there's the guy right outside the Promenade turnoff who looks somewhat like the professor from Tintin, but sits in his wheelchair, shrinking away, and on occasion, he will summon within me a bit of pity and I'll throw a few coins into his collection cup.

On Monday, Fitzy and I went down to the EC, where we walked past the regulars, right up to the guy in glasses who is always parked at that spot right where the doors open and where thousands of people rush past him every day. He sits in one of those mechanized wheelchairs and just looks out at you sadly. I think he has Cystic Fibrosis or Multiple Sclerosis: I can't tell the difference. (I'm not trying to be insensitive here. It's all ignorance.)

On Monday though, something happened that made me completely reevaluate the Hallway of Broken Dreams and the entire "help me, I'm hungry" racket. Now I'm not the most sensitive guy when it comes to this kind of charity, as you probably know if you have spent any time around this here blog. I've devoted a lot of meta-ink towards the people asking for money and I think I find it offensive for some reason now, since I was so taken in by them and their persuasiveness when I first arrived here as a naive, small-town guy. Maybe I look at this new hard stance as the first trait that I've genuinely adapted from city living.

Either way, what I saw Monday shocked me. This meek guy in the wheelchair, curled up almost in a ball all of the time because his joints are tangled together, starts yelling something that is barely intelligible with the echo in the hall and because of his difficulties speaking. "Gooooooooo oonnnnnnnn...," it sounds like he's saying. "Goooo oooonnnnnn."

Fitzy and I stop. We see the man looking over to his left, towards a slightly-older-than-middle aged Eastern European woman with a cane, quietly and emotionally pleading for money. "Gooooo onnnnnn..." the little man continues. The lady doesn't seem to notice.

Then, the little man starts to move and he's yelling louder. "GOOOO OONNNNNN!!!" His chair is buzzing as he zips off. There are about twenty people watching now as this little man in the mechanized-wheelchair burns over to the lady and, wouldn't you know it, rams right into her. "GOOOoooOOO!" he continues to yell as he bashes her again. The lady is looking around at us all, horrified. She doesn't know what to say.

Fuck the heck? I debate stepping in between them, but fuck the heck again? What would I do? I can't berate a little man in a wheelchair, can I?

The little man bashes her again and then turns back as the woman starts crying and scurries off the other way. Damn, the little man ran her off the corner like she was some West Side kid selling crack on an East Side street corner in Baltimore, MD. That little man was straight gangsta!

Fitzy and I have lunch. He isn't even fazed. I say, "snap out of it, man! Didn't you see what just happened?" He says, "I once had a guy come up to me on the train in Toronto. He had nuts in his mouth and he just walked up to me and started spitting them in my face and he started saying 'No one is doing anything. Can you believe it?' and he kept spitting the nuts. I just walked away.'" He says he can't be bothered by anything he sees after that.

We ate lunch and then we left and we walked past the little man, looking as sad and pathetic as always. We continued walking back to the coal mine and we saw the bewildered lady, still crying, still with the cane, still frazzled, still asking for money.

And it dawned on me that Stone Cold's motto could be altered just a little bit to encapsulate that experience.

So that's why I say D.P.A: Don't Pity Anyone.

craigslist ad du jour

I like how they are accepting "serious enquiries only."

new strokes

That's more like it, boys!

potent potables or hip hop quotables

If we are to believe cliches, then us humans only use 10 percent of our brains. (And also, apparently, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, although I've never held a bird in my hand or tried to sell bush birds. Wait, was that a cliche or an aphorism?)

Frankly, I'm sick and tired of cliches and I know I just used a cliche to say how fed up I am with them. I don't like them because they're just not true all the time. For instance, the 10 percent brain usage proverb is obviously false.

Proof?

Well you can call it a breaking down of awareness -- something akin to a ball of cheese melting in the sun -- from the mundanity of my everyday that culminates, at certain points of the day, in my slipping into at subconscious mental state where I subliminally take every single word I hear and find an example of that word inside some long-lost hip-hop lyric, packed away somewhere deep within the sports stats and Simpsons quote recess of my brain.

Example:

Conversation: ".... Jersey Shore...."

My brain: "my shit is raw/straight from the Panama Shores/if the feds can't catch me then they'll make up a law"

-- Fat Joe on Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz's Cross Bronx Expressway (I MIGHT BE THE ONLY PERSON WHO EVEN REMEMBERS LORD TARIQ AND PETER GUNZ FOR CHRISSAKES! This secretly impresses/scares the hell out of me.)

Conversation: "... I tried calling the reference on his home phone..."

My brain: "I tap into my own zone like it's my home phone/turn the cell off to let my dome roam"

-- Common on Heat from Like Water for Chocolate

And a million other examples...

I'm the kind of guy that can't help but whistle or hum or sing something if my brain isn't being challenged. And so while I type away like a monkey all day at the coal mine, and it may appear as if I'm only using 10 percent of my between-ear-cheese, I am, in fact, working in many realms of consciousness on multiple levels and within various stages of cultural reference, whether I like it or not.

10 percent of my brain? Get outta here!

This experience has provided my with some insight (uh oh... insight just triggered something... My brain: "soaring to a new height of flight/and then fight the night/ with a light to insight/make the competition say aight" -- No I.D. on Common's Check the Method) into brain disorders or abnormalities. I feel for kids who have autism and keep referencing stats and memorizing lyrics or facts that have no relevance at all in the practical, real world...

Like seriously, why would anyone ever need to have a Lord Tariq & Peter Gunz lyric stored away in their head for 12 years? Where will that come in handy? I'm turning into a mental hoarder.

For y'all that don't know?!?!? (youtube won't let me embed) Lord Tariq & Peter Gunz - Cross Bronx Expressway ft. Big Pun and Fat Joe

biggest super bowl story

It wasn't Troy Polamalu auditioning for an inevitable Invisible Man remake (they're making Thor and Captain America flicks? What's next? Aqualad), or that 400-some ticket holders had their seats taken away upon arriving at the stadium in Dallas, or Aaron Rodgers making millions of Packer fans forget about Brett Favre, or Fergie's terrible karaoke performance or even that this was probably the last NFL game anyone will be watching for the next 16 months.

Nope, the biggest story from this Super Bowl was Christina Aguilera's rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. And I'm sure you're expecting me to comment on how she flubbed the lyrics and that she should be burned at the stake for that or something. But to be honest, I didn't even notice the mistake because I was timing how long she'd been singing the anthem and I was waiting eagerly for her final lyric: "Brave."

This is because several off-shore bookmakers had put odds on Aguilera's pre-game performance. It was one of the more intriguing prop bets out there this year. If you don't know, proposition betting on the Super Bowl is on its way to becoming more popular than gambling on the actual game.

If proposition betting is new to you, I'll explain. Prop bets allow the public to bet on individual - and often trivial - aspects of the game. For instance, you can bet on the coin flip - and this is something I do every year. Believe it or not, the odds were actually on heads, so if you bet tails on Sunday and won, you'd get a better pay out. I bet tails every year. Guess what won this year? Heads. Friggen oddsmakers know everything...

Anyways, prop bets allow you to put money on things like who will score the first touchdown, which player will win the game's MVP award and even goofier things like 'which will be higher: the amount of catches by wide receiver 'X' or the amount of inches of snow that will call in city 'Y'?' There was even one about what colour the Gatorade dumped on the winning coach would be. Yes, this is all true.

American casinos can only put odds on things that happen on the field, but off-shore casinos put odds down for anything remotely game-related. This means that yes, people could in fact wager on the length of time Aguilera would spend singing the anthem and how long she'd belt out the final word of the last line... "and the home... of the... BRAAAAA-AAA-AAVVVEE"

Intriguing, right?

Bookmakers had Aguilera's over-under for the song at one minute and 54 seconds. They also put the length of time she'd sing "brave" at six seconds.

If you watched the game, you noticed that she sang "brave" for like 10 seconds and that one really should have come as no surprise. Of course she would take that long with the last word. That's where these female singers get to show off their pipes. That one should have been a no-brainer. Over.

But the song time is where the controversy arises. According to some, she was right on the 1:54 mark. One site, Bodog, had her timed out at 1:53.20. Making things more difficult, there were a set of jets that flew by the stadium at the end of the song and the camera panned away to shoot them, so you can't actually know when she stopped singing. According to Chad Millman from Bill Simmons' B.S. Report podcast today, Sportsbook.com is paying out both the over and under because they couldn't get the actual time down.

Despite all this, I'm find it absolutely amazing that these oddsmakers can put the line down at 1:54 a week before and they can pretty much hit it on the nose.

Real story: I want to somehow get tied into a prop bet where I have some ability to influence what's going to happen. That why, I'll get in there early and put everything I have on that bet. Imagine if I'm Christina Aguilera's down-and-out brother and I come across this prop. I'm telling older sister that she's singing brave until she passes out.

underrated gross thing of the moment

I come across a lot of names every day. That's part of the territory when you work in a coal mine (read: call centre.)

The names you see defy logic sometimes. You really wonder if you are actually awake when you see job candidates like Soon See Kok or Debbie Downar, but with the volumes of names we go through on a daily basis, it happens.

This name I'm going to drop on you isn't something that shows up in some one-in-a-million random file, though. This is a name you have all seen before and I hope the next time you see it, you will stop and remember this.

Without disparaging the famous poet, I have to say that Dickinson is the most underrated grossest thing of the moment.

Just break that down and you'll see what I mean.

Dick-in-son.

Think about it: When they were first giving out names, they looked around and said, "Hey, metal-maker, we're going to call you John Blacksmith for tax purposes. Hey, garment-maker, we're going to call you John Taylor for legal purposes. Hey, chap with his penis inside his son's butthole, we're going to call you John Dickinson for the rest of time."

How do you get called Dickinson? Explain that to me. Seriously, Dickinsons, let me know... To me, it's just weird.

Department of Homeland Security is not cool (THEY KILLED ATDHE.NET!!!!)

Enough is enough...

You know, I haven't been on side with any of these wars in Iraq or Afghanistan and I definitely shook my head in disgust when they decided to bail out the greedy bank execs who brought the world economy to their knees, but the U.S. government has finally gone and done it. They crossed a line by taking something that I cherish dearly.

I just don't know whether I can take it anymore and I know I'm not the only one. Hell, even the Jersey Shore crew is getting out of dodge and moving to Italy.

Who put me over the edge? Well, the Department of Homeland Security did.

The Vancouver Canucks (haven't written about them - or demigod Kesler - during their monumental run these past two months because I'm afraid to jinx them) have called up star prospect Cody Hodgson and he is expected to play tonight. This is a big deal in Canucks-land, because we haven't had a prospect with this much hype and potential since the Sedins were beardless, rosy-cheeked lads.

I'm more than excited to see this kid play and, since I don't have cable, I punched in the web address to my go-to streaming sports site - atdhe.net - to see when the game started. Instead of the turquoise screen that typically loads up, I saw a white screen punctuated by three crests, which all contained eagles in various forms, colours and moods. I thought I'd typed in the incorrect address, as I do about three or four times a day. (Check out this site: http://slinginlingo.blogpot.com. Definitely not what you're looking for.) So I rechecked it and, no, I definitely had it right.

It turns out the Department of Homeland Security has seized the site because it "is unlawful to reproduce or distribute copyrighted material... without authorization."

Well, fuck you DHS! Seriously!

Aren't there bigger fish to fry than a website that provides streaming sports games to people who can't afford cable? Like, wouldn't resources be better spent trying to curtail your country's spiraling debt? Couldn't you wire-tap some swindling CEO? Really, you feel you have to crack down on people watching sports? People who need to watch sports these days to distract themselves from all the problems you are causing? We're still watching the commercials, you idiots. It's not like we're missing the ads that keep these stations on air. The network's ads are actually reaching a larger audience now that they are streaming internationally. Shouldn't this please them?

I don't know what your angle is, Department of Homeland Security. Are you trying to piss off the very people who bury their heads in the sand by getting carried away with their sports teams and,by doing so, are doing everything they can to avoid being pissed off at you?

Are you trying to create terrorists? You take away a man's Vancouver Canucks hockey and what does he have left?