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A coupla notes on the Eagles-Giants game:

Memo to Jeff Garcia: Look, all I'm saying is that if you don't want those rumors to float around, you probably don't want to be shown on national TV kissing Jeremiah Trotter in the helmet. You can date whichever Playmates you can find, but kiss a guy in high definition and people are gonna talk. Nothing wrong with whatever you want to do, of course, but if you're looking to dispel the kind of stuff T.O. says about you, you're probably better off with a handshake. Just sayin'.

Gotta give it up to the guys in the stands at the Meadowlands wearing Dawkins jerseys. That's showing guts out there. Not terribly bright, mind you, but gutsy, no doubt. Getting out of there without bruises should be interesting.

And remember when I wrote the Eagles off? When EVERYONE wrote them off? Perhaps we all misspoke. We did not figure into the calculation how profoundly sucky almost everyone in the NFC continues to be. And profoundly sucky they are. That a team with a porous run defense (although they made some nice stops on Tiki today) and a mistake-prone secondary that gives up big plays is not only still in the race but in good position for a wild card berth (and a division championship is still a real possibility!) is an indication that something is very, very, very wrong with the league.

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I could not be in a worse mood if Terrell Owens walked through the door and spit in my face, or Melo slapped me and then backpedaled 75 feet. That's what having to do the work that's normally handled by at least a dozen people will do to you, and having to do it for a whole week is no way to celebrate the holidays. I've had to cover everything- every format, the whole industry, every story- since last Tuesday evening, and I'm expecting my head to literally explode all over the keyboard any second now.

The good thing? After tomorrow night, it's over. It's someone else's responsibility. But for one more day, it's up at 4 am and write, write, write, call, call, call, e-mail, e-mail, e-mail all freakin' day. And people aren't really even aware that one guy is doing all of that, let alone beating the other trades on most stories. How did I end up with the short straw here?

Anyway, I've had it, and I still have a day to go before I can finally breathe again. Don't expect rainbows, lollipops, and elusive butterflies of love around here until I get past Tuesday.

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Here, to waste some space and time, is a publicity still from an unbelievably obscure summer replacement TV show from 1953, "The Wonderful John Acton":

To the left there is Harry Holcombe as the titular John acton, a County Clerk in a Kentucky town just after the First World War. And that's Virginia Dwyer as Julia Acton, and to the right it's Ian Martin as Uncle Terrence, and the little 10 year old kid playing John's grandson Kevin Acton, well... do you recognize him? Take a closer look:

Does he look at all familiar? Maybe a more recent photo would help:

Yes!

Remember, it's not too early to jump on the Walken In 2008 bandwagon!

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First day off in a long time, and what did I do?

A little work, of course. Broke a story. Nothing much else.

Maybe I'll post something more interesting later. Or not.

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Tonight's waste of time was the DVD of the fine Marky Mark (sans Funky Bunch)vehicle "Invincible," the story of NFL superstar Vince Papale, who wasn't, it turns out, a superstar at all. The movie was okay, although I think I liked it better when it was called "The Rookie." Or "Rocky." Or "The Rookie Meets Rocky," which is what I imagine the pitch meeting was like.

The plot is familiar to all E-A-G-L-E-S fans: a new coach (Greg Kinnear) takes over the Eagles and quickly proves his mettle by bursting into tears without provocation and also holding an open tryout at Veterans Stadium (a fine performance by Franklin Field), at which local impoverished barkeep Vince Papale (Marky Mark) impresses and eventually makes the squad (the non-Funky Bunch) while finding love with the Giants-fan sister (the one who plays J.D.'s pregnant girlfriend on "Scrubs") of the guy (some guy) who owns the bar (Itself). Much simulated football "action" and simulated Philadelphia accents (not all that close, although a lot closer than those Carl's Jr. ads) ensue. A loud soundtrack of not-always-appropriate seventies schlock passes for atmosphere. It's not exactly a steaming pile of excrement, but it's not anything you haven't seen before, except for maybe the sight of Marky Mark and Greg Kinnear slurping men's room sink water after tandem vomiting.

But it was a necessary thing. Fran had already picked out "The Breakup" at the video store. Hadda get some testosterone in there. Too bad there wasn't enough of it in "Invincible." Next time, we get a movie in which stuff blows up real good.

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The high school dudes were out in force at the gym today. School's out, of course, and the guys were hitting the weights and preening for each other's benefit, but at least they didn't get in my way much. As I was at my locker getting ready to hit the shower, however, a couple of tattooed teens had a conversation that went like this:

"Bitch supposed to leave me a message."

"Bitch."

"Maybe she... Bitch left me a text."

"My bitch better be waitin' for me."

"Fuckin' bitch."

And then they returned to their classes at CalTech.

No, clearly, we're not dealing with rocket scientists here. But we ARE dealing with the future of the world.

Kids today....

I guess you can blame pop culture for this, but I'd be more interested in where the kids' parents have been while their kids have been learning how to treat women like dirt. Mom and Dad probably don't care, because they remember what it was like when THEY were 17 and by God they won't make THEIR kids conform to blah blah blah. And so, we get a couple of suburban high school kids covered with back and neck tats and calling their girlfriends "bitches." Straight outta Torrance. And if you point out that they're behaving like misogynistic morons, YOU'RE the bad guy. You just don't get it. You're the old fart.

So I just don't get it. I don't think I want to.

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In light of yesterday's entry, it should be noted that I am licensed as a business in my town, and they have an interesting classification for what I do for a living. Here's the license:

And here's a closer look:

Ho, indeed. I DO work in an industry some would consider rather ho-ish. (It stands for Home Office, of course. But... ah, forget it.)

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