Wednesday night a rumor broke in social media, and then on NHL game telecasts all across North America, that NHL goalie Ilya Bryzgalov was close to signing a try out agreement that would allow him to participate in the Wranglers pre-season training camp. His joining the team would come just one short off season after having minded the nets for the Philadelphia Flyers and becoming a bit of revered character on HBO.
Ice Ice Billy
The final hour of the 40-hour movie “Breaking Bad” airs Sunday. At this very moment, a segment of non-viewers reading this have just completed an eye roll because, quite frankly, they are sick of hearing about “Breaking Bad.” So to those, relax. This is not another ode to amazing storytelling, which indeed this AMC series deserves. This is, however, a cautionary tale of binge television watching.
The Formula 1 Italian Grand Prix at Monza is Sunday, and though my dog’s namesake is going to have a tough time pulling out a F1 championship for Team Lotus this season, I will be tuned in to see if the Monza circuit is in as good of shape as it was when I drove a 1:31 lap there last week — and I don’t mean I drove it in my racing chair.
The speaker box into which morning commuters speak their orders of coffees backs precariously into a seldom used traffic lane behind a strip mall. And so, the second car in line would block the path of vehicles that use that lane—drivers of which have no desire to stop for a super power macchiato double shot with two sugars and soy milk.
Paul Shortino is a rock star. He has rock star hair. He has rock star clothes. He has a rock star glasses. He has a rock star voice. And for as recognizable as he is, and even though I have his rock star phone number, I can’t seem to find him in Barcelona.
I come at this from the standpoint of an avid Formula One fan. So it’s not surprising that when given a chance to see the Spanish Grand Prix last Sunday, the biggest challenge was finding a position on the airplane that didn’t put my knees in the armpits of the chap reclining into my lap.
Back in Las Vegas, the Wranglers — plagued most days with their own number of inspirational and grotesque injuries — begin anew the trek to win 16 more games in a quest for the Kelly Cup. Step one is the best-of-seven opening round against the Stockton Thunder. Games 1 and 2 are in Stockton, this Friday and Saturday. Game 3 is Monday.
Nothing good ever happens to me. Nothing. And now, recent word from the American Psychological Association indicates that pessimism may up my life expectancy.
Todd Snider had me the first time I heard, “Say, girl, you’re hotter than the hinges hangin’ off the gates of hell.” That’s kind of how most things strike you, don’t they? Someone paints a picture, you look a little harder, and the next thing you know you’re reading all of Vincent van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo.
Don’t let the diagnosis of “acute bronchitis” fool you. It’s very a long way from utterly drop dead gorgeous. It’s not cute at all.
As a child, Saturdays often offered a greeting through the tiny speaker of a plastic, wood-pattern encased picture tube. The picture itself presented an image cast in green until, at least, my dad, brother or I slapped its right side with palm-stinging force about one-third of the way down from the top of the console. “Yyyello again everybody,” professional wrestling announcer Lance Russell would say in all his nasally theatrics. “And welcome to another” something-or-other about “CHAMP-yun-SHIP wrestling!”
The Stanley Cup will make an appearance Thursday night during the Las Vegas Wranglers game, where it will be displayed and accessible for all fans to see and touch and take photos. No one can understate the meaning it has for so many.
It has been pointed out to me by a figment of imagination, a trick of the brain and a voice in the night that since November 1, 2011, there are untied strings that, unless promptly knotted, may require a late adoption of Velcro technology. And so, here now is a bit of useless follow up, save an item or three.
I was summoned to hear Paul Villaluz’s national anthem audition at the Orleans Arena sometime in 2003. Leaving behind frenzied activities held captive in the windowless Las Vegas Wranglers offices wedged beneath the arena’s eastern concrete risers, I walked briskly to the top of section 101. I looked down at Villaluz, gave a thumbs up, and he performed the Star Spangled Banner to an empty 7,000 seat arena.
There was a seismic jolt of tsunami-causing proportion to the presidential landscape Wednesday night, the consequences of which will shove public perceptions into previously unforeseen lights and turn all that was once understood to vague, all that was once up now down, and was once left now right.