Shooting guard or sentient insectoid?

I have decided that San Antonio Spur Manu Ginobili sounds less like a professional basketball player and more like a character in George Lucas' vast universe. He was probably the principal architect on the Geonosis execution arena, where young Anakin, Padme and Obi-Wan are thrown to the nexu before being rescued by Mace Windu.

I'm just saying.

An Ohio Governor's finest moment

For several years, there has been a gigantic banner hanging in downtown Cleveland on a building across from the "Q," where the Cleveland Cavaliers play. It is a sparse Nike ad, with an image of LeBron James slam-dunking. It says only, "WE ARE ALL WITNESSES." It is a thing of beauty, and it sort of takes your breath away, and it makes you sort of proud to be a Clevelander.

But it turns out that it is in violation of some Federal law regarding the size of an advertisement and its proximity to a highway (the "Witnesses" banner is not far from where I-90 bisects Cleveland). Why this "violation" was not an issue two years ago but instead, say, THE FREAKING DAY OF THE FIRST GAME OF THE FIRST NBA FINALS THAT THE CAVS HAVE EVER REACHED IN THE HISTORY OF THEIR FRANCHISE, I don't know. But I do know that Ohio's Governor, Ted Strickland, is stepping up.

Strickland has deemed the sign "commercial art," which means it's not subject to the Federal and Ohio Department of Transportation regulations. My personal favorite Strickland quotation regarding this issue: "'We are determined to make sure this city has the opportunity to continue to enjoy this beautiful display of commercial art,' he said. Strickland disputed the notion that declaring the banner art will give Nike a special benefit. 'This is not about Nike,' he said. 'This is about Cleveland.'"

Yeah, governmental entities that aren't the Governor's office. Don't you dare try to dampen our enthusiasm and/or screw with our potential glory. Not this time.

As a lifelong Clevelander, I am not used to success or any "outside" recognition thereof

This weekend's episode of "The Soup" closed with one of the show's producers sitting in a chair, brushing Joel McHale's mullet wig as Joel sat on the floor in front of him. (This was a reference to an episode of "Wife Swap" wherein a wife brushes her husband's mullet while simultaneously telling him what a man he is.)

As the producer brushes his mane, Joel asks (I'm paraphrasing here), "So, do you think Cleveland will take it? I think they will." This reference to the Cleveland Cavaliers-Detroit Pistons series, which the Cavs clinched to great effect (BOOBIE!) on Saturday night, is remarkable. Not only is somebody outside of Cleveland talking about a Cleveland sports franchise, but that person outside of Cleveland is speaking positively about a Cleveland sports franchise and stating that he believes it can win.

Unheard of. I don't quite know how to process these feelings. When the Indians went the World Series in 1995 and 1997, it was an incredible and amazing thrill. But I lived in Chicago at the time, so I wasn't able to absorb the ambient hysteria and enthusiasm that came with living in the proximity of a championship team. Also, growing up in suburban Cleveland, I really didn't have a sense of just how futile the city was. I mean, I knew the Cuyahoga River caught on fire, and I knew that this was a very bad thing. I had the vague sense that Mayor Kucinich was inept. But I wasn't aware of the subtleties of Cleveland politics and business and education and economic development -- topics with which I'm quite familiar now having returned and worked in the city as an "adult."

I am acutely aware of Cleveland's troubles, and how good it will feel -- even temporarily, even though I don't care about basketball itself -- to have one 22-year-old from Akron (who "gets" Northeast Ohio's futility as well) singularly lift us all up on this tattooed shoulders.

That someone else, in Los Angeles no less, thinks Cleveland can win at something is a foreign and thrilling concept, indeed. Thanks, Joel. As if Little Gay, CRUISE WATCH, Clippos Magnificos and Souper Fantastic Ultra Wish Time were not enough, you believe in us, man.

I am not really a basketball fan, but I am a fan of Cleveland's crawling its way out of failure and municipal despair

And all I have to say is:

LE. BRON.

Geddy Lee is a powerful motivator

There is an ad on ESPN for the network's free fantasy baseball "service," and it fucking rules.

I do enjoy baseball, but I would never participate in any sort of fantasy league. In fact, participating in some such league, for me, would be much less of a fantasy and much more of a hellish reality. My husband -- lifelong Mets fan, Major League Baseball employee, knower of all statistics -- as you might imagine participates in several leagues each year. He even won some cash money last year in his favorite league, thereby earning himself the right to tote around a communal trophy for the 2007 season (which is roughly the size of the Stanley Cup).


As you can imagine, I make fun of him a lot. (Except for when he wins the benjamins. That I am OK with.)

So last night during the Mets vs. Cardinals season opener this ad came on, and because I love the rock I immediately looked up from the issue of This Old House that I was reading. I thought, OK, this is a funny ad. Could have been done better, but there is a keytar so I can't complain. Then we reached the end of the ad, where it became the most awesome television advertisement since Domino's Pizza mocked my silly rules: Rush's Geddy Lee wails, "FANTASY BASEBALL IT'S FREE AND IT ROCKS!!!" Case, closed. Fucking socks, rocked off. And I don't even like Rush.

(The YouTube video of the ad unfortunately cuts off a split second too soon, so one can't appreciate the full sincerity of Geddy's exhortation. Sadly, I sort of suck at the Internet and can't find a better version.)

When the ad was over, Husband turned to me and said, "See, now you're going to want to do fantasy baseball." And instead of my normal response, which would have been something like, "I would never do fantasy baseball; no way it is for losers," I instead said, "I don't know enough about baseball to do fantasy baseball."

Because if I knew more, dear Geddy, you and I would be negotiating a trade RIGHT NOW.

RIP, Barbaro

Seriously. I am sitting at my desk crying.

Indianapolis Colts Are Now!

Husband and I went last night to see CanRock superstars the Sloans. As a perennial favorite mount in my stable of rock and roll horsies, I never miss them on their way through town and, in many instances, have followed them to other towns for additional rocking.

Though half of the band was considerably under the weather, their overall rocking was not proportionately diminished. Then again, I'm not sure it's physically possible for Sloan to put on a bad show. They played many songs from the new and genius Never Hear The End Of It, and given that album's 30-track run of variable length-tunes, I wasn't sure how some of the songs would translate to a live format. But they did, fantastically. Sloan worked them into little three- or four-song packages, one right into the other. The band was in good spirits and their famous wit was on display per usual -- save for Jay Ferguson's general demeanor of misery (he seemed the sickest) and the one time Andrew Scott started into a song before Chris Murphy and Patrick Pentland were done with their clever banter, as if to say, "Shut the hell up, fuckers, I want to be done with this."

Anyway. All of this was to be expected. The unexpected portion of the evening came in the way that one of the opening acts, a group from Detroit called Thunderbirds Are Now!, ruled. Now, typically, I am miserable at the mere thought of standing through opening acts. I go out of my way to avoid them, even if it means, in some cases, sacrificing precious position at the front of the stage (a must for short chicks like me). So it was rather convenient that the NFL AFC Championship game between the Indianapolis Colts and the New England Patriots was going on during the two Sloan openers. Something to do instead of stand there, bored, staring at some local rock and roll hoodlums. That should tell you something: I am no football fan, but I'd rather watch a championship game than watch an opening act.

It was an interesting scenario: people who like Sloan enough to come out on a frigid Sunday night are generally not huge NFL fans, while people who are big enough football fans to be cheering wildly with each play are generally not really into Nova Scotian power pop. Not to make generalizations or anything. And it's not like you could be in the bar without paying the Sloan ticket price, so I'm guessing someone only in it for the game would have gone to one of the other no-cover bars just a few doors down.

So poor Thunderbirds Are Now! start their set, and they sound pretty awesome. Keyboard! I hear a keyboard! But the plays taking place as the Colts beat the Patriots were garnering much larger cheers. You had to sort of feel sad for the band, that Tony Dungy was getting a louder reaction from indie rock fans than they were. One dude was such a huge Colts fan, I thought he might strike me down in his exhilirating attempt to share a high-five. Dude turned out to be a huge Sloan fan, too, standing right behind us for most of the show until he disappeared, no doubt too overcome by all the football and CanRock excitement to remain upright any longer.

What I want to tell you is this: once we made our way to the stage after the game was over, we were treated to one hell of a show by Thunderbirds Are Now!. Specifically, their keyboard/tambourine player. Their sweaty, hyperactive, phenomenal keyboard/tambourine player, who is nothing less than the heir to the Flashing Lights' keyboard playing, tambourine shaking, cape wearing savant Gaven Dianda. Though Gaven continues to make music with various outfits -- and though my Thunderbirds hero was not wearing a cape -- I am glad to see someone else continuing in the general direction of misunderstood genius keyboarder tambourinist.

You should all go buy their albums.

Please do not anger the Italian ice dancer

Maurizio Margaglio dropped Barbara Fusa Poli during their original ice dance program at the Olympics this weekend. It knocked them out of first place. I'm sure he didn't mean it; surely ice dancing can be brutal and tricky.

Still, Barbara is not having any of it:

He better go to the mattresses.

Hold on, I'm about to win this game of Minesweeper

What is Apolo doing?

A. Blogging
B. Burninating
C. Watching the Kid Rock-Scott Stapp sex tape
D. Getting a car insurance rate, and the rates of several other companies
E. E-mailing himself the recipe for the gingerbread AT-AT

Alas, it's none of the above. In truth, AAO is examining a video of his training session. I hope such rigor and dedication will result in gold medals, unlike showboaty Lindsey, who was no doubt contributing to theflyingtomato.net right before the women's Snowboard Cross finals.

And the Danish judge grants a perfect 6.0 for glove merit

If Johnny Weir's orange glove is meant to represent the beak of a swan named "Camille:"

Then clearly Evan Lysacek's hand-gear signifies a rooster's wattle:

I LOVE THE OLYMPICS.

(Not to mention the fantastic disarray of the Short Track 5,000m Relay, which looks more like Dick Cheney's wayward birdshot than an organized athletic test. And my favorite new event, Snowboard Cross. I hope I am around 100 years from now when people will nod politely at the quaint nostalgic charm of this event. For now, though, it is novel and ridiculous and marvelous: similar to the Short Track 5,000m Relay in its roller-derby chaos, only without the skates and the smokin' mixed-race sun god who broke up the Beatles.)