Friday, February 29, 2008
Sundays With Charlie
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
An old goalie stands in the corner of the arena, a ball cap covering his short, grey hair, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets as he waits for his internal clock to tell him it's time to disappear into the dressing room to get ready.
At 48, Dave Bone has been tending goal forever and, while he says out loud that the years have slowed him down, I don't think he believes it. Goalies, and I am one of them, might speak humbly but we still like to think we have some mongoose-like quickness and slinky-spined acrobatic moves in us.
At 10 years Dave's junior, I'm an old man in the crease. I often skate away from our old-timer games feeling mildly beaten and bruised but in that sort of good way that says I got some exercise and, yes, some pucks do still hit me. I can't imagine what it must feel like at Dave's age.
By the time an NHL goalie approaches 40 his career is either long over or, if he's still clinging to the game he's doing so as a wily backup who will rarely be thrown into battle. But at the local rink, 40 is the new 30. It's an age at which a goalie playing in the late-night old-timers leagues, toiling night in and night out in front of rows of empty bleachers, is in the prime of life. And at any community rink anywhere in Canada – Dave, at 48, is just a kid. If we were auctioned off on eBay, guys like Dave Bone and I would be described as "used but in good condition."
As we stand talking shop in the corner of the arena, we're watching, and marveling, at another old goalie. Charlie Estey, a day after turning 60, is on the ice backstopping the team he's anchored every Sunday for years - the Mehan's Funeral Home Blues. He started with them in a young-man's industrial League. He was old then, minding the nets in his 40s against players in their 20s. As the rest of the Blues crept up in age they shifted into a more gentle circuit for players 35 and older. Even in the so-called Rusty Blades league, Charlie is the elder statesman.
It all started in high school, he said, back when face masks were unheard of. He later tried to make a go of playing a more sensible position as a skater but was traded before a game just moments before the puck dropped. He reported to his new team and there was a set of goalie gear waiting for him. Charlie was back in nets for good.
Dave and I shake our heads watching him stand in front of pucks or drop to his knees to cover a loose rebound. Neither of us can imagine ourselves doing the same at 60. We're not really sure how Charlie does it. I've never actually seen him stretch out before a game. I've jokingly asked him about his training regiment and he just smiles and mutters something about beer or smokes or dancing at the legion.
Before the game Sunday his teammates honoured his 60th birthday in typical teammate fashion - by ribbing him into oblivion. They read him a poem that's best left in the sanctuary of the dressing room.
The game was like any of the other thousands Charlie has played over the years. An opposing skater barely more than half Charlie's age skates too close to the goal crease and, as natural as taking a breath, Charlie gives him a little whack with his goal stick. Thirty years ago the same move would have cracked right to the bone and likely spark a brawl but now it's more of a mellow "Hi, how are ya?" tap – a reminder to the skater that if this wasn't a gents' game he'd be looking for an ice pack right now.
The old lion barks out direction to his defencemen. Like the slash, some of the fire is gone from this part of his game that used to include some legendary dust-ups with teammates. No goalie likes to get scored on but Charlie hates it. And if the puck is in the back of the net, he's never been shy to let teammates know the role they played in getting it there.
That's Charlie being Charlie.
Sunday's game marked a milestone few of us goalies will ever reach. Even though the Blues were in tough and lost it 4-3, through Charlie's protective cage there was a smile. He couldn't possibly count how many games he's played, how many saves, how many bruises and scars. Safe to say Sunday wasn't his last.
Charlie has found his fountain of youth. It just happens to be frozen.
01/19/08
Labels: Canada, goalies, hockey, old, seniors
Monday, April 03, 2006
Simple, squirrelly, soccer
(Telegraph-Journal, June 13, 2005)
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
There is no simpler game than soccer.
OK, "Belching Contest" is pretty simple.
All right, fine. So is "Who Has The Best Scar?"
But in the wide world of sports, soccer is paint-by-numbers.
Soccer is so simple the balls don't even come with instructions. If they did, they would be, "See ball. Kick."
Soccer does actually have a few rules to cover the basics of the game such as what players are allowed to kick (balls - good; foreheads - not so much). And I learned another actual soccer rule last week at my five-year-old daughter's practice - if there is a mud puddle of any size anywhere on or near the actual field of play, the ball must land in it. Apparently there’s another rule that every player on the field, as well as several toddlers who are there because their parents couldn't find a sitter, must also land in it.
The most basic rules of the game, though, are - don't use your hands and don't kick, push or spit.
That pretty much covers the spectators.
Soccer fans need those rules because they are, clinically speaking, squirrelly. We know this because every time we, in North America, are exposed to soccer it's through TV news stories about huge crowds of fans beating each other up, setting stuff on fire or breaking things, such as large stadiums.
Soccer fans are so dangerously crazy that a recent game between Japan and North Korea was played in an empty stadium in Bangkok over fears that the “passion” of North Korean fans would be displayed by “killing something” to support the team. In March, for example, they demonstrated their "passion" by hurling rocks and bottles because... a referee didn't call a penalty on an opposing Iranian player.
After the match, Iran's coach sputtered one of those old sporting clichés that we always hear from professional athletes, "It is very disappointing when you feel your life is not safe."
But the potential for death is only a small part of soccer. It’s the players who create the real excitement of soccer with highlight-reel plays like the corner kick, the free kick, the goal kick and... the penalty kick.
So, with the basics of the game mastered, it's time to explore some of soccer's nuances. Such as the little-known fact that in England, where soccer is compared to NASCAR without the speed and excitement, the game is called "football."
They do that because the English, in their lust to be difficult, have come up with a different name for everything. They call an “elevator” a "lift," a car “hood” a "bonnet" and our kind of “football” is “rugby for children and the elderly.”
But the English name “football” makes some sense - mainly because of soccer's number one rule, the whole "no hands" thing. In North America, "football" is called "soccer" because the name "football" was already taken by a game in which players spend 98 per cent of their time USING THEIR HANDS.
For one per cent of the game, a kicker (usually a former soccer player) "kicks" the football with his actual foot. This is the part of the game that has fans totally riveted... to their fridges and/or toilets. They’d rather miss the kicking than the commercials which, like FOX News, often feature talking reptiles.
Oh, and if you were doing the math, and wondering what happens during the other one per cent of the football game... that's when the players hold their belching contest.
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
There is no simpler game than soccer.
OK, "Belching Contest" is pretty simple.
All right, fine. So is "Who Has The Best Scar?"
But in the wide world of sports, soccer is paint-by-numbers.
Soccer is so simple the balls don't even come with instructions. If they did, they would be, "See ball. Kick."
Soccer does actually have a few rules to cover the basics of the game such as what players are allowed to kick (balls - good; foreheads - not so much). And I learned another actual soccer rule last week at my five-year-old daughter's practice - if there is a mud puddle of any size anywhere on or near the actual field of play, the ball must land in it. Apparently there’s another rule that every player on the field, as well as several toddlers who are there because their parents couldn't find a sitter, must also land in it.
The most basic rules of the game, though, are - don't use your hands and don't kick, push or spit.
That pretty much covers the spectators.
Soccer fans need those rules because they are, clinically speaking, squirrelly. We know this because every time we, in North America, are exposed to soccer it's through TV news stories about huge crowds of fans beating each other up, setting stuff on fire or breaking things, such as large stadiums.
Soccer fans are so dangerously crazy that a recent game between Japan and North Korea was played in an empty stadium in Bangkok over fears that the “passion” of North Korean fans would be displayed by “killing something” to support the team. In March, for example, they demonstrated their "passion" by hurling rocks and bottles because... a referee didn't call a penalty on an opposing Iranian player.
After the match, Iran's coach sputtered one of those old sporting clichés that we always hear from professional athletes, "It is very disappointing when you feel your life is not safe."
But the potential for death is only a small part of soccer. It’s the players who create the real excitement of soccer with highlight-reel plays like the corner kick, the free kick, the goal kick and... the penalty kick.
So, with the basics of the game mastered, it's time to explore some of soccer's nuances. Such as the little-known fact that in England, where soccer is compared to NASCAR without the speed and excitement, the game is called "football."
They do that because the English, in their lust to be difficult, have come up with a different name for everything. They call an “elevator” a "lift," a car “hood” a "bonnet" and our kind of “football” is “rugby for children and the elderly.”
But the English name “football” makes some sense - mainly because of soccer's number one rule, the whole "no hands" thing. In North America, "football" is called "soccer" because the name "football" was already taken by a game in which players spend 98 per cent of their time USING THEIR HANDS.
For one per cent of the game, a kicker (usually a former soccer player) "kicks" the football with his actual foot. This is the part of the game that has fans totally riveted... to their fridges and/or toilets. They’d rather miss the kicking than the commercials which, like FOX News, often feature talking reptiles.
Oh, and if you were doing the math, and wondering what happens during the other one per cent of the football game... that's when the players hold their belching contest.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Love hurts for raging ravens and Cadillac owners
(Telegraph-Journal)
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
So, it's that uncomfortable time when a columnist has to sit down with his readers for a talk about the birds and the, well, in this case, Chevy Uplanders.
See, when people reach a certain stage in their development, they notice changes. Boys, for example, start to pay attention to Speed Stick. And girls, no matter how much you try to reason with them, will refuse to believe that Ashton Kutcher isn't really a very good actor.
And birds, well, birds start to notice, and I mean really, really "notice," sport utility vehicles, pick-up trucks and Cadillacs.
The intense noticing is caused by “hormones” which are also a leading cause of salmon swimming upstream and guys dancing at weddings with their neckties tied around their heads.
People in the city of Moncton, New Brunswick, learned all about bird hormones this spring when a group of ravens started to "notice" vehicles at the city’s industrial park.
In their passionate noticing they caused about $15,000 in damage while our supposed "Defense Department" does nothing.
University professor Gay Hansen, a bird expert, said the destructive behavior is caused by raging raven hormones. Bird hormones are so powerful that they can make even a Hyundai look appealing... in a certain light... and with just the right Dido song playing softly from its FM radio.
Now, love is complex. It means many things to many people... or forms of wildlife. I don’t know if this is love but when a male raven looks into a shiny car door and sees his reflection, he doesn't do a quick scan for nose hairs or flex his wing to see if he’s ripped. He thinks he's looking at another raven and, logically, tries to greet the new acquaintance by pecking it to death, as love-struck ravens will do.
This is because ravens are territorial birds, meaning they have brains the size of pistachio nuts. We know this because when ravens aren’t demonstrating their love by attacking motor vehicles, they’re showing it by jumping on Oprah’s couch.
And it isn't just ravens that are going berserk. In Florida, peacocks are terrorizing rich retired people who live near places like the Chassahowitzka National Wildlife Refuge (pronounced "reff-yooj").
The birds are strutting, scratching paint off cars and bashing their beaks into windows, which, really, is not the kind of behavior you would expect of a peacock. A disgruntled Paris Hilton, perhaps, but I always thought peacocks were above this kind of thing.
I didn’t know peacocks could be violent. It’s another one of nature's miracles that a creature can be described as both "terrorizing" and "flamboyantly showy."
But peacock victim Janet DeVico’s story reveals birds that are more Russell Crowe than Elton John. The birds pecked her new Cadillac to death.
"Whoever dreamed that when you buy a car, it'd be ruined by peacocks," she said. "I mean, come on."
Raven victims in Moncton solved their problem by hiring a pest control company to trap the birds (opening a minivan door and telling them to hop in if they want ice cream then driving them to a Florida retirement community is an excellent raven removal technique).
But the peacock problem is more explosive in Florida. I know this because a pest control guy said the peacock problem in Florida "explosive” because opinions on the birds are mixed. Some people see them as poop-making feathery bags of vermin while the others see them as "showy" poop-making feathery bags of vermin.
The bird expert in Moncton says relax, the pecking will stop when breeding season ends.
Or as scientists put it -- and there's just no sugar-coating this -- their gonads will recede (the ravens', not the scientists').
This raises several important questions. Can you say "receding raven gonads" in a newspaper? If so, can you say it five times fast? And can you cover a receding gonad with a comb-over?
I mean, come on!
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
So, it's that uncomfortable time when a columnist has to sit down with his readers for a talk about the birds and the, well, in this case, Chevy Uplanders.
See, when people reach a certain stage in their development, they notice changes. Boys, for example, start to pay attention to Speed Stick. And girls, no matter how much you try to reason with them, will refuse to believe that Ashton Kutcher isn't really a very good actor.
And birds, well, birds start to notice, and I mean really, really "notice," sport utility vehicles, pick-up trucks and Cadillacs.
The intense noticing is caused by “hormones” which are also a leading cause of salmon swimming upstream and guys dancing at weddings with their neckties tied around their heads.
People in the city of Moncton, New Brunswick, learned all about bird hormones this spring when a group of ravens started to "notice" vehicles at the city’s industrial park.
In their passionate noticing they caused about $15,000 in damage while our supposed "Defense Department" does nothing.
University professor Gay Hansen, a bird expert, said the destructive behavior is caused by raging raven hormones. Bird hormones are so powerful that they can make even a Hyundai look appealing... in a certain light... and with just the right Dido song playing softly from its FM radio.
Now, love is complex. It means many things to many people... or forms of wildlife. I don’t know if this is love but when a male raven looks into a shiny car door and sees his reflection, he doesn't do a quick scan for nose hairs or flex his wing to see if he’s ripped. He thinks he's looking at another raven and, logically, tries to greet the new acquaintance by pecking it to death, as love-struck ravens will do.
This is because ravens are territorial birds, meaning they have brains the size of pistachio nuts. We know this because when ravens aren’t demonstrating their love by attacking motor vehicles, they’re showing it by jumping on Oprah’s couch.
And it isn't just ravens that are going berserk. In Florida, peacocks are terrorizing rich retired people who live near places like the Chassahowitzka National Wildlife Refuge (pronounced "reff-yooj").
The birds are strutting, scratching paint off cars and bashing their beaks into windows, which, really, is not the kind of behavior you would expect of a peacock. A disgruntled Paris Hilton, perhaps, but I always thought peacocks were above this kind of thing.
I didn’t know peacocks could be violent. It’s another one of nature's miracles that a creature can be described as both "terrorizing" and "flamboyantly showy."
But peacock victim Janet DeVico’s story reveals birds that are more Russell Crowe than Elton John. The birds pecked her new Cadillac to death.
"Whoever dreamed that when you buy a car, it'd be ruined by peacocks," she said. "I mean, come on."
Raven victims in Moncton solved their problem by hiring a pest control company to trap the birds (opening a minivan door and telling them to hop in if they want ice cream then driving them to a Florida retirement community is an excellent raven removal technique).
But the peacock problem is more explosive in Florida. I know this because a pest control guy said the peacock problem in Florida "explosive” because opinions on the birds are mixed. Some people see them as poop-making feathery bags of vermin while the others see them as "showy" poop-making feathery bags of vermin.
The bird expert in Moncton says relax, the pecking will stop when breeding season ends.
Or as scientists put it -- and there's just no sugar-coating this -- their gonads will recede (the ravens', not the scientists').
This raises several important questions. Can you say "receding raven gonads" in a newspaper? If so, can you say it five times fast? And can you cover a receding gonad with a comb-over?
I mean, come on!
Engaging questions popping up everywhere
(Telegraph-Journal, May 23, 2005; Also, in another version called Popping the question, The Penguin Anthology of Canadian Humour, March 2006)
Chuck Brown
Out There
Today's important topic is one to which most of us can relate - guys who propose marriage by having the engagement ring delivered by a really cute kitty and the friends who mock them.
I have a friend (who I'll identify only as Jim Rice over concerns that using his real name will result in my face being struck by a solid object, possibly a nine-iron) who did just that.
It's so romantic and sweet that when I heard about it for the first time I truly thought I was going to yarf on the spot (the spot being my friend's linoleum).
I asked him for details about how and why he proposed using a kitten and my friend looked deep into his heart to reply, "Shut up, Chuck."
The kitty proposal is one of those cultural turning points that will change the world of guys forever. It's like the first time a guy picked up his prom date in a limo and now every guy has to do it or risk being labeled "rational" or "sane."
It's like that time at the Zodiac Roller Rink when I was 12 and the DJ announced a "Moonlight Skate for couples only" and all the guys gathered to resume our ongoing debate about whether Darth Vader could beat up Jaws. But when we looked for input from our buddy Forbes, he was Moonlight Skating... with a girl!
After that, we all had to Moonlight Skate and soon after that we all had to Moonlight Skate... with girls!
Those early, awkward pairings were our first steps on the road to maturity. We became more self-aware and introspective and we demonstrated this by using hair mousse and sniffing our clothes before wearing them to school to make sure they didn't smell like wet goat.
And now, thanks to my friend, Jim Rice, guys have to put a lot more thought (OK, thought) into how to propose marriage.
The days of guys popping the question the old-fashioned way - on stadium scoreboards - are gone. And guys can't just copy the kitten idea. They have to be different. And not just different like, using a gopher instead of a kitten different. Guys will have to come up with an Original Idea.
Creativity comes easily when guys are, say, trying to fix a leaky pipe so they don't have to call a plumber but not so easily when guys are, say, asking someone to join them in a binding union until one of them dies, or meets someone better in an Internet chat room.
Unable to top my friend's kitty scheme, guys will turn anywhere for inspiration. Maybe even here.
And I have found a doozie. Propose by e-mail. That's number 24 on a list of engagement ideas on the website Diamond Helpers.com
They are telling guys to e-mail their bride-to-be a picture of a diamond along with the message, "Will you marry me?"
The site also suggests timing the delivery so you can see her reaction. I think it's an excellent idea, if by "reaction" they mean, "feelings of confusion, anger, dejection, more confusion then laughter through tears as she tells co-workers that the guy she thought she loved actually proposed in an e-mail."
As impersonal as an e-mail proposal is, I like it better than number 26 on the list - hide the ring in the butter dish. Or number 34, which I am not making up, train a parrot to say, "Will you marry me."
I also found a story about a guy in Florida who created a fake lottery ticket, which his now-wife scratched to reveal a picture of a diamond ring and the message, "Will you marry me?"
Awww. I'm no a bride-to-be but something tells me that proposal is just about as sweet and gross as my friend with the kitten.
And now I know why they did it. They are victims of chicken poisoning.
Last year Glamour magazine printed a recipe for Engagement Chicken and has since received dozens of letters from women saying it worked.
I'm glad it worked on my friend, Jim Rice, and his fiancée because mature guys like me love going to weddings.
When the DJ plays a Moonlight Dance for couples only, it gives us a chance to debate whether a DeWalt Heavy-Duty Reciprocating Saw could beat up a Hummer.
Chuck Brown
Out There
Today's important topic is one to which most of us can relate - guys who propose marriage by having the engagement ring delivered by a really cute kitty and the friends who mock them.
I have a friend (who I'll identify only as Jim Rice over concerns that using his real name will result in my face being struck by a solid object, possibly a nine-iron) who did just that.
It's so romantic and sweet that when I heard about it for the first time I truly thought I was going to yarf on the spot (the spot being my friend's linoleum).
I asked him for details about how and why he proposed using a kitten and my friend looked deep into his heart to reply, "Shut up, Chuck."
The kitty proposal is one of those cultural turning points that will change the world of guys forever. It's like the first time a guy picked up his prom date in a limo and now every guy has to do it or risk being labeled "rational" or "sane."
It's like that time at the Zodiac Roller Rink when I was 12 and the DJ announced a "Moonlight Skate for couples only" and all the guys gathered to resume our ongoing debate about whether Darth Vader could beat up Jaws. But when we looked for input from our buddy Forbes, he was Moonlight Skating... with a girl!
After that, we all had to Moonlight Skate and soon after that we all had to Moonlight Skate... with girls!
Those early, awkward pairings were our first steps on the road to maturity. We became more self-aware and introspective and we demonstrated this by using hair mousse and sniffing our clothes before wearing them to school to make sure they didn't smell like wet goat.
And now, thanks to my friend, Jim Rice, guys have to put a lot more thought (OK, thought) into how to propose marriage.
The days of guys popping the question the old-fashioned way - on stadium scoreboards - are gone. And guys can't just copy the kitten idea. They have to be different. And not just different like, using a gopher instead of a kitten different. Guys will have to come up with an Original Idea.
Creativity comes easily when guys are, say, trying to fix a leaky pipe so they don't have to call a plumber but not so easily when guys are, say, asking someone to join them in a binding union until one of them dies, or meets someone better in an Internet chat room.
Unable to top my friend's kitty scheme, guys will turn anywhere for inspiration. Maybe even here.
And I have found a doozie. Propose by e-mail. That's number 24 on a list of engagement ideas on the website Diamond Helpers.com
They are telling guys to e-mail their bride-to-be a picture of a diamond along with the message, "Will you marry me?"
The site also suggests timing the delivery so you can see her reaction. I think it's an excellent idea, if by "reaction" they mean, "feelings of confusion, anger, dejection, more confusion then laughter through tears as she tells co-workers that the guy she thought she loved actually proposed in an e-mail."
As impersonal as an e-mail proposal is, I like it better than number 26 on the list - hide the ring in the butter dish. Or number 34, which I am not making up, train a parrot to say, "Will you marry me."
I also found a story about a guy in Florida who created a fake lottery ticket, which his now-wife scratched to reveal a picture of a diamond ring and the message, "Will you marry me?"
Awww. I'm no a bride-to-be but something tells me that proposal is just about as sweet and gross as my friend with the kitten.
And now I know why they did it. They are victims of chicken poisoning.
Last year Glamour magazine printed a recipe for Engagement Chicken and has since received dozens of letters from women saying it worked.
I'm glad it worked on my friend, Jim Rice, and his fiancée because mature guys like me love going to weddings.
When the DJ plays a Moonlight Dance for couples only, it gives us a chance to debate whether a DeWalt Heavy-Duty Reciprocating Saw could beat up a Hummer.
This Super Bowl is brought to you by . . .
(Guelph Mercuty, Feb, 4, 2006)
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
Hello football fans and people who don't so much care for football or sports in general but who will still tune in to 25 hours of Super Bowl pre-game, halftime, post-game and roughly 60 minutes of actual game tomorrow!
Welcome to my Tater Tots Super Bowl XL column, brought to you by Tater Tots! Remember, if you aren't serving your family Tater Tots frozen potato fun shapes, you probably don't really love them (your family, that is, because everyone LOVES Tater Tots!).
If you're like me, anticipation for tomorrow's big game has you drooling like Dr. Phil at a Krispy Kreme buffet. I am totally jacked, stoked, revved, amped and even somewhat hyped about what is sure to be a classic matchup between the team from Pittsburgh and their challengers, known in football lingo as "the other team.''
Go team, I say.
And that brings us to the pivotal fourth paragraph of my Tater Tots Super Bowl XL column. The fourth paragraph, brought to you by Laurentien brand coloured pencils, the finest name in coloured pencils since 1951. Laurentien -- please don't stab your classmates with us even if they did call you a "booger-eating booger-head!''
Now back to the game . . . er . . . column. Here are my Ab Doer II Keys to the Super Bowl, as determined through extensive statistical analysis otherwise known as "stuff I think I might have heard somewhere so it's probably true.''
INJURIES: This will be a major factor. I predict you'll see at least a half dozen groin strains . . . and that's just during the Rolling Stones halftime show.
THE LONG SNAPPER: This is among the most demanding jobs in all of sports, mainly because it's really, really hard to impress girls by telling them you're the long snapper. And if your name is John, the Long John Snapper jokes get old fast.
MOUTH GUARDS: This is one of the most vital pieces of equipment in any Super Bowl, not only for its ability to protect players from head injuries but, in an emergency, for preventing John Madden from eating an entire punting unit.
SPORTSMANSHIP: You and I don't have jobs that allow us to do The Worm, The Sprinkler, The Dirty Bird or The Ickey Shuffle every time we complete the task we're paid for so we'll have to live through the players as we watch Sunday's heroes celebrate their accomplishments in flamboyant style.
The various touchdown celebrations will either entertain or infuriate you or maybe they'll inspire you. (Note: The Monday after the Super Bowl is the only day of the year you might . . . MIGHT . . . be able to get away with an Electric Slide to celebrate finishing the Johnson account).
Now that you know what to look for during the game, let's dig in to the truly important stuff with my Hot Smoothie Guide to Super Bowl Party Etiquette. Remember, Hot Smoothie, the No. 1 choice in pastel-coloured novelty beverage treats served at odd temperatures. That's Hot Smoothie -- it seemed like a good idea to someone!
The key to being a hit at your Super Bowl Party is simple: don't be a doofus. I know it sounds like a tall order -- I'm looking at you, James Frey -- but anyone can do it.
With good coaching and a 110 per cent effort, YOU can impress all your sloppy, nacho-filled friends just by following this guide to WHAT NOT TO SAY AT THE SUPER BOWL PARTY . . .
Stop talking about football! I'm trying to listen to India.Arie!
So . . . anyone seen Brokeback Mountain? Note: Rule does not apply if you're at a Super Bowl party at Big Gay Tex's Chick'n'Rib Emporium.
Can we flick to the Marple Mystery on CBC?
Hey Doug, check out MY wardrobe malfunction.
Have some more chili, everyone, we still haven't found my daughter's missing retainer.
If you don't trust yourself to not say something doofusish, there's an even simpler, more foolproof way for you to optimize your Super Bowl experience: drink beer, eat snacks, say, "Nice play.'' Repeat.
And please, don't forget to support our sponsors.
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
Hello football fans and people who don't so much care for football or sports in general but who will still tune in to 25 hours of Super Bowl pre-game, halftime, post-game and roughly 60 minutes of actual game tomorrow!
Welcome to my Tater Tots Super Bowl XL column, brought to you by Tater Tots! Remember, if you aren't serving your family Tater Tots frozen potato fun shapes, you probably don't really love them (your family, that is, because everyone LOVES Tater Tots!).
If you're like me, anticipation for tomorrow's big game has you drooling like Dr. Phil at a Krispy Kreme buffet. I am totally jacked, stoked, revved, amped and even somewhat hyped about what is sure to be a classic matchup between the team from Pittsburgh and their challengers, known in football lingo as "the other team.''
Go team, I say.
And that brings us to the pivotal fourth paragraph of my Tater Tots Super Bowl XL column. The fourth paragraph, brought to you by Laurentien brand coloured pencils, the finest name in coloured pencils since 1951. Laurentien -- please don't stab your classmates with us even if they did call you a "booger-eating booger-head!''
Now back to the game . . . er . . . column. Here are my Ab Doer II Keys to the Super Bowl, as determined through extensive statistical analysis otherwise known as "stuff I think I might have heard somewhere so it's probably true.''
INJURIES: This will be a major factor. I predict you'll see at least a half dozen groin strains . . . and that's just during the Rolling Stones halftime show.
THE LONG SNAPPER: This is among the most demanding jobs in all of sports, mainly because it's really, really hard to impress girls by telling them you're the long snapper. And if your name is John, the Long John Snapper jokes get old fast.
MOUTH GUARDS: This is one of the most vital pieces of equipment in any Super Bowl, not only for its ability to protect players from head injuries but, in an emergency, for preventing John Madden from eating an entire punting unit.
SPORTSMANSHIP: You and I don't have jobs that allow us to do The Worm, The Sprinkler, The Dirty Bird or The Ickey Shuffle every time we complete the task we're paid for so we'll have to live through the players as we watch Sunday's heroes celebrate their accomplishments in flamboyant style.
The various touchdown celebrations will either entertain or infuriate you or maybe they'll inspire you. (Note: The Monday after the Super Bowl is the only day of the year you might . . . MIGHT . . . be able to get away with an Electric Slide to celebrate finishing the Johnson account).
Now that you know what to look for during the game, let's dig in to the truly important stuff with my Hot Smoothie Guide to Super Bowl Party Etiquette. Remember, Hot Smoothie, the No. 1 choice in pastel-coloured novelty beverage treats served at odd temperatures. That's Hot Smoothie -- it seemed like a good idea to someone!
The key to being a hit at your Super Bowl Party is simple: don't be a doofus. I know it sounds like a tall order -- I'm looking at you, James Frey -- but anyone can do it.
With good coaching and a 110 per cent effort, YOU can impress all your sloppy, nacho-filled friends just by following this guide to WHAT NOT TO SAY AT THE SUPER BOWL PARTY . . .
Stop talking about football! I'm trying to listen to India.Arie!
So . . . anyone seen Brokeback Mountain? Note: Rule does not apply if you're at a Super Bowl party at Big Gay Tex's Chick'n'Rib Emporium.
Can we flick to the Marple Mystery on CBC?
Hey Doug, check out MY wardrobe malfunction.
Have some more chili, everyone, we still haven't found my daughter's missing retainer.
If you don't trust yourself to not say something doofusish, there's an even simpler, more foolproof way for you to optimize your Super Bowl experience: drink beer, eat snacks, say, "Nice play.'' Repeat.
And please, don't forget to support our sponsors.
'Must have been the dog' excuse no longer cuts it
(Guelph Mercury, April 1, 2006)
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
Our family dog, Lucy, is a relatively personable animal, for a herding dog, who only occasionally tries to bite people and only if they try to break away from the flock. Those people, in doggy terms, had it coming.
Most of the time, though, she's much calmer, with emotions ranging from "asleep" to "just resting." This is because she turns nine today, or, in people years, Cher age.
But Lucy has her charms. She has sad-looking eyes which she uses to will people to give her something to chew on -- she prefers crunchy, cheesy or lamby. If the sad eyes fail, she barks. We don't know what happens if the barking fails. It never fails.
We've learned to live with the herd-dog edginess and the diva-like demands to give Lucy a good life, but she's still a dog and she still gets accused of plenty of wrongdoing.
She's been blamed for eating anything from our daughter's leftover Kraft Dinner that had long ago congealed into a macaroni tetherball to a KFC snack pack -- we never did find the coleslaw cup -- to, well, I don't know how else to describe the stuff she finds in Sassy the cat's litter box other than by using the technical term "poopsicles."
The other main digression for which Lucy catches blame is barfing on the rug, something she likes to do after a satisfying meal of almost anything but dog food.
She never barfs on linoleum or tile or wood floors. She likes the rug. Only she knows why and, unfortunately, she forgets about three seconds after she barfs because, as a dog, she has her mind on more important matters, namely, "Mmmm. Barf. I wonder who put that there."
Lucy then eats it because, like all dogs, she shares Tom Green's sense of humour. And when she eats it, the entire family cringes and says, "Ewwwwww!" but no one actually jumps in to stop her because we're all thinking, "Phwew. At least I don't have to clean THAT up."
But while Lucy gets accused of many things, she is most proper in the area of gaseous emissions. She never takes the fall for someone else's indiscretions because Lucy, ever the lady -- puke-breath notwithstanding -- simply doesn't engage in any "pull-my-finger" style shenanigans.
We've talked to a vet about this, but as long as she doesn't inflate to the size of Michael Moore, she's fine.
Not all dogs have this problem of course. Dogs, as a species, are generally well known for their room-clearing ability. They commonly release things into the atmosphere that make the eyes of their human owners water as they question whether there's a (CHOOSE ANY COMBINATION OF TWO: squirrel that died at Woodstock, wheel of gourmet cheese or teenager doused in Axe body spray) in the room.
This canine-induced air pollution is one of the reasons we can be thankful for Science. Because Science has conquered and cured all major medical conditions -- except a few like bird flu, cancer, Alzheimer's, the common cold and Simon Cowell -- it has turned its attention to the dog.
A company called Flat-D Innovations Inc. has developed a type of "thong" that neutralizes dog gas. Called, creatively, the Dog Gas Neutralizing Pad, the company claims the device, a washable charcoal cloth, eliminates odours caused by dog "flatus'' (or, in scientific terminology, "barking spiders'' or a "crunchy frog.'' And, they say, the dog gas-catching thong is comfortable to wear. This raises an important question that we hope never gets answered -- how do they know?
Flat D's neutralizing pad also raises a more serious concern -- who will guys blame if they can't blame the dog? Is the science behind the dog thong taking us back to a time when we blamed miniature elephants and squeaky seat cushions?
Are we right back to the old "whoever smelt it dealt it" argument? And if we can no longer say, "Must've been the dog" about THAT, then who's to say we won't start getting blamed for the barf on the rug, too? I'm not sure I'm comfortable with letting dogs escape the finger of blame. I'll be less comfortable when I hear, "My dad ate my homework."
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
Our family dog, Lucy, is a relatively personable animal, for a herding dog, who only occasionally tries to bite people and only if they try to break away from the flock. Those people, in doggy terms, had it coming.
Most of the time, though, she's much calmer, with emotions ranging from "asleep" to "just resting." This is because she turns nine today, or, in people years, Cher age.
But Lucy has her charms. She has sad-looking eyes which she uses to will people to give her something to chew on -- she prefers crunchy, cheesy or lamby. If the sad eyes fail, she barks. We don't know what happens if the barking fails. It never fails.
We've learned to live with the herd-dog edginess and the diva-like demands to give Lucy a good life, but she's still a dog and she still gets accused of plenty of wrongdoing.
She's been blamed for eating anything from our daughter's leftover Kraft Dinner that had long ago congealed into a macaroni tetherball to a KFC snack pack -- we never did find the coleslaw cup -- to, well, I don't know how else to describe the stuff she finds in Sassy the cat's litter box other than by using the technical term "poopsicles."
The other main digression for which Lucy catches blame is barfing on the rug, something she likes to do after a satisfying meal of almost anything but dog food.
She never barfs on linoleum or tile or wood floors. She likes the rug. Only she knows why and, unfortunately, she forgets about three seconds after she barfs because, as a dog, she has her mind on more important matters, namely, "Mmmm. Barf. I wonder who put that there."
Lucy then eats it because, like all dogs, she shares Tom Green's sense of humour. And when she eats it, the entire family cringes and says, "Ewwwwww!" but no one actually jumps in to stop her because we're all thinking, "Phwew. At least I don't have to clean THAT up."
But while Lucy gets accused of many things, she is most proper in the area of gaseous emissions. She never takes the fall for someone else's indiscretions because Lucy, ever the lady -- puke-breath notwithstanding -- simply doesn't engage in any "pull-my-finger" style shenanigans.
We've talked to a vet about this, but as long as she doesn't inflate to the size of Michael Moore, she's fine.
Not all dogs have this problem of course. Dogs, as a species, are generally well known for their room-clearing ability. They commonly release things into the atmosphere that make the eyes of their human owners water as they question whether there's a (CHOOSE ANY COMBINATION OF TWO: squirrel that died at Woodstock, wheel of gourmet cheese or teenager doused in Axe body spray) in the room.
This canine-induced air pollution is one of the reasons we can be thankful for Science. Because Science has conquered and cured all major medical conditions -- except a few like bird flu, cancer, Alzheimer's, the common cold and Simon Cowell -- it has turned its attention to the dog.
A company called Flat-D Innovations Inc. has developed a type of "thong" that neutralizes dog gas. Called, creatively, the Dog Gas Neutralizing Pad, the company claims the device, a washable charcoal cloth, eliminates odours caused by dog "flatus'' (or, in scientific terminology, "barking spiders'' or a "crunchy frog.'' And, they say, the dog gas-catching thong is comfortable to wear. This raises an important question that we hope never gets answered -- how do they know?
Flat D's neutralizing pad also raises a more serious concern -- who will guys blame if they can't blame the dog? Is the science behind the dog thong taking us back to a time when we blamed miniature elephants and squeaky seat cushions?
Are we right back to the old "whoever smelt it dealt it" argument? And if we can no longer say, "Must've been the dog" about THAT, then who's to say we won't start getting blamed for the barf on the rug, too? I'm not sure I'm comfortable with letting dogs escape the finger of blame. I'll be less comfortable when I hear, "My dad ate my homework."
Now is the time to strengthen your resolution resolve
(Guelph Mercury, Feb. 18, 2006)
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
This is the time of year for us to start breaking all those ridiculous New Year's resolutions we made way back on Jan. 1 when, in a moment of weakness known as "wooo, yeah, more mango rum!" we laid out a plan to become better people.
After a few weeks pass, it's tough to stick to those promises.
Say, for example, you made a resolution to not shoot any of your 78-year-old friends in the face with a shotgun. And say, for example, you broke that resolution and shot your 78-year-old friend in the face with a shotgun. What do you do now?
Well, one thing you can't do is slide into a funk, give up on your resolution and start shooting all of your friends in the face.
What you can do is take that friend that you shot in the face and make lemonade. Think of it this way: that which does not kill you, makes you stronger.
Unless you happen to get shot in the face.
In that case, that which does not kill you lands you in intensive care full of bird shot and in constant danger that bits of metal will lodge themselves in your vital organs. On the upside, you got to miss The Pink Panther.
Here to help you get back on resolution track are some soothing words of advice from someone who can feel your pain. Note: the previous sentence does not apply to anyone who has been shot in the face; that pain I cannot relate to.
The resolution: I will quit smoking.
How's that working for you: I'm back smoking because I really, really, really, really like to smoke. Plus it makes me look cool.
Take it from me: I'd like to say that I've been there, that I totally understand your addiction and that I know how hard it is to quit. I'd like to say that because then I could feel smug and superior and powerful. But I've never quit smoking. I've never started smoking. But I think I can relate. I was once powerfully addicted to cargo pants. I couldn't wear anything else because they're comfortable and they have enough pockets to house an entire family of ferrets. I didn't have a homeless ferret family so my wife made me quit the cargos cold turkey. She made it easier when she said they made me look hippy.
The resolution: I will get in shape.
How's that working for you: My Speedo still makes me look like a giant kaiser bun.
Take it from me: I am in excellent shape (compared to the average manatee) because I play "old-timers hockey" or our version of hockey known as "fall down and try to make someone on the other team fall down with you." The activity helps fulfill government physical fitness guidelines, which I know because after playing I can feel a strong heartbeat in my nostrils and it doesn't go away until I've refuelled my body with, roughly, a brewery.
The resolution: I will clean my house.
How's that working for you: The house was clean for almost the first week of 2006, then Desperate Housewives came out of reruns and the ol' laundry just ain't doing itself.
Take it from me: The key to keeping a clean house is to first define "clean." If you start with the idea that clean means "free from dirt, pollution, contamination or disease" then you will be able to focus squarely on the important task of finding a new definition of clean. I like to go with, "free from livestock, decomposing tubers, visible dandruff and . . . well, let's just stick with the livestock thing and see how that goes."
The resolution: I will start doing research before I write stories and I will try to make them factual and informative.
How's that working for you: OK, OK, you got me. This was my resolution. So, how's it going? Well . . . Umm . . . let me just check something . . . bear with me I have to switch screens and go to Google for a quick sec . . . ah, yes, there it is. . . . the National Research Council of Canada says . . .oh never mind. Research is for sucks. Smart, well-paid, highly-respected sucks.
Take it from me: As you can see, I'm having a hard time with this resolution. I just can't see the big, as we say in journalism, whoop-de-do, about gathering facts and compiling credible data. Unless there's a chance that research starts saying things like cargo pants help promote hair growth with a possible side effect that causes pectoral buffness. Wear 'em if you got 'em.
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
This is the time of year for us to start breaking all those ridiculous New Year's resolutions we made way back on Jan. 1 when, in a moment of weakness known as "wooo, yeah, more mango rum!" we laid out a plan to become better people.
After a few weeks pass, it's tough to stick to those promises.
Say, for example, you made a resolution to not shoot any of your 78-year-old friends in the face with a shotgun. And say, for example, you broke that resolution and shot your 78-year-old friend in the face with a shotgun. What do you do now?
Well, one thing you can't do is slide into a funk, give up on your resolution and start shooting all of your friends in the face.
What you can do is take that friend that you shot in the face and make lemonade. Think of it this way: that which does not kill you, makes you stronger.
Unless you happen to get shot in the face.
In that case, that which does not kill you lands you in intensive care full of bird shot and in constant danger that bits of metal will lodge themselves in your vital organs. On the upside, you got to miss The Pink Panther.
Here to help you get back on resolution track are some soothing words of advice from someone who can feel your pain. Note: the previous sentence does not apply to anyone who has been shot in the face; that pain I cannot relate to.
The resolution: I will quit smoking.
How's that working for you: I'm back smoking because I really, really, really, really like to smoke. Plus it makes me look cool.
Take it from me: I'd like to say that I've been there, that I totally understand your addiction and that I know how hard it is to quit. I'd like to say that because then I could feel smug and superior and powerful. But I've never quit smoking. I've never started smoking. But I think I can relate. I was once powerfully addicted to cargo pants. I couldn't wear anything else because they're comfortable and they have enough pockets to house an entire family of ferrets. I didn't have a homeless ferret family so my wife made me quit the cargos cold turkey. She made it easier when she said they made me look hippy.
The resolution: I will get in shape.
How's that working for you: My Speedo still makes me look like a giant kaiser bun.
Take it from me: I am in excellent shape (compared to the average manatee) because I play "old-timers hockey" or our version of hockey known as "fall down and try to make someone on the other team fall down with you." The activity helps fulfill government physical fitness guidelines, which I know because after playing I can feel a strong heartbeat in my nostrils and it doesn't go away until I've refuelled my body with, roughly, a brewery.
The resolution: I will clean my house.
How's that working for you: The house was clean for almost the first week of 2006, then Desperate Housewives came out of reruns and the ol' laundry just ain't doing itself.
Take it from me: The key to keeping a clean house is to first define "clean." If you start with the idea that clean means "free from dirt, pollution, contamination or disease" then you will be able to focus squarely on the important task of finding a new definition of clean. I like to go with, "free from livestock, decomposing tubers, visible dandruff and . . . well, let's just stick with the livestock thing and see how that goes."
The resolution: I will start doing research before I write stories and I will try to make them factual and informative.
How's that working for you: OK, OK, you got me. This was my resolution. So, how's it going? Well . . . Umm . . . let me just check something . . . bear with me I have to switch screens and go to Google for a quick sec . . . ah, yes, there it is. . . . the National Research Council of Canada says . . .oh never mind. Research is for sucks. Smart, well-paid, highly-respected sucks.
Take it from me: As you can see, I'm having a hard time with this resolution. I just can't see the big, as we say in journalism, whoop-de-do, about gathering facts and compiling credible data. Unless there's a chance that research starts saying things like cargo pants help promote hair growth with a possible side effect that causes pectoral buffness. Wear 'em if you got 'em.
Valentine's Day: If you're not scared, you're not a guy
(Guelph Mercury, Feb. 11, 2006)
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
February's arrival means different things to different people.
I, for one, stuck my head out the door on Groundhog Day and saw that Danish embassies were burning, the American deficit had hit $423 billion and gecko lizards are giving toddlers in Florida salmonella.
Needless to say, I went back to bed with a tub of mint chocolate chip and the Hart to Hart Season One DVD set.
But with Groundhog Day behind us, my thoughts have turned to more important issues.
Like how to survive Valentine's Day.
For sensitive, caring, emotionally balanced people, Valentine's Day is a chance for couples to set aside that all-too-rare time together, to take a time out for love and reaffirm the warmth they feel in their hearts on a cold winter day.
For the rest of the population, known collectively as "guys," Feb. 14 means pitchers and catchers will be reporting for spring training any old time now.
Did you catch the subtle difference in those two interpretations of Valentine's Day? Here's a breakdown.
"Sensitive, caring, emotionally balanced people'' like to spend time with loved ones while doing things like nurturing their spirit by, say, snuggling.
Guys like to spend time watching sports with other guys while doing things like nurturing their spirit by, say, seeing who can fit the most jalapeno peppers in their mouth and still whistle the Gilligan's Island theme. I know the previous statements are sweeping generalizations and some people would say to me, "Jeff, you've over-simplified some rather complex sociological issues.''
To which I would say, "Chuck. It's Chuck, not Jeff.''
I would also say, "What, pray, is so wrong with oversimplifying things?''
Oversimplifying is one of my more endearing characteristics. It's the kind of thinking that makes me an excellent father. I know, for example, that if a baby is upset it's either because she's hungry, she needs to belch or she's wet herself. I can relate. There aren't many problems that can't be solved with Cheezits, a guttural emission or a fresh set of Fruit of the Looms.
And that's exactly why Valentine's Day is such a special, special day ("day'' in the sense of "monumental problem'').
There is nothing simple about it and guys just aren't emotionally intelligent enough to have figured out Valentine's Day. In fact, guys just aren't emotionally intelligent enough to have figured out potpourri, making the bed or fabric softener either.
It's not that we don't want to do something special for Valentine's, it's just that we want to do something special AND easy.
Ask the guy in your life what he wants for Valentine's Day and when he finishes chortling like Beavis, ask him, "No, seriously, what?'' and there's a good chance he'll say, "For the special person in my life to tell me I don't have to worry about shopping for a gift.''
When you've stopped beating him with his remote control, try to see the poor guy's point. The pressure is suffocating, the options are endless.
Does the guy go with something romantic, like obscenely shaped chocolates? Or does he opt for something cute, like a googlie-eyed, heart-shaped plush toy that comes in an "I Heart You'' coffee mug? Or what about something classy, something just for her, like an Orange County Choppers thong?
If you have any pity for your guy, end his torment and pick yourself up a nice Valentine's gift and give it to you, from him.
Then you can enjoy an intimate Valentine's dinner where you can enjoy each other's company, gaze into each other's eyes and talk . . . maybe about the balk rule.
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
February's arrival means different things to different people.
I, for one, stuck my head out the door on Groundhog Day and saw that Danish embassies were burning, the American deficit had hit $423 billion and gecko lizards are giving toddlers in Florida salmonella.
Needless to say, I went back to bed with a tub of mint chocolate chip and the Hart to Hart Season One DVD set.
But with Groundhog Day behind us, my thoughts have turned to more important issues.
Like how to survive Valentine's Day.
For sensitive, caring, emotionally balanced people, Valentine's Day is a chance for couples to set aside that all-too-rare time together, to take a time out for love and reaffirm the warmth they feel in their hearts on a cold winter day.
For the rest of the population, known collectively as "guys," Feb. 14 means pitchers and catchers will be reporting for spring training any old time now.
Did you catch the subtle difference in those two interpretations of Valentine's Day? Here's a breakdown.
"Sensitive, caring, emotionally balanced people'' like to spend time with loved ones while doing things like nurturing their spirit by, say, snuggling.
Guys like to spend time watching sports with other guys while doing things like nurturing their spirit by, say, seeing who can fit the most jalapeno peppers in their mouth and still whistle the Gilligan's Island theme. I know the previous statements are sweeping generalizations and some people would say to me, "Jeff, you've over-simplified some rather complex sociological issues.''
To which I would say, "Chuck. It's Chuck, not Jeff.''
I would also say, "What, pray, is so wrong with oversimplifying things?''
Oversimplifying is one of my more endearing characteristics. It's the kind of thinking that makes me an excellent father. I know, for example, that if a baby is upset it's either because she's hungry, she needs to belch or she's wet herself. I can relate. There aren't many problems that can't be solved with Cheezits, a guttural emission or a fresh set of Fruit of the Looms.
And that's exactly why Valentine's Day is such a special, special day ("day'' in the sense of "monumental problem'').
There is nothing simple about it and guys just aren't emotionally intelligent enough to have figured out Valentine's Day. In fact, guys just aren't emotionally intelligent enough to have figured out potpourri, making the bed or fabric softener either.
It's not that we don't want to do something special for Valentine's, it's just that we want to do something special AND easy.
Ask the guy in your life what he wants for Valentine's Day and when he finishes chortling like Beavis, ask him, "No, seriously, what?'' and there's a good chance he'll say, "For the special person in my life to tell me I don't have to worry about shopping for a gift.''
When you've stopped beating him with his remote control, try to see the poor guy's point. The pressure is suffocating, the options are endless.
Does the guy go with something romantic, like obscenely shaped chocolates? Or does he opt for something cute, like a googlie-eyed, heart-shaped plush toy that comes in an "I Heart You'' coffee mug? Or what about something classy, something just for her, like an Orange County Choppers thong?
If you have any pity for your guy, end his torment and pick yourself up a nice Valentine's gift and give it to you, from him.
Then you can enjoy an intimate Valentine's dinner where you can enjoy each other's company, gaze into each other's eyes and talk . . . maybe about the balk rule.
Oscar's safest bets
(Guelph Mercury, March 4, 2006)
CHUCK BROWN
OUT THERE
Well it's the night before Oscar, a time for movie lovers to prep for some serious star gazing and for me to call Wayne Gretzky's wife's bookie. (Seriously, nothing will get you riveted to the sound-editing award like putting the kids' college fund on it . . . C'mon Memoirs of a Geisha.)
For those who aren't insiders in the Hollywood scene, I'd compare the Oscars to the Academy Awards of the movie world. They are indeed that big. These awards are so big, so meaningful that they say it's an honour just to be nominated. The people who say this are known, in show business terms, as "the losers.''
Winning an Academy Award, on the other hand, is a life-altering experience. When a producer, actor, writer, director or anyone else can put "Academy Award winner'' in front of their name, they have a ticket to do almost anything in Hollywood.
For example, Ben Affleck shared an Oscar for writing the 1998 screenplay for Good Will Hunting. He then used his Academy Award-winning powers to bring movie lovers Gigli, Daredevil and Surviving Christmas.
So who will Oscar smile on tomorrow night? If you're not really sure or you don't know what to make of this year's field of Best Picture nominees, here's a guide to help you decide who to root for, what to see at the Cineplex, what to wait for on DVD and what to fake a stomach flu for when your wife says, "Guess what I rented for us for tonight?''
CAPOTE
Synopsis: Weirdo freaky author guy Truman Capote bonds with a pair of killers and turns their story into the bestseller, In Cold Blood.
Starring: Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who is expected to win the best actor Oscar for his portrayal of an openly flamboyant cartoon squirrel.
Sound smart at your Oscar party: "Capote wrote In Cold Blood, a great book that I've heard of.''
Chuck's thumb says: Way up. Capote is a thrilling masterwork and Hoffman puts in one of the best performances since Hoffman (the other Hoffman) in Tootsie. Of course, I'm just going by the clips they show on talk shows because I haven't actually had a chance to see Capote.
MUNICH
Synopsis: Eleven Israeli athletes are murdered at the 1972 Munich Olympics. If you can think of something funny to say here, you may have my job.
Starring: Eric Bana and a bunch of great actors I've never heard of. OK, I'm lying. I had never heard of Eric Bana either until someone told me he played The Hulk.
Sound smart at your Oscar party: "Munich is good but could have been better if Spielberg spent more time on it.''
Chuck's thumb says: Mmm, didn't see this one either. Shouldn't Spielberg be working on a new Indiana Jones movie? That would be cool.
CRASH
Synopsis: The lives of various L.A. residents from various ethnic backgrounds and various social strati and various degrees of Sandra Bullockness intermingle as a result of a series of car crashes.
Starring: Matt Dillon and many other big Hollywood stars who are totally cool with not being nominated for acting awards. Or are they?
Sound smart at your Oscar party: "Crash is a moving, thoughtful exploration of racial issues.''
Chuck's thumb says: Good flick, saw it on DVD a few months ago and Crash should definitely win best picture. Unless it goes to another movie, in which case, who am I to argue?
GOOD NIGHT, AND GOOD LUCK
Synopsis: Through newsman Edward R. Murrow we learn that the 1950s weren't as carefree and innocent as history has us believe.
Starring: Oh, you know, the guy from, oh, shoot, what was he in before. Geez, I know I recognize him . . . Oh ya, he was in an episode of The Equalizer.
Sound smart at your Oscar party: "McCarthy, now that guy was a booger brain.''
Chuck's thumb says: OK, I didn't actually get a chance to see this one either but George Clooney has never done me wrong. Except for that time I lost a bet about whether he was that Dr. Pepper I'm a Pepper, You're a Pepper, She's a Pepper, He's a Pepper, wouldn't ya like to be a Pepper too . . . guy.
BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN
Synopsis: Cowboys rope and wrangle on the range and, when they get a chance, play serious snugglemuffins.
Starring: Jake Gyllenhaal (pronounced "Smith'') and Heath Ledger.
Sound smart at your Oscar party: "The whole homosexual thing is irrelevant. This is simply a touching, gripping film. Why are you snickering?''
Chuck's thumb says: All right, I didn't actually see it but I, for one, am not at all uncomfortable with the whole homosexual love story theme. It worked in Personal Best, so why not here?
