humor, Sports, Uncategorized

Wild Night Is Calling: Some Thoughts on the Super Bowl Aftermath in Philadelphia

“Philadelphia merely seems dull because it’s next to exciting Camden, New Jersey.”

~Robert Anton Wilson

Getty Images Phila (2)

(photo credit: Getty Images)

Right now, in Philadelphia and the city’s surrounding communities, to say nothing of those who have moved far away from the area, yet remain loyal fans of the city’s sport franchises, thousands of people are basking in the Philadelphia Eagles’ victory over The New England Patriots. This post, however, is about the aftermath of the Super Bowl win.

If you are inclined to follow the news, you may have seen some footage from places like The Ritz Carlton Hotel on Broad Street. Some revelers thought it would be a good idea to climb onto the canopy over the main entrance. As evident in the video, not a one was a qualified structural engineer or canopy manufacturer. It didn’t end well.  I worked at the Ritz Carlton once upon a time. I know the canopy (or perhaps I should refer to it in the past tense?).

For a more comprehensive glimpse of what went on, take a look at this video. At a minute twenty-five seconds into the clip (1:25/3:01), one gentleman makes a life-changing decision. I hope some of the other people actually caught him. If not, I can’t imagine that guy got up and walked away; however, it’s been said that the angels always look out for drunks.

Despite such potentially deadly stunts, the Philadelphia Police Department, at least as of today, reported no deaths related to the goings-on last night. Injuries and vandalism, of course, were another matter.

News of the Super Bowl celebration’s downward spiral in Philadelphia spread quickly.  The New York Post today offered this article: Fires, mayhem, insane trust falls in Philly After Super Bowl Win. Not to be undone, Newsweek pulled no punches in this article.

Philadelphia is not alone in cities that go ape-shit crazy after a championship game. I could post a long list of links here, but I am fairly certain that internet-savvy readers have already seen hours of that sort of footage over the years. Still, in all of the championship celebrations that have gotten out of control, I don’t remember ever seeing a guy eat horse shit on a dare. I won’t post the video here (even I have my limits), but the footage was picked up by several news outlets from The Daily Mail to The Oregonian. If you’re of a mind, you can google that one yourself.

They say every generation does a little better than the last. Evidently, the horse shit connoisseur didn’t get that memo. Today, I hope that young man’s parents, after viewing that video, are right now taking a serious self-inventory of themselves and asking, “Where did we go wrong?” Also, does anyone know if eating horse poop will, perhaps by way of numerous debilitating infections, make a person sterile enough to kill any chance of reproduction? I sure hope so.

 

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books, Fantasy, fiction, writers, writing

The Name of the Yawn: A Review

It’s my second go-around with Patrick Rothfuss’s The Name of The Wind. Once, about seven years ago, I gave this novel a shot. I didn’t finish it. It was too…boring. Or maybe I was too distracted to give the novel its due attention.

Now, it’s 2017. A friend recently raved about this book. And I keep reading about how this Rothfuss fellow is poised to become the next George R.R. Martin. Admittedly, I have never read a single Martin novel. But this isn’t about The Game of Thrones books. This is about The Name of the Wind, a book given accolades by no less than Anne McCaffrey, Tad Williams, and Orson Scott Card (all of whom, I might point out, are also published by DAW).

I am a huge fan of many books published by DAW. Sadly, The Name of the Wind is not one of them. For the most part, the novel reads like a character sketch for a prolonged Dungeons and Dragons session. Don’t get me wrong. I love fantasy novels, I have played my fair share of D&D when I was younger. It’s almost as if Kvothe (pronounced “Quothe”), the main character, is something Heinlein would have dreamed up, and then subsequently aborted. Ditto for the guy who chronicles Kvothe’s tale, a writer who goes by the rather lackluster moniker Chronicler.

The writing is flat. The story goes nowhere. We meet Kvothe who goes by the name of Kote now (clearly, there’s no witness protection program in this universe; otherwise, old Kvothe might have picked a more suitable alias to avoid detection). Kote runs a tavern. One night a guy from town comes in all bloodied up, claiming that his horse has been killed. You will have to read this book (or not) to find out why. Not long after, the Chronicler shows up. And Kote/Kvothe, who apparently has been seeking to avoid recognition, gives in to the quill-toting writer (okay, maybe it’s not a quill he writes with) and his request to put down on paper the mysterious Kvothe’s story.

Moving forward, the narrative shifts to the first person as Kvothe spins his yawn…sorry. I meant yarn. Apparently, there’s just about nothing that old Kvothe hasn’t experienced, from battling evil spider-like demons (there seems to be some debate within the novel about the nature of these creepy crawlers) to shagging a goddess.

In the end, however, the novel is a flat read with next to no conflict and even less character development. In all good fiction, regardless of genre, a reader needs to connect to the main character on some level. This novel did not provide such an experience for this reader. Perhaps if I had been an adolescent boy with no knowledge of sex or good storytelling, for that matter, I might have been duped by this train wreck. But I am not. So, I am off to rid myself of the residue of this book with some Tolkien.

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