Wipeout!!

I couldn't be a bigger fan of the show Wipeout right now and I have only seen one episode. Its like falling in love on the first date (I assume). We all know the stigma of summer television... keeping the dating metaphor, you could call it the rebound fling after a break up (spring's season finales), and this show knocks it out of the park. The creators of Wipeout knew what we wanted from this relationship, knew what we didn't want, and just delivered. Its not brilliant, its not revolutionary, its not even very original, but it is self-aware, and in this case, that's the most important thing.

This self-awareness is the beauty of Wipeout. It offers the things we are all looking for in our summer television fling: people making asses out of themselves, a little bit of humor, a few good looking women, little emotional involvement, and the ability to miss episodes without being in trouble.

Specifically, here's what the show does right.

1) People get destroyed. Sure this show is basically a rip off of Most Extreme Elimination Challenge, but it somehow brings even more thunder. The carnage is awesome. Its not like seeing the remains of a car accident on the highway; its like seeing the actual collision. These people don't stand a chance. Of the events I saw tonight, there was the wall players traversed while boxing gloves punched them in the face, neck, and even places below the belt. There were those infamous big red balls that players tried to bounce across, but never could. There was a rotating hurdle jump from a platform, a spinning machine before a sprint on an unbalanced surface, and a fresh look at a timeless classic, the rope swing.

Even when the hits didn't look as vicious, the contestants still went flying. And here's the cherry on the top, the minds behind our new summer friend have even one-upped MXC by cutting out all the filler in between big hits. They even edit down all of the boring stuff and basically bring you the low-light highlights for the first 15 minutes. This show is the crab cake without all the breading; its all meat, no filler.

2) The announcers don't over-do it. I never thought I'd say these words unless I was selling hair-dye at WalMart but, "Welcome back John Henson." You may remember him from being moderately funny on E!'s Talk Soup, and from being the guy, who like Derek Zoolander couldn't turn right, or else you'd get that nasty profile look at his Ms. Toper skunk spot (by the way, who was less likely to ever be thought of again, John Henson or Ms. Toper). Henson and co-host John Anderson (one of the best anchors on Sportscenter) match snarky and fresh one-liners over the endless bloopers. Unlike MXC they don't jump the shark because they let the follies drive the show and seem to be content riding shotgun. Even sideline reporter Jill Wagner delivers the occasional joke, some outstanding reactions to the contestants' goofs, and is even sneaky foxy (you'll thank me later).

3) The challenges overshadow the challengers. No one cares about rooting for the players in this game, and the producers know it. Most of the contestants are boring, which doesn't matter, because if we wanted to see people win we wouldn't be watching a show called Wipeout. What is important is that the challenges are actually hard. I don't see how anyone will ever get past a few of the obstacles and I don't really want to see that anyway. The goofier and the more turbulent, the better and for the few fortunate (only in the sense that they get $50k for winning) players, the and even zanier final looms.

The final challenge looks like it would be fun... if you were a navy seal or enjoyed bruising. I wont even describe the kinds of ridiculousness that ensues but its safe to say that it looks like its just an 'elephant walk' short of the worst hazing imaginable. Picture the lame-ass 'Eliminator' at the end of the new American Gladiators and imagine it to be more creative, more difficult, and more satisfying.

One way to spruce up the show, or at least legitimize it, would be if they could somehow get professional athletes to try out the events. Imagine Reggie Bush Kobe Bryant, Ichiro, Justin Gatlin, Alton from RW/RR Challenge and other super-freak athletes challenge each other to feats of most useless athleticism. Or at least watching them get beat up by preposterous competitions. I can't imagine a show I wouldn't end up DVR-ing to watch that play out.

Maybe you haven't yet had a chance to see the show (it premiered this week), but if you watched the NBA Playoffs or really any show on ABC/ESPN in the last couple months, you saw the commercials. And let me say that the episodes are even better (for the moment disregard the fact that I may have formal ties to the ABC/ESPN family). C'mon, just trust me. If this hasn't been enough of an over-sell, let me tell you that the show ended with John Henson saying "From all of us, good night and big balls." Consider me hooked.

Jerry Remy Day... You Gotta Be Kidding Me

If there was a blog called "Things Red Sox Fans Like," the list would include Sweet Caroline, Yankees suck chants at any event with more than 9 people, Jerry Remy, and not admitting to liking Fever Pitch, amongst others. I have a problem with that list; I dont know if I am supposed to (or even allowed to) say this aloud, but I dont like Jerry Remy.

I didn't always have this contrarian view, and I'm not just trying to be one of those annoying activists with a revolving door of issues; I plain dont like the way he influences my Red Sox television viewing experience (and before you say anything about me not getting to watch NESN broadcasts because I live in DC, let me warn you that I have the MLB Extra Innings package so I get all the home games Remy/Orsillo-style).

Here's what positive things Jerry Remy brings to the broadcast table: great knowledge of the Red Sox, good back and forth with Orsillo and Title 9 Sideline Reporter du-jour Hazel Mae/Tina Cervasio/Heidi Watney, and some semblence of the game from a players perspective (he played 2B). He's also brought an undeniable Remy-flavor to broadcasts (and I'm not just talking about that great mustache and accent). And for all the Remy hating I spew, I want to be equal opportunity in commending NESN for upgrading "Why the long face?" Cervasio with Heidi Watney... mmmm.

Here's the problems with those positive things, they are overshadowed by the other Jerry Remy, which we can call ®emy. And by ®emy, I mean the fact that most of the game, is spent talking about the hundreds of lucrative opportunities that the ®em-Dawg can offer members of Red Sox Nation® (and even us regular Red Sox fans who didn't pony up $14.95 for the lowest form of membership).

Lets start with Red Sox Nation. Here's what becoming an official citizen of the Nation gets you: lots of presale opportunities for Red Sox seats (including the opener in Japan!!), lots of raffles for Red Sox seats, a 10% discount at the team store, an e-newsletter, a bumper sticker, a citizens membership card. And the truly crazy thing about all this is that if you wanted to buy the premium versions of Red Sox Nation, you cant. They are all sold out. People can rip pink Red Sox caps all they want, but to me, this is infinately more ludicrous.

While ®emy is the President of Red Sox Nation (thanks to a 2007 season of campaigning during broadcasts; dont get me started), I do not blame him for this lame sales technique, its just one of his extra-curicular focuses instead of color commentary. When ®emy is done plugging the Nation like its a leaking levee, its time for the other services that the ®em-Dawg can provide.

Besides the microphone, under the ®em-Dawg corporate umbrella also lies: a Rem-Dawg hot dog stand on Yawkee Way (and another one coming soon to Logan Airport), a book Watching Baseball, two children's books Hello Wally and Wally the Green Monster and His Journey Through Red Sox Nation (you can't make this up), and The Remy Report website. I have to add this after a quick perusal of the Remy Report: you (even YOU!!) can buy a copy of Jerry's ACTUAL scorecard from the Manny 500th HR game, autographed by Jerry Remy for only $17.95!! Apparently he's even more concerned with moy-chendizing than the Schwartz in Spaceballs.

But what happens in the fourth inning when the ®em-Dawg has already mentioned all of these opportunities twice? Have no fear Nation members, its time for Orsillo to shoulder the load of play-by-play and color while Jerry Remy scans the crowd for signs with his name on it. I only blame him for half of this, with the other part of the blame spread amongst the morons from Nashua, NH, Bangor, ME, and Killington, VT. Somehow these people feel it is a better idea to go to a game with a sign made for an announcer rather than for a member of the team they are going to support. I cant wait til they sell Remy Red Sox shirts... oh, nevermind.

Maybe my convictions against the ®em-Dawg are so strong because I know I am swimming upstream. When I have voiced this concernt to friends and colleagues before, it is usually rebutted with laughs and insults, both of which I am ready for. It seems another response is "Name a set of local announcers you'd rather have." I am also ready for that response. In DC we are privy to two baseball teams on local TV, the Nationals and the Orioles. While the DC booth kinda sorta stinks, I would rather have the Orioles booth in a heartbeat. Jim Palmer and Gary Thorne are a solid, knowledgable duo who take their duties of broadcasting the game seriously. I'm sure there are others that are better than the NESN duo.

Problem is that its not just my dumb friends. He has become so popular that yesterday (6-24) was officially bestowed Jerry Remy Day in Boston, by Mayor Tom Menino (luckily for him, I dont vote in Massachusetts anymore). I would rather have a Dave Roberts day, a Dropkick Murphys day, or even a "that funny Crunch N Munch guy" day. You gotta be kidding me...

®emy has let his broadcast responsibilities fall by the wayside and has become too comfortable to work on improving. His immense popularity paired with his lucrative (and I can objectively say, brilliant) businesses has made him apathetic about job performance and I think the NESN subscriber should demand more. Please tell me where Dustin Pedroia likes his pitches instead of when he'll be at your next event. Tell me how this team is different than the Sox team you were on, not about how to get my own Wally the Green Monster beanie-baby (with adirondack chair!!). We have demanded more from our hometown teams and look what is has yielded; let's stop giving the ®em-Dawg a pass for his mediocrity.

ANYTHING IS POSSIBLLLLLLLLLE

Something happened last night that I never expected. The champagne scene in Wild Things became my second favorite champagne memory of all time. But, I'll get to that later though.

It all starts with expectations. They are unsteady and fickle; they can change after any minor or major event (say a PJ Brown jumpshot or a Paul Pierce twisted knee) and as far as I can tell, they aren't consciously controllable. Maybe just my expectations are erratic and unstable...

Lets just say this, before the playoffs started, I didn't think Game 5 tickets against the Hawks would be worth the effort of a deposit. Expectations were Snoop Dogg high. Then out of nowhere came the Joe Johnson debacle, which is like calling it the Spygate misinterpretation. Sure the C's Papelbonned Game 7, but who could be sure which team would face the Cavs in the next round.

Next, LeBron came to town, making already-wavering expectations recede like the S&P 500 (shout out to my good-for-nothing 401k!!). Again my Celtics expectations elevator rose up to the penthouse and then back down to the lobby as their jerseys switched from white to green. Ya know that feeling when a 6-year brat jumps in your elevator and hits all the buttons and you have to deal with that herky-jerky ride up and down, never knowing the next stop or where it will end? That was the Cavs series. Another 7 games of the expectations elevator acting like Disney's Tower of Terror. Luckily the S&P Celtics used the TD Banknorth Fleet Center Shawmut Center Garden like Harry Potter used his cloak of invisibility; lots of close calls, but ultimately were protected the prized possession (the parquet).

It was at this point where I felt like watching the S&P C's wasn't fun and certainly wasn't healthy. Maybe I'm a pessimist but the pain of 3 losses was becoming greater than the joy of 4 wins. This wasn't the basketball team I had rooted for all year. This wasn't the best team in the NBA that played the best team basketball in the NBA. It was like looking for American Beauty and Usual Suspects Kevin Spacey, but finding the guy who was in K-Pax. 

Oddly playing Detroit made things better when I expected worse, and all of a sudden it was time for Kobe and the Condiments. Again the yo-yo expectations carried me through to game 6, where I didn't know what to expect. I wanted to believe in the team but even more I didn't want to be heartbroken again.

Yet, there I was last night watching a 10 point lead jump to 20, jump to 30, jump to 39 before I had time to chew my fingernails down. Take that lowered expectations!!

And this is where we get back to the champagne. Expectations be damned, I defied them and headed to Davo's (apparently we have good luck squinting at his little TV) with a bottle of champagne, just in case. And then, with Eddie House dribbling the clock out, Davo and I popped the cork, sprayed the bottle, and cheers'ed to Paul, Kevin, Ray, Kedrick, Rajon, Eddie, Tony, James, Leon, Glen, PJ, and even to Sam, and Doc. We drank, hugged, drank, called our dads, and laughed at Kevin Garnett seizuring with delight. No longer will Neve Campbell, Denise Richards and Matt Dillon be my Big Three of champagne.

Not Not Untitled Field Trip: Red Sox at Camden Yards

On Friday night I was presented with a choice. It wasn't exactly Grady Little deciding between Pedro or the bullpen, but it more substantial than boxers versus boxer-briefs. This particular decision was between going to Baltimore for a Red Sox game at Camden or staying in and watching the Celtics potentially punch their ticket to the NBA Finals (and the Red Sox game).

The Quick Pros for the Sox Game made the decision easy:
+Josh Beckett pitching
+Manny Ramirez sitting on 499 HRs
+Great weather for a ballgame (80 and sunny)
+I still look 18 and can use my college ID for discounted tickets
+I'm starting to dislike watching these schizophrenic Celtics

Anyway the "decision" was made and I left work a little early to get on a train to the Chesapeake State. By 5:20 I was in Baltimore, had thrown on my Papelbon WS07 jersey, and quickly got a ticket. (Not so quick Tangent- So I am standing in the ticket line and a man in a Red Sox jersey comes up to me holding a ticket. Assuming he was trying to scalp me a ticket, I sorta shrugged him off. However he persisted and explained that his family had an extra they were gonna give away and figured since I had a Sox jersey on, I was the best candidate. He didn't want any money for it, and just said to stop by the seats during the game, buy him a beer and we'd be cool. Yadda yadda yadda, I wound up pretty buzzed by first pitch and fully drunk by the 3rd inning, enough to completely forget about my thirsty comrade. Totally a mistake on my part and I still feel horribly about it. Here's a family man with enough faith in people to give some guy a ticket, and I blew it. This is not an excuse; it was totally inexcusable and I hope karma isn’t as fickle of a bitch as fate is. And yes that is plagiarized from Lost.)

So here's the thing about Red Sox games at Camden, they're basically home games. The crowds are equal part red and orange, but the red is louder, prouder, and stays til the end. And the place where this is most evident is the pregame party.

Three bars in a line with full service outside and a temporary suspension of open container laws, Red Sox shirts and beers as far as the eye can see, and tents with freshly grilled ballpark meats. It feels like it could be Yawkee way if it Yawkee was more fun. Its three parties in one; three songs blasting from three stereos, three beer specials, three places to spit game at cute girls in Sox caps, three places that feel more like home than anything else in a 500 mile vicinity. For good measure today, there are lots of Celtics jerseys in preparation for the Game 6 closeout.

You can easy lose perspective of the scene when you’re standing in the middle of it all. To step back out of the mob is to admire the colossal glory and the magnitude of the event. Somehow only blocks away, we are emotionally miles away from the Baltimore portrayed in The Wire. Different grills, different hustles, different corners.

I met up with my friends here and walked back into the huddle that smells like barbeque and beer, looks like the party you always hope your party turns into, and sounds like R's disapperaing from vernacular. (It also sounds like a mix of Kanye’s Stronger and Guns N’ Roses’ Sweet Child o’ Mine, a surprisingly complimentary mix.) A few more beers each, a couple hot dogs, and a great game of trash can jenga later, and we’re ready for the game.

Inside the still-young Camden Yards makes your mind wander to the 8th circle of daydream hell: why a new Fenway might not be so bad. Tonight we’re sitting in the 200s, which is the first overhang along the third base line. We have the option of a waitstaff (unused), better food (used), and shorter beer lines (used and used). I wont continue with the boring details of the game (by far the lamest part of the night) and skip to our 10th inning decision to leave the game and head back to the pregame bars so we can watch the ending of the Celtics at the same time as the end of the Sox.

I don’t have to tell you how this one ended. Karma didn’t strike for my lack of good-will reciprocation and within the hour, the bar was chanting "Beat LA." I could have convinced myself that I had stepped through the Lost wormhole and returned to 1984 Boston. These were followed by some R-rated cheers, a round of Sam Adams pints, and some of the most inspired chest bumps I’ve ever witnessed from white people.

And that was my night in Baltimore-upon-Boston. I felt at home in a relatively strange city, stared down karma and didn’t blink, and enjoyed a male on male chest bump a little too much. Pretty memorable night.