Broadway Joe + Suzy Kolber = The Greatest Moment in Television History

Theismann - "Joe's just a happy guy"

Macguire - "Ohhh boy is he happy"


I feel bad for Miss Teen South Carolina. I really do. So this is a little trip down memory lane to remind her that things could be worse.

This clip is so good on so many levels, not the least of which is the fact that the hall of famer responds to the question of 'what it means to him now that the team is struggling' by saying that he couldn't care less about the team struggling...

Don't worry Caitlin. No matter how many times you mumble incoherently about maps in South Africa and the rest of the Asian countries, rest assured that you will never be able to top Broadway Joe trying to kiss Suzy Kolber. Not in a million years.

Lisa McCallum - Dominating Nashville

By Krissie Rutherford
Oakville Beaver
Arts & Entertainment
Aug 29, 2007

As soon as she graduated from Humber College, Lisa McCallum packed her bags and headed to the birthplace of country music.

After less than two years in Nashville, Tennessee, the Oakville native has signed a writing deal with Roger Murrah's Castle Street Music Inc., a record company that works with country music stars like Carrie Underwood, Martina McBride and Sarah Evans.

"It was overwhelming," McCallum, 24, told The Oakville Beaver of her recent signing.

"They sat down with me and just said they'd like to offer me a writing deal. I was very excited. It kind of didn't feel real, because it was something I'd been trying for a year and a half."

It may have seemed like a long wait, but compared to most artists, McCallum is ahead of the game.

"They say it's a five-year town here. It takes, on average, that long to sign a deal, so I feel really blessed that I made it in such a short time."

McCallum got noticed because of a well-written e-mail that caught the eye of company vice-president Lisa Murrah.

"I just said I was from Canada, and I'd love to come by and play them some of my songs," McCallum said. "I told them I was visiting presently - they make time for you because they think you might have to leave next week.

"It's one of the tricks from around here, say that and you can get yourself in," she added, laughing.

Murrah's Vice-president, Creative, Dan Hodges began meeting with McCallum, and after about three months, they inked a deal.

"Lisa is a tremendous talent, and we're excited that she's decided to become a part of our team," said Murrah's Senior Vice-President, Paul Compton.

Murrah's is an independent company that began 17 years ago and has since built a reputation for producing quality work and artists.

McCallum one day hopes to sign a record deal and sing her own tunes, but for now, she's focused on writing for others.

"I just want to have a lot of cuts on the radio with major country artists," she said. "That's the goal."

In the early stages with Murrah's, she's writing mainly for new artists looking for songs to break into the industry.

"I love it. I just write songs every day, I try to come up with songs every day," she said, noting her inspiration comes from, "Anywhere. It could be from just reading books and movies or just watching people, that kind of thing."

She's also "doing the artist thing" on the side, playing gigs in various venues in Nashville - and hoping she'll get another break in the future.

"My whole plan was to come here, write songs and get a record deal eventually," McCallum said.

"If you want to go for something, just go for it 100 per cent, and you're bound to get it at some point."

McCallum describes her style as new country mixed with a bit of folk. She began writing at age 13, and has been singing her whole life.

A graduate of Humber College's jazz, vocal performance program, she recognizes most kids growing up gravitate towards pop music as opposed to country, but she was drawn to it.

"In high school I just started for some reason watching CMT (Country Music Television) and I just liked it, and I thought I could sing it really well," she said.

The White Oaks Secondary School grad had a musician friend named Victoria Banks who moved to Nashville eight years earlier. She encouraged McCallum to give it a try.

"She kind of guided me," McCallum said. "I had no idea how hard it would be or anything, which is good, because maybe I would have turned around.

"Once I got here, I just knew that I had to stick it out. I feel like it's out of persistence that these things happen, so you just have to keep going for it."

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Yep, that's my sis. I think it's pretty obvious that not only was she blessed with all of the talent in the family, but she also landed the good looks too.

I once had my picture in the Oakville Beaver. I was standing there at Trafalgar Village, getting an autograph from Eddie Shack... And that's about the extent of my fame in this world.

To hear why she's dominating Music City, check out:

Lisa McCallum

The Alfredo Griffins

Oh yeah. Take a long hard look at that. That is the look of a championship team, if I ever saw one. Well, actually, it's the look of a team that emerged victorious from the consolation round, culminating in a resounding chant of "WE'RE NUMBER 5!!!!" after Skeeter hauled in the final fly ball to the deepest part of Moss Park (better known as "CITY", for its incessant screaming sirens, escaped Section 8's drinking in the stands while oggling the girls on our team, and general bustling community feel reminiscent of Rucker Park circa 1979).

Our fearless leader, coach Cito, pretty well summed up the year in his season ending address:

"There are very few things in this world that bring me more joy than a warm summer's evening of co-ed non-competitive softball, so I wanted to say thanks for a fantastic season. There was certainly our fair share of highlights and lowlights (I'm a little ashamed of yelling at a woman, but if I ever see her again, I may just punch that bitch), but at the end of the day, that title on Monday night 5th place champs wasn't just handed to us. I know my mom is proud. I'm sure yours is too."

I choose to leave my fellow Griffs with the words of the late A. Barltett Giamatti who, for better or worse, was the Commissioner of our fair game for 154 days, and in that brief time managed to banish the great Charlie Hustle for having too much faith in his own team. In any event, the Commissioner, as former President of Yale University, certainly could wax poetic, and on the subject of baseball, perhaps there is no one better:


"It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops."


My Monday nights will be empty, and never the same again... until next spring...

Trainwreck

I personally believe that, sometimes when I drink too much, such as, this occasionally happens to me, and I believe in South Africa and everywhere such as in Iraq and the Asian countries this also happens when someone sprinkles a dash of rohypnol into my martini...

I honestly thought that the punch line was the fact that she responded to the question of why 1/5 of Americans couldn't locate the U.S. on a world map by proclaiming that it was because "some people out there in our nation don't have maps". That in itself was YouTube worthy. But what spiralled out of control in the ensuing twenty seconds was one of the most painful things in the world to have to watch. I think the kid from "Little Miss Sunshine" with her pole dancing routine would have had a better chance of dawning the tiara.

And how the hell did A.C. Slater manage to keep his cool in the midst of the most memorable unintentionally comedic moment since Broadway Joe tried to lay one on Suzy Kolber? Insider sources say he had his left hand in his pocket, pinching his nuts to keep from laughing. Handled like a true professional.

I think James Downey put it best when he said:

"What you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul."

Friday Diversion - The Green Edition

Hey man, it's the trendy thing to do.

I didn't actually plan it this way, but some of the best stuff I've come across in the past month or so just happens to be dedicated more or less to preservation of our fair planet.

(Actually, the best piece I came across is about a Frenchman who wants to skydive from the stratosphere; a jump from as high as a hot air balloon will take you: a hundred and thirty thousand feet. "Somewhere around sixty-three thousand feet above the earth, our body fluids begin to boil. They do this not because the temperature is so high but because the atmosphere is so thin. Water, kept liquid by air pressure on earth, turns to gas as the pressure drops, bubbling noticably on the tip of the tongue. Physiologists call this altitude Armstrong's Line, after the Army Air Corps doctor who defined it, in the nineteen-thirties, and it may be the greatest barrier to our survival in space...But there are plenty of others...".

On the way up to 130,000 feet, the air pressure would "drop exponentially, until one-tenth of one percent of the atmosphere would remain. As he {the French Skydiver} fell, his body would accelerate almost as if it were in a vacuum". By the time he reached the previous level for the world's highest skydive {103,000 feet}, he'd be going "more than nine hundred miles per hour - one and a half times the speed of sound".

Of course, The New Yorker rarely makes their best articles available online, so you'll have to go out and buy the August 13th edition for yourself to find out why anyone would want to put themselves through something like this, and whether or not this guy has any chance of surviving {he hopes to make the jump this fall in Saskatchewan}. This article on its own is easily worth the $4.50 sticker price. A truly fascinating read.)

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But before all of the good stuff, how about something fun... Something like... The Ron Mexico Name Generator! Yes, you too can create your very own alias for those embarrassing moments at the Sexual Health Clinic. If you ever hear of me referring to myself as "Little John Serbia", you may want to think twice about sharing your forty of OEA with me.

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I'm not sure if I've linked to this article before, but it is one of the most thought provoking pieces you'll ever come across. It describes how Manhattan is one of the most energy efficient and environmentally responsible places in the world. It will make you proud to be a City Guy, and it will make you re-think the way you see things and the way we live.

Green Manhattan, by David Owen

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Everything you need to know about the future, past and present of planet earth with regards to global warming and climate change, all rolled up into one fantastic little powerpoint presentation. Guy Dauncey was the keynote speaker at the Canadian Standards Association's 2007 Annual Conference, and this is his seminar. It will give you an idea of the direction in which our energy economy, by which I very much mean our planet, is heading. But it isn't all doom and gloom, as it offers a number of perfectly attainable and sustainable solutions to the problems we're currently faced with. Edutainment at its absolute best.

If you only have time to read one thing from this list, I highly recommend you read:

The Global Climate Crisis: What are we going to Do? by Guy Dauncey

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A great short story about what happens in the event of a death-resurrection in a star; or more commonly known as a Supernova. This is climate change on a galactical scale, with the effects of global warming fast-forwarded at about 1,000,000x on the DVD player. The description of the ever increasing heat on earth is one of the most terrifying things I've ever read. Nightmares.

A Tranquil Star, by Primo Levi

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And finally, a piece about bees. Yep, bees. They're very interesting. And we need them. Who knew?

This article gives you an appreciation for just how fragile our planet is, and how every little living thing has a critically indispensable role to play. It's poetic in a way we'll never fully appreciate or understand. I think that in itself is worth preserving, don't you?

Stung, by Elizabeth Kolbert

The Perfect Show

To commemorate the end of the Dan Patrick era on ESPN radio, here is the closest the man ever came to pitching a perfect show. That double negative is the Julio Franco bouncer past Manny Lee with two out in the ninth back in '88... absolute heartbreak. But don't worry Danny: just as Stieb's did, your day will someday come.

Early afternoons will never be the same. We'll miss you, D.P.

Lord Stanley's Mug

I really don't even know how to begin this entry.

About two minutes after drinking from the most hallowed trophy in all of sports, I turned to my buddy Foley, and through eyes misting over with drunken emotion, I muttered: "I can't believe I just drank from the fucking Stanley Cup..."

And I'm still having a hard time believing it. Because honestly, if you'd asked me five years ago what I were more likely to experience in my lifetime, and offered the two equally impossible options of: summiting Mount Everest or sipping from The Cup; I would have told you that it was probably more likely that I'd climb to the top of the world's most famous peak... and we all knew that was never happening.

I've done some things in my day. But I have to tell you that drinking out of The Stanley Cup; with the names of the greatest players to ever play the game etched into it, and with the knowledge that they too had sipped from that very chalice; was probably the best 5 seconds of my life. And I say that without hyperbole or shame. It's what I'll remember as the lights fade to black.

And I owe it all to Huskerdu. I don't even know how to thank you. Somehow, I don't think there are enough Red Bull-and-Vodkas in all of the Madison Avenue Pub.

But before all of the lifelong-dream-fulfilling, there was considerable preamble, as you might well expect. Ronnie, Flats, Dinner, Nagai and I piled into two rides just after five o'clock and hooked up at the Port Hope service centre for a convoy that consisted of erotic text messaging ("are you hard?", "are you wearing panties?", and "yes, but they're no longer dry" being the obvious highlights) and one of life's great piss stops, to go along with Flats' polishing of a dozen or so Silver Bullets in the passenger seat of Dinner's car. We pulled into our Nation's Capital just after 10pm and checked into the Quality Inn, fully understanding that the meaning of the word "Quality" was about to be compromised.

Flats had a bottle of duty free Grey Goose (he and Nagai had played 18 holes earlier that morning in Buffalo; Dinner had also played 18 {and shot a 72}; I had slept until 1:30 in the afternoon) that we proceeded to obliterate in about 45 minutes, with an assist going to Sully, fresh off a drive in from the 'Boro; before heading out into the Ottawa night. As we stepped into the elevator and looked at one another, each dressed to the nines in "go-to" garb, the phrase "Murderer's Row" was getting tossed around like Valtrex at the Mexico Estate.

By the time we arrived at the bar (it may or may not have been called "Nine"), we were feeling absolutely no pain. Husker and the rest of the Natty Light poolies were representing hard, and what little I remember of the night consisted of introducing my shit-faced self by using both my first and last name to equally shit-faced people I'd been trash-talking for four years via that wonderful combination of Fantasy Football and the internet. The Vaughn boys. The Farquhar brothers. Lawson. City Guys C-note, MLSE McGlynn, and of course the legendary Chubbs were all in attendance, and along with the rest of the 416 poolies, the group of us were celebrating the largest NLFL summit meeting in history by drinking enough alcohol to kill a small Indonesian village. An old lady friend of Dinner's also showed up only to have her dreams shattered by the news that Mike Foley had been recently engaged. There really are a lot of broken hearts out there.

By last call, most of the Almonte contingent had stretched Chubbs shirt to the point that it resembled something that an early-80's-Molly-Ringwold would proudly sport, and after ripping it off completely, they put him up on their shoulders and crowd-surfed him around the bar. I could have sworn I was at a stop somwhere along the Dookie Tour. And apparently the good people of Ottawa have taken to the notion that "Oaf's a Joke".

Brianna, our old friend from home, invited us back to a house party up the street, and we obviously took her up on it. We walked in there like we owned the place, and my only regret of the night is that I didn't strap on one of the helmets sitting on the pile of bicycles littering the front hallway: it would have made a hell of an entrance. As it was, we helped ourselves to any beverages we could find, and quickly made friends. It turns out nobody knew who was hosting the party. I vaguely remember having a lengthy conversation concerning chest hair with a girl, a gay man, and another equally bewhiskered male (all present were in favour of the Neanderthal look, for the record), and the feeling that there was an 8th grade vibe in the living room. We ended up at the Elgin Street Diner for what was unquestionably the best poutine I've ever had, before stumbling back to the room just before 5.

Nothing like a quiet night before the big day.

We awoke the next morning waaaaay too early. I have no idea how someone was conscious at 9:30, but they decided to turn on the TV, and in a Lion's Den of a hotel room with six dudes, it was enough to rouse us all. Foley stepped off his red eye flight and came directly to the "Quality" (he was smart enough to secure his own room - there's a reason he's a big shot), and we headed to Cora's for a breakfast accented by the feeling of general discomfort and fruit smoothies we vowed to never speak of. In order to cure our ridiculous hangovers we headed straight for the liquor store and bought ourselves some liquid provisions, hanging around the hotel room with the curtains drawn and watching the PGA Championship on the tube. Really taking in the sights, I know.

At three o'clock we piled into the Sully Van and cruised into Almonte, stopping for a great pic at the town sign which will soon surely read: "The home of James Naismith and Kent Huskins". It's really only a matter of time. We pulled into the Mill of Kintail about three minutes ahead of Husker and Mikey White Gloves, and stood around in absolute awe as Mikey handed Husky the cup. I'm telling you, that trophy turns everyone into a little kid. We had the champ pose for a few hoisting pics, and then he just set it down on the picnic table where it sat for the rest of the day. Everyone had their turn posing with it, and after the tubs full of beer showed up, the event quickly became a great little party. And it was funny because after awhile people kind of forgot The Cup was there, so you could go and sit with it by yourself for awhile, reading the names and taking it all in. Fantastic.

The volunteers from the Almonte Civitan club did a beautiful job dishing out the burgers and beer, and Husky did his best to accomodate everyone, despite the fact that he probably just wanted to have a few beers and play with the walkie talkies. Just a class act in every regard. In fact, if my high school English teacher had been present for the barbecue, he might have said that Kent Huskins handled the entire afternoon with aplomb... but of course, I would never say that.

In any event, the Silver Bullets were going down with aplomb, and just as the sun was beginning to set, we boarded a cheese wagon for the trip to Grace O'Malley's, making a pit stop at "Naismith's", a tiny sports bar in town that had no idea what they were in for when Husker strolled in with The Cup. By the time we got back on the bus, Mikey White Gloves was pretty well shitting himself, knowing that he would have to be separated from the Holy Grail as it sat in a seat next to Husker, Mikey White Gloves trailing close behind in his Buick.

What happened next was simply magical, as Husker, without any warning, poured a beer into The Cup and tipped it to Flats... and we sat there front and centre, watching as every guy on that bus turned into a little kid, having a lifelong dream fulfilled. I can't adequately describe how incredible an experience it was.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting there with Husker tipping The Cup into my face, drinking deeply from what will forever be remembered as the greatest beer I've ever experienced. I really didn't ever think the first beer my dad ever gave me could be topped (Coco's, Grand Bend, Coor's Extra Gold, age 16), but I have to tell you that this one probably did. Sorry Dad. It was a Labatt's Blue. It was cold and frothy. And it was glorious.

I mean, look at that. That is the face of a man who has just undergone a religious experience. I have no other means of describing it.

The rest of the night could have consisted of someone repeatedly kicking me in the nuts until sunrise and it still would have gone down as one of the five best nights of my life.

We arrived at Gracie's and Mikey White Gloves jumped out of his Buick so fast that he very well may have left it running in the middle of the street. He wanted to make sure The Cup was in good hands, and as Husker stepped off the bus, he decided that it very obviously was (despite the fact that Almonte's favourite son almost dropped it in the paparazzi-like barage of camera flash). We piled into the bar for $3 everything, and what ensued in the aftermath can only be described in degrees of Gong Show. And this was a show to the tenth degree. Way too many shots. Way too many Coronas. Way too many Calzone's from a pizzeria in Potsdam, NY.

As C-Note put it: "The 416 crew was unreal in their VIP area better known as the shirt stain zone!". Flats took some time away from working on his '83 Corvette with Frankie to score himself a sweet "STAFF" T-shirt and a beautiful baby, while the rest of us ripped it up on the dance floor and looked on in fascinated horror as the Almonte crew stripped down to their skivvies and engaged in some kind of ancient pagan fertility ritual.

We eventually ended up back at the hotel, and to absolutely nobody's surprise, found ourself out on the street less than an hour later. Apparently when the manager comes up to the 14th floor to tell you to keep it down, Sully isn't necessarily the most qualified negotiator to send to the table. Calming discretion never was his strong suit. We tried sending Murph out to smooth things over, Peel badge in hand, but he came back into the room about fifteen seconds later, informing us that it was time to pack our bags.

At what point does it become embarrassing for a 29-year old to be thrown out of a hotel? I'd say about six years ago. The fact that the hotel manager challenged Sully to a fist fight out in the street was almost comedic by that point... And Nagai's new lucky number can be nothing but 14.

Luckily for us, my good friend Emily was in attendance, and her mom lives about ten minutes from the "Quality". So we spent what little remained of the night there. Emily's mom is a judge, and she was waaaaaay too understanding: she actually welcomed us into her home, when what we really deserved at that point was a bench looking out onto the Rideau Canal. So we very obviously owe her a debt of serious gratitude.

But maybe not the same debt as we owe Husker. In all honesty, it will go down as one of the great nights of our collective lives. I remember after drinking from The Cup, I stood up on that rollicking school bus, with beer still dripping from my face and the knowledge that my life would probably never be the same. I put my hand on the shoulder of the man who had just allowed me to sip from The Stanley Cup, and could only muster "Thank You....". I was utterly speechless.

As I am now.

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Story from the Ottawa Sun.

Story from the Ottawa Citizen.

And for an incomplete history of some of the other places The Cup has ventured (including Mess's infamous jaunt with the Mug to Scores), check out this piece by Patrick Hruby.