Welcome to The Hangover, a semi-regular offseason item I’ve elected to start on weeks such as this, when children/work/travel/obligation have elected to cut deeply into both my subconscious and my time (or, failing at that, when there’s nothing particularly noteworthy happening). The promise of two things per week holds true, and thus has been born this attempt at offering news, tips, tricks and tales for better living until college basketball returns.
How is this different than just ranting and raving about whatever I want? Mind your own damn business is how.
Shogun
An incredible epic, stem to stern. Did not miss over 10 increasingly unhinged episodes based on the James Clavell novel and a previous miniseries over 40 years ago.
The thing that most quasi-historical television shows short on history and long on spectacle often miss: the best part of small-screen shows is not a riotously good fight scene or sweeping set piece, although certainly those have their place. It’s that TV shows thrive best when they showcase people in rooms talking1. Some shows have more room for that than others, but look back at the emotional heavyweights of the last few years—Thrones, Succession, Better Call Saul, The Americans, Mad Men. The moments that made those shows great lay in the interpersonal relationships showcased on screen, in layer upon layer of innuendo and understanding between characters and how each interaction played off the previous and would affect the next.
Shogun probably deployed this device better than any of those shows. Yes, there were beheadings and fight scenes, but they were the chaser to the shots of betrayal, intrigue, palace politics and tested loyalties that peppered the show throughout and kept the viewer on the edge of their seat. No conversation just filled time; every interaction had a purpose and was part of the grand design.
And the memes. Lord, the memes.
I loved this show, it ended exactly like it was supposed to end and if someone tries for a second-season money grab I hope all the doors fall off their car simultaneously as they drive down the interstate.
A George Kliavkoff You Might Have Missed
A big thank you to the 11 people in my life who all sent me the same Rodger Sherman tweet regarding George Kliavkoff; I wasn’t aware that was part of my beat, but apparently it is and I wear that with a combination of pride and despair. I share with you now an important moment from the oeuvre of a sweet, simple man who was out of his depth at every turn, no matter what he was doing.
I will never say George Kliavkoff was the worst commissioner in Pac-12 history, because Larry Scott is the one who steered that ship straight into the harbor; Kliavkoff happened to be the one stuck holding the rudder when the Coast Guard showed up after everyone else bailed, which only makes him the dumbest idiot, not the most evil.
But if you’re wondering how it came to be that George Kliavkoff, overseeing one of the more valuable sporting properties in this country in the Pac-12 and looking for someone to sell its rights to, found only air and about $20 million per school on an annual basis2, maybe look back at his previous business failings. When Apple—a streamer so desperate for rights, any rights at all that they bought the MLS rights and then gave Lionel Messi a cut just to entice him over from Spain for his twilight years—is lowballing you by tens of millions of dollars per school, you are… probably the kind of guy who bailed on women’s sports about the time the whole enterprise was getting set to attain orbit.
George Kliavkoff probably means well, but he would absolutely short Apple stock if given the opportunity. I look forward to him running the revamped Phoenix Coyotes straight into the tarmac in a few years.
The Atlanta Falcons Attempt to Kill My Father, Pt. 2739383
My dad wakes up before the sun more or less every day, including on days when he doesn’t have much of anything to do at all.
So that means for the last few years, ever since the NFL Draft became a primetime affair, he hasn’t seen his beloved Atlanta Falcons make a first-round pick. He is a big early to bed, early to rise believer and he is, understandably, fine with never seeing what the Falcons elect to get up to on draft night3.
Which brings us to today. The Falcons, with newly-minted Kirk Cousins under center after signing big contract and holding the eighth overall pick, took… an injury-prone quarterback in Michael Penix who will be 24 years old before his rookie contract even goes into effect.
[picks jaw up off of floor]
The Falcons have thrown everything possible at this man’s fandom and he hasn’t missed a beat, so I’m positive this all water off a duck’s back by the time my dad finishes his second cup in the morning.
“Why would I?” he says if pressed on the subject. “I can find out how they screwed up tomorrow.”
If in a week or two I’m writing a eulogy for the man here, know that it’s the Falcons who killed him. They have killed before; they will kill again.
We are pretty sure it helped us find his burner, though.
Tyrion Lannister remains our greatest philosopher.
I know that number seems high; now consider that Michigan brought home $43 million in TV revenue alone last year and you begin to get a sense, between the shortfall in TV revenue and the general chasm between the devout obsession that keeps money rolling in from donors at schools in the SEC and Big 10 versus the relative “Hey, y’all figure it out yourselves” vibe emanating from the Pac-12 and no wonder the league went bust.
Since he’s not eschewing much-needed sleep in order to monitor the brain-addled antics from the people who brought you “Drafting a first-round wideout you won’t use” and “drafting a first-round tight end you’ll use as a decoy” and “drafting a first-round running back like it’s still 1971” my dad is actually far wiser than I’ve ever given him credit for.