So a billionaire walks into a massage parlor. By all accounts a skanky massage parlor in a ghetto Florida suburb. If he really wanted a massage, he probably has a dozen or so massaging professionals working for him. He owns the New England Patriots, therapists of this ilk routinely travel with the team and so if he tends to have a tightness in his gluts, well, he has people for that.
Who would name a professional sports franchise after a building material? Well, a team in something called the Alliance of American Football would … and has. The Birmingham Iron. What’s next, the Petersburg Plastic? Duluth Drywalls, Wyoming Wood, the fuckin’ Butte Bricks? So dumb, but then again the whole idea of a pro football league that’s not spelled N-F-L is a lesson in dumbness.
Yesterday marked the passing of sixty years since Buddy Holly and his rock & roll brothers perished on a desolate field in Iowa. In altogether less important news, the LA Rams laid down on a field of their own on Sunday a turn of events that would be tragic if not for the fact that, in the twenty-some-odd years since the Rams abandoned the city, most of LA had long ago found other football teams to follow.