It’s Bigger Than NPR’s Katherine Maher
20 hours ago
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
NBA
A good article previewing the NBA season in Sports Illustrated this week. It talks about the return to the "super team" NBA of the 1970-80s. Certainly a half-down teams have really loaded up this year.
I'm taking the Lakers to repeat, betting that Artest's desire to win a title will outstrip his general thuggery ... for one season.
I'm taking the Lakers to repeat, betting that Artest's desire to win a title will outstrip his general thuggery ... for one season.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
My Sunday column: Down goes Espy, down goes Espy
There was a lot of hard hitting in the Dalton Catamounts-Rome Wolves game on Thursday.
Trust me, I know.
A few plays into the third quarter, I got all the evidence I would need. It came in the form of two — I am told by witnesses — players crashing into your favorite editor on the sideline.
I am convinced that one of them had to be behemoth Dalton tackle Watts Dantzler or SEC-bound defensive end Jalen Fields. At least I hope so. It would be awfully embarrassing if I took a lick like that from some 155-pound scatback nicknamed “Skeeter.”
I played some football back in the day, and was on the receiving end of a few nasty shocks.
In midget ball I was kicked in the head by the league’s biggest player. Note that I did not say he ran over me or tackled with me with gusto. No, this prize piece of humanity kicked me in the head while I was on the ground.
Thirty-five or so years later I remember the onrush of symptoms we now know as a concussion. Back then, the coaches called it “getting your bell rung” and treated it by giving you a drink of water and a pat on the backside.
In high school we had a fullback named Terry Farmer. His nickname was “Rock.” I had the audacity to tackle Rock one warm spring afternoon, sliding inside from my defensive tackle position to fill the 2 hole.
It was there — in the 2 hole — that Rock and I bumped heads. Kaboom. He went down. I went down. He got up. I did not.
Instead, I tried to take a quick power nap, right there in the middle of practice.
Head coach Ron Williams did not think this was a good idea and had me carted away. I am sure they gave me water as well.
A few days later, I once again dared to attempt a tackle in the backfield. I blew past the offensive lineman only to realize (at the last second) that the offense was running a trap play and I was the big dummy being trapped.
That epiphany occurred a nanosecond before our superb right guard Wendell Black knocked me out of my shoes. Every molecule in my body hurt for two days.
Thursday’s night’s “de-cleater” felt more like the Wendell Black hit. It was more jarring than anything.
One second I was standing there watching the game. Then I was on my back with at least one sweaty young man on top of me. I assure you that doesn’t happen often, so I knew something was amiss.
I remember hearing the Dalton student section let out a collective moan and then some wisenheimer punk said, “Did you see that old guy get hit?”
Of course being called the “that old guy” was the most painful part of the whole episode. But not by much.
I lay there for a moment, making sure that my cardiovascular system was still functioning. Being “that old guy” I knew not to try and bounce up immediately. People who do that almost always fall over again, often in a comical manner that lands them on “SportsCenter” or “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”
I testily declined assistance and just stayed down, checking my personal biological systems like Mr. Scott going over a checklist in the engine room of the Starship Enterprise.
Once I confirmed that my dilithium crystals were indeed working, I rose and watched the rest of the game, shaky, achy and embarrassed.
I am a 30-plus year sideline veteran and should know better than to let my mind wander during game action, particularly on a sideline as tight as at Harmon Field.
The worst part of the night?
At home, after telling my wife what had happened and showing her the bloody place on my left arm, that lovely woman with whom I consented to make a child suggested I hang up my sport writer gear and start covering ... theater.
Ouch.
The best thing about the incident:
It gave me a column idea.
Jimmy Espy is executive editor of The Daily Citizen. He can still take a hit.
Trust me, I know.
A few plays into the third quarter, I got all the evidence I would need. It came in the form of two — I am told by witnesses — players crashing into your favorite editor on the sideline.
I am convinced that one of them had to be behemoth Dalton tackle Watts Dantzler or SEC-bound defensive end Jalen Fields. At least I hope so. It would be awfully embarrassing if I took a lick like that from some 155-pound scatback nicknamed “Skeeter.”
I played some football back in the day, and was on the receiving end of a few nasty shocks.
In midget ball I was kicked in the head by the league’s biggest player. Note that I did not say he ran over me or tackled with me with gusto. No, this prize piece of humanity kicked me in the head while I was on the ground.
Thirty-five or so years later I remember the onrush of symptoms we now know as a concussion. Back then, the coaches called it “getting your bell rung” and treated it by giving you a drink of water and a pat on the backside.
In high school we had a fullback named Terry Farmer. His nickname was “Rock.” I had the audacity to tackle Rock one warm spring afternoon, sliding inside from my defensive tackle position to fill the 2 hole.
It was there — in the 2 hole — that Rock and I bumped heads. Kaboom. He went down. I went down. He got up. I did not.
Instead, I tried to take a quick power nap, right there in the middle of practice.
Head coach Ron Williams did not think this was a good idea and had me carted away. I am sure they gave me water as well.
A few days later, I once again dared to attempt a tackle in the backfield. I blew past the offensive lineman only to realize (at the last second) that the offense was running a trap play and I was the big dummy being trapped.
That epiphany occurred a nanosecond before our superb right guard Wendell Black knocked me out of my shoes. Every molecule in my body hurt for two days.
Thursday’s night’s “de-cleater” felt more like the Wendell Black hit. It was more jarring than anything.
One second I was standing there watching the game. Then I was on my back with at least one sweaty young man on top of me. I assure you that doesn’t happen often, so I knew something was amiss.
I remember hearing the Dalton student section let out a collective moan and then some wisenheimer punk said, “Did you see that old guy get hit?”
Of course being called the “that old guy” was the most painful part of the whole episode. But not by much.
I lay there for a moment, making sure that my cardiovascular system was still functioning. Being “that old guy” I knew not to try and bounce up immediately. People who do that almost always fall over again, often in a comical manner that lands them on “SportsCenter” or “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”
I testily declined assistance and just stayed down, checking my personal biological systems like Mr. Scott going over a checklist in the engine room of the Starship Enterprise.
Once I confirmed that my dilithium crystals were indeed working, I rose and watched the rest of the game, shaky, achy and embarrassed.
I am a 30-plus year sideline veteran and should know better than to let my mind wander during game action, particularly on a sideline as tight as at Harmon Field.
The worst part of the night?
At home, after telling my wife what had happened and showing her the bloody place on my left arm, that lovely woman with whom I consented to make a child suggested I hang up my sport writer gear and start covering ... theater.
Ouch.
The best thing about the incident:
It gave me a column idea.
Jimmy Espy is executive editor of The Daily Citizen. He can still take a hit.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Jack Nelson, RIP
I met Nelson years ago at an Atlanta Press Club meeting at Manuel's Tavern. Nelson was their flogging his new book on the civil rights movement. Later in the program the Georgia flag was to be debated. Nelson took the opportunity to say the "Stars and Bars" needed to be removed, which set the SCV members into a tizzy. One bearded old rebel charged the lectern where Nelson looked horrified.
I met him later and he was very gracious, particularly after he learned I had lived in the Klan hotbed of Laurel, Miss. for awhile. Here's the LA Times story about his death.
I met him later and he was very gracious, particularly after he learned I had lived in the Klan hotbed of Laurel, Miss. for awhile. Here's the LA Times story about his death.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Dope
He needs to do even more, but give Obama credit for moving in the right direction on medical marijuana. Now listen to those freedom loving GOPers' howl.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Heath
America's biggest fool, Bill Maher takes a well-earned beating here over his dangerous comments about vaccinations, particularly for swine flu. A disgraceful man.
Honduras
Obama Administration once again bamboozled by the reality of the real world. Support for Zelaya may be waning.
Movies - Death Race
I expected to hate the new "Death Race" but didn't.
Certainly it lacks the grindhouse charm of the original -- which starred David Carradine and Sylvester Stallone -- but as a simplistic actioneer that doesn't wpretend to be more than it is AND smashes up a lot of vehicles it's an OK way to spend 90 minutes.
Action man Jason Staham does his thing, never changing expressions, which is enough in this stripped down story.
Heavyweight actress Joan Allen, slumming, plays the baddie with the necessary icy reserve and Ian McShane adds some badly needed humor as Coach, the ace car builder.
That said, the real stars of this film are the stunt men and effects team who make the slam bang race action entertaining.
It's what passes for a popcorn action movie these days, too grim for its own good and lacking charm, but it's still digestible popcorn.
Certainly it lacks the grindhouse charm of the original -- which starred David Carradine and Sylvester Stallone -- but as a simplistic actioneer that doesn't wpretend to be more than it is AND smashes up a lot of vehicles it's an OK way to spend 90 minutes.
Action man Jason Staham does his thing, never changing expressions, which is enough in this stripped down story.
Heavyweight actress Joan Allen, slumming, plays the baddie with the necessary icy reserve and Ian McShane adds some badly needed humor as Coach, the ace car builder.
That said, the real stars of this film are the stunt men and effects team who make the slam bang race action entertaining.
It's what passes for a popcorn action movie these days, too grim for its own good and lacking charm, but it's still digestible popcorn.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Your free Sunday tune
Sweet Melissa by the Allmans. Great vocals and this fine old tune is as sharp and smooth as it was 40 years ago.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Dope
Oakland is the place to be for potheads. According to Newsweek, the staff of which has been high since Obama got in the race.
Cullen Bryant, RIP
One of my favorite "Old Rams." He never developed into a star but played for more than 10 years. He's the man who finished off the Rozelle Rule, when he didn't want to go to Detroit.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Honduras
Jim De Mint visits Honduras. Guess what? Folks down there seemed pretty happy with their new prez.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
My Sunday column
President Barack Obama won the Nobel Prize on Friday, shocking many astute political observers, some of whom were still struggling to learn how to spell his name.
It was a day of triumph for Obama, who also received the Vezina Trophy for being professional hockey’s most outstanding goalie.
Presidential adviser David Axelrod acknowledged the president was stunned by the news. When told of his good fortune, the president responded, “What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
Later, after having time to let the news soak in, the president said, “What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
Worldwide, the acclaim for Obama’s feat drew much praise.
North Korea, Iran and the Afghanistan-Pakistan border areas all sent their congratulations.
North Korean President Kim Jong Il issued a statement praising Obama.
“The People’s Exalted Leader Kim Jong Il is proud to share this year’s Nobel Peace Prize with President Barack Obama.”
When asked if Kim was a co-winner, Ole Olsen, head of the Norwegian Nobel Prize Committee, chuckled and said, “Of course not. We tell him he is every year. Otherwise he calls us three times a day to complain.”
Obama DOES share a proud Nobel history with such stalwarts for peace as the late Yasir Arafat, who you remember, had his Nobel trophy wired to a bomb and tossed on a bus full of Israeli schoolchildren.
Olsen, who headed a prize committee made up of 11 other people named Ole Olsen, said Obama won the award because of his decisive efforts to bring about world peace, which might come as a surprise to the 60,000 American troops sitting in idling planes on a tarmac at Fort Bragg waiting on the president to decide what he’s going to do in Afghanistan.
Which brings up the question of how do you give a peace prize to a world leader who is simultaneously prosecuting two major wars, ordering deadly drone missile strikes into a country we have no troops in and who only hours earlier presided over the bombing of the moon by NASA?
When asked this question, Ole Olsen said “What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
Obama’s victory in Oslo didn’t please everyone.
America’s Vast Right Wing Conspiracy — you know, half the country —reacted with something less than joy.
Rush Limbaugh swallowed his cigar. Michelle Malkin punched an illegal alien. Ann Coulter ate a full meal.
Former Vice President Dick Cheney called for the immediate invasion of Norway.
Told at this ranch in Texas, President Bush stopped chopping wood long enough to say “&^%$*@)%&! me? &^%$*@)%&! them!”
In Plains, former President Jimmy Carter wished Obama well and then launched into a 30-minute speech about what the new president is doing wrong.
The news reverberated through the halls of Congress, where Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid immediately called a joint-news conference and once again pretended not to despise each other for a grueling five minutes.
The president is already hard at work on his acceptance speech, said Axelrod.
“For instance, he has Sasha’s big globe out and is trying to find Norway,” Axelrod said.
“The president wants to make sure he thanks everyone who contributed to his receiving the Nobel — Chairman Mao, Alec Baldwin, Karl Marx, Madonna, Che Guevara, DJ Jazzy Jeff, the prize committee full of drunken Norwegians and most of all, the good folks at ACORN who counted the votes.”
Jimmy Espy is executive editor of The Daily Citizen. He blogs at Espysoutpost.blogpsot.com The moon bomb joke came from Jamie Jones.
It was a day of triumph for Obama, who also received the Vezina Trophy for being professional hockey’s most outstanding goalie.
Presidential adviser David Axelrod acknowledged the president was stunned by the news. When told of his good fortune, the president responded, “What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
Later, after having time to let the news soak in, the president said, “What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
Worldwide, the acclaim for Obama’s feat drew much praise.
North Korea, Iran and the Afghanistan-Pakistan border areas all sent their congratulations.
North Korean President Kim Jong Il issued a statement praising Obama.
“The People’s Exalted Leader Kim Jong Il is proud to share this year’s Nobel Peace Prize with President Barack Obama.”
When asked if Kim was a co-winner, Ole Olsen, head of the Norwegian Nobel Prize Committee, chuckled and said, “Of course not. We tell him he is every year. Otherwise he calls us three times a day to complain.”
Obama DOES share a proud Nobel history with such stalwarts for peace as the late Yasir Arafat, who you remember, had his Nobel trophy wired to a bomb and tossed on a bus full of Israeli schoolchildren.
Olsen, who headed a prize committee made up of 11 other people named Ole Olsen, said Obama won the award because of his decisive efforts to bring about world peace, which might come as a surprise to the 60,000 American troops sitting in idling planes on a tarmac at Fort Bragg waiting on the president to decide what he’s going to do in Afghanistan.
Which brings up the question of how do you give a peace prize to a world leader who is simultaneously prosecuting two major wars, ordering deadly drone missile strikes into a country we have no troops in and who only hours earlier presided over the bombing of the moon by NASA?
When asked this question, Ole Olsen said “What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
Obama’s victory in Oslo didn’t please everyone.
America’s Vast Right Wing Conspiracy — you know, half the country —reacted with something less than joy.
Rush Limbaugh swallowed his cigar. Michelle Malkin punched an illegal alien. Ann Coulter ate a full meal.
Former Vice President Dick Cheney called for the immediate invasion of Norway.
Told at this ranch in Texas, President Bush stopped chopping wood long enough to say “&^%$*@)%&! me? &^%$*@)%&! them!”
In Plains, former President Jimmy Carter wished Obama well and then launched into a 30-minute speech about what the new president is doing wrong.
The news reverberated through the halls of Congress, where Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid immediately called a joint-news conference and once again pretended not to despise each other for a grueling five minutes.
The president is already hard at work on his acceptance speech, said Axelrod.
“For instance, he has Sasha’s big globe out and is trying to find Norway,” Axelrod said.
“The president wants to make sure he thanks everyone who contributed to his receiving the Nobel — Chairman Mao, Alec Baldwin, Karl Marx, Madonna, Che Guevara, DJ Jazzy Jeff, the prize committee full of drunken Norwegians and most of all, the good folks at ACORN who counted the votes.”
Jimmy Espy is executive editor of The Daily Citizen. He blogs at Espysoutpost.blogpsot.com The moon bomb joke came from Jamie Jones.
The environment
The BBC isn't exactly a right wing hotbed which makes this story on global warming even harder to ignore. Al Gore and Co. will though. Strangely, Europe's political classes may be pulling agead of the U.S. in terms of a rethinking on environmental realities.
Newspaperin'
AJC to stop endorsements. But will they tailor news coverage to make the same points at election time.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The News biz
Tim Russert's shrine. Russert seemed like a good enough guy but I never got the hero worship that accompanied his unfortunate passing. Turns out I am not alone. And while we are at it, isn't Newseum a pretty stupid name. Sheesh!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
NASCAR
The LA Times may be the last newspaper to catch on that NASCAR's appeal isn't just a Confederate thing.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Politics
The crap in Washington is so bad even even Newsweek has taken notice. Murtha? Rangel? Dodd? Burris?
Saturday, October 3, 2009
My Sunday column
We made it.
My old high school pal Jim Donovits and I loaded the Explorer down last week and drove a thousand miles to Archer City, home to the All Booked Up bookstore, the brainchild of my favorite author, the great Larry McMurtry.
If you’re a movie fan you may know Archer City. It’s the setting for “The Last Picture Show,” a classic 1971 film that made a star out of Cybill Shepherd and won an Oscar for the superb old movie cowboy Ben Johnson.
Following the dictates of Hollywood logic, in the movie Archer City is called Anarene, even though in McMurtry’s novel the town is called Thalia. There’s a semi-reasonable explanation for all this, but it’s easier to just file the episode in the Ain’t Hollywood Weird file.
When the movie was made in 1971, Archer City was a weather-worn Texas hamlet nursing at the teat of the oil industry.
Almost 40 years later, it’s much the same.
I say this with no malice. A small-town boy myself, I appreciate a plucky little burg where people find a way to live happily without the accoutrements of more prosperous regions.
Archer City sits at the junction of state highways 79 and 25, on the vast plain west of Dallas-Fort Worth.
The landscape is beautiful, though rugged.
Grass is sparse and cactus common. Rocky redondos thrust upward across the countryside, which is also marked by jagged arroyos. The land goes a long way towards explaining the people who live on it.
Then there’s the sky. Oh that sky!
How something so enormous can sneak up on you is amazing.
But somewhere north and west of Fort Worth I was shocked to realize we had been enveloped by a sky so big it snatched at your breath. It was comforting blue with white clouds slowly, but steadily, working their way across the vastness.
I’ll remember that sky for some time.
People raise cattle out there. Larry McMurtry’s daddy did for many years. But it isn’t any easy place to make the land pay off. Unless you have oil on your property that is ... and many folks do.
Oil wells pierce the dusty ground — pump, pump, pumping that Texas crude.
Many west Texans make their living from the oil industry, but they rarely have stories written about them. No, that honor falls to the cowboys. While the days of the thousand-mile cattle drives are long gone, there are still double-tough young men making their living working cattle.
We saw six of them wolfing down lunch at the Archer City Dairy Queen, that same DQ made famous by McMurtry’s writings.
They wore spurs on their boots and talked quietly as they chewed, except for one loquacious drover who rubbed his near knee-high, powder blue boots while regaling a local woman with the day’s adventures.
She seemed to have heard the story, or one just like it, a dozen times before, but that did not dim the enthusiasm of the rawhide lothario.
Our food came and I made mention to Jim that the smell in the place was a wee bit stouter than I would have preferred.
Yeah, what is that, he asked.
I grinned and pointed from the cowboys’ filthy boots to the doorway, their trail marked clearly by pieces of cow chip.
It was a lot of chip and a lot of smell, but if anyone else noticed or was offended they kept it to themselves.
After the cowboys departed a behind-the-counter worker came out and wiped down the table tops. She did nothing about the cow poop.
We laughed and Jim noted there wasn’t even a mat to wipe your feet off on.
Apparently in Archer City people look at cow leavings differently than we do here. That’s fine by me. I appreciate diversity of opinion on all things.
Oh, yeah, I met Larry McMurtry.
We returned to All Booked Up after the DQ lunch and the great man was standing in the outer office, next to a desk piled high with books he was preparing to autograph.
I introduced myself and thanked him for his writing. When I told him I was from “Dalton, in Northwest Georgia,” he asked about “all that rain” we got the week before.
That big West Texas sky may be gorgeous to look at, but it’s a notorious skinflint when it comes to precipitation and an abundance of rain — anywhere — is news.
We talked briefly about his most recent novel and I asked an overly nosy question about his health, which he parried with humor.
He then hinted about that stack of books to be autographed. I took the cue, wished him well and skedaddled back to the book shelves.
There’s a lot more I’d like to discuss with him. Maybe he’ll surprise me by driving to Georgia next summer and showing up at my office.
I’ll take him by our Dairy Queen.
My old high school pal Jim Donovits and I loaded the Explorer down last week and drove a thousand miles to Archer City, home to the All Booked Up bookstore, the brainchild of my favorite author, the great Larry McMurtry.
If you’re a movie fan you may know Archer City. It’s the setting for “The Last Picture Show,” a classic 1971 film that made a star out of Cybill Shepherd and won an Oscar for the superb old movie cowboy Ben Johnson.
Following the dictates of Hollywood logic, in the movie Archer City is called Anarene, even though in McMurtry’s novel the town is called Thalia. There’s a semi-reasonable explanation for all this, but it’s easier to just file the episode in the Ain’t Hollywood Weird file.
When the movie was made in 1971, Archer City was a weather-worn Texas hamlet nursing at the teat of the oil industry.
Almost 40 years later, it’s much the same.
I say this with no malice. A small-town boy myself, I appreciate a plucky little burg where people find a way to live happily without the accoutrements of more prosperous regions.
Archer City sits at the junction of state highways 79 and 25, on the vast plain west of Dallas-Fort Worth.
The landscape is beautiful, though rugged.
Grass is sparse and cactus common. Rocky redondos thrust upward across the countryside, which is also marked by jagged arroyos. The land goes a long way towards explaining the people who live on it.
Then there’s the sky. Oh that sky!
How something so enormous can sneak up on you is amazing.
But somewhere north and west of Fort Worth I was shocked to realize we had been enveloped by a sky so big it snatched at your breath. It was comforting blue with white clouds slowly, but steadily, working their way across the vastness.
I’ll remember that sky for some time.
People raise cattle out there. Larry McMurtry’s daddy did for many years. But it isn’t any easy place to make the land pay off. Unless you have oil on your property that is ... and many folks do.
Oil wells pierce the dusty ground — pump, pump, pumping that Texas crude.
Many west Texans make their living from the oil industry, but they rarely have stories written about them. No, that honor falls to the cowboys. While the days of the thousand-mile cattle drives are long gone, there are still double-tough young men making their living working cattle.
We saw six of them wolfing down lunch at the Archer City Dairy Queen, that same DQ made famous by McMurtry’s writings.
They wore spurs on their boots and talked quietly as they chewed, except for one loquacious drover who rubbed his near knee-high, powder blue boots while regaling a local woman with the day’s adventures.
She seemed to have heard the story, or one just like it, a dozen times before, but that did not dim the enthusiasm of the rawhide lothario.
Our food came and I made mention to Jim that the smell in the place was a wee bit stouter than I would have preferred.
Yeah, what is that, he asked.
I grinned and pointed from the cowboys’ filthy boots to the doorway, their trail marked clearly by pieces of cow chip.
It was a lot of chip and a lot of smell, but if anyone else noticed or was offended they kept it to themselves.
After the cowboys departed a behind-the-counter worker came out and wiped down the table tops. She did nothing about the cow poop.
We laughed and Jim noted there wasn’t even a mat to wipe your feet off on.
Apparently in Archer City people look at cow leavings differently than we do here. That’s fine by me. I appreciate diversity of opinion on all things.
Oh, yeah, I met Larry McMurtry.
We returned to All Booked Up after the DQ lunch and the great man was standing in the outer office, next to a desk piled high with books he was preparing to autograph.
I introduced myself and thanked him for his writing. When I told him I was from “Dalton, in Northwest Georgia,” he asked about “all that rain” we got the week before.
That big West Texas sky may be gorgeous to look at, but it’s a notorious skinflint when it comes to precipitation and an abundance of rain — anywhere — is news.
We talked briefly about his most recent novel and I asked an overly nosy question about his health, which he parried with humor.
He then hinted about that stack of books to be autographed. I took the cue, wished him well and skedaddled back to the book shelves.
There’s a lot more I’d like to discuss with him. Maybe he’ll surprise me by driving to Georgia next summer and showing up at my office.
I’ll take him by our Dairy Queen.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
TV
Larry David talks about the reunion. Curb Your Enthusiasm is my favorite show. The first episodes this season were hilarious and it promises to get better as Larry hatches his scheme to use the Seinfeld cast to get his old wife back.
Movies
Zombieland. This was filmed largely in Valdosta and Atlanta. Times' Richard Corliss weighs in as well.
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