By DOUG STRASSLER

There was a time when Michael Keaton was pretty much inescapable at the movies. Unfortunately, that time was the 1980s, and while he’s worked steadily since then, the movies haven’t had the visibility of the good old days.

Think of the string of hits the man had. There were comedies like Gung Ho, Night Shift, Mr. Mom, and (one of my favorites) Johnny Dangerously, which features the line “Did you know you’re last name is an adverb?” And he was strong in dramas, too, like One Good Cop, Touch and Go and the excellent Clean and Sober.

And then there is one of the most creative mind-boinks of all time, the playfully morbid Beetlejuice. The movie was a perfect match for the fertile mind of Tim Burton and Keaton’s “I can do anything” mantra. Watch him let loose. It’s a performance of unbridled fun.

Keaton could do no wrong. The only thing he needed was an action hit… and then he got one when he re-teamed Tim Burton on Batman, a movie that did more to revive the notion of the summer blockbuster than any movie since Jaws or Star Wars. I’ve been vocal about how I prefer Burton’s vision of the Caped Crusader over Christopher Nolan’s bleak, if technically profound, reboots, and Keaton is one of the main reasons.

Unlike the huffy Christian Bale, Keaton provided real gravitas to Bruce Wayne – he shaded in all the areas, creating not just a millionaire playboy with plenty of demons, but also a sense of charisma, of egotism, of entitlement, and even libido. And still managed to have fun with the comic book adaptation. He’s a character actor by nature, and his inside-out approach to the character made it far richer and yes, human, than the subsequent Batmans played by Val Kilmer, George Clooney and Bale. Also, his chemistry with Michelle Pfeiffer’s Selina Kyle/Catwoman damn near saves the off-kilter Batman Returns.

Someone with that ability to carry movies of all shapes and sizes seemed destined for superstardom, and indeed, superstardom came…for Tom Hanks, whose all-American charm sent him straight to the stratosphere. Meanwhile, Keaton’s career plateaued, although the work never suffered. He’s great in Multiplicity as not one, not two, not three, but FOUR different versions of protagonist Doug Kinney (in fact, maybe a strong “Doug” connection is why I’ve always thought Keaton is so awesome – he was born Michael Douglas!). He’s a generous actor—he gives practically every scene to Andie MacDowell. Same for Speechless: he lets co-star and Beetlejuice alum Geena Davis run with the movie, mediocre as it may have been. Same with Marisa Tomei and Robert Duvall in The Paper and Helena Bonham-Carter in HBO’s Live from Baghdad.

But guess what, guys? He’s back! Earlier this summer Keaton did a hilarious job voicing the curious Ken doll in the excellent Toy Story 3. And today he stars as Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg’s police captain in The Other Guys (just like Ken, he’s got a secret or two). Clearly I’m not the only one welcoming his return – Letterman gave him three segments last week. Is he back for good? Let’s hope so.

Nineteen years ago this week, Roxette reached number one on Billboard’s Hot 100 with “Joyride,” their fourth (and final) chart-topper and the lead single from their second U.S. album, Joyride.

For me, the timing of this anniversary is oddly perfect, because it was just last week that I fully comprehended my love for Roxette’s music. It started when their brilliant ballad “Spending My Time” popped up while I was creating our latest iPod Quiz. Identifying the song, Critical Condition reader K. mentioned how much she listened to Roxette back in the day, and it made me realize… I did, too.

But really, I’ve never stopped listening. Unlike other acts I loved in the early nineties, I’ve never taken enough of a break from the Swedish duo to rediscover them. They’ve always been there, power popping as I drive to work, ride on the train, or cool down at the gym with some overblown ballads.

In short, based on the amount of time that I’ve spent listening to them and the amount of pleasure their music has given me, I think Roxette may be one of my all-time favorite bands.

So let’s spend some time with their music, shall we? And let’s reflect on how singer Marie Fredriksson has recently proven herself to be an absolute badass.

I’ll start with Fredriksson’s story: In 2002, she was diagnosed with brain cancer, which ultimately led to permanent brain damage. She lost some movement on her right side and the vision in her right eye. And she lost the ability to read and count.

I mean… what? No reading or counting? Ever again? I can’t even imagine how terrible that must be.

Understandably, Fredriksson didn’t do a lot of public performing during the aughts, but last year, she reunited with Per Gessle (Roxette’s founder, songwriter, and vocalist) for a live performance at an annual European event called Night of the Proms.

In case you’re wondering if a suddenly-illiterate cancer survivor can still rock, just take a look at this performance of “It Must’ve Been Love” from that comeback show:

Now, her voice is a little weary, but my god, given what’s she been through, Fredriksson sounds pretty damn amazing. And the fact that she’s even up there is inspiring.

Apparently, a lot of people agree. Things went so well at this show that Roxette is planning its first tour in over a decade, and tickets are selling very well. (NOTE: If you would like to send me to see one of these shows, then I will gratefully write about your charitable act right here on The Critical Condition. What a deal!)

I would argue that this return to live performing wouldn’t be nearly as exciting if Roxette’s music weren’t so good. Sure, Gessle’s lyrics sometimes have the awkward quality of a non-native English speaker—I still don’t know what the “wonderful balloon” from “Joyride” is—but his way with a hook and a melody, coupled with Fredriksson’s lovely voice, cannot be denied.

For instance, it’s been nineteen years since “Fading Like a Flower (Every Time You Leave),” the follow-up to “Joyride,” reached number two on the charts, but give or take a few musty production flourishes, it still sounds relevant:

And I say again, “Spending My Time” is fantastic. Gessle’s lyrics are affecting and comprehensible here, and the instrumental track injects real grandeur into the pain of a broken heart.

And though it was never released in the States, the late-90s song “Stars” demonstrates that the duo’s instincts can translate to whirlygig dance-pop. I love the raw energy of this song, and I always love a children’s choir. (Plus, this video is crazy. Those eyebrows alone deserve our applause.)

So there you go: This is a taste of why I love Roxette. Their music is pure, shameless pop, but it is also an enduring source of melodic pleasure.

Merry almost-Christmas! Are you listening to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You?” No? Then turn on any  adult contemporary radio station and wait five seconds.

As we zoom toward the Yule, I’m reposting the tribute I wrote last year to Carey’s contemporary Christmas classic. Read it again for the first time!

—

It’s December! This is my birthday month and Christmas month. I’ve already set the DVR to record every claymation holiday special.

To kick off the best four weeks of the year, I’m making a spirited claim: Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” is the only significant Christmas song written since 1984.

(see why…)

I know some of you gag when you hear Mariah’s name, but hear me out: I’m not saying it’s the only good Christmas song written in the last twenty-five years. I’m saying it’s the only one with staying power.

I mean, can you name another recent Christmas song that’s as evergreen as “All I Want For Christmas Is You?” To come close, you have to reach back to “Do They Know It’s Christmas?,” which came out in 1984.

Along they way, you’ve had your “Christmas in Hollis” and your “This One’s For The Children” and your “Christmas Shoes,” but they all disappeared after one or two seasons. Meanwhile, “All I Want For Christmas Is You” came out in 1994, and it’s still everywhere, every year.

For instance, it’s only December 2nd, and the song is already in the top 20 on the iTunes best sellers list. It was featured in Love, Actually. It’s been covered by Shania Twain, My Chemical Romance, and Miley Cyrus. In 2006 Sasha Frere-Jones declared it “one of the few worthy additions to the modern day holiday canon.”

But while that’s all very nice, here’s the most important thing: The song, which Carey co-wrote and co-produced with Walter Afanasieff, is resilient because it’s good. Really good. And most new Christmas songs just… aren’t.

In pinpointing the song’s genius, you could almost stop with the bouncy-bounce sleigh bells. But there’s also its masterful balance of classic and modern pop. For every girl-group backing vocal, there’s a drum machine. For every hand clap, there’s a contemporary vocal flourish. Yet somehow, the elements keep each other in check. The track is neither a self-conscious throwback nor a tuneless slave to melisma.

That balance is clear in the song’s best moment: In the very last chorus, we hear Ronettes-like backing vocalists sing “all I want for Christmaaaaas,” then we hear some old-fashioned percussion mixed with a drum fill, and then Mariah stretches the word “is” into twenty syllables.

And then? “Yooooo-ooo-oo-uuu!” High note! Return of the sleigh bells! Funky vocal riffs! Worlds colliding!

Aaaah. I’m listening as I write this, and that’s still one of my favorite moments in pop music history. There’s so much joy in it, so much effortless fun.

And fun is important. Whereas so many modern Christmas songs want me to learn a valuable lesson or chortle at the sappiness of the holidays, “All I Want For Christmas Is You” just wants me to be happy. That’s exactly what I need: A feel-good party in a winter coat.

What do you guys think? Do you share my joy, or does this song… um… put coal in your stockings?

Old songs. Old friends. You know what I mean. One Saturday afternoon, you decide to put those Tori CDs on your iPod, so you dig your CaseLogic out of your bedroom closet. As you’re flipping through the plastic pages—CDs on the front side, booklets on the back—you stumble across an album that you haven’t thought about in years.

And then you’re  in high school again. You’re taking the back road to Laura’s house just so you can roll down your windows and sing along with this one amazing song without shouting over the interstate.

You play the forgotten CD. You don’t expect anything, really, except a wave of nostalgia, but then… damn! The album is great. It isn’t just old songs. It’s old friends.

This happened to me when I tumbled back into Mercury Poise, a best-of collection from alt-rock singer/songwriter Michelle Shocked. If you know her music, then get ready to relive the dream. If you don’t, then let me introduce you to a lovely lady.

Shocked rose to moderate fame in the late 80s, riding the same wave that carried R.E.M., Suzanne Vega, and other college radio favorites. She was distinctive because she blended her singer-songwriter sound with gospel soul and Texas twang. A dispute with Mercury Records pushed her off the radar in the mid-nineties, but she has carried on as a super-indie, super-lefty troubadour. (Her latest album just got released on her website.)

I’m interested to hear her new music, but for now, these older gems are my faves:

(1) “Anchorage”

This was Shocked’s only single to chart on the Billboard Hot 100, so I guess it’s her “greatest hit.” That makes sense. It’s remarkable.

First, there’s the unique concept: Shocked gets a letter from a long-lost friend who has recently moved to Anchorage, Alaska. Shocked sings in her friend’s voice, and her lyrics are so specific that this woman feels complete. We know that she’s got a husband and two kids, and we know that in a quiet way, she is losing her sense of herself.

It’s the restraint that makes the woman’s loneliness so heartbreaking. “I sound like a housewife,” she says. “Hey Chel, I think I’m a housewife.” In the context of the song—and thanks to Shocked’s softly aching vocals—this simple statement hits hard. But what can this woman do? She’s anchored down in Anchorage. This is her life. Her only choice to fondly remember the time when she and her “punk rocker” friend were liberated.

Musically, the song’s as reserved as the friend’s sadness. It shuffles along at a pleasant mid-tempo, and it gets a bit of melancholy from some strings. That’s appropriate. Why make a loud, angry anthem about a situation you can’t change?

Of course, this is what the song means to me. The video features actual footage of Shocked’s friend and her family, and they seem pretty happy. Plus, on the video’s YouTube page, there are comments from someone claiming to be one of the kids on screen. She remembers Alaska as a lovely time.

And hey, I’ve had enough experience to know that you can miss your old life without hating your new one.

That’s  another point in “Anchorage’s” favor: It’s good enough to support multiple interpretations.

(2) “Come a Long Way”

A slow-building rocker, “Come a Long Way” is about a woman driving her motorcycle around Los Angeles. She goes 500 miles, and she doesn’t even leave the city.

This song makes me want to dance, and Shocked really wails in that last section, which is awesome. Plus, even though she’s jamming, her performance feels really laid back… like, she’s having a good time, but she’s not freaking out. That makes me assume she’s cool and that we should hang out. I like that in a singer!

Is there a movie that you used to love, back in the day? Maybe you and your brother would watch it over and over and over, and you just knew it would be your favorite forever? Only now you’re afraid to re-watch, for fear it won’t hold up at all?

During last week’s discussion of the Best Picture Expansion Project for 1994, Gonzalo and Pristine both broached this subject, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Because lord knows, there are a few movies I am certain should live only in my memory.

Like, I used to love The Care Bears Movie, where this magician’s assistant gets possessed by an evil book at a summer camp (or something like that.) I remember thinking it was cool that there was an evil spell book that talked, and I remember having a serious crush on the magician’s assistant. (This is the only picture I can find of him, but trust me, when he wasn’t looking crazy, he was making my six year-old heart just melt.)

Something tells me, though, that The Care Bears Movie would be excruciating today. It features a character named Funshine Bear.

The film that started this whole discussion last week was Reality Bites, which I saw in the theatre in 1994. About three minutes in, I decided it was showing me the ideal vision of my future. I needed to be that cool when I was twenty two.

I watched the movie again over the weekend (I hadn’t seen it in thirteen years), and… it’s not a classic. Unlike Gonzalo, I don’t think it’s terrible, but it certainly feels like a movie written and directed by people who are just discovering the concept of pacing.

Also? Winona Ryder’s character should not turn down the offer to develop a show at a major television network, just so she can hang out with scuzzy Ethan Hawke. Ben Stiller may not be offering her a perfect world, but he is offering an amazing professional opportunity. She doesn’t have to date him, but she should sure as hell work with him.

But… of course I think that, right? I’m thirty, not fifteen.

So maybe I shouldn’t have re-watched Reality Bites. Maybe I should have  kept listening to “Stay (I Missed You)” (still a great song) and let the movie live on in my heart.

How about you? Which movies need to stay in your past?

Last night in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, I attended a sing-along screening of Purple Rain, the film that won Prince an Oscar and cemented his reputation as a weird-but-wonderful genius. I knew the songs, of course, but I had never seen the movie, so I was interested to see what I’d been missing.

And… um… did you know that Purple Rain is really fucked up? Like, really fucked up. Like in one scene, The Kid (the name of Prince’s semiautobiographical character) convinces his new squeeze Apollonia to strip and dive into a lake. But then he tells her that she dove into the wrong lake before driving away on a purple motorcycle. Then he drives back and tells her to hop on the back of his chopper, but when she tries to get on, he pulls forward at the last minute. Psych! And this treatment makes her love him, so she buys him an expensive white guitar.

Then Prince beats her up. Twice. But it’s okay? Apparently? Since he’s just mimicking his abusive father? The movie suggests that since the Kid feels bad about the abuse, it’s almost forgivable.

At any rate, Apollonia stays with him. Then Daddy tries to kill himself, the Kid discovers a long-lost box of Daddy’s sheet music, and everyone wears mirrored sunglasses.

Meanwhile, there are all these subplots involving Morris Day and members of The Revolution, Prince’s band at the time. And sprinkled in between that are these amazing scenes of Prince and the Revolution performing at  a Minneapolis club. Prince humps speakers and does pirouettes and reminds us that he will always, always be sexier than we are, and yes that is his crotch in our faces, and yes he is singing falsetto, and yes we like it.

And then the “plot” resolves with Prince embracing his feminine side. As in, he starts the movie beating up his girlfriend and refusing to listen to the music that his bandmates Wendy and Lisa have written. But after his dad’s suicide attempt, he listens to one of Wendy and Lisa’s songs, and it changes him. He writes lyrics to their melody, and it becomes “Purple Rain.” Everyone at the club loves the new jam, and for the first time in the movie, the Kid decides to play more than one number for his adoring audience. After he opens up to his fans, we see a montage of him getting back together with Apollonia, and then there’s the final scene: The Kid jumps on top of a speaker during the song “Baby I’m a Star,” grabs a hidden guitar, and points its neck over the crowd. Then the guitar spurts water on everyone.

As in, the guitar has a big orgasm on Prince’s fans.

So… by embracing a woman’s creative powers, the Kid also taps into his own masculine energy. Art and sex fuse into an androgynous whole, and the man who was an abuser becomes a stronger, more feminine hero. The moral: Man + Woman = Completion. Man – Woman = Suffering and Abuse.

And that’s kind of a cool message… but it’s also kind of confusing. The way Prince’s songs are confusing. (Have you ever really listened to his lyrics?)

As befuddled as I am, however, I’m glad I saw Purple Rain. It gives me a new grasp on what the eighties let people get away with.

One of my most vivid moviegoing memories comes from seeing Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. It was 1991. I was 12. I was at the movie with my dad and my uncle, and we were all enjoying the swashbuckling good times. Apparently, though, the rest of the audience was enjoying them even more than we were, because when the film ended, a large portion of the crowd burst into applause.

Sidebar: Isn’t it strange to remember that Kevin Costner was once the kind of movie star who could get people not only to see his pictures, but also to applaud when they were over? Oh Ozymandias! Your once-mighty visage is now buried in the sand!

But I digress. My point is not that glory fades. My point is that way back in 1991, I was shocked that folks were applauding for artists who couldn’t possibly hear them. As a twelve year-old, I judged those clappers, and I judged them hard.

It wasn’t until I saw the Dreamgirls movie in 2006 that I understood their response. When Jennifer Hudson finished singing “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going,” it didn’t matter  that I was in a movie theater in a Michigan shopping mall, or that J-Hud was probably thousands of miles away. Her performance moved me so much that I had to express myself. So I clapped for the woman on screen.

We applaud so much in Western culture that we can forget why it’s a meaningful act. When we do it sincerely, we’re not just telling artists (or athletes or politicians) that we appreciate them. Our applause is not just about them. It’s also about us… about the rush we feel when we encounter something exceptional. A truly exhilarating experience builds up in us like pressure, and that energy demands to be pushed forward and shared with those around us. 

I’m describing a religious experience, you know? If we get moved in church, we can shout or raise our hands or speak in tongues. If we get moved in a secular space, at the altar of an artwork, we can cry or laugh… or we can applaud. We can pound our hands together until the wildness in our bodies has calmed.

As I’m describing it, I’m aware of how few experiences have demanded this applause, this true applause from me. Jennifer Hudson in Dreamgirls. Hairspray  and Mary Stuart and August: Osage County on Broadway. The reunion episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race, when RuPaul goes kabuki on those bitches and tells them to love themselves more.

For me, those were big experiences. (Yes, including the Drag Race reunion.) They manifested passions I often feel but can rarely express. I was grateful to Jennifer Hudson for belting out her wild heartbreak. I was grateful to RuPaul for defending self-respect with so much fury. I was grateful to all those artists for allowing me to witness a major emotion… to see it in front of me and so comprehend it more fully than I can when it’s swirling around in my chest.

True, I didn’t feel that passion during Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, but now I respect the people who did.

My friends’  Facebook updates suggest that not everyone loved this week’s season finale of Lost, but I sure did! I’d call that some excellent television, y’all, and if Elizabeth Mitchell (Juliet) and Michael Emerson (Ben) don’t win Emmys, then I will go to Helen Hunt’s house, steal two of her 449 award statues, swaddle them in bubble wrap, stick them in FedEx envelopes, toss in two handfuls of Hershey’s Hugs, and mail them to “Liz and Mike c/o Bad Robot.”

Don’t worry… I’ll leave a few Hugs for Helen Hunt as well.

After the jump, I’ll discuss one reason the finale inspired me to pilfer Emmys. If you haven’t yet watched, do not keep reading.

So here’s what I loved: Juliet died with agency. She had a “good death.”

(I realize she may not be dead forever, but at this moment, let’s assume she is.)

One of my longest-standing frustrations with Lost has been the passivity of the deaths. With the exceptions of Charlie—who consciously chose to drown so that he could help his friends—and maybe Mr. Eko–who seemed at peace when Smokey destroyed him—all of the characters who have croaked have left this world as utter victims. Shannon got shot in the gut. Faraday got shot in the back. Boone got crushed by a plane.  Dr. Atzt got blown up by ancient dynamite. You get the picture.

Some passive deaths are valuable, of course. On a show like Lost, it’s good to remember that control is an illusion and that chaos often holds sway.

But when character after character dies without agency, the show implies they’re filler… that they’re just distractions from the truly important people who are still breathing.

I mean, how else would you describe Libby, right? She hung around for twenty-two episodes, gave Desmond a boat, and got shot. Hurley may talk about seeing her ghost, but so far, she seems like a waste of time.

And again, I can accept that some characters are dispensable, but I don’t want to visit a world full of throwaways. That’s nihilistic, not entertaining.

At the end of the season finale, I thought my beloved Juliet was going to be the latest helpless victim. When she fell down that well, I was pissed. She deserved better than that.

But my ire was misplaced. In the last scene of the season, Juliet comes gasping back to life at the bottom of the well (or pit, or hole, or DriveSHAFT), drags her broken body to the bomb, and detonates it. What a powerful way to go!

So now, Juliet will be directly responsible for whatever happens at the beginning of next season. Even if she dies for good, she will have died in the service of a larger action. Her death will cause change. She will have real power. And a character as cool as hers deserves all that.

For more of my thoughts on Lost, including the surprising awesomeness of Kate, go here.

There were many things I enjoyed about the new Star Trek movie, such as…

• Zoe Saldana’s whip-smart appeal as Uhura.
• The Romulan villain’s effectively “human” backstory.
• The fact that when the actors were in close-up, you could see their pores and blemishes, which made them seem like real people.

Nothing surprised me more, however, than my deep delight at seeing Winona Ryder on screen.

After the jump, let’s remember her glory years.

Winona! Ryder! Star Trek cakes her in old-age make-up to play Spock’s mother, but she’s obviously still the pixie-faced charmer that made me want to welcome Roxy Carmichael back home and eat plate after plate of finger foods with Mrs. Flax.

And it’s funny, because the last time I really thought about Winona, I was totally over her. That was back in 2002, when she followed her shoplifting conviction with the more heinous crimes of Mr. Deeds and S1m0ne.

If I’d known she was going to be in Star Trek, I’d have been prepared to be annoyed, but that’s the thing: I didn’t know. So when she appeared, I had no intellectual barrier against my my gut reaction to seeing her on the big screen for the first time in thirteen years.

Yep, I haven’t seen a Winona Ryder film in an actual movie theater since The Crucible was released in 1996. I had forgotten she could exist in those dimensions.

More to the point, I had forgotten how much I used to LOVE Winona Ryder the Movie Star. I was an adolescent during her halcyon days, and back then, she embodied everything I thought I wanted to be. Her characters were cool, smart, and consciously segregated from the mainstream, but they always had access to their feelings. To me, that was a flawless way to live, which is why I bought tickets to everything  from Reality Bites and Mermaids to The Age of Innocence and Little Women. (My teenage dedication also extended to early classics like Heathers and Beetlejuice, which my friends and I rented over and over from the Blockbuster down the road.)

Rider’s handful of scenes in Star Trek brought all of that flooding back. Like I said, if I’d known she was coming, I might have defended myself, but instead, I was left wobbly with reawakened happiness.

I’ve calmed down since Friday afternoon, and I doubt I’ll be firing up The Crucible this week, but I’m glad that for a few hours, I remembered what it felt like to be a passionate kid sorting himself out with pop culture markers. It reminded me how far I’ve come in knowing myself, and it reminded me that I’ve always been someone who gets seriously invested in the art I love. I like that.

Granted, this experience also reminded me that in 1994, I thought Little Women had the best cast ever assembled for  a motion picture, and that names like “Ryder,” “Dunst,” and “Danes” would someday be whispered like holy prayers in American homes. My bad! But if Claire Danes randomly pops up in G.I. Joe, then this will seriously be the summer of my re-crushing.

Lana LoRusso not only works in media, but also runs the fantastic pop culture website The Lanalogue.

Today, she is kind enough to give us seven, count ‘em, seven reasons to love Friday Night Lights.

Take it away, Lana!

Seven Reasons to Love Friday Night Lights

By Lana LoRusso

When this show first premiered, I had quite a few concerns:

* Did we really need another series about about high school? With all the shows on MTV & the CW (and I watch them all), what void could FNL possibly fill?

* Who cared about HS football in Texas? I watched Two-A-Days on MTV and got the point after a couple of episodes.

* Did I really need more football in my life? My husband watches it all the time. It’s painful.

Luckily, I decided to give Friday Night Lights a shot, and there they all were: Riggins. Coach. Matt. Julie. Buddy. This show wasn’t about football. It wasn’t about teenagers, Texas, or white trash. It was about all of it. The combo equaled the best thing I have ever watched on TV … period. Don’t believe me? Here are Seven Reasons why FNL is the best show on TV:

1. I used to hate Texas, and now I am considering moving there
2. Landry (Jesse Plemons) is the coolest ugly person on TV. (And he’s still sort of cute.)
3. Each girl is hotter than the next (that includes the mom).
4. Everyone wishes they had a Coach like Coach.
5. Watching Friday Night Lights is better than watching actual football
6. They named an episode after Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree.
7. Even guys want to have sex with Tim Riggins.

BONUS: It’s on the brink of cancellation every year due to low ratings, but NBC keeps bringing it back. In fact, they  just signed on for two more seasons.

Clear Eyes. Full Heart. Can’t Lose! Panthers!