The "Santana" winds were the gustiest of gusty as I ran down 3rd street. Time was of the essence...I could no longer sit on the telephone rehashing previous Midwestern events of which I was not involved. How can one get a "study aid" in time to not miss guests and programming? I was on the run.
Upon arrival, I immediately located the aisle where freaks, bozos, and those with too much gas look for a fix for the warm night. The directions said "safe as coffee." What was my reasoning for this? I saw an ad for it from a 1980 TV Guide. 25 years later, it'll do. The fine print included this nugget of information:
contains the caffeine of eight cups of coffee
My god, man. I don't think I've seen anyone this wired since the Blind Owl concert. I picked it up, and a package of those cookies with the M&Ms that are so good. Something to chase these down. Returning home, I wanted to make sure this went through the proper way: Steak, potatoes, salad. I shall eat like a king. Tiny Dancer came over, and it altered my night plan. Truth be told, there's something to be said for someone who doesn't have to be told the rules of football. Especially a girl. I don't care if they actually don't know...just don't ask me questions.
Well, it makes me wonder...how do I know everything? (Everything being stuff from rules to penalties, formations, fight songs, and the All-SEC cheerleading squad) I have no idea. I just do. You do too. Who knows from when or where.
Sports was to be the focus but she had other plans. My brainwaves were altered, and the pills never made it down. The end was nigh, and I laid, tired, having not achieved any of the ambitious madness I allotted myself for the evening. The depth charts hadn't been reviewed before the bet was placed. The Mariachi band was not ordered for the Padres celebration that was cancelled due to lack of interest. The Red Sox fans were not asked why they chant down 5 runs. My choice to degrade myself in every manner possible was thwarted by man's most important wish. There will be other games. There will be other dates. There will be other pills. As night turned to day, and the door shut...a terse note was nailed to the door.
"See you in court, swineface."
A man's achievement is never finished until the hammer comes down. It could be hardware given, change gate closed. Last bite of Sloppy Joe, last ounce of gin. Final flush, one more stoplight to home. We have games and they're increasing by the day. I shall seize them in the name of ribald tales and fortune.
Ay yingo, this tea goes through me like shit through a goose. Speaking of...
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
Incorrect Life Choices
Sure, hell, it doesn't matter. A bulleted list of things wrong with my life:
That's it, I have to eat something Italian.
- Louisville Football
- I spend 90 dollars on a nice dinner then have to hit my mom up for gas money
- Noise noise noise
- Online poker is for goddamned losers
- It costs 36 dollars to go to Timberwolves games, and Mark Madsen can't even hear me yelling
That's it, I have to eat something Italian.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
A hope for tomorrow during maddening frustration
Stuck inside a monitoring cell, I was surprised to find myself thinking. Not so much observing...Reflecting. There she is.
1. This chips don't taste as good as they used to.
Folks, we're not talking about the same bag, so save the material. It's when lullaby companies that claim to be natural and good for you alter something that just worked. Life's greatest triumphs and good times have come from moments where no one knew what was going to happen or, better yet, that THIS would happen. Cheese doesn't taste different from one coast of this country to the next, but said company added salt (the great flavor of the east) and we were on to something. The Flavor was smeared on, not sprayed. These potatoes were cut with a knife by a group of prisoners who nervously eyed the warden as they sat, knife in hand. Then this company just plain fucked it up. They altered it (but didn't tell anyone, New Coke lesson learned) and now it sucks. And because they are on the "high end" of the junk realm and no one sells classic small amounts, I'm out $1.75 in a day and age where I am out of laundry soap.
2. I'm not liking what I see in the AL East.
No one should. Now is not the time to let this team peak, even if they are playing a rusty watertown from Maryland, one who gave up hope weeks ago. I'd like the competition to step it up and realize that no hope is lost when you defeat a ruthless empire that exhales all the warmth of a siren. Wake the fuck up, Beacon Hill, and do your job. I don't care if you don't win in the playoffs, just keep the businessmen out of there.
3. We can't get forceful when he's all we have.
Tell this to the overfed scribes who think that Mason has to make it happen this week against Purdue. It's a must-win, no doubt, but if you can him, you're back at square zero. If this school wants their own pit to play, build with some success. How about you cut the sucker's pay? .500 in the Big Ten or it's slice time. And where's that money going? The new stadia. And improved face masks (always a problem, looking for a solution).
4. It feels like inside outside.
It doesn't get any better than this. Cool breeze by night. Trees turning. Temp is the same. It brings with it a lot of hope in a season of death. Man has turned this ritual of nature into its own beginning. Television. Football. Public School. Three true rights and character building charms of this land get it going when the leaves go to gold. And all this, as I walk inside/outside. Curious about lunch, and if I should eat it. Can you take a nap in the grass in front of the federal building? I will figure out. How much green tea does it take to make your head feel behind your body? 3 cups or so.
These are all things that face me here in the Golden State. We press on like Farmer John ham.
1. This chips don't taste as good as they used to.
Folks, we're not talking about the same bag, so save the material. It's when lullaby companies that claim to be natural and good for you alter something that just worked. Life's greatest triumphs and good times have come from moments where no one knew what was going to happen or, better yet, that THIS would happen. Cheese doesn't taste different from one coast of this country to the next, but said company added salt (the great flavor of the east) and we were on to something. The Flavor was smeared on, not sprayed. These potatoes were cut with a knife by a group of prisoners who nervously eyed the warden as they sat, knife in hand. Then this company just plain fucked it up. They altered it (but didn't tell anyone, New Coke lesson learned) and now it sucks. And because they are on the "high end" of the junk realm and no one sells classic small amounts, I'm out $1.75 in a day and age where I am out of laundry soap.
2. I'm not liking what I see in the AL East.
No one should. Now is not the time to let this team peak, even if they are playing a rusty watertown from Maryland, one who gave up hope weeks ago. I'd like the competition to step it up and realize that no hope is lost when you defeat a ruthless empire that exhales all the warmth of a siren. Wake the fuck up, Beacon Hill, and do your job. I don't care if you don't win in the playoffs, just keep the businessmen out of there.
3. We can't get forceful when he's all we have.
Tell this to the overfed scribes who think that Mason has to make it happen this week against Purdue. It's a must-win, no doubt, but if you can him, you're back at square zero. If this school wants their own pit to play, build with some success. How about you cut the sucker's pay? .500 in the Big Ten or it's slice time. And where's that money going? The new stadia. And improved face masks (always a problem, looking for a solution).
4. It feels like inside outside.
It doesn't get any better than this. Cool breeze by night. Trees turning. Temp is the same. It brings with it a lot of hope in a season of death. Man has turned this ritual of nature into its own beginning. Television. Football. Public School. Three true rights and character building charms of this land get it going when the leaves go to gold. And all this, as I walk inside/outside. Curious about lunch, and if I should eat it. Can you take a nap in the grass in front of the federal building? I will figure out. How much green tea does it take to make your head feel behind your body? 3 cups or so.
These are all things that face me here in the Golden State. We press on like Farmer John ham.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Christ the Hell
The sun may rise in the east, but it always sets where the gold turns to sand.
Good lord, though, with enough practice, anybody could take Joe Greene. Or George Blanda for that matter. In fantasy football, you'd want to start him at both quarterback and kicker. He'll hit you for 7 all by his lonesome. It's all just a matter of technique.
The thoroughbreads that burst from the college Machine every season have no direction and no empathy. The play-makers respond to the play-callers, and who the hell cares what else happens? Without coaching, this whole damn thing would be a waste of time. Pickup games for a dollar a point are fine and dandy when you find yourself in sweatpants and a Polk High tank-top out front of the Y with only 4 dollars in the sole of your New Balance kicks and 14 deals to make in the next fiscal cycle, but you wouldn't pay money to see that game. The coaches bring order, discipline. And more than that, they matter in Professional football.
Flip smokes cigarettes when he's pissed off, and jesus god, why shouldn't he? There are 10 million reasons Phil came back to coach the raper.
But hell, that's not what this is about. It's about the NFL. And these coaches, and how much they matter to the game. Can dumb idiots have success? Sure! Why not? Dumb Idiots have success everywhere in life. Why, just as I type this, there are some dumb idiots cavorting in a physical language unknown to the mouth-breathing steerage on this floor that would make the Pope weep, so to speak. And they get paid double and triple what I do, so who cares? The point isn't in the financial gap, it's the basic human condition, the fundamental principle by the name of Peter. Fuck all that, let's get back to the point.
The point is that success has to be sustained, and Mike Martz can't last. Dennis Green is a good coach, and if you don't think so, then you are wrong, and you'll have to sort of deal with that at some point. Mike Sherman? Sweet christ. Joe Gibbs, as Trip once said, is swindling money from The District, but why not? He's getting the job done with an inferior team. And he's not even a very good coach. It's just that when it comes down, and the last drive of the last game of the last season of your life is happening right in front of your eyes, you want Bill Parcells there. Even if he yells at the young kids. Because he Delivers.
The game has changed, and the heroes are dead. Brady? You must be kidding. Sure, he's great, but not in Minnesota, and if Gibbs had his way, Dillon's going straight up the middle every time because Joe still can't figure out why they took Happy Days off the air (thanks Denis). So when your coach is a bumbling idiot, when he can't even comprehend the fundamental nature of the game of Foot-balling, when he challenges the OPENING FUCKING KICKOFF - AND LOSES, you really don't have a chance at long-term success. Sorry Green Bay. Sorry Minnesota. Sorry St. Louis. Sorry Seattle. Sorry Houston. Sorry New York. Sorry New York (they city so nice they named two idiot-coached teams twice!).
But then again, Pete Carroll is a fucking genius now, so that about does it for this post. Welcome to the world, spuzzy!
Good lord, though, with enough practice, anybody could take Joe Greene. Or George Blanda for that matter. In fantasy football, you'd want to start him at both quarterback and kicker. He'll hit you for 7 all by his lonesome. It's all just a matter of technique.
The thoroughbreads that burst from the college Machine every season have no direction and no empathy. The play-makers respond to the play-callers, and who the hell cares what else happens? Without coaching, this whole damn thing would be a waste of time. Pickup games for a dollar a point are fine and dandy when you find yourself in sweatpants and a Polk High tank-top out front of the Y with only 4 dollars in the sole of your New Balance kicks and 14 deals to make in the next fiscal cycle, but you wouldn't pay money to see that game. The coaches bring order, discipline. And more than that, they matter in Professional football.
Flip smokes cigarettes when he's pissed off, and jesus god, why shouldn't he? There are 10 million reasons Phil came back to coach the raper.
But hell, that's not what this is about. It's about the NFL. And these coaches, and how much they matter to the game. Can dumb idiots have success? Sure! Why not? Dumb Idiots have success everywhere in life. Why, just as I type this, there are some dumb idiots cavorting in a physical language unknown to the mouth-breathing steerage on this floor that would make the Pope weep, so to speak. And they get paid double and triple what I do, so who cares? The point isn't in the financial gap, it's the basic human condition, the fundamental principle by the name of Peter. Fuck all that, let's get back to the point.
The point is that success has to be sustained, and Mike Martz can't last. Dennis Green is a good coach, and if you don't think so, then you are wrong, and you'll have to sort of deal with that at some point. Mike Sherman? Sweet christ. Joe Gibbs, as Trip once said, is swindling money from The District, but why not? He's getting the job done with an inferior team. And he's not even a very good coach. It's just that when it comes down, and the last drive of the last game of the last season of your life is happening right in front of your eyes, you want Bill Parcells there. Even if he yells at the young kids. Because he Delivers.
The game has changed, and the heroes are dead. Brady? You must be kidding. Sure, he's great, but not in Minnesota, and if Gibbs had his way, Dillon's going straight up the middle every time because Joe still can't figure out why they took Happy Days off the air (thanks Denis). So when your coach is a bumbling idiot, when he can't even comprehend the fundamental nature of the game of Foot-balling, when he challenges the OPENING FUCKING KICKOFF - AND LOSES, you really don't have a chance at long-term success. Sorry Green Bay. Sorry Minnesota. Sorry St. Louis. Sorry Seattle. Sorry Houston. Sorry New York. Sorry New York (they city so nice they named two idiot-coached teams twice!).
But then again, Pete Carroll is a fucking genius now, so that about does it for this post. Welcome to the world, spuzzy!
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