I don't feel like writing about anything this week. I'm sure you'll all understand why. (If not, let's have a heart to heart sometimes, you and I, in regards to priorities in life.) Next week might be more promising, but I make no promises.
Many thanks to all of my friends for being there and helping me through the last several days.
The below will run in Monday's edition of the Dayton Daily News and the Western Star.
"Elizabeth Sue Willey Cook was born April 25th, 1951 to Richard and Patricia Willey in Webster City, Iowa. She graduated from Centerville High School in 1969, BGSU in 1972, and earned her Masters in the Humanities from Western Kentucky University in 1974. She passed away Friday, February 17th, 2012.
She was preceded in death by her father Richard and her sister Laura. She is survived by her husband Milton, sons Travis and Zachary, mother Patricia, brother Stephen (Paula, son Christopher (Jodi), and daughter Mary Beth), aunt Priscilla Canady, uncle Jerry Willie, brother-in-law Gary Cook (Jay and sons Ernest and Seth), and best friends Susan Serr and Cathy Rausch-Lager.
She was teaching at Miami University-Middletown and Wilmington College, where her classes included Shakespeare, baseball literature, John Ford, and Greek and Gaelic mythology. Beloved by students and faculty alike, she made a courageous fight against impossible odds and was teaching after her final chemotherapy session on Wednesday. She will be missed by her family, friends, and students.
A memorial service will be held at the Quaker Meeting House in Waynesville on February 25th at 2:00 pm, with an open house following. Donations may be made in lieu of flowers to the World Wildlife Fund and the National Wildlife Federation."
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The Erstwhile Mailbag: A Collection of Motley Correspondance, 12/11 - 02/12
The outpouring of love from the last edition of "The Erstwhile Chronicles" was overwhelming. That being said, I have chosen to take that love and transform it into a mad outburst of gibberish that continues to constitute the bloated pages of the first draft of my as-yet-untitled fantasy novel. As of the writing of this sentence (and probably the last one of today as well, though who's really keeping score here?), I am six chapters away from finishing the aforementioned tome. Because of the nature of writing such a mammoth monstrosity of malapropisms and mischief, most meticulous mastication of my moments must be maintained as methodically as may be mentioned. (Yes, that was just for you, gentle reader.) That being said, don't expect an entry next week as I try and cram in the last chapter or three of my book in order to reach my self-appointed deadline. (There's a certain joy in realizing that you've written a full-length book by the time you turn twenty-five, which in my case will be within the next two weeks. The ultimate goal is published by the time I turn twenty-six.)
(Sidenote #1: The idea of achievement by a certain year of existence is something that fascinates me, mostly because of the deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse at the tender age of 27. Nothing more to say, just that the collective accomplishments of those five alone by the time they were twenty seven constitutes 130+ years of experience within a 5 year window of achievement. Impressive.)
SO
This week, I have taken the time to go over the gargantuan pile of fan mail that has started to pile up since the inception of this blog. Carefully sorted by my associate (and provided in a rumpled burlap sack that may or may not be used to transport aging rock stars over the border to Tijuana) I have gathered here twenty or so of the dozens of decadent emails that I have received over the course of this blog. While it pains me to say this, I regret not being able to fully answer every email that I receive. There are only so many hours in the course of one day, and you're lucky enough that I trust my associate to simply take your mail and pass it along to me. You don't understand the risks involved in that, my friends.
Without further ado, here are this quarter's emails. (As always, names have been changed to protect the innocent.)
Mr. Cook,
Don't you feel that using a mailbag as an entry only three months into setting up your blog is not only a cop-out of having to write an actual blog entry for the week, but also a megalomaniacal egotistical form of acting out for extra attention? Seriously, how many emails have you actually gotten regarding your stupid blog?
Sincerely, Confused in Chicago
Well, Confused, somehow you violated the space time continuum after reading the previous paragraphs, so I can only assume you're a remnant of the hideous events of the Super Bowl Halftime show of over a week ago. With that in mind, BACK YOU DEVIL.
In all seriousness, this is just my way to get your thoughts turned around back at you in a heinously inexpensive mirror twist that violates no aspects of my weekly column being prescribed reading for some of you. You get your column, I get my words out in copy, and we're all entertained for another week. So what harm is there in using you for my own means? Hell, Gandhi did it, and I'm not even arguing for independence. I'm simply arguing for a controlled license-granting of all peccary owners in Chicago. Too much to ask?
JTC,
Why in the hell should I have to have a permit to own a peccary? And how are peccaries going to mount an invasion of the North Side? Wouldn't honey badgers be the proper way to go?
ABC, Wrigleyville
Because it's fucking unnatural to own a wild pig, especially this far north, and in an urban context.
And honey badgers? Seriously? I still don't get the point.
(My associate assures me that actual badgers are still something that should be feared more than the honey badger. In that video, you see the badger get bitten by a cobra. A real badger would never allow that to happen, given the badger race's recent development and mass production of searing laser vision that would kill anything that moves (like a cobra) within twenty-five feet, reducing it to ashes. Or so my associate assures me.)
COOOOOOOK,
When are you coming back to the Cleve? We miss you here! Who else will go to the Root Cafe and listen to poor Charlie Moppett with us?
Yours Truly,
That Fucking Unicorn Lady
TFUL,
My last expedition to Cleveland was indeed a success in that it brought about the birth of this whole enterprise. For that, I will always be indebted to the Root Cafe. (And their seed drinks, which are FANTASTIC, BTW.) However, my roaming days are strictly limited for the time being. Funds are being procured for a massive continental tour during the coming summer months, and while Cleveland may be a stop on the tour, I can make no promises at this point in time. In the meantime, my regards to Charlie Moppett, and to the Root Cafe. If you're ever in Cleveland, make sure to check it out. Best Hippie Haven in the Rust Belt!
Hey James,
Love your blog! I really enjoyed your coverage of the Madonna halftime show! Gotta love the 80's! Do you have any thoughts about the recent death of Whitney Houston?
Ever yours,
Just Wants to Dance with Somebody in Indianapolis
I sincerely doubt that you actually read my blog, given that by the time of the halftime show, I was reduced to a drooling puddle of bourbon hiding behind the Professor's couch, protected by a Boxer-Shaped Pillow. That being said, yes, one must love the 80's. If one is to survive this, the only way is through hair metal.
As for the death of Whitney, my main thought is that now she will never know.
You bastard,
Don't you think it's too soon for jokes about someone's death?
Pissed Off in Connecticut
How are you bastards getting through the Space Time Continuum?! What is this, Back to the Fucking Future? STOP IT NOW.
Dear James,
Can you please explain your reluctance to use actual names within the context of your blog? How are we supposed to truly understand these people beyond the vague caricatures represented here? Don't you think you should expand the broad stereotypes that you're using here? I mean, come on, the Ginger? Don't you think you could be a little more specific?
Sincerely,
Blondie in San Antonio
Ah, the nicknames. Well, here's the story, Blondie. Because of pending litigation, I am unauthorized by various state boards of parole from using the full identity of any of the people contained within these escapades. The dangers of using their actual names/residencies/professional titles is so potentially filled with catastrophe that sometimes it seems better to not mention anyone within here at all. Good heavens, the lord knows that my associate is a known felon and wanted in four states for abuses of the system itself. If he were to be named here, the Feds would be on him faster than Spiro Agnew in a blender.
Dear Mr. Cool,
You seem to alternate between traveling around on the Red Line and the 147 Bus. Do you have any recommendations as to which mode of transportation you prefer to utilize? Or is there really no difference in whichever way you try to get around town?
Sincerely,
Stranded in Laketown
You know, it's funny. I just made my ultimate preference choice the other day after hearing the following story. So my friend (Let us call her the Mystery Lady for now, though I guarantee that this will change) was walking along the street, minding her own business, when all of a sudden, Battle:LA starts happening right in front of her. For those who don't know, that's that one unique movie where Aliens invade the world, and decide to do so by attacking Los Angelas, the one city that everyone in America would be secretly glad if it were utterly destroyed by alien invaders. Anyways, it actually starts happening right in front of her, and somehow Kurt Russell shows up. Only its not his character from Battle: LA, which actually doesn't exist in the first place, but Kurt Russell from "Big Trouble in Little China", which is a damn fine movie. He's talking to her, telling her to run down the street because those bastards are about to blow everything to kingdom come, when Sherman's army shows up. This may sound extreme, you say. Well, you'd be way fucking right, because she's runnind down the street from Union Army Alien invasion forces when the streets below her feet start convulsing through seismic activity stirred up in combination by the alien's antigravity engines that drive their spaceships and the combined Richter effect of so many 1860's-era sideburns and mutton chops showing up in one location all at once. This activity causes the prevalent natural gas beneath the streets of L.A. to spontaneously ignite, sending fireballs throughout the city sewers. These fireballs seek the only way out, which is every manhole cover along the streets of LA, and send the covers flying sky high into the air. One of these is located right under a bus, but rather than be stalled by the bus, it flies right through it like a knife through hot Barbara Streisand. It flies through the bus, causing an even bigger explosion that somehow thwarts the alien invasion, turns back Sherman, decapitates BTILC-era Kurt Russell, and knocks the Mystery Lady flat unconscious.
Later, she was asked in the hospital if she needed anything. Given the improbable scenario that she had managed to live through, all she could stammer out was a weak and desperate cry for "life-fulfilling sex". The nurse laughed, replied "you're funny", and left. Without even trying to fulfill her patient's request.
The moral of the story is that this is why health care reform is necessary.
James,
Can you shed a little light on your associate please? He's a horribly vague character, and while he seems to be charming and resourceful enough, you don't really go into much detail. What's he like? What is his story? What could he have possibly done to warrant such non-disclosure of his actions and locations? If you could contact our hotline at our website, we'd very much appreciate the chance to discuss him further with you.
Sincerely,
Not the CIA
Dear Not the CIA,
And this.
Dear Mr Cook,
When will you get around to actually writing something well thought out, of consequence, and of great importance?
Larry King, CNN
Mr. King.
I missed the annual Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, otherwise I'd have written about that. I'm sure salukis are relevant.
Sir,
What are your predictions for Tim Tebow's upcoming NFL season? Will he or won't he be a difference maker? I find myself desperately in need of your opinion.
Yours truly,
John Elway, Denver, CO
PS. Gingers are stoopid.
Dear #7,
Personally, I don't trust Tim Tebow any farther than I can throw him. Anyone with as big of daddy issues as he has got should be dressed in a mini-skirt and twirling around the bars on Clark and Division like a madwoman. Do not, I repeat and stress DO NOT PLACE YOUR OFFENSE IN HIS HANDS. This will only end in pain, tears, and the coming apocalypse of the NFL as we know it.
PS. I concur. Gingers ARE stoopid. Especially when tall and lanky.
James Tiberias Cook
When do I get my royalty payments? I loaned you that name for purely academical reasons. You said it would be your stage name, and I assumed you would never work in this town again. What gives? Who said you could make a living off of my name? Don't you know who the hell I am? I'm JAMES TIBERIAS KIRK YOU INGRATEFUL ASSHOLE! PAY UP SUCKA!
Love and affection,
William Shatner, LA
Dear William,
Ah, Slick Willie, Big Willie Style, Bill. If you think I'm getting paid for this, you're really more out of your tiny little mind than I already gave you credit for. If that's the case, I demand my money back from you, you arrogant bastard!
Mr Cook,
Our records indicate that your last payment was declined. Because of this, a $25.00 late fee will be credited to your account. Your balance due will include the missed payment of $25.00, plus the given late fee, plus your next monthly balance. Pay up, sucka.
Sincerely,
Retail Credit Authority
(I turned to my associate, hand feeding me live paper straight from the fax machine. "You asshole! I said EMAILS! Not bills!"
He looked at me, confused. "That was an email. You signed up for paperless statements!"
"No, you cretin! NOT BILLS. I don't care if it's an email, I just don't want any bills!"
He handed me a sheet of medicine that looked like Pez. "Here, take this. I advise you to write at full tilt for the next hour. You'll be lucky if you don't end up as a raving madman by the end of this post." Without hesitation, I ingested the substance, taking another pull from the Bloody Mary sitting besides my desk. My associate turned his attentions back to monitoring the fax machine, occasionally brandishing a large hunting knife in its general vicinity to keep it honest. Cowed, the machine humbly resorted to blinking its error lights while still spewing four pages a minute.)
Mr Cook,
Your second post dealt with the lack of social communication within Starbucks. You have also commented upon the inability of streetgoers to even acknowledge the homeless people begging for money. How do you feel this reflects upon our ever decreasing social capacity as humans, given the influx of more introverted technology to the world?
Arlen in Stanford.
Dear Arlen,
Poorly.
Love, James
Dear James,
Why do you never mention the great state of Montana in all of its glory? We loved having you, and we miss you something fierce. Why don't you tell of your exploits there?
Love,
Lodge.
Dear Lodge,
I thought I left you behind for a reason. If you were not aware of what I was doing, let me be clear and frank: we abandoned your ass in Missoula for a reason. Leave us the fuck alone.
Love,
James
Dear T-Pain,
When will your new single come out?
Sincerely,
A Fan in Memphis
(I looked carefully at my associate, knifing through the fax machine.
"This gibberish is meant for someone else! Where the hell are you getting this from?" I asked.
"It just comes out," he replied. "This is an arbitrary process. I have no control over what the machine is doing. If it wanted to send you Boris Yeltsin in a bikini, all we can do is simply ask if it wants a wax job or not. There's nothing else to be done."
"Fine," I said. "Just give me another hit of whatever it is you've got there. I need more for the records."
"You sad fuck," he groaned. "If I give you anymore, you're liable to blow through the god-damn roof! Stay away from that shit, it's twice as potent as Toradol!"
"The hell with your Toradol!" I bellowed, grabbing the container from him and cramming its contents down my gullet. A telltale gurgle warned me of the displeasures to come, but it was too late. I'd already committed to the mission, and it was my obligations as a detailed blogger to see it through to the bitter end. My associate, shaking his head, tickled the fax machine with the knife, dragging out another email and impaling it onto the desk next to me.)
Dear JTC esq.
We are delighted to see that you will be attending "Aida" on March the 6th at 7:30 pm. We look forward to having you there. If you have any questions, please visit our website, or give our box office a call at 312.332.2244 ext. 5600.
Regards,
Lyric Opera of Chicago.
Ooooohhhhhhhhh, this is bad news. I will be sending my associate to this one. I have a bad feeling about this, bad vibrations all around. He'll know what to do far better than I.
Dear JTC,
What will your next blog entries detail?
A reader in Bowling Green, OH
I'm glad you asked. t this point, given the nature of the way that I operate, how I'm given a typical work schedule, and the times that make themselves available to me without being consumed by the truly weird, I am SHIFTING MY BLOG PUBLICATION DAYS TO WEDNESDAYS.
Trust me, it's a better idea to do that than ask for half-baked conceptions of nothing on days that I can't even bring my mind to half-cocked conceptions of reality.
UPCOMING ENTRIES:
1. My First Gainful Employment Post-College Career
2. Either an Oscar Recap or Something About "The Descendants"
3. A Review of the Lyric Opera's Production of "Aida" by my Associate (His auspicious debut.)
4. The Tragic End of My First Gainful Employment Post-College.
How's that?
(My associate shakes his head sadly. "You poor bastard. Wait til those damn elephants start trekking their way through the writing desk.")
Dear JTC,
What would you say is your greatest source of influence in writing this blog?
An Aspiring Blog Writer in North Carolina
Pure luck and true grit. And three hours to kill in a given day.
(At this point, the world started getting weird once more. The shapes and modes of life began to fade and swirl in a vortex of pain and obsequious dinner plates asparagus jdhfeuy9hddjhdjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj -
"Too much! Too Much!")
My apologies.
Having shattered any sense I had remaining of which was was up and down, as well as the given hour of the day, I feel that it is in my best interest, and yours good reader, to prematurely draw this post to a close. However, I'd like to thank you all for writing in, and for those of you with more questions, feel free to email me at james.t.cook07@gmail.com. Until next time, I must away. My associate beckons me, and it looks like he has Pez.
And we can't let that just go unobserved, now can we?
(Sidenote #1: The idea of achievement by a certain year of existence is something that fascinates me, mostly because of the deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse at the tender age of 27. Nothing more to say, just that the collective accomplishments of those five alone by the time they were twenty seven constitutes 130+ years of experience within a 5 year window of achievement. Impressive.)
SO
This week, I have taken the time to go over the gargantuan pile of fan mail that has started to pile up since the inception of this blog. Carefully sorted by my associate (and provided in a rumpled burlap sack that may or may not be used to transport aging rock stars over the border to Tijuana) I have gathered here twenty or so of the dozens of decadent emails that I have received over the course of this blog. While it pains me to say this, I regret not being able to fully answer every email that I receive. There are only so many hours in the course of one day, and you're lucky enough that I trust my associate to simply take your mail and pass it along to me. You don't understand the risks involved in that, my friends.
Without further ado, here are this quarter's emails. (As always, names have been changed to protect the innocent.)
Mr. Cook,
Don't you feel that using a mailbag as an entry only three months into setting up your blog is not only a cop-out of having to write an actual blog entry for the week, but also a megalomaniacal egotistical form of acting out for extra attention? Seriously, how many emails have you actually gotten regarding your stupid blog?
Sincerely, Confused in Chicago
Well, Confused, somehow you violated the space time continuum after reading the previous paragraphs, so I can only assume you're a remnant of the hideous events of the Super Bowl Halftime show of over a week ago. With that in mind, BACK YOU DEVIL.
In all seriousness, this is just my way to get your thoughts turned around back at you in a heinously inexpensive mirror twist that violates no aspects of my weekly column being prescribed reading for some of you. You get your column, I get my words out in copy, and we're all entertained for another week. So what harm is there in using you for my own means? Hell, Gandhi did it, and I'm not even arguing for independence. I'm simply arguing for a controlled license-granting of all peccary owners in Chicago. Too much to ask?
JTC,
Why in the hell should I have to have a permit to own a peccary? And how are peccaries going to mount an invasion of the North Side? Wouldn't honey badgers be the proper way to go?
ABC, Wrigleyville
Because it's fucking unnatural to own a wild pig, especially this far north, and in an urban context.
And honey badgers? Seriously? I still don't get the point.
(My associate assures me that actual badgers are still something that should be feared more than the honey badger. In that video, you see the badger get bitten by a cobra. A real badger would never allow that to happen, given the badger race's recent development and mass production of searing laser vision that would kill anything that moves (like a cobra) within twenty-five feet, reducing it to ashes. Or so my associate assures me.)
COOOOOOOK,
When are you coming back to the Cleve? We miss you here! Who else will go to the Root Cafe and listen to poor Charlie Moppett with us?
Yours Truly,
That Fucking Unicorn Lady
TFUL,
My last expedition to Cleveland was indeed a success in that it brought about the birth of this whole enterprise. For that, I will always be indebted to the Root Cafe. (And their seed drinks, which are FANTASTIC, BTW.) However, my roaming days are strictly limited for the time being. Funds are being procured for a massive continental tour during the coming summer months, and while Cleveland may be a stop on the tour, I can make no promises at this point in time. In the meantime, my regards to Charlie Moppett, and to the Root Cafe. If you're ever in Cleveland, make sure to check it out. Best Hippie Haven in the Rust Belt!
Hey James,
Love your blog! I really enjoyed your coverage of the Madonna halftime show! Gotta love the 80's! Do you have any thoughts about the recent death of Whitney Houston?
Ever yours,
Just Wants to Dance with Somebody in Indianapolis
I sincerely doubt that you actually read my blog, given that by the time of the halftime show, I was reduced to a drooling puddle of bourbon hiding behind the Professor's couch, protected by a Boxer-Shaped Pillow. That being said, yes, one must love the 80's. If one is to survive this, the only way is through hair metal.
As for the death of Whitney, my main thought is that now she will never know.
You bastard,
Don't you think it's too soon for jokes about someone's death?
Pissed Off in Connecticut
How are you bastards getting through the Space Time Continuum?! What is this, Back to the Fucking Future? STOP IT NOW.
Dear James,
Can you please explain your reluctance to use actual names within the context of your blog? How are we supposed to truly understand these people beyond the vague caricatures represented here? Don't you think you should expand the broad stereotypes that you're using here? I mean, come on, the Ginger? Don't you think you could be a little more specific?
Sincerely,
Blondie in San Antonio
Ah, the nicknames. Well, here's the story, Blondie. Because of pending litigation, I am unauthorized by various state boards of parole from using the full identity of any of the people contained within these escapades. The dangers of using their actual names/residencies/professional titles is so potentially filled with catastrophe that sometimes it seems better to not mention anyone within here at all. Good heavens, the lord knows that my associate is a known felon and wanted in four states for abuses of the system itself. If he were to be named here, the Feds would be on him faster than Spiro Agnew in a blender.
Dear Mr. Cool,
You seem to alternate between traveling around on the Red Line and the 147 Bus. Do you have any recommendations as to which mode of transportation you prefer to utilize? Or is there really no difference in whichever way you try to get around town?
Sincerely,
Stranded in Laketown
You know, it's funny. I just made my ultimate preference choice the other day after hearing the following story. So my friend (Let us call her the Mystery Lady for now, though I guarantee that this will change) was walking along the street, minding her own business, when all of a sudden, Battle:LA starts happening right in front of her. For those who don't know, that's that one unique movie where Aliens invade the world, and decide to do so by attacking Los Angelas, the one city that everyone in America would be secretly glad if it were utterly destroyed by alien invaders. Anyways, it actually starts happening right in front of her, and somehow Kurt Russell shows up. Only its not his character from Battle: LA, which actually doesn't exist in the first place, but Kurt Russell from "Big Trouble in Little China", which is a damn fine movie. He's talking to her, telling her to run down the street because those bastards are about to blow everything to kingdom come, when Sherman's army shows up. This may sound extreme, you say. Well, you'd be way fucking right, because she's runnind down the street from Union Army Alien invasion forces when the streets below her feet start convulsing through seismic activity stirred up in combination by the alien's antigravity engines that drive their spaceships and the combined Richter effect of so many 1860's-era sideburns and mutton chops showing up in one location all at once. This activity causes the prevalent natural gas beneath the streets of L.A. to spontaneously ignite, sending fireballs throughout the city sewers. These fireballs seek the only way out, which is every manhole cover along the streets of LA, and send the covers flying sky high into the air. One of these is located right under a bus, but rather than be stalled by the bus, it flies right through it like a knife through hot Barbara Streisand. It flies through the bus, causing an even bigger explosion that somehow thwarts the alien invasion, turns back Sherman, decapitates BTILC-era Kurt Russell, and knocks the Mystery Lady flat unconscious.
Later, she was asked in the hospital if she needed anything. Given the improbable scenario that she had managed to live through, all she could stammer out was a weak and desperate cry for "life-fulfilling sex". The nurse laughed, replied "you're funny", and left. Without even trying to fulfill her patient's request.
The moral of the story is that this is why health care reform is necessary.
James,
Can you shed a little light on your associate please? He's a horribly vague character, and while he seems to be charming and resourceful enough, you don't really go into much detail. What's he like? What is his story? What could he have possibly done to warrant such non-disclosure of his actions and locations? If you could contact our hotline at our website, we'd very much appreciate the chance to discuss him further with you.
Sincerely,
Not the CIA
Dear Not the CIA,
 |
| This. |
 |
| Plus this surly bastard. |
 |
| This, somehow. |
 |
| About five of these. |
Dear Mr Cook,
When will you get around to actually writing something well thought out, of consequence, and of great importance?
Larry King, CNN
Mr. King.
I missed the annual Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, otherwise I'd have written about that. I'm sure salukis are relevant.
Sir,
What are your predictions for Tim Tebow's upcoming NFL season? Will he or won't he be a difference maker? I find myself desperately in need of your opinion.
Yours truly,
John Elway, Denver, CO
PS. Gingers are stoopid.
Dear #7,
Personally, I don't trust Tim Tebow any farther than I can throw him. Anyone with as big of daddy issues as he has got should be dressed in a mini-skirt and twirling around the bars on Clark and Division like a madwoman. Do not, I repeat and stress DO NOT PLACE YOUR OFFENSE IN HIS HANDS. This will only end in pain, tears, and the coming apocalypse of the NFL as we know it.
PS. I concur. Gingers ARE stoopid. Especially when tall and lanky.
James Tiberias Cook
When do I get my royalty payments? I loaned you that name for purely academical reasons. You said it would be your stage name, and I assumed you would never work in this town again. What gives? Who said you could make a living off of my name? Don't you know who the hell I am? I'm JAMES TIBERIAS KIRK YOU INGRATEFUL ASSHOLE! PAY UP SUCKA!
Love and affection,
William Shatner, LA
Dear William,
Ah, Slick Willie, Big Willie Style, Bill. If you think I'm getting paid for this, you're really more out of your tiny little mind than I already gave you credit for. If that's the case, I demand my money back from you, you arrogant bastard!
Mr Cook,
Our records indicate that your last payment was declined. Because of this, a $25.00 late fee will be credited to your account. Your balance due will include the missed payment of $25.00, plus the given late fee, plus your next monthly balance. Pay up, sucka.
Sincerely,
Retail Credit Authority
(I turned to my associate, hand feeding me live paper straight from the fax machine. "You asshole! I said EMAILS! Not bills!"
He looked at me, confused. "That was an email. You signed up for paperless statements!"
"No, you cretin! NOT BILLS. I don't care if it's an email, I just don't want any bills!"
He handed me a sheet of medicine that looked like Pez. "Here, take this. I advise you to write at full tilt for the next hour. You'll be lucky if you don't end up as a raving madman by the end of this post." Without hesitation, I ingested the substance, taking another pull from the Bloody Mary sitting besides my desk. My associate turned his attentions back to monitoring the fax machine, occasionally brandishing a large hunting knife in its general vicinity to keep it honest. Cowed, the machine humbly resorted to blinking its error lights while still spewing four pages a minute.)
Mr Cook,
Your second post dealt with the lack of social communication within Starbucks. You have also commented upon the inability of streetgoers to even acknowledge the homeless people begging for money. How do you feel this reflects upon our ever decreasing social capacity as humans, given the influx of more introverted technology to the world?
Arlen in Stanford.
Dear Arlen,
Poorly.
Love, James
Dear James,
Why do you never mention the great state of Montana in all of its glory? We loved having you, and we miss you something fierce. Why don't you tell of your exploits there?
Love,
Lodge.
Dear Lodge,
I thought I left you behind for a reason. If you were not aware of what I was doing, let me be clear and frank: we abandoned your ass in Missoula for a reason. Leave us the fuck alone.
Love,
James
Dear T-Pain,
When will your new single come out?
Sincerely,
A Fan in Memphis
(I looked carefully at my associate, knifing through the fax machine.
"This gibberish is meant for someone else! Where the hell are you getting this from?" I asked.
"It just comes out," he replied. "This is an arbitrary process. I have no control over what the machine is doing. If it wanted to send you Boris Yeltsin in a bikini, all we can do is simply ask if it wants a wax job or not. There's nothing else to be done."
"Fine," I said. "Just give me another hit of whatever it is you've got there. I need more for the records."
"You sad fuck," he groaned. "If I give you anymore, you're liable to blow through the god-damn roof! Stay away from that shit, it's twice as potent as Toradol!"
"The hell with your Toradol!" I bellowed, grabbing the container from him and cramming its contents down my gullet. A telltale gurgle warned me of the displeasures to come, but it was too late. I'd already committed to the mission, and it was my obligations as a detailed blogger to see it through to the bitter end. My associate, shaking his head, tickled the fax machine with the knife, dragging out another email and impaling it onto the desk next to me.)
Dear JTC esq.
We are delighted to see that you will be attending "Aida" on March the 6th at 7:30 pm. We look forward to having you there. If you have any questions, please visit our website, or give our box office a call at 312.332.2244 ext. 5600.
Regards,
Lyric Opera of Chicago.
Ooooohhhhhhhhh, this is bad news. I will be sending my associate to this one. I have a bad feeling about this, bad vibrations all around. He'll know what to do far better than I.
Dear JTC,
What will your next blog entries detail?
A reader in Bowling Green, OH
I'm glad you asked. t this point, given the nature of the way that I operate, how I'm given a typical work schedule, and the times that make themselves available to me without being consumed by the truly weird, I am SHIFTING MY BLOG PUBLICATION DAYS TO WEDNESDAYS.
Trust me, it's a better idea to do that than ask for half-baked conceptions of nothing on days that I can't even bring my mind to half-cocked conceptions of reality.
UPCOMING ENTRIES:
1. My First Gainful Employment Post-College Career
2. Either an Oscar Recap or Something About "The Descendants"
3. A Review of the Lyric Opera's Production of "Aida" by my Associate (His auspicious debut.)
4. The Tragic End of My First Gainful Employment Post-College.
How's that?
(My associate shakes his head sadly. "You poor bastard. Wait til those damn elephants start trekking their way through the writing desk.")
Dear JTC,
What would you say is your greatest source of influence in writing this blog?
An Aspiring Blog Writer in North Carolina
Pure luck and true grit. And three hours to kill in a given day.
(At this point, the world started getting weird once more. The shapes and modes of life began to fade and swirl in a vortex of pain and obsequious dinner plates asparagus jdhfeuy9hddjhdjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj -
"Too much! Too Much!")
My apologies.
Having shattered any sense I had remaining of which was was up and down, as well as the given hour of the day, I feel that it is in my best interest, and yours good reader, to prematurely draw this post to a close. However, I'd like to thank you all for writing in, and for those of you with more questions, feel free to email me at james.t.cook07@gmail.com. Until next time, I must away. My associate beckons me, and it looks like he has Pez.
And we can't let that just go unobserved, now can we?
Monday, February 6, 2012
Everything New is Old Again: The Erstwhile Super Bowl XLVI
While today's blog is described as being live, it was actually written on Sunday. Which, as I'm writing this as we speak, makes for a weird space time continuum status as to my writing capacity. It's Tuesday, but I'm writing on Sunday. (This dialogue continued with myself for about two hours on the Red Line on the way to Irving Park. I may have convinced people that I was crazy, something my plastic bag full of clothing from work might have helped to suggest. What this means is that I'm finally blending in to Chicago culture.)
Anyways, it's the Super Bowl, the biggest unofficial holiday of the year, where people who don't care about football plan for the largest party of the year while complaining about how the game is uninteresting and the commercials aren't funny, while people who do like football inevitably gather to complain about the quality and relative deserving qualities of the two teams involved (i.e. how the game is uninteresting) while ignoring the commercials in the hope of streaming live commentary about the last two minutes of game play that YOU JUST WATCHED HAPPEN. (Too much commentary about whether people should have run right through the big fat guys or left through the big fat guys.)
But I digress.
Our story begins at 4:00 pm CST, when I arrived at my designated location. The participants: The Professor, nursing a strong influx of Jim Beam the night before; the Professor's wife, who is making her first appearance in this blog. For the purpose of this blog, she will henceforth be referred to as "The Stitcher". (Cue ominous music, and/or adorable boxer puppies.)
As with many other live blogs/transcripts of what happens, I will watch the telecast, record the time, thoughts, and observations, and proceed on until the end of the game. At the end, I will draw up whatever Relevant Summary may be drawn from the proceedings, as I have transcribed them.
(Sidenote #1: My associate has scored a sideline pass to the field, and will be reporting to me live from Lucas Oil Stadium. How and where this happened is irrelevant. The important thing, and this is Important, is that it happened; things were done; and he is inside. That has happened. By the very nature of the size and magnitude of the event, and by virtue of my associate's placement and proximity to the happenings, it is impossible to maintain the low profile that all good journalists must exhibit. However, that is besides the point. What matters is that the news will be coming to us in live, unfiltered, and uncensored bursts of pure gibberish, the stuff that careers are made of and destroyed.)
So, let us begin.
5:03 - The Stitcher is asleep, clutching a dog shaped parcel. The Professor has finally put on pants. I've been here for an hour, and am wondering what all of the fuss was about.
5:04 - One of the largest counter programming events of the day is The Animal Planet's The Puppy Bowl, now in its eighth year. On any other day, this event alone would say so much about modern American culture. As it stands, however, if I wanted to watch small creatures in capes run through hoops and gates, I'd hang out with my high school friends who are starting to spawn. Nevertheless, this is the program of choice, as the Super Bowl is still 26 minutes away.
5:08 - Oh god oh god the puppies are cute. It's overwhelming. I've been reduced to a drooling pile of pus. This doesn't reflect well for watching grown 300 pound men trying to reduce each other to piles of kindling.
5:12 - SO. CUTE. SO. CUTE. SOMEONE DO SOMETHING THIS IS SO HORRIBLY CUTE AND PILES OF DOGS ROLLING OVER EACH OTHER TO VAGUE FOOTBALL COMMENTARY CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE.
(At this point, a nervous breakdown has forced my relocation to a point more easily defensible from the onslaught of the television. Strange vibrations this early on are more than my poor brain can handle.)
5:18 - Singing of the National Anthem by Kelly Clarkson. Over/under for the time length is 2:30. (Legendary for being a diva showcase, I am not sure of the record, but I'm pretty sure it's held by Whitney Huston, who is still holding out the last high note somewhere over Lake Superior back in 1991.
5:19 - Kelly Clarkson went sharp on the last high note, as judged by the Professor. The performance is ruined. (The final time did end up being less than 2 minutes, however. Maybe this bodes well for the game itself.)
(Sidenote #2: Average cost for a 30 second ad in the Super Bowl telecast on NBC: $4 million dollars. Or one tax break for Mitt Romney. Whichever you prefer.)
5:24 - A debate has sprung up over the various jiggly parts of cheerleaders and the ability of tight spandex to contain said body parts. Result: Everybody wins.
5:26 - At the moment, a stat has popped up regarding that the NFC team has won the opening coin toss for 14 consecutive Super Bowls. This has a 1 in 1,024 chance of happening. Naturally, the NFC loses the coin toss tonight. In the meantime, I've found the Professor's spare bottle of Jim Beam, and have broken into it with zeal.
5:31 - Giants take the field. Much is made of this being the exact same Super Bowl as of 4 years ago (XLII in ancient Roman numerals). Let it be said that only 20 of the 104 players from that Super Bowl are playing here tonight. Let it also be said that the animosity towards the Patriots has negated much of the emotional punch towards this Super Bowl. Revenge Bowl just doesn't have the same ring when the man who caught the most epic catch I've ever had the privilege of putting my foot through a coffee table during (David Tyree) is out of the league completely. That speaks greatly towards the short shelf-life of your average mediocre NFL player.
5:39 - First round of commercials. This is just in: Bud Light commercials haven't been funny since I was in middle school. Much like the actual beer itself hasn't been good or exciting since I was in middle school and vaguely understood what beer was.
5:40 - SAFETY!!!!!!!!!!
5:42 - This just in: Pepsi commercials fall into the same category as Bud Light.
5:43 - My associate reports that Tom Brady is bugging out on the sideline regarding the recent safety call. While he looks placid and cool on the telecast, my associate reports that the stream of profanity gushing from his mouth would, and I quote "make Hemingway blush like a school girl."
5:45 - Giants players are running through the Patriots like New England is made of butter and Puritans. My associate confirms this. On a related note, looking at the angles that players take when they reach the sidelines makes my ankles throb with pain.
5:49 - Strange happenings already. This game has the feel of two teams that are horribly surprised to find themselves in Indianapolis, as though they went to sleep at 3 am last night in Miami and woke up to cornfields and media blitzes. The play looks frightening. the execution is sloppy, and so far two huge penalties have slaughtered the Patriots, resulting in 2 points and counting for the Giants.
5:51 - Make that 9 points.
5:55 - My associate reports that Brady is clubbing baby seals to death behind the Patriots bench. No word yet on if these are California or Harbor seals. I get the feeling that Brady is not approachable on the subject just yet. I've cautioned my associate to keep his distance, and to use orca repellant in droves.
5:59 - The Super Bowl halftime, featuring Madonna. The halftime show of the Super Bowl is where careers go to die. Take Springsteen and the E Street Band. They play it, and soon after, Clarence Clemons dies.
Directly. Related. I expect this to be the last thing Madonna produces to the world. In the meantime, it is refreshing to know some things are always constant. Joe Buck is a douche, and the Patriots cannot run the ball to save their lives. (Or the baby seals behind the bench. Not that rushing the ball will save baby seals, but it is a nice thought to think about for charity.)
6:02 - End of the first quarter, the first movie preview is for "Battleship." You know, based on the game Battleship. Because this seemed like a novel idea. Aliens invading earth in giant metallic forms that destroy and shape shift. Good idear.
6:03 - My associate is once again privy to the Toradol being pumped straight into Rob Gronkowski's high ankle sprain. He's confiscated a bottle from the locker room and now reports that Brady is feeling "groovy." Gronkowski, meanwhile, keeps ranting about high level viscosity for some reason.
6:08 - The professional verdict from the Professor: "The commercials tonight are trying too hard." The opinion: "They're also not funny."
6:08:30 - My associate's verdict: "Good God, the Seals!"
6:13 - Themes of this year's commercials so far include "Beer is good" and "Dogs are cute" in a continuation of the puppy bowl theme. Movies, however, are uninspired. (Although the "John Carter of Mars" preview featured a remix of "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, which is added to Arcade Fire's "My Body is a Cage" as strange backing tracks for Edgar Rice Burroughs.)
6:16 - The Patriots scored a field goal at some point in the last series. It got lost in a haze of Jim Beam and seal blood. Who knew?
6:19 - The blend of Tomatillo and Jim Beam is making for some interesting sensations in the back of my esophagus.
6:22 - Jason Pierre-Paul has just batted down his second pass in a row. A massive defensive end who some believe should have been the Defensive Player of the Year, his wingspan is roughly the size of a humpback whale, with the grip of a ravenous hyena on mescaline. Two last names were more than enough for this monster of a man.
(Sidenote #3: It was at this point that we lost The Stitcher to slumber. Football is not her forte. Sharp instruments of construction are. And the only thing we have representing that on the field is in use behind the Patriots bench to repair the broken baby seals. Her loss.)
6:24 - My associate reports that Giants tight end Travis Beckham is out with a torn ACL for the game. Also, he reports that the Giants practice squad members are engaged in a ferocious game of Mancala, and the bidding starts at $50 a stone. I'm not sure which is more valid until I hear the live report that the bidding is up to $75. Ah, football.
6:25 - It is my professional opinion that the second quarter is boring. The Professor seconds, and the dog shaped parcel has begun to move from chair to chair within the room.
6:30 - To evidence the previous claim, my current game MVP is Steve Weatherford. The Giants punter. To be fair, my associate is reporting that Steve Weatherford is actively gnawing on uncarved ashwood on the sideline in order to control his undying rage against the light/Patriots machine/starving African children. As with Brady, my associate is hesitant to approach his target. Never approach a man in full fledged beaver mode.
6:45 - Holy shit, did the last fifteen minutes just happen? Or did I just stroke off for a bit?
6:46 - Ah, yes, the Avengers preview, with our first good look at the six heroes in action happened. Other than that, I remember NONE of the commercials from the last hour and a half.
6:47 - Jason Pierre Paul was unblocked on 1st and Goal. The result - tackle for loss by a Beast of a Man. Good God someone bring that man a sandwich.
6:47:30 - I just found out that Jason Pierre Paul is younger than I am. I hate my life.
6:49 - Patriots just scored to take the lead 10-9. With :24 left in the 1st half, the prediction has sprung up for the Super Bowl Halftime show. Song guesses are "Like a Prayer", "Material Girl", "Music", and something from Madonna's new album. This is our debate here. That and taxes.
6:58 - The obligatory half time analysis is saying that the last team to score will win. In other news, the Middle East is turbulent once again. Waiting for Madonna to arrive.
6:59 - My associate is reporting from the locker room of the _______, amidst a shower of painkillers, cocaine, and assorted amphetamines. Caffeine is being injected into somebody's arms straight from an IV. It may in fact be my associate.
(At this point, the transcript loses its focus, dissolving into a series of quotes and gibberish. Collecting myself later, I examined the details, and have transcribed what I can recover. It wasn’t pretty.)
Somewhere around the 7:00 hour - Madonna is performing. I'm flashing back to the worst trip I haven't had yet. The time continuum is blown to pieces by Spartacus.
God help us all. I'm currently hiding behind a couch, shielded from the dangers of this small Roman armada.
NO! Stop him! Art Garfunkel, why are you jumping on your nuts on a tightrope? Where is Paul Simon?! He'd never let this happen!
Weird Al? What are you doing outside of the Shire?
This is some strange combination of high school pageantry and $10 million that was just lying around and had to be burned in some way by midnight, or else Brewster wouldn't receive his millions.
Cee-Lo Green has no eyes. Cee-Lo Green is the Space Emperor of Space. (Sorry Zoltan Mesko.)
CEE-LO GREEN IS THE WIZARD! RUN! MIA, YOU HAD THE RIGHT IDEA ALL ALONG.
Summary: Football is space. Beware the wrath of Universal Caesar.
My associate cannot be found, for the Fear has set upon him.
7:20 - The Space-Time Continuum has returned to functional parameters, and my trip is slowly dying down to a reasonable level of intrigue. Things have shifted around to fit this brave new world. Coincidentally, Clint Eastwood is now from Detroit.
7:23 - OCHOCINCO *YOWLSCREECHOFDEATH*
7:25 - Wisdom from the Professor "Do not accept drinks unbidden from the strong man, for it will end poorly." Too late for you, you poor bastard. Wait til Madonna comes back dressed like a Roman gladiator, craving human flesh.
7:28 - Speaking of craving human flesh, the Patriots just scored a remarkably easy touchdown to go up 17-9. My associate reports that Eli Manning is "putting out tentative whines as to why he doesn't have any baby seals that he can bludgeon, and why Brady has all the seals." Then he is reminded that he doesn't have anything, only the broken limbs of Michael Strahan. Defeated, he slumps back on the bench, looking over notebook pictures of Brady's seal braining art. He sighs, and my associate cannot be sure but reports a single tear running down his face.
7:31 - On a long take of Tom Brady, right before the kickoff to the Giants, he hangs his head, deep in thought, before slowly, deliberately letting a drop of spit hang all the way down to the ground before lightly severing it with his tongue. Wiping his mouth, he prepares for combat.
7:31:30 - My associate preserves the saliva for future biological studies.
7:33 - Vince Wilfork is FAT. The man is a beast, and the one giant holdover from their former defensive glory, but the man must weigh as much as a young bull elephant in heat. He breathes like a steam engine, his breath ringing clear across the nation to Utah. That man is not on steroids. That man is on tyrannosaurus tears and liquid molten sun.
7:38 - The Patriots defense smells blood. Like sharks in the water, they are circling, picking off the weak on the edges of the Giants vertical attack. Hakeem Nicks is no longer able to distinguish directions from colors, and the resulting blur has taken away the most potent weapon of their passing attack. If the Patriots score on their next drive, and I mean a touchdown, then the game is all but sealed.
7:40 - This just in: Pepsi Max commercials are not funny either.
7:47 - The Giants have (finally) sacked Tom Brady, creating a 4th and 12. The game is still alive, 17-12. Someone is bringing in a fresh crate for Brady marked as delivery from Northern Canada. A slight, pathetic whimper is heard.
7:49 - The word going around the Interwebs is that Madonna fell during her halftime performance. Yes, she did fall. From the pop charts. Like a stone.
7:55 - Tom Coughlin, Giants coach extraordinaire, is turning into Marty Schottenheimer, with the stale old brand of "run, run, pass, punt/kick". This bodes poorly for the rest of the game. 17-15.
8:02 - I've yet to see anything besides the Avengers preview that actively excites me.
8:04 - Brady is intercepted on a play that up until the conclusion is eerily similar to "the Catch" from Super Bowl 42.
(Fuck Roman numerals. There's nothing Roman about football besides the desire to maul one another like lions and tigers. Until I say otherwise, football is undeserving.)
8:08 - The game is getting tense. Like camping.
8:11 - My associate reports that sabotage is afoot. Jake Ballard has been stabbed by a Patriots defender. This shifts the balance horribly, and could mean the ultimate outcome is horribly in doubt. I have no idea as to what actually happened, because one of The Professor and The Stitcher's friends (let's call her The Boxer) decided to jump onto my lap and attempt to seduce me through her massive massive tongue. Needless to say, I resisted her charms and whiles, but not after a thorough drenching. I also have no idea as to what happened to Jake Ballard, but I'm sure that my associate would never lie to me.
8:13 - The scene behind the Patriots bench is bedlam. Brady is humping a blow-up doll like a madman, holding it by the neck with one hand while braining seal cubs with the other hand, clutching a shalalie like a mad Irish drunk out of some O'Neill play. He is uncontrollable.
8:15 - STAY IN BOUNDS YOU CRETIN!
8:23 - It is determined that The Stitcher doesn't give a shit about the Browns. Bulls and Cavs all the way. End quote.
8:25 - The Darkness jam session is at the worst, entertaining to listen to a bunch of people do what we did in bars during my freshman year of college; i.e. Screech like Robert Plant having a period.
8:27 - TONGUE IN FACE! TONGUE IN FACE!
8:27:30 - Wes Welker is a human vacuum cleaner, the football equivalent of Brooks Robinson at third base. He is the cog in the Patriots well-oiled machine that makes it run. So how in the name of gravy does Welker drop that pass? I could catch that pass. How in the hell does he miss it? Good god, good gravy, my goodness my Guinness.
8:29 - My associate is reporting that Bill Belicheck is being re-booted. The last few drives have stalled out, unfortunately so, and as a result Josh McDaniels has had to insert a new chip into the Belicheck androids skull to keep it functioning.
8:31 - The howling at the moon on this chilly Indiana night begins anew, as Eli comes on with 3:46 left and 2 points down. The broadcasters sound as though this is a pre-scripted broadcast. I'm still not fully recovered from the halftime performance. Eli, overcome from his seal depression, looks like he's preparing for a high-power merger at a corporate law firm. One senses the winds shifting.
8:34 - The Manningham catch will go down not as highly as the Tyree catch, because that was the ultimate in game saving performances. However, when receivers in the future are shown video of how to perform the sideline catch and to keep both of their feet down inbounds to preserve the catch, they will be shown Mario Manningham's sideline catch from Super Bowl XLVI, as he toed his left foot, planted his right, and maintained full possession of the ball on his descent out of bounds. Belicheck makes the call to challenge the play because he has no other options; allowing the catch to stand would cripple his team for the rest of the drive. As it is, they are now on the 50 yard line, with hope rekindled in their hearts. A cheer erupts from the stadium as the catch is confirmed through the jumbotron screen. The game continues, although the outcome seems to be written in blood. Patriot blood.
8:37 - The Giants need to milk the clock as they move into field goal range. The Pats have far too much time left to let Brady have a chance to move down the field again.
8:38 - Manningham has been targeted four times in a row, making three receptions. He is a beast, and blood rages in his head. Patriot receivers are fearful for their lives, shrinking from this possessed ex-Wolverine. He howls at the snap count for blood, and throws anything in his way to the ground, a Samson among Davids, to properly mix the metaphors and convey the emotion it is to see a football player take over a game for several drives.
8:39 - GoDaddy.co can go suck my left nut. Not the right. They're not good enough for that.
8:41 - 2nd and 3, the Giants call for East Falco. I like to call this the luck dragon play.
8:43 - All of a sudden, this game has come alive, and every missed play/made play/mistake is magnified here for the Patriots. Neither team has performed spectacularly except for a couple drives. Unfortunately for the Patriots, Eli Manning has taken over this drive, fueled by the Manningham Impossibility.
8:44 - Touchdown Giants! Belicheck has gambled to let the Giants score now, instructing the Patriots defense to part like the Red Sea on First and 10. Ahmad Bradshaw was allowed to rush for a touchdown, and because the opening for the Giants was so huge, Bradshaw was unable to stop his forward momentum before he could cross the goal line. He has literally fallen ass-backwards into the endzone in the most futile attempt to cease forward motion that has been broadcast on live television. While the Giants have a 4 point lead (2 point conversion unsuccessful), the Patriots have :57 seconds for Tom Brady to rally for a touchdown. (My associate reports that Bradshaw literally pissed himself with terror upon seeing an open endzone, the first time anyone on either sideline can report feeling such terror.")
8:45 - "The suspense is terrible! I hope it lasts." - Oscar Wilde.
8:47 - Good Jesus, Rob Gronkowski is not in the game. I will return after this drive concludes. Too tense to write.
8:53 - The final Hail Mary goes up. If Chad OchoCinco catches the fucking Hail Mary to win the Super Bowl, I will stab somebody.
8:54 - The Hail Mary falls incomplete, just beyond the reach of a diving Rob Gronkowski. The Giants are Super Bowl Champions once again, ending the SAME WAY IT ENDED FOUR YEARS AGO. Eli Manning has now warranted serious discussion for the Hall of Fame, and the missed passes across the field to the Patriots will be second guessed all year. God I am glad that I'm not a Patriots fan. To go through this agonizing heartbreak defeats anything known by a Bengals fan, where we're simply used to chronic disappointment year in, and year out.
8:56 - Hall of Fame boosts from this game for Eli Manning and Tom Coughlin. Eli has passed his brother for football success, and the alcohol flows like mad in the streets of New York.
8:58 - My associate reports from the frenetic joy of the Giants sideline that "Tom Coughlin has entered full-Beast mode, and is screaming phenomenal nonsense words from the bowels of the sideline pit. Manningham must be corralled and muzzled so as to simply receive congratulatory handshakes. Belicheck has stabbed some anonymous assistant coach before going into auto-self-destruct mode. He is being shepherded towards the locker room by an assortment of tight ends and a rapidly deflating Vince Wilfork.
Brady sits amid a pile of blood and seal skulls, clutching his shalalie in a white-knuckled grip, yet unable to come to terms with once again having come so close, yet so far from his ultimate goal. A few drops to Wes Welker and the outcome is decidedly different. The unfortunate truth is that Tom Brady has already peaked in terms of what he can accomplish, and where he can go. He has overcome being a 6th round draft pick, passed on by every team in the league multiple times. He has won three Super Bowls. He has broken records, proven his worth as a quarterback time and time again. There is no question that he is one of the all time greats. Now however, that works against him. He is the Establishment now, his underdog card revoked under threat of blood. The other team will always be the underdog. Over 70% of America was rooting for the Giants, although it might be more accurately described as against Brady. He is the Villain with the Golden Arm, and no matter his past, he will never again be the Underdog, short of a sudden and terrible decline in power.
The ultimate pain this time around is that the Patriots handed this away, almost gift wrapped. Now Brady looks forward to an off-season of misery, flanked by Giselle, the rapidly aging supermodel who no longer carries the same luster as his career winds one year closer to its ultimate end. The banshees are screaming and howling in the Indiana nights, and death reeks over the New England sideline. A great thing is passing before our eyes, and it is our responsibility to record its construct and ultimate demise. Before it even happened, the New England dynasty choked and flailed as 87 could not wrap up the small, bouncing pigskin. Night has fallen in Foxborough.
9:04 - The weirdest trophy celebration ritual is the touching of the Lombardi trophy by the entire Giants football team. While an old old man carries it forward, the players fondle, kiss, and molest the silver trophy. It offends the senses with the indignity.
9:07 - And the Super Bowl MVP is (as it should be Mario Manningham, who saved the season with his spectacular catch and performance on the last drive) Eli Manning, once again. History is repeating itself once more, and the Giants are 3-0 against the Patriots since 2008. Go figure.
9:10 - I don't know why they break down the game on the damn trophy stand. Just give them their trophies and let them shower each other in man love and champagne. Jesus, you wordy bastards. You're prolonging all of the joy sex and hate sex shared by Giants and Patriots fans! Get on with it!
(Here, the telecast has concluded, due to my sudden lack of interest in the game, and my prolonged interest in Jim Beam.)
CONCLUSION: If anyone wanted to make a notion that these games are fixed, this game makes a strong case. Either that, or the two teams are so evenly matched during the match-up that the team that scores last and that scores the best under pressure is the team that will win. Both years, that has been the Giants, and no amount of baby seals can disguise the fact that the Patriots have spent several years beating up on mediocre teams so as to create a stronger impression of themselves against the better teams.
Halftime, as far as my poor brain is concerned, is a vague collection of shadows and mystical Kabballah images. Best argument for chemical enhancement (AGAINST chemical enhancement, my associate pines from Indianapolis, AGAINST. ONE CANNOT HANDLE THE TORTURE.) ever? I think not.
Commercials are lame. But we knew this.
Therefore, I am bidding adieu for another night. The Professor and The Stitcher have retreated to slumber, and the dog shaped parcel has returned to its inanimate state of being. All is right on Irving Park, for one more year.
OK here,
JTC
(Postscript #1: My book is twelve chapters from completion. The Erstwhile Chronicles has taken a back seat, although I have churned out one chapter from that, and am putting a rough guide for the pages together. Expect more on that over time. Come March, the play's the thing.)
(Postscript #2: Tuesday morning. No word yet on my associate, or where he lies. My last contact with him was when he was in the Giants locker room, hammering down bottles of Moet and Chandon. Until I hear further, I assume he is on the beat, doing his necessary research.)
(Postscript #3: We have absolutely NO idea who won the Puppy Bowl, although The Stitcher has informed me that a record for Most Puppy Bowl Touchdowns was set tonight. The MVP was Fumble, who was a terror on offense AND defense. Rare that you see a good two-way player anymore.)
Anyways, it's the Super Bowl, the biggest unofficial holiday of the year, where people who don't care about football plan for the largest party of the year while complaining about how the game is uninteresting and the commercials aren't funny, while people who do like football inevitably gather to complain about the quality and relative deserving qualities of the two teams involved (i.e. how the game is uninteresting) while ignoring the commercials in the hope of streaming live commentary about the last two minutes of game play that YOU JUST WATCHED HAPPEN. (Too much commentary about whether people should have run right through the big fat guys or left through the big fat guys.)
But I digress.
Our story begins at 4:00 pm CST, when I arrived at my designated location. The participants: The Professor, nursing a strong influx of Jim Beam the night before; the Professor's wife, who is making her first appearance in this blog. For the purpose of this blog, she will henceforth be referred to as "The Stitcher". (Cue ominous music, and/or adorable boxer puppies.)
As with many other live blogs/transcripts of what happens, I will watch the telecast, record the time, thoughts, and observations, and proceed on until the end of the game. At the end, I will draw up whatever Relevant Summary may be drawn from the proceedings, as I have transcribed them.
(Sidenote #1: My associate has scored a sideline pass to the field, and will be reporting to me live from Lucas Oil Stadium. How and where this happened is irrelevant. The important thing, and this is Important, is that it happened; things were done; and he is inside. That has happened. By the very nature of the size and magnitude of the event, and by virtue of my associate's placement and proximity to the happenings, it is impossible to maintain the low profile that all good journalists must exhibit. However, that is besides the point. What matters is that the news will be coming to us in live, unfiltered, and uncensored bursts of pure gibberish, the stuff that careers are made of and destroyed.)
So, let us begin.
5:03 - The Stitcher is asleep, clutching a dog shaped parcel. The Professor has finally put on pants. I've been here for an hour, and am wondering what all of the fuss was about.
5:04 - One of the largest counter programming events of the day is The Animal Planet's The Puppy Bowl, now in its eighth year. On any other day, this event alone would say so much about modern American culture. As it stands, however, if I wanted to watch small creatures in capes run through hoops and gates, I'd hang out with my high school friends who are starting to spawn. Nevertheless, this is the program of choice, as the Super Bowl is still 26 minutes away.
5:08 - Oh god oh god the puppies are cute. It's overwhelming. I've been reduced to a drooling pile of pus. This doesn't reflect well for watching grown 300 pound men trying to reduce each other to piles of kindling.
5:12 - SO. CUTE. SO. CUTE. SOMEONE DO SOMETHING THIS IS SO HORRIBLY CUTE AND PILES OF DOGS ROLLING OVER EACH OTHER TO VAGUE FOOTBALL COMMENTARY CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE.
(At this point, a nervous breakdown has forced my relocation to a point more easily defensible from the onslaught of the television. Strange vibrations this early on are more than my poor brain can handle.)
5:18 - Singing of the National Anthem by Kelly Clarkson. Over/under for the time length is 2:30. (Legendary for being a diva showcase, I am not sure of the record, but I'm pretty sure it's held by Whitney Huston, who is still holding out the last high note somewhere over Lake Superior back in 1991.
5:19 - Kelly Clarkson went sharp on the last high note, as judged by the Professor. The performance is ruined. (The final time did end up being less than 2 minutes, however. Maybe this bodes well for the game itself.)
(Sidenote #2: Average cost for a 30 second ad in the Super Bowl telecast on NBC: $4 million dollars. Or one tax break for Mitt Romney. Whichever you prefer.)
5:24 - A debate has sprung up over the various jiggly parts of cheerleaders and the ability of tight spandex to contain said body parts. Result: Everybody wins.
5:26 - At the moment, a stat has popped up regarding that the NFC team has won the opening coin toss for 14 consecutive Super Bowls. This has a 1 in 1,024 chance of happening. Naturally, the NFC loses the coin toss tonight. In the meantime, I've found the Professor's spare bottle of Jim Beam, and have broken into it with zeal.
5:31 - Giants take the field. Much is made of this being the exact same Super Bowl as of 4 years ago (XLII in ancient Roman numerals). Let it be said that only 20 of the 104 players from that Super Bowl are playing here tonight. Let it also be said that the animosity towards the Patriots has negated much of the emotional punch towards this Super Bowl. Revenge Bowl just doesn't have the same ring when the man who caught the most epic catch I've ever had the privilege of putting my foot through a coffee table during (David Tyree) is out of the league completely. That speaks greatly towards the short shelf-life of your average mediocre NFL player.
5:39 - First round of commercials. This is just in: Bud Light commercials haven't been funny since I was in middle school. Much like the actual beer itself hasn't been good or exciting since I was in middle school and vaguely understood what beer was.
5:40 - SAFETY!!!!!!!!!!
5:42 - This just in: Pepsi commercials fall into the same category as Bud Light.
5:43 - My associate reports that Tom Brady is bugging out on the sideline regarding the recent safety call. While he looks placid and cool on the telecast, my associate reports that the stream of profanity gushing from his mouth would, and I quote "make Hemingway blush like a school girl."
5:45 - Giants players are running through the Patriots like New England is made of butter and Puritans. My associate confirms this. On a related note, looking at the angles that players take when they reach the sidelines makes my ankles throb with pain.
5:49 - Strange happenings already. This game has the feel of two teams that are horribly surprised to find themselves in Indianapolis, as though they went to sleep at 3 am last night in Miami and woke up to cornfields and media blitzes. The play looks frightening. the execution is sloppy, and so far two huge penalties have slaughtered the Patriots, resulting in 2 points and counting for the Giants.
5:51 - Make that 9 points.
5:55 - My associate reports that Brady is clubbing baby seals to death behind the Patriots bench. No word yet on if these are California or Harbor seals. I get the feeling that Brady is not approachable on the subject just yet. I've cautioned my associate to keep his distance, and to use orca repellant in droves.
5:59 - The Super Bowl halftime, featuring Madonna. The halftime show of the Super Bowl is where careers go to die. Take Springsteen and the E Street Band. They play it, and soon after, Clarence Clemons dies.
Directly. Related. I expect this to be the last thing Madonna produces to the world. In the meantime, it is refreshing to know some things are always constant. Joe Buck is a douche, and the Patriots cannot run the ball to save their lives. (Or the baby seals behind the bench. Not that rushing the ball will save baby seals, but it is a nice thought to think about for charity.)
6:02 - End of the first quarter, the first movie preview is for "Battleship." You know, based on the game Battleship. Because this seemed like a novel idea. Aliens invading earth in giant metallic forms that destroy and shape shift. Good idear.
6:03 - My associate is once again privy to the Toradol being pumped straight into Rob Gronkowski's high ankle sprain. He's confiscated a bottle from the locker room and now reports that Brady is feeling "groovy." Gronkowski, meanwhile, keeps ranting about high level viscosity for some reason.
6:08 - The professional verdict from the Professor: "The commercials tonight are trying too hard." The opinion: "They're also not funny."
6:08:30 - My associate's verdict: "Good God, the Seals!"
6:13 - Themes of this year's commercials so far include "Beer is good" and "Dogs are cute" in a continuation of the puppy bowl theme. Movies, however, are uninspired. (Although the "John Carter of Mars" preview featured a remix of "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, which is added to Arcade Fire's "My Body is a Cage" as strange backing tracks for Edgar Rice Burroughs.)
6:16 - The Patriots scored a field goal at some point in the last series. It got lost in a haze of Jim Beam and seal blood. Who knew?
6:19 - The blend of Tomatillo and Jim Beam is making for some interesting sensations in the back of my esophagus.
6:22 - Jason Pierre-Paul has just batted down his second pass in a row. A massive defensive end who some believe should have been the Defensive Player of the Year, his wingspan is roughly the size of a humpback whale, with the grip of a ravenous hyena on mescaline. Two last names were more than enough for this monster of a man.
(Sidenote #3: It was at this point that we lost The Stitcher to slumber. Football is not her forte. Sharp instruments of construction are. And the only thing we have representing that on the field is in use behind the Patriots bench to repair the broken baby seals. Her loss.)
6:24 - My associate reports that Giants tight end Travis Beckham is out with a torn ACL for the game. Also, he reports that the Giants practice squad members are engaged in a ferocious game of Mancala, and the bidding starts at $50 a stone. I'm not sure which is more valid until I hear the live report that the bidding is up to $75. Ah, football.
6:25 - It is my professional opinion that the second quarter is boring. The Professor seconds, and the dog shaped parcel has begun to move from chair to chair within the room.
6:30 - To evidence the previous claim, my current game MVP is Steve Weatherford. The Giants punter. To be fair, my associate is reporting that Steve Weatherford is actively gnawing on uncarved ashwood on the sideline in order to control his undying rage against the light/Patriots machine/starving African children. As with Brady, my associate is hesitant to approach his target. Never approach a man in full fledged beaver mode.
6:45 - Holy shit, did the last fifteen minutes just happen? Or did I just stroke off for a bit?
6:46 - Ah, yes, the Avengers preview, with our first good look at the six heroes in action happened. Other than that, I remember NONE of the commercials from the last hour and a half.
6:47 - Jason Pierre Paul was unblocked on 1st and Goal. The result - tackle for loss by a Beast of a Man. Good God someone bring that man a sandwich.
6:47:30 - I just found out that Jason Pierre Paul is younger than I am. I hate my life.
6:49 - Patriots just scored to take the lead 10-9. With :24 left in the 1st half, the prediction has sprung up for the Super Bowl Halftime show. Song guesses are "Like a Prayer", "Material Girl", "Music", and something from Madonna's new album. This is our debate here. That and taxes.
6:58 - The obligatory half time analysis is saying that the last team to score will win. In other news, the Middle East is turbulent once again. Waiting for Madonna to arrive.
6:59 - My associate is reporting from the locker room of the _______, amidst a shower of painkillers, cocaine, and assorted amphetamines. Caffeine is being injected into somebody's arms straight from an IV. It may in fact be my associate.
(At this point, the transcript loses its focus, dissolving into a series of quotes and gibberish. Collecting myself later, I examined the details, and have transcribed what I can recover. It wasn’t pretty.)
Somewhere around the 7:00 hour - Madonna is performing. I'm flashing back to the worst trip I haven't had yet. The time continuum is blown to pieces by Spartacus.
God help us all. I'm currently hiding behind a couch, shielded from the dangers of this small Roman armada.
NO! Stop him! Art Garfunkel, why are you jumping on your nuts on a tightrope? Where is Paul Simon?! He'd never let this happen!
Weird Al? What are you doing outside of the Shire?
This is some strange combination of high school pageantry and $10 million that was just lying around and had to be burned in some way by midnight, or else Brewster wouldn't receive his millions.
Cee-Lo Green has no eyes. Cee-Lo Green is the Space Emperor of Space. (Sorry Zoltan Mesko.)
CEE-LO GREEN IS THE WIZARD! RUN! MIA, YOU HAD THE RIGHT IDEA ALL ALONG.
Summary: Football is space. Beware the wrath of Universal Caesar.
My associate cannot be found, for the Fear has set upon him.
7:20 - The Space-Time Continuum has returned to functional parameters, and my trip is slowly dying down to a reasonable level of intrigue. Things have shifted around to fit this brave new world. Coincidentally, Clint Eastwood is now from Detroit.
7:23 - OCHOCINCO *YOWLSCREECHOFDEATH*
7:25 - Wisdom from the Professor "Do not accept drinks unbidden from the strong man, for it will end poorly." Too late for you, you poor bastard. Wait til Madonna comes back dressed like a Roman gladiator, craving human flesh.
7:28 - Speaking of craving human flesh, the Patriots just scored a remarkably easy touchdown to go up 17-9. My associate reports that Eli Manning is "putting out tentative whines as to why he doesn't have any baby seals that he can bludgeon, and why Brady has all the seals." Then he is reminded that he doesn't have anything, only the broken limbs of Michael Strahan. Defeated, he slumps back on the bench, looking over notebook pictures of Brady's seal braining art. He sighs, and my associate cannot be sure but reports a single tear running down his face.
7:31 - On a long take of Tom Brady, right before the kickoff to the Giants, he hangs his head, deep in thought, before slowly, deliberately letting a drop of spit hang all the way down to the ground before lightly severing it with his tongue. Wiping his mouth, he prepares for combat.
7:31:30 - My associate preserves the saliva for future biological studies.
7:33 - Vince Wilfork is FAT. The man is a beast, and the one giant holdover from their former defensive glory, but the man must weigh as much as a young bull elephant in heat. He breathes like a steam engine, his breath ringing clear across the nation to Utah. That man is not on steroids. That man is on tyrannosaurus tears and liquid molten sun.
7:38 - The Patriots defense smells blood. Like sharks in the water, they are circling, picking off the weak on the edges of the Giants vertical attack. Hakeem Nicks is no longer able to distinguish directions from colors, and the resulting blur has taken away the most potent weapon of their passing attack. If the Patriots score on their next drive, and I mean a touchdown, then the game is all but sealed.
7:40 - This just in: Pepsi Max commercials are not funny either.
7:47 - The Giants have (finally) sacked Tom Brady, creating a 4th and 12. The game is still alive, 17-12. Someone is bringing in a fresh crate for Brady marked as delivery from Northern Canada. A slight, pathetic whimper is heard.
7:49 - The word going around the Interwebs is that Madonna fell during her halftime performance. Yes, she did fall. From the pop charts. Like a stone.
7:55 - Tom Coughlin, Giants coach extraordinaire, is turning into Marty Schottenheimer, with the stale old brand of "run, run, pass, punt/kick". This bodes poorly for the rest of the game. 17-15.
8:02 - I've yet to see anything besides the Avengers preview that actively excites me.
8:04 - Brady is intercepted on a play that up until the conclusion is eerily similar to "the Catch" from Super Bowl 42.
(Fuck Roman numerals. There's nothing Roman about football besides the desire to maul one another like lions and tigers. Until I say otherwise, football is undeserving.)
8:08 - The game is getting tense. Like camping.
8:11 - My associate reports that sabotage is afoot. Jake Ballard has been stabbed by a Patriots defender. This shifts the balance horribly, and could mean the ultimate outcome is horribly in doubt. I have no idea as to what actually happened, because one of The Professor and The Stitcher's friends (let's call her The Boxer) decided to jump onto my lap and attempt to seduce me through her massive massive tongue. Needless to say, I resisted her charms and whiles, but not after a thorough drenching. I also have no idea as to what happened to Jake Ballard, but I'm sure that my associate would never lie to me.
8:13 - The scene behind the Patriots bench is bedlam. Brady is humping a blow-up doll like a madman, holding it by the neck with one hand while braining seal cubs with the other hand, clutching a shalalie like a mad Irish drunk out of some O'Neill play. He is uncontrollable.
8:15 - STAY IN BOUNDS YOU CRETIN!
8:23 - It is determined that The Stitcher doesn't give a shit about the Browns. Bulls and Cavs all the way. End quote.
8:25 - The Darkness jam session is at the worst, entertaining to listen to a bunch of people do what we did in bars during my freshman year of college; i.e. Screech like Robert Plant having a period.
8:27 - TONGUE IN FACE! TONGUE IN FACE!
8:27:30 - Wes Welker is a human vacuum cleaner, the football equivalent of Brooks Robinson at third base. He is the cog in the Patriots well-oiled machine that makes it run. So how in the name of gravy does Welker drop that pass? I could catch that pass. How in the hell does he miss it? Good god, good gravy, my goodness my Guinness.
8:29 - My associate is reporting that Bill Belicheck is being re-booted. The last few drives have stalled out, unfortunately so, and as a result Josh McDaniels has had to insert a new chip into the Belicheck androids skull to keep it functioning.
8:31 - The howling at the moon on this chilly Indiana night begins anew, as Eli comes on with 3:46 left and 2 points down. The broadcasters sound as though this is a pre-scripted broadcast. I'm still not fully recovered from the halftime performance. Eli, overcome from his seal depression, looks like he's preparing for a high-power merger at a corporate law firm. One senses the winds shifting.
8:34 - The Manningham catch will go down not as highly as the Tyree catch, because that was the ultimate in game saving performances. However, when receivers in the future are shown video of how to perform the sideline catch and to keep both of their feet down inbounds to preserve the catch, they will be shown Mario Manningham's sideline catch from Super Bowl XLVI, as he toed his left foot, planted his right, and maintained full possession of the ball on his descent out of bounds. Belicheck makes the call to challenge the play because he has no other options; allowing the catch to stand would cripple his team for the rest of the drive. As it is, they are now on the 50 yard line, with hope rekindled in their hearts. A cheer erupts from the stadium as the catch is confirmed through the jumbotron screen. The game continues, although the outcome seems to be written in blood. Patriot blood.
8:37 - The Giants need to milk the clock as they move into field goal range. The Pats have far too much time left to let Brady have a chance to move down the field again.
8:38 - Manningham has been targeted four times in a row, making three receptions. He is a beast, and blood rages in his head. Patriot receivers are fearful for their lives, shrinking from this possessed ex-Wolverine. He howls at the snap count for blood, and throws anything in his way to the ground, a Samson among Davids, to properly mix the metaphors and convey the emotion it is to see a football player take over a game for several drives.
8:39 - GoDaddy.co can go suck my left nut. Not the right. They're not good enough for that.
8:41 - 2nd and 3, the Giants call for East Falco. I like to call this the luck dragon play.
8:43 - All of a sudden, this game has come alive, and every missed play/made play/mistake is magnified here for the Patriots. Neither team has performed spectacularly except for a couple drives. Unfortunately for the Patriots, Eli Manning has taken over this drive, fueled by the Manningham Impossibility.
8:44 - Touchdown Giants! Belicheck has gambled to let the Giants score now, instructing the Patriots defense to part like the Red Sea on First and 10. Ahmad Bradshaw was allowed to rush for a touchdown, and because the opening for the Giants was so huge, Bradshaw was unable to stop his forward momentum before he could cross the goal line. He has literally fallen ass-backwards into the endzone in the most futile attempt to cease forward motion that has been broadcast on live television. While the Giants have a 4 point lead (2 point conversion unsuccessful), the Patriots have :57 seconds for Tom Brady to rally for a touchdown. (My associate reports that Bradshaw literally pissed himself with terror upon seeing an open endzone, the first time anyone on either sideline can report feeling such terror.")
8:45 - "The suspense is terrible! I hope it lasts." - Oscar Wilde.
8:47 - Good Jesus, Rob Gronkowski is not in the game. I will return after this drive concludes. Too tense to write.
8:53 - The final Hail Mary goes up. If Chad OchoCinco catches the fucking Hail Mary to win the Super Bowl, I will stab somebody.
8:54 - The Hail Mary falls incomplete, just beyond the reach of a diving Rob Gronkowski. The Giants are Super Bowl Champions once again, ending the SAME WAY IT ENDED FOUR YEARS AGO. Eli Manning has now warranted serious discussion for the Hall of Fame, and the missed passes across the field to the Patriots will be second guessed all year. God I am glad that I'm not a Patriots fan. To go through this agonizing heartbreak defeats anything known by a Bengals fan, where we're simply used to chronic disappointment year in, and year out.
8:56 - Hall of Fame boosts from this game for Eli Manning and Tom Coughlin. Eli has passed his brother for football success, and the alcohol flows like mad in the streets of New York.
8:58 - My associate reports from the frenetic joy of the Giants sideline that "Tom Coughlin has entered full-Beast mode, and is screaming phenomenal nonsense words from the bowels of the sideline pit. Manningham must be corralled and muzzled so as to simply receive congratulatory handshakes. Belicheck has stabbed some anonymous assistant coach before going into auto-self-destruct mode. He is being shepherded towards the locker room by an assortment of tight ends and a rapidly deflating Vince Wilfork.
Brady sits amid a pile of blood and seal skulls, clutching his shalalie in a white-knuckled grip, yet unable to come to terms with once again having come so close, yet so far from his ultimate goal. A few drops to Wes Welker and the outcome is decidedly different. The unfortunate truth is that Tom Brady has already peaked in terms of what he can accomplish, and where he can go. He has overcome being a 6th round draft pick, passed on by every team in the league multiple times. He has won three Super Bowls. He has broken records, proven his worth as a quarterback time and time again. There is no question that he is one of the all time greats. Now however, that works against him. He is the Establishment now, his underdog card revoked under threat of blood. The other team will always be the underdog. Over 70% of America was rooting for the Giants, although it might be more accurately described as against Brady. He is the Villain with the Golden Arm, and no matter his past, he will never again be the Underdog, short of a sudden and terrible decline in power.
The ultimate pain this time around is that the Patriots handed this away, almost gift wrapped. Now Brady looks forward to an off-season of misery, flanked by Giselle, the rapidly aging supermodel who no longer carries the same luster as his career winds one year closer to its ultimate end. The banshees are screaming and howling in the Indiana nights, and death reeks over the New England sideline. A great thing is passing before our eyes, and it is our responsibility to record its construct and ultimate demise. Before it even happened, the New England dynasty choked and flailed as 87 could not wrap up the small, bouncing pigskin. Night has fallen in Foxborough.
9:04 - The weirdest trophy celebration ritual is the touching of the Lombardi trophy by the entire Giants football team. While an old old man carries it forward, the players fondle, kiss, and molest the silver trophy. It offends the senses with the indignity.
9:07 - And the Super Bowl MVP is (as it should be Mario Manningham, who saved the season with his spectacular catch and performance on the last drive) Eli Manning, once again. History is repeating itself once more, and the Giants are 3-0 against the Patriots since 2008. Go figure.
9:10 - I don't know why they break down the game on the damn trophy stand. Just give them their trophies and let them shower each other in man love and champagne. Jesus, you wordy bastards. You're prolonging all of the joy sex and hate sex shared by Giants and Patriots fans! Get on with it!
(Here, the telecast has concluded, due to my sudden lack of interest in the game, and my prolonged interest in Jim Beam.)
CONCLUSION: If anyone wanted to make a notion that these games are fixed, this game makes a strong case. Either that, or the two teams are so evenly matched during the match-up that the team that scores last and that scores the best under pressure is the team that will win. Both years, that has been the Giants, and no amount of baby seals can disguise the fact that the Patriots have spent several years beating up on mediocre teams so as to create a stronger impression of themselves against the better teams.
Halftime, as far as my poor brain is concerned, is a vague collection of shadows and mystical Kabballah images. Best argument for chemical enhancement (AGAINST chemical enhancement, my associate pines from Indianapolis, AGAINST. ONE CANNOT HANDLE THE TORTURE.) ever? I think not.
Commercials are lame. But we knew this.
Therefore, I am bidding adieu for another night. The Professor and The Stitcher have retreated to slumber, and the dog shaped parcel has returned to its inanimate state of being. All is right on Irving Park, for one more year.
OK here,
JTC
(Postscript #1: My book is twelve chapters from completion. The Erstwhile Chronicles has taken a back seat, although I have churned out one chapter from that, and am putting a rough guide for the pages together. Expect more on that over time. Come March, the play's the thing.)
(Postscript #2: Tuesday morning. No word yet on my associate, or where he lies. My last contact with him was when he was in the Giants locker room, hammering down bottles of Moet and Chandon. Until I hear further, I assume he is on the beat, doing his necessary research.)
(Postscript #3: We have absolutely NO idea who won the Puppy Bowl, although The Stitcher has informed me that a record for Most Puppy Bowl Touchdowns was set tonight. The MVP was Fumble, who was a terror on offense AND defense. Rare that you see a good two-way player anymore.)
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Of Once and Future Rendings and Renditions: Memo from the Writing Desk
Re: To Whom It May Well Fucking Concern
Subject: THE BASTARDS SCREAM FOR QUAKER OATS
Greetings,
In the past month, I have been frequently blogging, in regards to historical events, modern day occurrences, my day to day life here in Chicago, and whatever happened to have crossed my mind at that particular moment in time and space. It's an interesting junction, my mind in time and space, and the fact that two possibilities occur simultaneously screams out for further documentation. At some point, however, the non-stop train of gibberish must run its course, and when it does, the inevitable letdown for what occurs is a stupefying low that not even the brightest of the bright uppers can remedy.
In other news, grape fruit went on sale at Dominiks.
I have also kept you abreast of my recent writing endeavors beyond this blog. This has been primarily focused for the time on my (as yet untitled) fantasy novel that has been ten years in the making, but one month in the writing. As of that one month mark, however, I am 52,000 pages in, and nearly through Part III out of five parts. (The last two are going to be two bitches in a hand basket, however, so the first draft will still come in at around 120,000 words, and be finished by the end of February.) At this point, the major kinks in the narrative are working themselves out, the characters speak for themselves, and I have the through line working. OK here.
The River of Doubt is slower going, but I never expected to start grinding that particular bastard out until March. As it stands, that one is also on track, and the roughest of rough formulas for an outline will be constructed if not tomorrow night, then at some point in the coming week. AT WHICH POINT, expect a rough draft to be under way during March (a.k.a. when I take a break from the epic fantasy novel so as to recharge my mind for the second go round.)
BUT (and this is crucial) we are not through yet.
One of the greater advantages to not having that crazy of a social life is that my downtime is phenomenal. I am free of the burdens of cable television, popular noise, and most high priced booze. The lower end stuff gets me through the late hours of working, such as tonight, where I figure to be up until 4 am writing. Without the calming influence, I fear that I would go mad. (I call it my 8 hour day, and the last time I tried one, it turned out 8,000 words. So with that in mind, it bears repeating that I enjoy having multiple projects to work on.)
With all of that said, I can also formally announce that I have begun work on a second novel, a modern day parable/auto-biographical/gonzo retelling of the last two years of every male twenty-something in America. It's the kind of project that used to be called the 'great American novel' but which was sold downriver as soon as James Patterson and Glenn Beck took over the publishing empires of the world. To my mind, no one has further destroyed or done more damage to the potential of a progressive American dream than that Aryan fascist who turns out lies faster than people can believe them. Which is saying something.
Anyways, the second book is under way. It's feasible to work on so many projects at once because A) It's largely culled from the similar writings I've been doing in this blog, so I can assemble it on the fly, B) It's so episodic in nature and the through-line is more of an inevitable descent that I can skip and jump around the narrative in the first draft just to try and shake some sense into the god damn thing. Seriously, I have copy notes up on my walls, it's that bad. C) It'll be effectively half the length of the fantasy novel, and it's much easier to write because I know the characters on such an intimate user-friendly basis. (I know my characters in the first novel, but I'm still layering them constantly. You should see my journal where I take my notes.)
SO, in the future, with this blog, you can expect what might be called a "sneak preview" of the narrative to come, as I churn out copy for this blog every Tuesday/Wednesday without fail. There will be more two or three part series coming, just solely on the basis of some of these stories are too large to tell within one 3,000 to 4,000 column style blog entry. The names will remain the same as I have changed them to suit my needs, out of a misguided attempt to shelter the innocent from further torment. The places will be adjusted to suit the needs of the story. But the message remains the same, in that the last three years have crippled any sense of optimism that our generation once possessed, and its retrieval is of the utmost importance if we are to adjust to anything beyond a feeble understanding of the Great Cosmic Shadow Dance called Life.
As for the rest of the works, they're coming. There's a long form play in the brewing regarding the Good Doctor, as I've promised for several years now. I almost understand the man enough to take him and run with it. We're close. So god damned close.
In the interim, while the inevitable is being discussed, my associate, Mr. ____________, will be handling all of my calls. I suggest electronic mailing, as we can only afford so many phone lines in a given time frame. My associate is fond of oral destruction.
OK for now,
JTC
Subject: THE BASTARDS SCREAM FOR QUAKER OATS
Greetings,
In the past month, I have been frequently blogging, in regards to historical events, modern day occurrences, my day to day life here in Chicago, and whatever happened to have crossed my mind at that particular moment in time and space. It's an interesting junction, my mind in time and space, and the fact that two possibilities occur simultaneously screams out for further documentation. At some point, however, the non-stop train of gibberish must run its course, and when it does, the inevitable letdown for what occurs is a stupefying low that not even the brightest of the bright uppers can remedy.
In other news, grape fruit went on sale at Dominiks.
I have also kept you abreast of my recent writing endeavors beyond this blog. This has been primarily focused for the time on my (as yet untitled) fantasy novel that has been ten years in the making, but one month in the writing. As of that one month mark, however, I am 52,000 pages in, and nearly through Part III out of five parts. (The last two are going to be two bitches in a hand basket, however, so the first draft will still come in at around 120,000 words, and be finished by the end of February.) At this point, the major kinks in the narrative are working themselves out, the characters speak for themselves, and I have the through line working. OK here.
The River of Doubt is slower going, but I never expected to start grinding that particular bastard out until March. As it stands, that one is also on track, and the roughest of rough formulas for an outline will be constructed if not tomorrow night, then at some point in the coming week. AT WHICH POINT, expect a rough draft to be under way during March (a.k.a. when I take a break from the epic fantasy novel so as to recharge my mind for the second go round.)
BUT (and this is crucial) we are not through yet.
One of the greater advantages to not having that crazy of a social life is that my downtime is phenomenal. I am free of the burdens of cable television, popular noise, and most high priced booze. The lower end stuff gets me through the late hours of working, such as tonight, where I figure to be up until 4 am writing. Without the calming influence, I fear that I would go mad. (I call it my 8 hour day, and the last time I tried one, it turned out 8,000 words. So with that in mind, it bears repeating that I enjoy having multiple projects to work on.)
With all of that said, I can also formally announce that I have begun work on a second novel, a modern day parable/auto-biographical/gonzo retelling of the last two years of every male twenty-something in America. It's the kind of project that used to be called the 'great American novel' but which was sold downriver as soon as James Patterson and Glenn Beck took over the publishing empires of the world. To my mind, no one has further destroyed or done more damage to the potential of a progressive American dream than that Aryan fascist who turns out lies faster than people can believe them. Which is saying something.
Anyways, the second book is under way. It's feasible to work on so many projects at once because A) It's largely culled from the similar writings I've been doing in this blog, so I can assemble it on the fly, B) It's so episodic in nature and the through-line is more of an inevitable descent that I can skip and jump around the narrative in the first draft just to try and shake some sense into the god damn thing. Seriously, I have copy notes up on my walls, it's that bad. C) It'll be effectively half the length of the fantasy novel, and it's much easier to write because I know the characters on such an intimate user-friendly basis. (I know my characters in the first novel, but I'm still layering them constantly. You should see my journal where I take my notes.)
SO, in the future, with this blog, you can expect what might be called a "sneak preview" of the narrative to come, as I churn out copy for this blog every Tuesday/Wednesday without fail. There will be more two or three part series coming, just solely on the basis of some of these stories are too large to tell within one 3,000 to 4,000 column style blog entry. The names will remain the same as I have changed them to suit my needs, out of a misguided attempt to shelter the innocent from further torment. The places will be adjusted to suit the needs of the story. But the message remains the same, in that the last three years have crippled any sense of optimism that our generation once possessed, and its retrieval is of the utmost importance if we are to adjust to anything beyond a feeble understanding of the Great Cosmic Shadow Dance called Life.
As for the rest of the works, they're coming. There's a long form play in the brewing regarding the Good Doctor, as I've promised for several years now. I almost understand the man enough to take him and run with it. We're close. So god damned close.
In the interim, while the inevitable is being discussed, my associate, Mr. ____________, will be handling all of my calls. I suggest electronic mailing, as we can only afford so many phone lines in a given time frame. My associate is fond of oral destruction.
OK for now,
JTC
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The Erstwhile Fanatics: Fear and Loathing in Hockeytown
Back in the days when I was able to healthily flaunt the newfound wealth that I had from Stafford student loans, I decided that it would be a worthwhile endeavor to reward my best friends, my boon companions, my "bros", if you will, with a special Christmas present that would not only show them my appreciation for them, but also allow us to share a new experience, bonding with one another as we'd never had before. (Note: Still not gay.) It would have to be a special event that I gifted them with, something that would blow our collective sensory perceptions straight out of the water, a time that would cause untold rapture and would go down in legend as one of the greatest trips ever told.
This is not that trip. That trip would come later, involving an orca, a waitress in South Dakota, and chapstick. But that's a story for another time.
(Sidenote #1: In recent weeks, I've noted a trend where my blog echoes my mood of the given time, and reflects a certain self-loathing that's always been rather pronounced in my writing. While this is something I fully intend to embrace, I'm also all for the exploration of my past life, recording it in a time honored tribute (i.e. blogging) to preserve these macabre trips for posterity. What this means is several posts over the next few weeks that have more of an autobiographical feel to them, and fewer diversions into topics such as sports, politics, and the homeless.
With that being said, sports.)
The actual trip was four months in the planning. When working on a trip of such magnitude with such fickle people surrounding the entire enterprise, one must carefully plan how these events go down. My associate and I spent the better part of October scouring the internet for the best possible solution as to how to spend our holiday time and money. Finally, the solution was arrived upon, and announced to the friends: we would be attending a hockey game in February as part of a Christmas present. You're welcome, earth.
The cast of characters included myself, my associate (traveling along separately with his own crew of rag-tag outcasts and vagabonds), the Ginger (whom we may recall from prior tales and studies), the Professor (whom has graciously accepted once again to appear in these chronicles as "The Professor") and the remaining member of our team, a ne'er-do-well so nefarious and twisted, so eccentric and fanatic, that no true name can do him justice. For the sake of anonymity, to protect the innocents, and out of our own perverted self-interest and hyperbole, he shall be referred to here as "The Hood."
(Sidenote #2: All of these characters will play a part in future chronicles to come. Remember them. Study them. Know their tendencies. It just may save your life some day.)
The game, as mentioned wouldn't be until February for technical reasons. That technical reason being that we would be seeing a professional hockey contest between the Detroit Red Wings and the Colorado Avalanche at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit. (Or "the Joe" if you're so inclined.) The schedule listed February 17th, so given that I bought the tickets in October for a December Christmas present, there was ample time to prepare for the event.
Or so we thought.
The ensuing trip to Detroit was harmless enough. A long stretch of corrugated freeway, rumpled and pulverized from years of long, cold, and harsh Ohio Winters (Note the Inclusion of the Oxford Comma), the road is to your car's tires what that damn helicopter was to John Landis in The Twilight Zone movie. Destroyed, just like Vic Morrow and those two Vietnamese boys. They will soon be scraps of rubber, again, much like Vic Morrow.
Braving the roads, we arrived in Detroit, that dessicated, burned out hulk of a city where it is possible to watch the American Dream sputter and gasp as it is exhumed upon an automated assembly line towards technological oblivion. For the people of Detroit, it almost goes without saying that times are tough, but that there is hope for the future. One homeless man eulogizes a deceased firefighter, who bravely rushed into a building that should have been condemned years ago to save a child. The building's burned out carcass stood for years after he perished, an ode to the city's inability to give up and die, or to allow itself to be reseeded for new growth.
But enough of that. We were here for hockey.
Pulling into the garage, it was established that The Hood was a simple boy, reared in the suburbs, far from the violent city life. Consequently, the established idea that there would be buildings larger than he had ever seen before was something that escaped him.
"I'll tell you that the building immediately outside," began the Professor, "Could hold ten of the Administration Buildings on campus."
"Well that's just not true..." replied The Hood, which turned into open mouthed awe as the visual spectacle of the outside buildings confirmed the Professor's initial assessment. We were indeed in a new, harsh world, strange and corrupt of intentions.
Given that we had hours before the game even began, thanks to a paranoid Fear of arriving late, or worse, in city traffic, we looked about for something to do. The Professor, being a native of the world, recommended to us an establishment called the Post Bar, which was apparently a staple tradition of him and his family members. Or something like that. To me, it just appeared as another dive bar buried beneath a parking garage.
Entering, the first adult beverages of the day were consumed. A couple of Miller High Life's goes a long way towards establishing character and content within a bar; it signifies that you are a man of little taste, but a taste for the macabre. It shows that while you may be reduced to spending on cheap, mass-produced beer-flavored swill, you at least have more sense about you than to pound away at Bud Light after Bud Light. (An inevitability that hung over our crowd like the plague, given the lack of variety to your typical stadium fare.)
While at the Post Bar, we divvied up our uniforms for the day, an erstwhile (TM) set of hockey jerseys spanning various tastes and interests. The Professor wore his native Red Wings colors with pride, while the Ginger wore his hometown Avalanche with something akin to pride. The Hood wore a local hockey jersey that escapes my mind at the moment due to its obvious inequity compared with the prior two (Or it might be something his father wore, the ex-professional hockey player and bruiser of a man. Do not engage the Hood's father in a fight, for vengeance will be swift, and the payment will be your teeth. Trust me on this.) My jersey, given that I am aware that hockey is played on skates with sticks, was the tribute to an independent group called Moxy Fruvis. (Perhaps you've heard of them?) The latter jersey, a point of pride for me in the choosing, would draw some of the strangest looks from anybody in the stadium that day, and might have served as the best conversation starter in the world had we not been surrounded by a horde of angry, bloodthirsty, capricious hockey fans.
But we're getting there.
Leaving the Post Bar, we trekked into the stadium, where the first order of business was establishing our seats. It is true that when purchasing the tickets, I had looked towards the least expensive choices. It is also true that the correlation between price and distance from the arena may or may not have placed us outside of the arena itself. We'll leave that up for debate.
"At least we've got a good survey of the action," the Ginger said, peering down and trying to contain the nosebleed started by high altitude.
"That's true," I replied, also holding my nose. "We won't miss anything, except names. And who knows who these guys are anyways?"
"Well, I do," replied The Professor, "There's Lindstrom, Zetterberg, Hossa..." as he continued, we made our way back down. There was serious eating to be done.
None of this group could ever be classified as small. This is not to say that we're fat, overweight behemoths. We're simply large men, and that builds large appetites. For food, beer, etc. When I'm the smallest of the group, there's something to be said for what we need and can consume. And the ingested food of this trip would be legendary, in no small terms.
Among the first things we picked up at the concessions stand downstairs were (per person): two giant bratwursts, individual nachos, personal pizzas (with sausage and pepperoni), peanuts, and two more stadium sized beers apiece. These joined the Miller High Life's already consumed at the Post Bar in a state of gastrointestinal bliss and nourishment.
(Let it be said here that while ticket prices are already somewhat silly in nature, given their prices, the true gouging comes from stadium food. Some parks make absurd amounts of money just by feeding you. For example, a six dollar bratwurst contains a limp, boiled bratwurst wrapped in a soggy white bread bun. For the same price, one could purchase a pack of five of the same bratwurst and a cheap pack of buns. Right there, you've got five that would normally cost you $30 in the stadium. Do we see how the stadium has just made $24 off of the last two and a half customers? Now, with that being said, I am willing to embrace these prices, because like many other American sports fans, there are just essential rituals of every contest that must be
observed. To fail to do so is a lack of adherence to the hegemony of sport. And one cannot violate the hegemony. That's how the bastards get you.)
While everyone wrangled their way back to their seats, my associate pulled me aside into one of the curtained tunnels leading back into the arena. I watched my companions as they ascended the stairs, making a mental note to rejoin them.
"What have you found?" I asked, clutching my personal tray with intense anticipation.
"The whole team is running bug-shit beneath the stands," he confided, clutching what looked to be a confiscated hockey stick. "They've been doped up on some strong shit, my friend. Lindstrom is handing out packets of Torodol himself. Can't miss it."
"We knew that, man, we knew that" I replied. Anyone crazy enough to play in a professional sport such as hockey must constantly be battling the side effects. "What have you found out?"
Without speaking, he withdrew a bottle. Toradol.
(A popular choice of professional athletes, Toradol is one of the many drugs ingested by Brian Urlacher, Tony Romo, Ronde Barber, and many more to use as a painkiller. Non-addictive, and legal in the U.S., side effects may include gastrointestinal bleeding, as shown in a multitude of studies. Not shocking, when you get down to the basics.)
"Great Scott, man" I replied, grabbing the bottle. It looked to be about half full.
"I just did a hit," he replied, "And man, I'm floating on air at the moment."
"Are you?" I asked, suspicious. Pulling the stopper, I tried it myself. Goes down smooth enough, I thought. Soon enough though, a numbness followed by intense euphoria overtook me. The Fear settled in quickly enough, with the driving sensation that there were evil demons about, and that Hockey was the only solution.
"Good work," I replied. "Now get to work, there's business to be done here." With that, he crept away into the bowels of the stadium, for reasons I am not indulged in enough to comment upon here.
Returning to my friends, the game began. Here is my main problem with hockey, as with soccer, basketball, etc. There are, to be sure, highlight moments. There are, to be sure, moments of suspense, and games with great import have that hanging over them. That's why I love the NBA playoffs and Stanley Cup finals. The outcome feels more important.
For a game in February where all that matters is a theoretical dip in the standings, I am FAR less likely to give a rat's ass about watching overpaid millionaires skate back and forth for three hours. The hits are fun, goals are cool, etc. A half hour's worth of fun. However, for the remaining 2:30, I am disinterested. Granted, I can't skate, but I'm sure I could learn. How does that warrant your being paid millions?
(Yes, this carries over to baseball as well, my pride and joy.)
To be fair, the game did have many exciting moments, ending in a 6-5 shootout after overtime proved futile. The Avalanche and Red Wings played admirably, but this is not about them. This is about us.
During the first intermission, The Ginger and I coasted down towards the bathroom. Still floating on a Toradol high, we found a long line to piss into a trough, something that 95% of men would have a problem with in a general public restroom, but in a hockey arena pumped full of testosterone, no one bats an eye at this. While standing in line, some far more drunken Red Wings fans than us stumbled out of the room. One of them, a seedy looking shortie with an old tattered jersey, caught sight of the Ginger's Av's jersey, and proceeded to glare him down with intense vitriol in his eyes. After a few minutes of this, the man yelled out, "Hey, John Denver's a fag!" before fleeing with his companions back into the arena.
I sometimes feel that fanaticism is a lost art, especially when you're so used to being on top.
Returning to our seats, I caught sight of the giant octopus hanging over the stadium, and promptly retreated further into the state of the Fear. Hockey is full of its own quirky traditions, including its own peculiar sense of fashion. The octopus is a particularly Detroit ritual, dealing with a past incident where two brothers flung a live octopus onto the ice following a Red Wings win or something (I'm not sure, and didn't care to research this point, as the occasion still scars my mind). That being said, the presence of a giant, eight-legged freak floating high above the arena as a strange form of idolatry terrifies a man in the grip of a Toradol binge. Fleeing the stands temporarily, I consoled myself with more bratwurst and beer to soothe my poor mind. There should be license requirements and strict notice posted if you're going to be assaulted by a blow up cephalopod during a sporting event.
(Sidenote #3: Did you know that the world 'cephalopod' is not listed in Blogger.com's spell check? I feel this is a grave oversight, considering the nature of this post.)
The final incident of note during the game itself was that I may or may not have punched a five year old girl. I'm strongly disinclined to believe this not because I don't remember it, but that as an erstwhile (TM) hockey fanatic, I would not feel strong enough to punch said girl unless she had it coming to her, or was in truth a human sized octopus. In which case, the incident would be more widespread than just poor me, and it would not make for such a specific story. Therefore, I believe it to be false. But again, believe what you will.
Fleeing the arena following the shoot-out, we realized that the four of us were in no condition to drive. What's more, strange noises began erupting from beneath the stadium, and I became conscious that my associate was still loose. Fearing the consequences of being caught on camera with a deranged lunatic, we moved towards Detroit's Greektown, a narrow collection of businesses designed to cater towards those with money to spend. (The 1% of Detroit if you will). Along this way, we spotted a new casino, perched at the end of the street, and attached to one of the swankier hotels of the region.
A quick survey of our group revealed that we had never been to a casino. (Save the Ginger, I believe, who did his time in Vegas, doing something that has never been fully specified for these chronicles.) Moving into the lobby, we broke out our remaining cash (something to the equivalent of ten dollars and change) and moved towards our locations of interest.
Let it be said that I am a terrible gambler. I cannot play poker to save my life because I am incapable of hiding my expression at a deck of cards. In real life, I can disguise my intentions with the best of them. In the pit, where every single tic is revealing, I am doomed. Therefore, we shied away from the card tables, trying our luck with a series of automated machines.
The Hood soon spotted a "Star Wars" themed slot machine. Realizing that these things are crack for those willing to dole out money to spend, I remained leery of the strange box with a touch screen and wookies to boot. However, the Hood remained.
Where he soon turned a profit. A sizable profit that isn't fit to disclose here, but suffice to say, we were able to pay for our food later that night, and our gas too.
May the force be with us, indeed.
Freeing ourselves from the casino, it felt as though we had just embarked upon a new passage of manhood. We had attended a sporting event as adults, we had just gambled with the best of them (well, in the same room as them), and now we were once again loose in the city. And, despite our best of efforts at the stadium to stuff ourselves to the brink of oblivion, we were hungry once again.
Taking in a deep dish pizza place, we were tormented by vision on television of a giant man whose name may or may not rhyme with Crack, Yack, Gak, and Stack, dancing while wearing a horrifying white mask with a back troupe of dancers, all emblazoned with the same mask. Unfortunately, this dance by The Stack Attack had all the subtlety of an Aerosmith concert. (You know, the band that got away with rhyming the words 'Tallahassee' with 'sassafrassie'.) Consequently, giants with white masks rhythmically flailing away on giant flat screen televisions while still in the throes of the Fear sets about an intense Loathing of your surroundings, of the waiter carrying your deep dish pizza, of the gastrointestinal problems you are developing due to an abundance of beer, Toradol, and cheap stadium food packed with sodium.
But I digress.
Leaving, we made it back to the car in one piece, and tore out of Detroit as fast as my newly shredded tires would carry us. In my haze in the back, I collapsed, finally, my body in an intense state of subliminal exhaustion. As we drove back south towards the Border, stars above us, and a tranquil state of being settling over the car, it occurred to me that we had overcome all of our perils, but that even five hours in Hockeytown, with the craziest of the crazies, was not what it set out to be. Reputations are one thing to be earned, but the actuality is far more tame than the pretense. In practice, there is a fear and pacification that is set out over such an event, there are Rules that must be followed, and while they may be Broken, it is for the Fear that we adhere to these codes. There is no Breaking of them when what you are following is actually intended by the Rules themselves.
Case in point, consider the octopus.
The other thing I realized, half sleeping, was that my associate still remained in Detroit, doing god knows what.
One can only hope that the consequences would not unleash the firestorm to come. Unfortunately, we were wrong. (To be continued.....)
(Postscript #1: Work on the novel continues. At the moment, we have breached the 40,000 word mark and have concluded Part 2 of 5. The last two days have been spent taking a break from it, as I am a little worded out at the moment. As tomorrow is a laundry day, work will resume at full throttle, and on pace for a finish to the first draft within the coming Months. River of Doubt is in progress as well, and I look to begin true work with The Professor as early as next week.)
(Postscript #2: I am looking for sponsorship to attend any Republican primary rallies in the coming weeks to see how the other half lives, works, and operates. I make no efforts to hide my liberal leanings, but in the nature of the work I've been progressing on, I am curious as to how this rat-trap operation will be functioning in months to come.)
(Postscript #3: I really do enjoy hockey more than this particular article gives me credit for. However, as I've stated, I enjoy it more when the stakes are higher. That goes for all sports in general, but particularly for something like this. Not to say I don't enjoy it, but...ah, there I go, speaking in a round-about way again. (Bonus for those who guess the reference.))
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Erstwhile on State and Lake; Live with the First Signs of Winter
31 A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. 32 So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. 33 But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. 34 He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. - Luke 10: 31-34
I enjoy keeping my window in my studio apartment open at all times, regardless of the time of year. The first is that I can hear the waves lapping against the shores of Lake Michigan. Through some miracle of miracles, my apartment is one building removed from the lake shore, and so the beach is less than two minutes walking from my front doorstep. This is fantastic because I have longed to be near a soothing sound of nature ever since I moved into the city. When you come from the country, the sudden shift in noise from bird calls and wind blowing through trees changes to garbage trucks, the wind against your building, and people yelling at each other in the street. To hear the waves, suggestive of a large body of water not 100 feet away from me, is particularly soothing to my wayward heart.
The second reason is that I grew up in a cooler house. While my ancestral home does have a furnace that runs from November until March, it only effectively heats the downstairs rooms, and even then is set low because of the skyrocketing cost of propane fuel. With this in mind, turning the furnace up is out of the question. The resulting temperature in my room that I slept in on and off for twenty four years is a cool 55 degrees. (Or possibly 35, one never can be sure. I did wake up one Christmas morning to sub-zero temperatures outside and the string of drool that trailed down my cheek frosty to the touch. One thinks that a couple of dollars would be worth not having to wonder how my nose suffered an extreme case of frostbite overnight.) Over the years, one gets used to these sorts of things, and not only learns to put up with them, but also to embrace them. Consequently, I love piling my bed high with blankets, wearing sweatshirts and warm socks around the house, and making coffee just for the sake of absorbing the wayward heat transference. Keeping the window open in my apartment allows for a more chilled environment that makes me feel infinitely more at home than the sub-tropical settings of my radiator.
Which brings me to reason #3, my radiator(s). Wonderful marvels of engineering, they somehow have the ability to change my apartment from a vintage studio in need of some sort of remodeling with a marvelous view of Lake Michigan into a balmy South Beach sauna complete with Mexican attendant, palm trees, and an odd backdrop for South Beach because it seems to be a view of Lake Michigan on the North Side. Weird.
But I digress.
Winter has arrived in Chicago, the time when all the bar rats creep back into their holes, clamoring for booze and companionship (or so I imagine anyways). The first months of winter are among my favorites of the year, mostly because it signals a time of definite change in the air. Snow is falling, the year is turning over, and a fresh start is all but demanded of the world at large. Unfortunately, someone forgot to turn on winter this year until about mid-way through January.
When I first moved out here, I was delayed in arrival until December. Hearing ominous portents of a coming snow-pocalypse of epic proportions, rivaling the events of last winter here, I dreaded the oncoming piles of snow I would have to slog through while figuring out this new land of Chicago. This was made worse when I realized that one of the two restaurant jobs I had acquired would require a thirty minute walk in both directions. These are hard times for many of us, and I spent much of the last year holding down two to three jobs just to either a) make enough money to cover my piles of student loans or b) save money to move to a new location to try and find a better job/opportunities in theatre. At the moment, I'm still holding two jobs, but my obligations have changed. I no longer have to walk one hour to and from my job through a sketchy neighborhood, nor do I have to work double shifts at restaurants over an hour apart from each other. Instead, I can essentially mold my schedule to fit my needs for the week. (Because of this, my creative output has once again begun to pour, on a much more regular basis. More on that later.)
I'm one of the fortunate ones.
I was walking around downtown the other day, heading towards my bus stop, when I passed by another one of those tourists who love to take pictures of the Chicago skyline, most frequently while standing in the middle of the sidewalk. This little Asian man, holding an expensive camera, was very focused on photographing the Macy's building/Marshall Fields on State and Randolph. So much so that he failed to notice the grizzled, elderly homeless man approaching him from the side. With little hesitation, and most bizarrely, the homeless man leaned in close to the tourist's ear and began belting "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" as loud as he could, doing his best Mick Jagger while doing so.
(Why was this bizarre? It seems like something that one might see in the subway stop at any given time of day? What made this different? Well, let me tell you: he decided to start halfway through the song. Halfway through the chorus. To try and convey how strange this is, just start singing "Ode to Joy" halfway through the song, with no rhyme or reason given to measures or musical placement. It's quite strange, and somewhat unsettling.)
While riding the bus back home, still frightened by the homeless Mick Jagger and in need of some sort of sustenance to stave off the encroaching Fear setting upon me, I was displeased to note an extended delay at the Michigan and Deleware stop. Looking towards the front of the bus, I could see the delay was another homeless lady boarding the handicapped seats. What's more, she had to wait to clear an additional seat on the bus, not for a pet or a companion, but for a single potted orchid that she set down gingerly, patting it on the leaves as she did so.
To this date, that is one of the more heart-breaking affectionate moments that I have witnessed in the city, to see that much compassion for something that would be so simple to the rest of us, yet so dear and essential to the life of another person.
The one thing that I have noticed either from traveling in the city or from just living in it is that to the majority of crowds, homeless people are regarded as a plague and a nuisance. Discarded, spat upon, believed to be diseased alcoholics out of their tiny little minds, they are kicked, bullied, and openly shunned to their faces. Sure, there are those who do what they can to help them, through the offering of cigarettes, change, or even a bus ride from time to time. I helped out a man the other day with a bus ride, after I found myself unable to provide any change. (The digital revolution would be the type of event that truly hurts the homeless, if only because nobody carries cash anymore.) Most of the time, they are simply ignored or cast out.
Society has always had its begging class, its poor and destitute. The very nature of the American Dream Machine welcomes the poor and downtrodden, (or so says a particularly emerald bust sitting on a rock in the ocean nearby a certain large city) allowing them to make their profit and fortunes in this land of opportunity. However, this is an impossibility for everyone to achieve, if only because in capitalism there are winners and losers. We are condition from childhood to believe that there is a place and task for everyone and all participants will be rewarded, but upon graduation, we enter the hyper-competitive job market, pushing and fighting for every dollar that we can get. For the weak, the poor, the diseased, there is an uphill struggle. For some, the struggle is too much. For others, circumstance and poor decisions lead to becoming the lowest of the low, the homeless.
Go and ask your local congressman the last time that they talked to a homeless person about their state. When Occupy protestors are told to go get a job, how much do they mean the young children of middle class yuppies and how much are they yelling at the people for whom welfare is the only option? How is a schizophrenic man supposed to hold down a position as even a fry cook at McDonald's?
(The apparent fear of the homeless class is widespread, and the belief among many in power is that they are undeserving of sympathy, pity, or the chance to survive. Welfare is regarded with racist beliefs that the people who use it are lazy. That's like saying that rich people exploit the tax code to pay fewer taxes. Both have cases that merit the truth of those statements, but it can hardly be said to be true of everybody. What can be noted is that oftentimes the people who want to break welfare because of they dislike providing services to people for free have their own skeletons in their closets and are hardly free of sin themselves.)
What's worse to me is that this is what I call an "accepted state of being", an unwritten social contract that we all just agree with. We all consent to ignore the homeless people sitting in the streets, because we have places to be. We don't offer change to the pro-offered cup, taught as young children not to look them in the eye because that will not draw them towards you like parasitic insects. Let them feed upon the nectar of the sympathetic.
Sure, there are plenty who help out, who volunteer at food pantries, who donate to charities, who spend time in soup kitchens serving the destitute. There are plenty of people who do drop change into the homeless person's cup. But how often do we see that?
Let's say that 1% of the people you run into on a given day are the ones who donate towards the homeless person in the street. The rest of us, let's say the 99% of us, avoid this, because we don't want to support a drug habit, because we know they'll just spend it on booze, because we're late for work, or a meeting, or a thousand other different things that cause us to keep going on with our lives, ignorant of the lesser people, because they are just that: lesser. I realize that many people don't help one person because that leads to a tidal wave of guilt because we are not able to help everybody. I think that's fair, but I also think that it is bullshit not to be able to help one person because then we'd have to help everybody. In terms of dollars, that makes sense. In terms of absolute morality, it is a sin. Morality is relative in the case of the homeless.
I say that I like having the cold in my house, which I do. I am grateful that it's a cold I can control, and not an ever present cold that comes from having to sleep under the train tracks, or aboard the El train late at night, or in any number of dirty back alleys within the city. I am grateful for where I come from. And like most of the people that I have the pleasure of knowing, (No sarcasm intended, I enjoy the people in my life, and they are all good people, I assure you), I generally take it for granted that I am not a "bum in the street." This is a lesson that we are all forced to confront often, as I did the other evening.
Taking the train home after working a double shift downtown, I was tired and exhausted. Reading my book of choice on the train, I braced myself for a long ride back to the Jarvis stop, a good 40 to 45 minute ride. Sitting in a sparsely populated train car, I kept to myself, much as the 10 or 12 other people were doing. Toward the front of the car, I heard a noise of a door being opened. Curious, I glanced over my shoulder to see what it was. Looking back, I saw that it was a thin, bearded man wearing a ragged moth-eaten sweater, obviously homeless, unshaven, and looking as skeletal as the pictures of Jewish survivors of concentration camps in the 1940's. I shifted over in my seat, trying to not draw attention to myself. Casually glancing around the car, I saw everybody on the train in front of me do the exact same thing. (I can only imagine the people behind me doing that as well. Universal reactions are contagious when part of an assumed social contract.)
The homeless man proceeded to go to each person in the car and ask by if, "by the Grace of God, you could spare a man anything? Anything at all?" I remember his exact words clearly without having to record them in my journal at the time, and I remember his ragged voice, held together with what seemed like Scotch tape and rusty nails. Proceeding down the car, he repeated his call: "By the Grace of God, could you spare a man anything?"
No one gave anything. There were a few responses of "I don't have anything," but never a "I'm so sorry" or a "Let me check," just "I don't have anything," stated with the implications of "Get the hell away from me, you beggar." I am ashamed to admit I was one of those, because I had things to do, more important things to occupy my time. Having acquired nothing, the man kept moving from person to person, never breaking from his speech, until he had reached the end of the car. Empty handed, he proceeded further on up the train and out of my sight.
When the train reached my stop, many people got up to leave the train car as well. As we got out, my immediate attention was drawn to a woman standing in the heat bunker on the train stop. Next to her was a shopping cart filled with blankets, bags, and assorted newspapers. She was so bundled in scarves and clothes that it was hard to determine there was a person under there. It was doubly hard to identify her because she was leaning over, one hand braced against the wall of the bunker for support, retching bile and greasy yellow vomit onto the station. All I could hear were dry heaves and sobs from within.
Yet again, no one offered any assistance, instead rushing downstairs. Again, I joined the fray, unwilling to offer my assistance in her time of need.
Reaching the bottom of the station, I overheard two guards talking about the woman on the track upstairs, debating what to do with her. Instead of offering to help, to ask if she would be alright, I pushed through the turnstile, not looking at anyone, and rushed out the door, just the same as everyone else who had just seen her was doing on that night. Racing home, I unlocked the door of my apartment, threw off my warm Kenneth Cole jacket, slipped on warm pajamas, powered up my internet-accessible laptop, and looked at my work schedule online before collapsing on my new full-sized mattress with clean sheets, feeling wretched and fighting back tears of self-loathing. It might have been my worst night in Chicago by far, because I realized exactly who I am.
I am the real 99%.
(Postscript #1: Again, a shorter entry and a deviation from the humor of the last couple. I like to shake things up from time to time, and this is an issue that's been weighing upon my mind a great deal as of late. I realize that there's only so much that any one person can do, and that yes, we cannot help every person we see. If I gave a dollar to every homeless person I passed in a given day, or everyone who needed it, I would soon be out of money myself. That being said, I find it appalling that people who have not found success/monetary gains/etc in society are shunned as almost third class citizens by everyone around them. To me, there's no justification in that. As Doctor Seuss wrote, "a person's a person, no matter how small.")
(Postscript #2: I promised that I would include writing updates from my other projects, and those are a much more optimistic topic to write about, so here goes. The fantasy novel that I've been outlining is underway! I am currently five chapters in, four complete, for a word count of over 17,000 words. For a book that's going to end up around 115,000 to 120,000 words, I feel that's a decent start. River of Doubt is also progressing, as the research and beginning of the outline has commenced. My writing partner and I are in agreement on what story we're telling, and are both greatly enthused for the project. Look for the first scenes to be written for that in March, and for the rough draft of my book to be completed around the same time.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)