It was December 29 and I was on my way to buy a Christmas present for a Jewish man named Christian; I wasn’t sure why. I was running late for the 9:45am number 4 bus running from downtown Reno to the northwest outskirts passing, amongst other places, Wal-Mart, my destination. I was having a Christmas dinner with my sister and her brother-in-law, Christian, later that evening, and in my particular fashion, I waited until the final moment to buy the gift I already assured my sister I had bought, a computer game he had been quivering in his boots for since the moment he had reckoned the game’s existence.
I was running late, but I didn’t know I was, I thought I had an extra ten minutes when I arrived at the bus stop near the corner, across the street from my favorite spot on earth, the Starbucks on Keystone and Seventh Streets. As per usual, the small coffee shop which was wedged uncomfortably into the corner without thought to the traffic it would bring was insanely busy. Three cars were in the drive-thru lane, which would create one hell of a traffic jam should one more car join the queue. The fourth car joined the line in form, and blocked the entrance into the parking lot, the only one the small shop had, from Seventh Avenue. Ten seconds and two cars later, a line of thirsty drivers had blocked the entrance into the parking lot, spilled onto Seventh Avenue impeding traffic in all directions. Dodging cars became my primary concern, as drivers began weaving in and out of traffic from and to all directions in the intersection. I abandon the endeavor for peppermint mocha when I see the bus coming directly towards the intersection. I run back to the corner.
I arrived back at the bus stop on the corner 9:51am; thirty seconds later, the bus pulled up. The surly bus driver opened the door, angered and disturbed he would have to go out of his way to open the door for me. A deep resignation manifested itself upon his face after he and I made eye contact. Remorse swelled in me as I locked on the eyes which had no soul present anymore; Carl, his name as I later found out, was no longer living his life, but instead waiting to die a lonely, miserable life. He paid little attention to the traffic jam which had been created except to gripe about it as he derisively looked at each and every car and truck stuck on their caffeine fix.
A petite older woman who would have been beautiful to me had she been forty years younger, or I the same amount older, was sitting behind and across from the driver, yammering incessantly to the man about nonsense; I think she was whining about not precisely knowing which stop to get off at for Wal-Mart. Carl was attempting to keep his cool; he was counting the days until his retirement and pension while blocking from his mind what he would really like to do to this woman. He nodded furiously towards her, telling her without wasting any unnecessary energy that he would, in fact, stop at Wal-Mart, and she needn’t worry her pretty, though old, little head covered in a white knit cap about such affairs. Carl didn’t care she had to get to Wal-Mart to exchange a gift for her grandson because she got the wrong size and he doesn’t like Lightning McQueen, but Buzz Lightyear instead, and his mother won’t let her see him more than once a month or so which was far too little, and how her best girlfriend and she were drinking margaritas…
I sat as far away from the squirrely old woman and lost myself in the short ride to Wal-Mart, never once paying heed to how Carl wonderfully got out of the traffic congestion. The bus arrived just before 10 at the Wal-Mart situated on Seventh Street and McCarran Boulevard. I hopped out, as did the woman who had graciously stopped talking, though I scarcely had paid her any attention thanks to the vibrant rhythm section of The Allman Brothers Band playing in my headphones. I quickly forgot about the aggravating woman and the old, unforgiving man driving the bus as I darted across Seventh, jogged through the parking lot into the store, walked swiftly with a wind at my back to the electronics department where I found the game with ease, and then back up front to the register to pay for that and also a gift card for my sister. I was out of the store by 10:08am, avoiding any latent desire to stay for hours in the store buying poorly-made products I don’t actually need because it is so cheap.
I arrived at the east-bound, downtown-bound bus stop for route 4 at 10:10, a full eight minutes earlier than the return time for the very same bus I had arrived on. Patiently I waited at the stop with four people I didn’t notice until the bus arrived.
I got on first, swiped my bus pass in the reader, nodding again in recognition to the lamentable man who, if it were possible, looked even worse than he had twenty minutes previous. He muttered something I couldn’t understand, though my headphones were off. I sat down, uttered a sigh and forgot about the bus driver again, and his plight.
I watched then as a small, good-looking black woman come on next, pulling the misplaced bus pass trick that works every time. She batted her dark eyes at Carl, who could care less, as she swiped expired bus pass after bus pass, hoping one would work. After five passes, a flustered look from her insisting she had a pass here somewhere, a fake panicked search through her purse through a stack of needles disguised as bus passes, Carl finally had enough and just waved her on, not caring about the $2 the Regional Transportation Commission would be losing out on, but instead his desire to hasten the bus’ departure, thus hastening the end of his day at work, thus hastening the year’s end, then the week’s, then the month’s, then the next month’s, then his life finally. Had I walked up to him and stabbed him in the throat, he might have been thankful. I wouldn’t get the chance.
Next walked in an old man of average proportions, though smaller than most. I thought him first a police officer, for he wore the same type of winter coat, an expensive one at that. Instead of a police patch on the arms, he had similar-looking ones stating he was, in fact, a “Reno Volunteer Senior.” He probably paid top-dollar for the coat so he would feel useful and important during his golden age; I didn’t blame him. It was a pleasant surprise to find a retiree on the bus who wasn’t riding around in a Hover-round paid for by my tax dollars funded through Medicare. He sat in front of me, I gave him an acknowledging nod as he did.
Last walked in a young woman I had seen before, though I couldn’t place her at first, I was too enthralled at the sight she was creating. She carried a big Wal-Mart bag of toys in one hand and a red bean bag in the other, all the while fumbling to retrieve her bus pass. She was nervous and shaking genuinely, unlike the woman previously. Not wanting to place the bean bag on the floor of the bus, for it was muddy and wet, she had extreme trouble, I would have laughed hysterically if not for the looming threat in my guts and the imposing grey clouds rising behind me from the west, I quickly jumped up and took the bean bag out of her hands so she could remove the bus pass from her wallet which she was also carrying with the bean bag, which I simply hadn’t seen previous.
With my assistance, she was swiped and seated as Carl took off down Seventh Avenue across the aisle from me. We caught the green at McCarran immediately, and we began to pick up speed as I engaged her in conversation. “What is that?” pointing to the bean bag, knowing full well what it was, though unsure of what else to say.
She knew I knew it was a bean bag, she read more into the question than what was posed, as I knew she would, “A Christmas present for my brother. I’m seeing him today.”
The commonality struck a chord with me; her plain-Jane looks came back to me where I knew her from. “I’m doing Christmas with my sister tonight too, actually. I just bought my Jewish brother-in-law a Christmas present today too.”
She smiled, not sure she heard what she actually heard. I assured her it was the truth, silly or no. She laughed, and I asked, “You work at the sandwich shop at the university, right?”
She was embarrassed at being recognized, it wasn’t my intention, so I backed off a bit. “Don’t worry; I have a shitty job too.”
She laughed whole heartedly at this, “Oh yeah,” there was a violent bump as the bus hit a pothole or some other thing cresting over a small hill east of McCarran. “Where do you work?”
“Red Lobster,” I said. “I love pushing the lobsta” I said with the highest amount of sarcasm available to me at the time. She put on an almost jealous face, wishing she had my job. I offer to switch her right then and there.
She laughed again. “That’s funny. I wish it could be that way. I love seafood.”
“Well, you should come in there sometime.” She nodded. “Go in, just ask for Brett.”
“Is that you?” she looked puzzled.
“No,” I jested. “He’s just the best server there, and I want you well-taken care of.” She gets it; we share a moment.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Michelle,” she said with a sneer.
“That’s a great name!” I say with a startle at her clear disdain.
“I hate it, it is ugly.” She was equating her body image with a name, a name she didn’t pick out.
“It’s my mother’s name,” I said as deadpan as I could. Her pale skin lost all color and became completely translucent, had I tried I would have been able to see right through her. I didn’t get a chance, for the next moment, something from the right caught my eye.
I was aroused through the right window, as the bus passed a bus stop with desirous travelers waiting in vain for Carl and his fickle schedule. The black woman, desperate in her attempts at this point, was furiously pushing the ‘stop requested’ button located behind her head, as if the thirtieth time would be the charm to arouse the attention of Carl, who was no longer responding at all to her apparent yells and calls, which I hadn’t noticed until then. The woman, followed by the volunteer, with a bit of effort, walked to the driver’s seat to confront him. Not comprehending, nor really caring what was happening, I attempted to extract a phone number from the more colorful Michelle, who had recovered from the mortifying humor I had inflicted. I was thwarted by the woman who fell to her knees as she shrieked, “He’s dead! He’s dead!”
The old man exclaimed, “We need to stop the bus!” The volunteer ordered the woman to sit back down in her chair, I motioned up without provocation and jumped to his side to remove the old man from the driver’s seat, and stop the bus which was on pace to roll down the decline and through the Keystone Avenue intersection at a brisk 50 miles per hour in less than twenty seconds.
With all the strength and power I mustered from whichever god answered my prayer, I pulled the dead Carl from his seat, after the volunteer had undone his seatbelt. The bus jerked and flew out of control, Carl spilled onto the volunteer, knocking them both to the ground. I was on my knees next to the seat, and though I couldn’t see, I attempted to steer the bus away from the intersection which had now seemed to be a parking lot (at least from my last view of it, anyway.) I torqued the wheel left hard, I thought we might fall. I saw Michelle tumble onto her bean bag in my peripherals as I did it.
We were still going fast, I thought we were going to tumble sideways down the hill, probably spelling certain doom. The only hope we had was for me to get into the seat and pilot the bus correctly. Unfortunately the dead Carl and the volunteer had fallen on my right leg and as I turned the bus the previous time. The bus was teetering as we made the sharp turn, I hoped we would make it into the parking lot of the supermarket ahead before we collapsed to the side, as to prevent our descent. The bus’ lean finally gave me the freedom I needed, sending Carl’s torso off my calf. Instinctively, I did a somersault into the seat, straightened the wheel and jammed on the breaks, hopeful for the best.
What happened next was only seen by me in flashes. I saw the assembled masses in the newly-expanded Starbucks parking lot all look in unison from their SUVs, jeeps, Priuses, and compacts, their eyes emblazoned with the knowledge they were about to perish without getting their fix. I saw the bus sway back and forth on the declining hill, unsure of whether or not it actually wanted to fall; a palooka considering whether their pride was worth the payoff for throwing the fight. The volunteer was breathing heavily, having a heart attack; the woman was screaming. I couldn’t see Michelle, but somehow I could feel her presence, she didn’t seem overly concerned considering she was safe and sound lying in a bean bag.
Without training and any memory of how precisely, I wretched the bus to a standstill, after having completed a 180 degree turn on the decline, pointing back towards Wal-Mart with Starbucks behind me. The only sense I had available to me was smell, for all I could notice was the full-bodied odor of the screeching, probably shredded high-performance bus tires.
After an hour or two of dealing with police, paramedics, and the bus company, I was allowed to leave the scene. I walked across the street to finally have my Starbucks as another driver from the company pulled away with the bus. Michelle was there as I walked in, she had made a bee-line for the shop as soon as she could, bean bag and all. She made eyes towards me, drawing me in. I picked up my peppermint mocha at the counter and walked to her table. She smiled, thankful for more than just my company. The smile left her quickly. She asked, “Where’s your present?”
“Eh…” I said.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
What a year it has been, and it isn't even over yet.
What a year it has been...
I moved twice, had eight different roommates, some of whom I liked. I was prodded to leave, forced out by a homeowner default and eviction, and even had a landlord attempt to set fire to my domicile (allegedly.) I gained more furniture than I could possibly do anything with, I finally stopped the unending flood of movie purchases which have cursed and vexed me through my many moves. I didn't buy a car, and became quite sure I don't really want one, all things considered.
I lost a best friend, and regained them. I lost another friend, but didn't get that one back. I've suffered loss, as have many around me. I lost an old classmate, while others got married and divorced. But children were born too. I had arguments and debates with the ones I loved, things were said which shouldn't have been said, but it led to the things which needed to be said, so it was worth it.
I fell in love, had my heartbroken, and fell in love all over again. I had one too many relationships. (Hint: never let your sister set you up or to prod you into dating anyone.) I saw the beauty in life where it was hardly appreciated. I met a joyous woman with glasses and a spirit about her which fills one with the warmth of the sun. I met someone whose humor and determination is boundless, making me in awe of them.
I've lost weight, I've lost hair, though I'm not sure I care about either. I drank way too much, I've smoked way too much. I've gone through five bongs and one vaporizer and decided enough was enough. I bought a computer, lost a computer, and then got one for Christmas (the greatest gift ever.)
I watched the Jets stage improbable run to the AFC Championship Game followed by an inevitable collapse this season. I've seen the Texas Rangers in the World Series, and Brett Favre get his comeuppance. Charlatians and imposters were spotted, the curtain hiding the true Wizard of Oz was pulled back, thanks to some perv Swede.
I pursued my goals, acheiving even the smallest of my dreams, filling me with the greatest happiness I can't even possibly comprehend let alone write about it. I even wrote a book.
2010 was another rung of the ladder for me, just as it was for all of us. The world spins on, the days click on by whether we want them to or not. I have improved my station ever so much, even with the chaos drama heartache sadness tragedies which found me on the way. We remember the bad memories more, I guess scars stick around longer than we wish (I also got one of those, too.) Tragedy may befall, but it does not define, if you don't let it.
While admiring the view from the rung of 2010, I know 2011's rung must be climbed, and so I climb. We don't know what will come along the way, absolutely nothing is guaranteed at all. So let us live for the life we want. Perhaps we won't get there in 2011, I know I'm not nearly there yet, but what's the point in living without even trying? Happy New Year 2011 to all of us!
I moved twice, had eight different roommates, some of whom I liked. I was prodded to leave, forced out by a homeowner default and eviction, and even had a landlord attempt to set fire to my domicile (allegedly.) I gained more furniture than I could possibly do anything with, I finally stopped the unending flood of movie purchases which have cursed and vexed me through my many moves. I didn't buy a car, and became quite sure I don't really want one, all things considered.
I lost a best friend, and regained them. I lost another friend, but didn't get that one back. I've suffered loss, as have many around me. I lost an old classmate, while others got married and divorced. But children were born too. I had arguments and debates with the ones I loved, things were said which shouldn't have been said, but it led to the things which needed to be said, so it was worth it.
I fell in love, had my heartbroken, and fell in love all over again. I had one too many relationships. (Hint: never let your sister set you up or to prod you into dating anyone.) I saw the beauty in life where it was hardly appreciated. I met a joyous woman with glasses and a spirit about her which fills one with the warmth of the sun. I met someone whose humor and determination is boundless, making me in awe of them.
I've lost weight, I've lost hair, though I'm not sure I care about either. I drank way too much, I've smoked way too much. I've gone through five bongs and one vaporizer and decided enough was enough. I bought a computer, lost a computer, and then got one for Christmas (the greatest gift ever.)
I watched the Jets stage improbable run to the AFC Championship Game followed by an inevitable collapse this season. I've seen the Texas Rangers in the World Series, and Brett Favre get his comeuppance. Charlatians and imposters were spotted, the curtain hiding the true Wizard of Oz was pulled back, thanks to some perv Swede.
I pursued my goals, acheiving even the smallest of my dreams, filling me with the greatest happiness I can't even possibly comprehend let alone write about it. I even wrote a book.
2010 was another rung of the ladder for me, just as it was for all of us. The world spins on, the days click on by whether we want them to or not. I have improved my station ever so much, even with the chaos drama heartache sadness tragedies which found me on the way. We remember the bad memories more, I guess scars stick around longer than we wish (I also got one of those, too.) Tragedy may befall, but it does not define, if you don't let it.
While admiring the view from the rung of 2010, I know 2011's rung must be climbed, and so I climb. We don't know what will come along the way, absolutely nothing is guaranteed at all. So let us live for the life we want. Perhaps we won't get there in 2011, I know I'm not nearly there yet, but what's the point in living without even trying? Happy New Year 2011 to all of us!
Monday, December 27, 2010
Thoughts upon arriving home after work on December 26, 2010:
10:04pm: Oh my god, what a long day at work. All I would like to do is sit down on the couch and forget about my day at work and shut my brain off.
10:05pm: The Sound of Music is on. Wow, I love Julie Andrews, what a strong pronounced chin. I contend if I could marry one movie character, it might be Mary Poppins.
10:26pm: The Nazis, as malicious and cunning as they may be, are certainly far too trusting. After all, when catching a family escaping, it is always customary to allow them to sing a song literally telling you “goodbye.” I almost expect Mr. Von Trapp to flip off the Nazi douche in the hat before disappearing off the stage.
Many dubious men, lofted by circumstance and connections, easily become far too enamored in their own reflection of all they have gained through their “people skills” and “commanding presence” and “silver tongue” than to notice their charges escaping their clutches. Never once do they consider the words they spoke, the hopes they raised, the promises made when they spoke of better times and peace and prosperity for all. All they care about is accruing as much power for themselves as they like, no matter the protestations, no matter how in the wrong they very well may be. They say the edges they cut, the rules they circumvent, are for “the best interest” or “for the preservation” of our way of life, or of our nation, or of our people, or of all people or for the environment. You don’t notice the “cut corners” until you are a Von Trapp, the very definition of a corner. They say it can’t happen, not only here, but ever again. They say we are too smart for that, to let such inhumane things happen again. They say we have secured peace, they say it a lot. They say it, but is it true?
10:33pm: I find out it is true. The evidence. I swear, with all which is holy, I will not allow this monstrosity of human degredation to continue.
11:23pm: I attempt to explain the Super Bowl to a girl from Cameroon. I reference it to the World Cup, played once a year, to be the best football team in the world. “But no one else plays football, your football.” “So, that means the best team in America is the best team in the world, you’ve proven my point.”
The highlights of the Little Caesars Bowl is presided over rather poorly by poor Garret Dearborn of the Channel 2 News at 11pm. I commend his apparent effort to say nothing during the highlights of the Colts-Raiders. I then remark to Danielle, the Cameroonian, “If on one end of the spectrum you have the Super Bowl, then the other end of the spectrum would house the Little Caesars Bowl. Why would Garret Dearborn spend forty five seconds not talking about the Little Caesars Bowl?”
11:43pm: I explain to Danielle Denny's is the quintessential American food. It has great, decadent breakfasts Americans love, greasy, fried food Americans love, and milkshakes!!! She says she hates Denny's, I ask her incredulously, "What's your problem, aren't you American?" She replied, "No." I answered back, "That explains it."
11:57pm: I think of her (not Danielle) again, wondering how she is doing, whether I should call her. I don’t. I don’t call not because I don’t know what to say, but because I am not sure I should say what I desire to say.
12:00am: Seriously, do you know why they built the Metrodome in the first place? It was to prevent occurrences where Vikings games would be postponed or canceled because of terrible Minnesota winters. The taxpayers not replacing the Metrodome years ago caused this; for as long as I can remember people have been complaining about that poorly-built hellhole. Now the Homer Dome is untenable, apparently. They NEED a new stadium or that team will move, it will have to. The Eagles and Vikings are going to play on Tuesday night, which means Philadelphia will only arrive home Wednesday to play a very important game on Sunday against the Cowboys. Should the Vikings have to play all of next season (if there is a season in 2011) at the University’s stadium, should we expect such delays as well? Either build them a new stadium, Minnesota, or allow them to flee for Los Angeles.
12:06am: I hate that the Patriots are going to ruin another season for me by winning the Super Bowl. I realize if the Jets win next week, as do the Ravens, and if the Steelers lose at Cleveland, the Jets would get the #5 seed in the playoffs, knocking the Steelers to #6. The #5 wild card gets the easier task of the AFC South champion, the #6 gets a trip to Kansas City, who seem more and more like the 2001 Patriots than the 2010 Patriots do. I’m not saying I’d pick the Chiefs to win the Super Bowl this year, in fact I don’t think the chances of them winning a Wild Card Game are great, but the similarities persist.
Not excluding the fact the team is run by General Manager Scott Pioli, former Patriots GM; head coach Todd Haley, former Patriots coach; quarterbacked by Matt Cassel, former Patriots quarterback. They run the ball exceptionally well; they don’t make many mental mistakes. Cassel’s main job is game manager, but he can come on and lead a drive when needed. This kid isn’t Tom Brady yet, but he’s got the ability. I’m not sure I can name anyone on the defense, nor much of the offensive line, but they get the job done, don’t they? Should they beat Oakland, they would be 11-5, the same record as the Patriots of 2001. I’m not picking them, but I’m rather impressed.
12:20am: I hope everyone saw the Mike Singletary-Troy Smith-Ted Ginn fight on the sidelines in slow motion, like I did. It is clear Singletary had lost his mind; the cool, calm preacher man went absolutely ballistic on Smith, who had just thrown a costly interception, dashing the hopes of Singletary’s belief God loves the playoffs. Singletary said something to Smith, what it was I don’t know, but surely Ted Ginn knows. After Singletary said whatever it was, Ginn was shocked, and said something akin to “Whoa, whoa.” Singletary crossed a line, I am sure. He coached poorly; he oftentimes had no idea what the hell he was doing. He was far too over his head in this job and deserved to get fired. I hope he gets another job, I know he will, but I am not sorry in the least bit for Mike Singletary. He earned the job; he knows it is performance based. He knows his performance was weak and atrocious and even though God loves the playoffs, the 49ers are not a good team and do not deserve the playoffs, this year anyway.
12:25 am: Yes, God loves the playoffs. How do I know this? How else can you explain the fact 16 out of 30 NHL and NBA teams make the playoffs? How else can you explain the sheer greatness of March Madness to the lameness of the (Devil-controlled) BCS? No sport has no greater drama at any time than October baseball during the playoffs. Football has the greatest spectacle of all, the Super Bowl, the culmination of the playoffs.
12:33am: And this is the stuff I think when I’m sober?
10:05pm: The Sound of Music is on. Wow, I love Julie Andrews, what a strong pronounced chin. I contend if I could marry one movie character, it might be Mary Poppins.
10:26pm: The Nazis, as malicious and cunning as they may be, are certainly far too trusting. After all, when catching a family escaping, it is always customary to allow them to sing a song literally telling you “goodbye.” I almost expect Mr. Von Trapp to flip off the Nazi douche in the hat before disappearing off the stage.
Many dubious men, lofted by circumstance and connections, easily become far too enamored in their own reflection of all they have gained through their “people skills” and “commanding presence” and “silver tongue” than to notice their charges escaping their clutches. Never once do they consider the words they spoke, the hopes they raised, the promises made when they spoke of better times and peace and prosperity for all. All they care about is accruing as much power for themselves as they like, no matter the protestations, no matter how in the wrong they very well may be. They say the edges they cut, the rules they circumvent, are for “the best interest” or “for the preservation” of our way of life, or of our nation, or of our people, or of all people or for the environment. You don’t notice the “cut corners” until you are a Von Trapp, the very definition of a corner. They say it can’t happen, not only here, but ever again. They say we are too smart for that, to let such inhumane things happen again. They say we have secured peace, they say it a lot. They say it, but is it true?
10:33pm: I find out it is true. The evidence. I swear, with all which is holy, I will not allow this monstrosity of human degredation to continue.
11:23pm: I attempt to explain the Super Bowl to a girl from Cameroon. I reference it to the World Cup, played once a year, to be the best football team in the world. “But no one else plays football, your football.” “So, that means the best team in America is the best team in the world, you’ve proven my point.”
The highlights of the Little Caesars Bowl is presided over rather poorly by poor Garret Dearborn of the Channel 2 News at 11pm. I commend his apparent effort to say nothing during the highlights of the Colts-Raiders. I then remark to Danielle, the Cameroonian, “If on one end of the spectrum you have the Super Bowl, then the other end of the spectrum would house the Little Caesars Bowl. Why would Garret Dearborn spend forty five seconds not talking about the Little Caesars Bowl?”
11:43pm: I explain to Danielle Denny's is the quintessential American food. It has great, decadent breakfasts Americans love, greasy, fried food Americans love, and milkshakes!!! She says she hates Denny's, I ask her incredulously, "What's your problem, aren't you American?" She replied, "No." I answered back, "That explains it."
11:57pm: I think of her (not Danielle) again, wondering how she is doing, whether I should call her. I don’t. I don’t call not because I don’t know what to say, but because I am not sure I should say what I desire to say.
12:00am: Seriously, do you know why they built the Metrodome in the first place? It was to prevent occurrences where Vikings games would be postponed or canceled because of terrible Minnesota winters. The taxpayers not replacing the Metrodome years ago caused this; for as long as I can remember people have been complaining about that poorly-built hellhole. Now the Homer Dome is untenable, apparently. They NEED a new stadium or that team will move, it will have to. The Eagles and Vikings are going to play on Tuesday night, which means Philadelphia will only arrive home Wednesday to play a very important game on Sunday against the Cowboys. Should the Vikings have to play all of next season (if there is a season in 2011) at the University’s stadium, should we expect such delays as well? Either build them a new stadium, Minnesota, or allow them to flee for Los Angeles.
12:06am: I hate that the Patriots are going to ruin another season for me by winning the Super Bowl. I realize if the Jets win next week, as do the Ravens, and if the Steelers lose at Cleveland, the Jets would get the #5 seed in the playoffs, knocking the Steelers to #6. The #5 wild card gets the easier task of the AFC South champion, the #6 gets a trip to Kansas City, who seem more and more like the 2001 Patriots than the 2010 Patriots do. I’m not saying I’d pick the Chiefs to win the Super Bowl this year, in fact I don’t think the chances of them winning a Wild Card Game are great, but the similarities persist.
Not excluding the fact the team is run by General Manager Scott Pioli, former Patriots GM; head coach Todd Haley, former Patriots coach; quarterbacked by Matt Cassel, former Patriots quarterback. They run the ball exceptionally well; they don’t make many mental mistakes. Cassel’s main job is game manager, but he can come on and lead a drive when needed. This kid isn’t Tom Brady yet, but he’s got the ability. I’m not sure I can name anyone on the defense, nor much of the offensive line, but they get the job done, don’t they? Should they beat Oakland, they would be 11-5, the same record as the Patriots of 2001. I’m not picking them, but I’m rather impressed.
12:20am: I hope everyone saw the Mike Singletary-Troy Smith-Ted Ginn fight on the sidelines in slow motion, like I did. It is clear Singletary had lost his mind; the cool, calm preacher man went absolutely ballistic on Smith, who had just thrown a costly interception, dashing the hopes of Singletary’s belief God loves the playoffs. Singletary said something to Smith, what it was I don’t know, but surely Ted Ginn knows. After Singletary said whatever it was, Ginn was shocked, and said something akin to “Whoa, whoa.” Singletary crossed a line, I am sure. He coached poorly; he oftentimes had no idea what the hell he was doing. He was far too over his head in this job and deserved to get fired. I hope he gets another job, I know he will, but I am not sorry in the least bit for Mike Singletary. He earned the job; he knows it is performance based. He knows his performance was weak and atrocious and even though God loves the playoffs, the 49ers are not a good team and do not deserve the playoffs, this year anyway.
12:25 am: Yes, God loves the playoffs. How do I know this? How else can you explain the fact 16 out of 30 NHL and NBA teams make the playoffs? How else can you explain the sheer greatness of March Madness to the lameness of the (Devil-controlled) BCS? No sport has no greater drama at any time than October baseball during the playoffs. Football has the greatest spectacle of all, the Super Bowl, the culmination of the playoffs.
12:33am: And this is the stuff I think when I’m sober?
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Parity? No. Parody? Only in the NFC West
What an NFL season it has been! There has been so much talk about league-wide parity in recent years; I almost began to believe the hype myself. Although, as it stands, four of last year’s AFC playoff teams (Patriots, Jets, Ravens, and Colts) are in line for berths this year; the Chargers, who are a game behind seem to destined to catch the Chiefs; the best-run franchise in the league (the Steelers) who only on a fluke didn’t make the playoffs last year are the “newcomer.”
In the NFC, the Eagles and the Saints will make repeat runs into January, but that doesn’t mean those who will make it are surprises, largely. Either the Giants or the Packers will be in; the Packers were a wild card last year, and the Giants started strong until their incredible choke job last season. The Falcons made the playoffs in 2008, and were 9-7 last year, so nobody should be shocked they are Saints 2.0 this season, and the NFC West, well...
What has been so “surprising” for many is that so many of last year’s playoff teams have fallen apart in such ridiculously predictable ways. To anyone who thought last year’s Bengals division title was anything other than a one-year fluke clearly wasn’t paying attention to how they ended last season, this past offseason, or their history of being the worst run franchise not in the San Francisco Bay Area. The Cowboys succumbed to the pressure of being the Cowboys, and will be back next year whether their coach will be Jason Garrett or not. The Vikings sold their soul when they went after Brett Sexting; it was inevitable the price would be paid this season, with Brad Childress being fired, “The Gunslinger’s” streak coming to an end, and the unscheduled implosion of the Metrodome. (I cannot wait to see which team bolts west first: the Vikings or the Jaguars, for the greener pastures of Hollywood, like fresh-faced eighteen year old blondes, hopeful of the future, not realizing there was a reason football didn’t last in the City of Angels the first two times.)
Onto this week’s games:
If there is anybody picking the PANTHERS over the STEELERS, I would be curious to know why. The Steelers should run over Carolina at home like Big Ben should have last week against the Paper Planes when they handed it over on a silver platter. If they don’t, they will prove to everyone they aren’t the team we all assume they are, and they will be easy pickings in the playoffs. Jimmy Clausen has performed admirably in Charlotte, all things considered, and if he wants a job next season (if there is a next season,) he better bring it Thursday night. He might, but it won’t matter.
On Christmas night, the COWBOYS will holiday in the desert and trounce the CARDINALS who, despondent their 4-10 record just keeps them out of the NFC West playoff picture, will play for no other reason than to keep Larry “Predator” Fitzgerald from killing them with his built in sword and mini-nuke for what they have done to his popularity and productivity.
The New York PAPER PLANES/FOOT FETISHISTS/GLASS-JAW SMACKTALKERS/JETS proved they aren’t only incompetent on Sunday, but also exceptionally lucky. With the NFC North locked up, the BEARS won’t come out with the fire they should, and will be another team who will have them on the ropes, only to find out the Jets somehow snuck out of the ring like the Honky Tonk Man with Intercontinental Title in hand (aka a win,) wondering precisely how this team beat them. Just imagine Lovie Smith yelling after the game, “The Jets are who we thought they were! And we let them off the hook!” (Still my favorite rant I’ve ever seen, considering I saw it live when he said it, and I was thinking precisely the same thing during the Bears last jaunt to the playoffs with Rex “Yes really, that is my name!” Grossman.)
I would love to think the BILLS have a shot at upsetting the PATRIOTS, allowing the Jets hope to come away with the division title, but considering the New England Patriots are the NFL’s best team and the Bills are quarterbacked by Ryan “At least I’m smarter than everyone in the league besides Bill Belichick” Fitzpatrick, and coached by a twice washed-out coach who will be looking for new digs in 2012 in Chan Gailey, I suppose all I can actually do is pick the Pats again and ask Santa really, really nice for a gift.
The CHIEFS continue to impress me; head coach Todd Haley, quarterback Matt Cassel and running back Thomas Jones are a great core and have a serviceable cast around them; they have become the Midwest Patriots, which was precisely what they were attempting to do. A win against the TITANS wouldn’t win the division, but it would certainly help. The Titans will keep it close, because I’m not sure the Chiefs have won anything but close games, but Kansas City will win it.
I know everyone gets worked up when the RAVENS come into Cleveland once a year and play the BROWNS. But just like when LeBron James and the Heat came in to play the Cavaliers a few weeks ago, expect the Cleveland team to lie down and take it while their former lover who broke their heart comes back into town to do it again. On the bright side Cleveland fan, at least you have a great pitching core of C.C. Sabathia and Cliff Lee…oh wait…at least Eric Mangini has only one more game after this of being your coach until the Mike Holmgren era really begins in 2011.
The CHARGERS should have no trouble against the BENGALS, and if they do, it is only because Carson Palmer does the correct thing, and stops tossing the football to Team Obliterator and Ochocinco, and instead hands it off to Cedric Benson. What’s that? That won’t happen, you say. Why not? Oh, because their defense sucks and puts them in holes they can’t climb out of so they are forced to chuck it around like a pick-up game in the park. What’s that? They are playing a Chargers team that is on fire and throws it around better than you do. Good luck, Cincinnasty, maybe the Reds spring training will start early. What’s that? You think they are going to be good next year, too? Okay, you believe that if you want. Before you do, let me ask you this: how long has it been since the Reds made the playoffs in back-to-back years? If you said, “When the Prince Valiant hairstyle was in,” I will give you only partial credit, because though Pete Rose rocked it better than the Prince himself, it was never in style.
The BUCCANEERS think they have something to play for on Sunday, though they really don’t. They are the seventh-best team in the NFC, no matter what their head coach Raheem Morris may think. And when one of the six playoff spots will be given to the winner of the WAC, I mean the NFC West, of which their opponent the SEAHAWKS happen to be tied for the lead in, they better start working on plans for next year (if there is a season next year.) I’m picking the Seattle Seachickens for no other reason than I am still desperately hoping for an 8-8 NFC West winner, so the NFL doesn’t overreact and modify their playoff structure that needs no tweaking, one aberration of a year be damned.
Mike Singletary suffers from Scott Stapp Syndrome, I think. SSS, as it is known, makes the sufferer believe he is Jesus, so no matter what he does it is alright, even though what he does is God-awful, especially considering their horrendous results are done in God’s name. Thank the Lord I haven’t heard anything from Creed in almost ten years. I wish the same could be said for the 49ERS, for while they haven’t done anything good in almost ten years, stuck in Reno, I see far too many of their games and know far too much about this rotten team. Perhaps when the Niners get new ownership, a new coach, a new starting quarterback, a new stadium in a new city, they will be relevant again. At least they switched back to their Montana-era uniforms. That being said, they still can beat the RAMS, and I will pick them here, only because it is Christmas, and many of my friends and co-workers are Niners fans, and I don’t want to be the one to dash their playoff hopes and dreams.
Seriously, what a struggle we will have in South Florida where the DOLPHINS (one win at home this season) will host the LIONS (one win on the road this season.) Which team will want this game less? Which team will actually suit up a competent quarterback? I don’t know, so I am picking the Dolphins, only because it makes sense to pick the home team, right?
The REDSKINS’ owner Daniel Snyder has made one bad personnel hire after another as long as he has owned the team. How the hell did this guy ever make money? If head coach Mike Shanahan doesn’t win this game, I’m not certain who he will throw under the bus this time around. Will it be the overpaid strength and conditioning coach (a la the Jets), will it be the overpaid punter (a la the Giants), will it be the overpaid defensive tackle (oh wait, they already did that), or the overpaid quarterback (oh yeah, they did that one too.) On second thought, I suppose I have to pick them over the JAGUARS this game because not only have I not believed in the Jaguars all season, there is a chance the Jaguars will do as their fan base and over indulge over Christmas the day before and not show up for the game. Yeah, I said Christmas! And guess what, NPR? I’m not apologizing.
I told my co-worker Mike last week I was picking the RAIDERS over the COLTS for two reasons. First, he will be at the game, and any game he goes to, the team he roots for seems to win. Ask him yourself, he will verify it. Secondly, I’ve never seen a better special team unit in my entire football-watching unit. Kicker Sebastian Janikowski, punter Shane Lechler, and their punt blocking and coverage team are the best in the league. Remember the game against the Chargers where they blocked two punts in the endzone getting a safety and a touchdown? He was there, in the Black Hole in that end of the field. Fear the silver and black, Peyton. Don’t worry; you unofficially won the division already. Take the week off, just like last year. That worked out well, right?
In the Who Cares Bowl this week, the BRONCOS and TEXANS will battle it out. These two teams remind me of women seem to have every attribute one would love. One has a storied history (Denver), one has a great stadium (Houston). One has a flashy quarterback with numbers, the other has Kyle Orton and Tim “Even Jesus bought my jersey” Tebow, both who do nothing but win, except for this team. When you do more than scratch the surface, you realize a hot physique, flashy stats, and a good history gets you absolutely nothing in this league, even wins. You can hire the hot young coordinator nobody else was itching to hire (Josh McDaniels) or the one everyone wanted at the time (Gary Kubiak), but if you don’t properly vet them, you get precisely what you deserve, an underachiever who was a backup his entire career for a reason, or a young punk who doesn’t know the first thing about his job. Take the Broncos, only because they are at home for Christmas.
In a game which is a playoff game unto itself, the GIANTS will continue their 2010 choke job by going to Green Bay and lose to the healthy Aaron Rodgers and the PACKERS. Rodgers is back after being admirably replaced by Matt Flynn. Seriously, if Rodgers were playing against the Patriots last Sunday night, they win that game; the Bears aren’t division champions yet, which would set up a huge game Week 17. But Rodgers didn’t play, the Bears are champions, and the Packers have to live one more year with the knowledge they lost the division to a one-year wonder they are actually better than in the long run. The Giants, well…we all know what happened against the Eagles on Sunday, and if anyone thinks that Tom Coughlin was coaching to win that game, instead of coaching to show up the opponent who showed them up previously, you are mistaken. That game was over, and they gagged like they swallowed an Awful-Awful in one bite. They are done. Coughlin was halfway out the door in 2007 when they miraculously won the Super Bowl. They only thing that changed was an incredible Eli Manning scramble and a catch on the top of the helmet which couldn’t be duplicated by anybody, ever if their lives depended on it. That being said, they won’t fire Coughlin, until they choke away next year, unless Bill Cowher wants the job.
Why was the VIKINGS-EAGLES game chosen as the flex game for Sunday Night Football and not the previous game mentioned or the Jets-Bears game, both of which are 1000% better. Four words: “Michael,” “Vick,” “Brett” and “Favre.” Concussion or no, you know Mr. Sexting will show up for this game, only to be knocked out for the tenth or so time, only because “he’s a warrior, a competitor. When he’s out there, magic happens, and he never quits out there, he keeps on fighting. Interception, what interception?” I love that Cris Collinsworth has taken John Madden’s mantle of being the biggest Brett Favre homer in football while calling his games. I think it part of a grander plan by the former Bengals wide receiver to eventually come out with Collinsworth NFL 15 for Playstation 4. Vick is the best story, even while being the worst story, in the league, and has earned this shot, no matter what the naysayers say.
If it had been you, Mr. or Ms. Naysayer, who did something completely abhorrent and boneheaded, something you went to federal prison for, something which voided your huge multi-million dollar contract, destroyed your endorsement deals, made you into the biggest villain America has ever known save for King George, Osama bin Laden, W, Nixon, and Lindsay Lohan, went bankrupt, and then came back from it all to the only place which would hire you and you are making them look like geniuses for doing so because you are actually better at your job due to the hardships you inflicted upon yourself all the while saying the right things, walking the walk, talking the talk, keeping your nose relatively clean, expressing remorse, doing charity work to make amends, and bringing a franchise closer to a Super Bowl reality than the mentor who was jettisoned a year after you arrived ever could, wouldn’t you want this second chance? Wouldn’t you want people, not to forget, and not even forgive, but to at the very least let you live your life and do what you were born to do? (Okay, forgive the rant; I’m done on that subject.) Vick for MVP!!!!
Hank Williams, Jr. finally has it right, Monday night’s game between the SAINTS and SAINTS 2.0/FALCONS really is the game of the week. I don’t understand how precisely this game seems to be flying under the radar, but it is. Matt Ryan is great, he is the real deal. He is Drew Brees, but taller. He is Phillip Rivers without the irritating attitude. He is Peyton Manning without the commercials. He is Tom Bundchen without the publicity. He is Ben Roethlisberger without the rape allegations. He is Joe Montana without the rings. Hey Falcons fans, which would you rather have, right now? Michael Vick or Matt Ryan. Ryan is younger, Vick is more explosive. Vick has won big games, though not anything past the NFC Championship Game, Ryan has a great shot at it this year. I love Vick, obviously, but I’d still take Matty Ice. Expect a shootout; expect a last-minute drive from each team. Expect the Falcons to clinch home field advantage with a win. Expect a playoff rematch.
In the NFC, the Eagles and the Saints will make repeat runs into January, but that doesn’t mean those who will make it are surprises, largely. Either the Giants or the Packers will be in; the Packers were a wild card last year, and the Giants started strong until their incredible choke job last season. The Falcons made the playoffs in 2008, and were 9-7 last year, so nobody should be shocked they are Saints 2.0 this season, and the NFC West, well...
What has been so “surprising” for many is that so many of last year’s playoff teams have fallen apart in such ridiculously predictable ways. To anyone who thought last year’s Bengals division title was anything other than a one-year fluke clearly wasn’t paying attention to how they ended last season, this past offseason, or their history of being the worst run franchise not in the San Francisco Bay Area. The Cowboys succumbed to the pressure of being the Cowboys, and will be back next year whether their coach will be Jason Garrett or not. The Vikings sold their soul when they went after Brett Sexting; it was inevitable the price would be paid this season, with Brad Childress being fired, “The Gunslinger’s” streak coming to an end, and the unscheduled implosion of the Metrodome. (I cannot wait to see which team bolts west first: the Vikings or the Jaguars, for the greener pastures of Hollywood, like fresh-faced eighteen year old blondes, hopeful of the future, not realizing there was a reason football didn’t last in the City of Angels the first two times.)
Onto this week’s games:
If there is anybody picking the PANTHERS over the STEELERS, I would be curious to know why. The Steelers should run over Carolina at home like Big Ben should have last week against the Paper Planes when they handed it over on a silver platter. If they don’t, they will prove to everyone they aren’t the team we all assume they are, and they will be easy pickings in the playoffs. Jimmy Clausen has performed admirably in Charlotte, all things considered, and if he wants a job next season (if there is a next season,) he better bring it Thursday night. He might, but it won’t matter.
On Christmas night, the COWBOYS will holiday in the desert and trounce the CARDINALS who, despondent their 4-10 record just keeps them out of the NFC West playoff picture, will play for no other reason than to keep Larry “Predator” Fitzgerald from killing them with his built in sword and mini-nuke for what they have done to his popularity and productivity.
The New York PAPER PLANES/FOOT FETISHISTS/GLASS-JAW SMACKTALKERS/JETS proved they aren’t only incompetent on Sunday, but also exceptionally lucky. With the NFC North locked up, the BEARS won’t come out with the fire they should, and will be another team who will have them on the ropes, only to find out the Jets somehow snuck out of the ring like the Honky Tonk Man with Intercontinental Title in hand (aka a win,) wondering precisely how this team beat them. Just imagine Lovie Smith yelling after the game, “The Jets are who we thought they were! And we let them off the hook!” (Still my favorite rant I’ve ever seen, considering I saw it live when he said it, and I was thinking precisely the same thing during the Bears last jaunt to the playoffs with Rex “Yes really, that is my name!” Grossman.)
I would love to think the BILLS have a shot at upsetting the PATRIOTS, allowing the Jets hope to come away with the division title, but considering the New England Patriots are the NFL’s best team and the Bills are quarterbacked by Ryan “At least I’m smarter than everyone in the league besides Bill Belichick” Fitzpatrick, and coached by a twice washed-out coach who will be looking for new digs in 2012 in Chan Gailey, I suppose all I can actually do is pick the Pats again and ask Santa really, really nice for a gift.
The CHIEFS continue to impress me; head coach Todd Haley, quarterback Matt Cassel and running back Thomas Jones are a great core and have a serviceable cast around them; they have become the Midwest Patriots, which was precisely what they were attempting to do. A win against the TITANS wouldn’t win the division, but it would certainly help. The Titans will keep it close, because I’m not sure the Chiefs have won anything but close games, but Kansas City will win it.
I know everyone gets worked up when the RAVENS come into Cleveland once a year and play the BROWNS. But just like when LeBron James and the Heat came in to play the Cavaliers a few weeks ago, expect the Cleveland team to lie down and take it while their former lover who broke their heart comes back into town to do it again. On the bright side Cleveland fan, at least you have a great pitching core of C.C. Sabathia and Cliff Lee…oh wait…at least Eric Mangini has only one more game after this of being your coach until the Mike Holmgren era really begins in 2011.
The CHARGERS should have no trouble against the BENGALS, and if they do, it is only because Carson Palmer does the correct thing, and stops tossing the football to Team Obliterator and Ochocinco, and instead hands it off to Cedric Benson. What’s that? That won’t happen, you say. Why not? Oh, because their defense sucks and puts them in holes they can’t climb out of so they are forced to chuck it around like a pick-up game in the park. What’s that? They are playing a Chargers team that is on fire and throws it around better than you do. Good luck, Cincinnasty, maybe the Reds spring training will start early. What’s that? You think they are going to be good next year, too? Okay, you believe that if you want. Before you do, let me ask you this: how long has it been since the Reds made the playoffs in back-to-back years? If you said, “When the Prince Valiant hairstyle was in,” I will give you only partial credit, because though Pete Rose rocked it better than the Prince himself, it was never in style.
The BUCCANEERS think they have something to play for on Sunday, though they really don’t. They are the seventh-best team in the NFC, no matter what their head coach Raheem Morris may think. And when one of the six playoff spots will be given to the winner of the WAC, I mean the NFC West, of which their opponent the SEAHAWKS happen to be tied for the lead in, they better start working on plans for next year (if there is a season next year.) I’m picking the Seattle Seachickens for no other reason than I am still desperately hoping for an 8-8 NFC West winner, so the NFL doesn’t overreact and modify their playoff structure that needs no tweaking, one aberration of a year be damned.
Mike Singletary suffers from Scott Stapp Syndrome, I think. SSS, as it is known, makes the sufferer believe he is Jesus, so no matter what he does it is alright, even though what he does is God-awful, especially considering their horrendous results are done in God’s name. Thank the Lord I haven’t heard anything from Creed in almost ten years. I wish the same could be said for the 49ERS, for while they haven’t done anything good in almost ten years, stuck in Reno, I see far too many of their games and know far too much about this rotten team. Perhaps when the Niners get new ownership, a new coach, a new starting quarterback, a new stadium in a new city, they will be relevant again. At least they switched back to their Montana-era uniforms. That being said, they still can beat the RAMS, and I will pick them here, only because it is Christmas, and many of my friends and co-workers are Niners fans, and I don’t want to be the one to dash their playoff hopes and dreams.
Seriously, what a struggle we will have in South Florida where the DOLPHINS (one win at home this season) will host the LIONS (one win on the road this season.) Which team will want this game less? Which team will actually suit up a competent quarterback? I don’t know, so I am picking the Dolphins, only because it makes sense to pick the home team, right?
The REDSKINS’ owner Daniel Snyder has made one bad personnel hire after another as long as he has owned the team. How the hell did this guy ever make money? If head coach Mike Shanahan doesn’t win this game, I’m not certain who he will throw under the bus this time around. Will it be the overpaid strength and conditioning coach (a la the Jets), will it be the overpaid punter (a la the Giants), will it be the overpaid defensive tackle (oh wait, they already did that), or the overpaid quarterback (oh yeah, they did that one too.) On second thought, I suppose I have to pick them over the JAGUARS this game because not only have I not believed in the Jaguars all season, there is a chance the Jaguars will do as their fan base and over indulge over Christmas the day before and not show up for the game. Yeah, I said Christmas! And guess what, NPR? I’m not apologizing.
I told my co-worker Mike last week I was picking the RAIDERS over the COLTS for two reasons. First, he will be at the game, and any game he goes to, the team he roots for seems to win. Ask him yourself, he will verify it. Secondly, I’ve never seen a better special team unit in my entire football-watching unit. Kicker Sebastian Janikowski, punter Shane Lechler, and their punt blocking and coverage team are the best in the league. Remember the game against the Chargers where they blocked two punts in the endzone getting a safety and a touchdown? He was there, in the Black Hole in that end of the field. Fear the silver and black, Peyton. Don’t worry; you unofficially won the division already. Take the week off, just like last year. That worked out well, right?
In the Who Cares Bowl this week, the BRONCOS and TEXANS will battle it out. These two teams remind me of women seem to have every attribute one would love. One has a storied history (Denver), one has a great stadium (Houston). One has a flashy quarterback with numbers, the other has Kyle Orton and Tim “Even Jesus bought my jersey” Tebow, both who do nothing but win, except for this team. When you do more than scratch the surface, you realize a hot physique, flashy stats, and a good history gets you absolutely nothing in this league, even wins. You can hire the hot young coordinator nobody else was itching to hire (Josh McDaniels) or the one everyone wanted at the time (Gary Kubiak), but if you don’t properly vet them, you get precisely what you deserve, an underachiever who was a backup his entire career for a reason, or a young punk who doesn’t know the first thing about his job. Take the Broncos, only because they are at home for Christmas.
In a game which is a playoff game unto itself, the GIANTS will continue their 2010 choke job by going to Green Bay and lose to the healthy Aaron Rodgers and the PACKERS. Rodgers is back after being admirably replaced by Matt Flynn. Seriously, if Rodgers were playing against the Patriots last Sunday night, they win that game; the Bears aren’t division champions yet, which would set up a huge game Week 17. But Rodgers didn’t play, the Bears are champions, and the Packers have to live one more year with the knowledge they lost the division to a one-year wonder they are actually better than in the long run. The Giants, well…we all know what happened against the Eagles on Sunday, and if anyone thinks that Tom Coughlin was coaching to win that game, instead of coaching to show up the opponent who showed them up previously, you are mistaken. That game was over, and they gagged like they swallowed an Awful-Awful in one bite. They are done. Coughlin was halfway out the door in 2007 when they miraculously won the Super Bowl. They only thing that changed was an incredible Eli Manning scramble and a catch on the top of the helmet which couldn’t be duplicated by anybody, ever if their lives depended on it. That being said, they won’t fire Coughlin, until they choke away next year, unless Bill Cowher wants the job.
Why was the VIKINGS-EAGLES game chosen as the flex game for Sunday Night Football and not the previous game mentioned or the Jets-Bears game, both of which are 1000% better. Four words: “Michael,” “Vick,” “Brett” and “Favre.” Concussion or no, you know Mr. Sexting will show up for this game, only to be knocked out for the tenth or so time, only because “he’s a warrior, a competitor. When he’s out there, magic happens, and he never quits out there, he keeps on fighting. Interception, what interception?” I love that Cris Collinsworth has taken John Madden’s mantle of being the biggest Brett Favre homer in football while calling his games. I think it part of a grander plan by the former Bengals wide receiver to eventually come out with Collinsworth NFL 15 for Playstation 4. Vick is the best story, even while being the worst story, in the league, and has earned this shot, no matter what the naysayers say.
If it had been you, Mr. or Ms. Naysayer, who did something completely abhorrent and boneheaded, something you went to federal prison for, something which voided your huge multi-million dollar contract, destroyed your endorsement deals, made you into the biggest villain America has ever known save for King George, Osama bin Laden, W, Nixon, and Lindsay Lohan, went bankrupt, and then came back from it all to the only place which would hire you and you are making them look like geniuses for doing so because you are actually better at your job due to the hardships you inflicted upon yourself all the while saying the right things, walking the walk, talking the talk, keeping your nose relatively clean, expressing remorse, doing charity work to make amends, and bringing a franchise closer to a Super Bowl reality than the mentor who was jettisoned a year after you arrived ever could, wouldn’t you want this second chance? Wouldn’t you want people, not to forget, and not even forgive, but to at the very least let you live your life and do what you were born to do? (Okay, forgive the rant; I’m done on that subject.) Vick for MVP!!!!
Hank Williams, Jr. finally has it right, Monday night’s game between the SAINTS and SAINTS 2.0/FALCONS really is the game of the week. I don’t understand how precisely this game seems to be flying under the radar, but it is. Matt Ryan is great, he is the real deal. He is Drew Brees, but taller. He is Phillip Rivers without the irritating attitude. He is Peyton Manning without the commercials. He is Tom Bundchen without the publicity. He is Ben Roethlisberger without the rape allegations. He is Joe Montana without the rings. Hey Falcons fans, which would you rather have, right now? Michael Vick or Matt Ryan. Ryan is younger, Vick is more explosive. Vick has won big games, though not anything past the NFC Championship Game, Ryan has a great shot at it this year. I love Vick, obviously, but I’d still take Matty Ice. Expect a shootout; expect a last-minute drive from each team. Expect the Falcons to clinch home field advantage with a win. Expect a playoff rematch.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Nicole Matino and the sweater
Have you ever fallen in love with someone, and the moment it happened, not only did it throw you completely for a loop, for you didn’t understand precisely how in the name of God you could find yourself drawn to such a person? Moreover, you knew that no matter what happened, no matter what you did, no matter what you said, no matter how you felt, no matter the time, place, or circumstance, there was absolutely nothing you could do to pursue such a relationship, for it certainly would never, ever work out in the end. I had one of those, eleven years ago, and her name was Nicole Matino.
For those of you who went to high school with me or at least around the same time at Glens Falls High School, you certainly remember her. She looked like an Italian version of Hillary Banks (aka Karyn Parsons) from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. She was also my 11th grade English teacher.
I sat in the front row, right below the podium which she stood during every lesson. Her curly, yet wavy hair was thick and vibrant; I desperately wanted to run my hands through it every single class. She smelled great, though I couldn’t name the scent or even describe it, other than by saying it was the scent I assumed angels had. Her olive skin was smooth, I never once saw a blotch or a pimple or a blemish, though if I had I would have glanced over it for she was perfect in every way, no matter how my senses lied to me with the truth.
The class was second period, which gave me ample reason to come to school early, but not stay late. By ten o’clock, my day was over, my life was over, for surely nothing would compare to the magnificence of reading poems about Indians and trains, and The Great Gatsby and The Scarlet Letter and writing poems and papers only to impress her for the rest of eternity. In fact, I’m not altogether convinced my desire to write a novel and become a true author isn’t part of a twenty year plan to woo and marry her.
Like any other sixteen year-old with little to no chance and far too many chips on my shoulder, I couldn’t do anything but insult the woman of my dreams; the old pull-the-pigtails-of-the-girl-you-like-play. Never in all my years before or since had I ever been such a ball-busting prick, douchebag cock-sucker to anyone than I was during that second period in the spacious classroom next to the boy’s bathroom where everyone smoked. There wasn’t a day I didn’t give her jazz about something. It got to the point even my classmates would ask me to lay off her. I retorted by saying under my breath, “Lay off her? I’d much prefer lay on her…” I never said it aloud, for fear my terrible secret of infatuation with the hot teacher be realized.
It got to the point where she threatened me in the hallway right before my history class in a room she proctored a study hall the period before. I’d always walk in, she’d always walk out, and though I wouldn’t say anything, my look, she thought it disgust; I knew it to be love, spoke volumes. This one day in particular, sometime around winter break, just before Christmas, she met me before I entered and bade me a few steps away so we could be alone. “Mr. Johansson,” she said with her airy, squeaky voice, attempting to sound firm. “Your attitude in class and towards me has to stop.”
I hemmed and hawed, and rolled my eyes a bit, I couldn’t muster the words with which I secretly desired to speak, the truth was bubbling inside, the kettle about to burst, but I demurred as best I could. “What do you mean?” I knew what she meant, my snide comments; my passive attitude towards her authority. If she were my mother, she would have had my father spank me. (Must… not… fantasize… about Ms. Matino spanking me…)
“You are vicious and cruel to me, and if you don’t stop it, you will find yourself in a whole heap of trouble,” I thought she might cry, it was hard for her to stand up to me. She had probably spoken with another teacher or a principal about the situation, she knew she must act and stand up for herself for once before she request detention or suspension as my punishment; a punishment I would have deserved.
I hung my head low, feigning sorrow, actually checking her out head to toe. She wore a purple sweater, with red and green interlaced. It was my favorite color, with a Christmas theme to boot. It was Friday, so she was wearing blue jeans. They were fitting perfectly, though I couldn’t see her ass, I knew it looked amazing in those Levi’s. I didn’t want to say sorry, for I didn’t yet have the ability, “I was just having some fun,” I insisted. I knew it wouldn’t matter to her I never meant a word of what I said; I only ever wanted her attention from the moment she arrived at the school a year previous.
She chided me again and again, pointing her finger in my face, wagging it like a beagle’s tail. I looked straight into her dark eyes, and realized I would do anything for her to smile at me right then and there, so I relented, apologized, said I wouldn’t ever do it again, and practically begged forgiveness. I meant it when I said it.
With a stack of papers in her hand, which was getting heavier by the moment, she said goodbye and turned to leave for her office; I turned around and headed into the classroom. Before she left my sight, I attempted to start anew with her, paying a compliment, “Ms. Matino,” she turned towards me, throwing her luscious, dark hair over her shoulder as she did it, as if she knew what she was doing to me, “I love your sweater, by the way.” She rolled her eyes and left without saying anything.
The year passed with little incident; I was nicer, she was more subdued. I got an “A” in the class; she called me “Mr. Johansson” repeatedly, as if I was constantly in trouble, and she was the judge from 9:20-10:00 every morning. It was cold and biting, and because it was with her, I loved every moment of it.
The next year, my senior year, she proctored my study hall, which I routinely skipped with a forged pass. We didn’t speak much, but her dark brown eyes would routinely lock on my light green ones for seconds which actually lasted for eons. I was cruising through the year, no longer caring about the entire enterprise of high school in April when she approached me.
“Mr. Johansson,” she said to me as I was doing history homework Monday morning, “I’m here to bribe you.” I knew this was coming, and my heart melted by the way she put it. She was directing a production of Twelve Angry Men, the first performance was Friday night, and one of her cast members dropped out. I was no great shakes at acting, though I was fairly competent and active in the music and drama circles of the school during my tenure. She needed me to fill in, she would have done anything for me, or so it seemed.
There were two ways I could go with it: either I could be a Joshua Jackson on Dawson’s Creek and be a complete cad and extort her for a date or a kiss or anything else I could think of (for she offer to do “anything for me” should I agree), or I could be honorable and attempt to make up for my past asshole-ness by agreeing to fill-in at the last minute in her production. Had I been twenty-seven instead of seventeen and knowledgeable about how the world really works, I would have picked the former; however, I wasn’t the cynical and twisted by the slings and arrows of life as I am now back then, so I went with the latter..
“Don’t worry about it,” I said as she looked with deep despair into my eyes, the look smacked of love, at least I convinced myself it did. “I will do the show for you, and you don’t have to do anything for me.” With little to no rehearsal time and help from the rest of the cast, I performed admirably, all things considered.
We were at the wrap party, she handed me a letter she wrote on her stationary, a letter I have kept up until recently when it was destroyed in a storage space along with many other objects of varying degrees of importance. In part it read, “You saved the show, I don’t know what I would have done without you. I know we didn’t really get along last year, but I’m glad we have worked past that.” It was a cherished letter for what she said and for everything which was unsaid as well.
We became close afterwards; I spent the last months of my school life rather friendly with her, which I greatly appreciated. We spoke while I was on break from college the next year. I told her how sorry I was for what I said and did to her, for I was completely immature and in love with her and I was unable to express it in any way other than I had. I apologized profusely; I said all those things I should have said two years previous.
She replied, “I knew it.” I smiled, she smiled. “I could take everything you said, for I knew what your secret motivation was, with one exception.”
“What was that?” I implored, with a wry smile, curious of my real effect on this woman.
“I loved that sweater, my mother got it for me, and after you insulted it, I never wore it again.” She had an adamant expression, I was at a loss; I had no memory of insulting a sweater, on the contrary.
“You mean that purple Christmas sweater? I told you I liked it. The one time I told you the truth…”
For those of you who went to high school with me or at least around the same time at Glens Falls High School, you certainly remember her. She looked like an Italian version of Hillary Banks (aka Karyn Parsons) from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. She was also my 11th grade English teacher.
I sat in the front row, right below the podium which she stood during every lesson. Her curly, yet wavy hair was thick and vibrant; I desperately wanted to run my hands through it every single class. She smelled great, though I couldn’t name the scent or even describe it, other than by saying it was the scent I assumed angels had. Her olive skin was smooth, I never once saw a blotch or a pimple or a blemish, though if I had I would have glanced over it for she was perfect in every way, no matter how my senses lied to me with the truth.
The class was second period, which gave me ample reason to come to school early, but not stay late. By ten o’clock, my day was over, my life was over, for surely nothing would compare to the magnificence of reading poems about Indians and trains, and The Great Gatsby and The Scarlet Letter and writing poems and papers only to impress her for the rest of eternity. In fact, I’m not altogether convinced my desire to write a novel and become a true author isn’t part of a twenty year plan to woo and marry her.
Like any other sixteen year-old with little to no chance and far too many chips on my shoulder, I couldn’t do anything but insult the woman of my dreams; the old pull-the-pigtails-of-the-girl-you-like-play. Never in all my years before or since had I ever been such a ball-busting prick, douchebag cock-sucker to anyone than I was during that second period in the spacious classroom next to the boy’s bathroom where everyone smoked. There wasn’t a day I didn’t give her jazz about something. It got to the point even my classmates would ask me to lay off her. I retorted by saying under my breath, “Lay off her? I’d much prefer lay on her…” I never said it aloud, for fear my terrible secret of infatuation with the hot teacher be realized.
It got to the point where she threatened me in the hallway right before my history class in a room she proctored a study hall the period before. I’d always walk in, she’d always walk out, and though I wouldn’t say anything, my look, she thought it disgust; I knew it to be love, spoke volumes. This one day in particular, sometime around winter break, just before Christmas, she met me before I entered and bade me a few steps away so we could be alone. “Mr. Johansson,” she said with her airy, squeaky voice, attempting to sound firm. “Your attitude in class and towards me has to stop.”
I hemmed and hawed, and rolled my eyes a bit, I couldn’t muster the words with which I secretly desired to speak, the truth was bubbling inside, the kettle about to burst, but I demurred as best I could. “What do you mean?” I knew what she meant, my snide comments; my passive attitude towards her authority. If she were my mother, she would have had my father spank me. (Must… not… fantasize… about Ms. Matino spanking me…)
“You are vicious and cruel to me, and if you don’t stop it, you will find yourself in a whole heap of trouble,” I thought she might cry, it was hard for her to stand up to me. She had probably spoken with another teacher or a principal about the situation, she knew she must act and stand up for herself for once before she request detention or suspension as my punishment; a punishment I would have deserved.
I hung my head low, feigning sorrow, actually checking her out head to toe. She wore a purple sweater, with red and green interlaced. It was my favorite color, with a Christmas theme to boot. It was Friday, so she was wearing blue jeans. They were fitting perfectly, though I couldn’t see her ass, I knew it looked amazing in those Levi’s. I didn’t want to say sorry, for I didn’t yet have the ability, “I was just having some fun,” I insisted. I knew it wouldn’t matter to her I never meant a word of what I said; I only ever wanted her attention from the moment she arrived at the school a year previous.
She chided me again and again, pointing her finger in my face, wagging it like a beagle’s tail. I looked straight into her dark eyes, and realized I would do anything for her to smile at me right then and there, so I relented, apologized, said I wouldn’t ever do it again, and practically begged forgiveness. I meant it when I said it.
With a stack of papers in her hand, which was getting heavier by the moment, she said goodbye and turned to leave for her office; I turned around and headed into the classroom. Before she left my sight, I attempted to start anew with her, paying a compliment, “Ms. Matino,” she turned towards me, throwing her luscious, dark hair over her shoulder as she did it, as if she knew what she was doing to me, “I love your sweater, by the way.” She rolled her eyes and left without saying anything.
The year passed with little incident; I was nicer, she was more subdued. I got an “A” in the class; she called me “Mr. Johansson” repeatedly, as if I was constantly in trouble, and she was the judge from 9:20-10:00 every morning. It was cold and biting, and because it was with her, I loved every moment of it.
The next year, my senior year, she proctored my study hall, which I routinely skipped with a forged pass. We didn’t speak much, but her dark brown eyes would routinely lock on my light green ones for seconds which actually lasted for eons. I was cruising through the year, no longer caring about the entire enterprise of high school in April when she approached me.
“Mr. Johansson,” she said to me as I was doing history homework Monday morning, “I’m here to bribe you.” I knew this was coming, and my heart melted by the way she put it. She was directing a production of Twelve Angry Men, the first performance was Friday night, and one of her cast members dropped out. I was no great shakes at acting, though I was fairly competent and active in the music and drama circles of the school during my tenure. She needed me to fill in, she would have done anything for me, or so it seemed.
There were two ways I could go with it: either I could be a Joshua Jackson on Dawson’s Creek and be a complete cad and extort her for a date or a kiss or anything else I could think of (for she offer to do “anything for me” should I agree), or I could be honorable and attempt to make up for my past asshole-ness by agreeing to fill-in at the last minute in her production. Had I been twenty-seven instead of seventeen and knowledgeable about how the world really works, I would have picked the former; however, I wasn’t the cynical and twisted by the slings and arrows of life as I am now back then, so I went with the latter..
“Don’t worry about it,” I said as she looked with deep despair into my eyes, the look smacked of love, at least I convinced myself it did. “I will do the show for you, and you don’t have to do anything for me.” With little to no rehearsal time and help from the rest of the cast, I performed admirably, all things considered.
We were at the wrap party, she handed me a letter she wrote on her stationary, a letter I have kept up until recently when it was destroyed in a storage space along with many other objects of varying degrees of importance. In part it read, “You saved the show, I don’t know what I would have done without you. I know we didn’t really get along last year, but I’m glad we have worked past that.” It was a cherished letter for what she said and for everything which was unsaid as well.
We became close afterwards; I spent the last months of my school life rather friendly with her, which I greatly appreciated. We spoke while I was on break from college the next year. I told her how sorry I was for what I said and did to her, for I was completely immature and in love with her and I was unable to express it in any way other than I had. I apologized profusely; I said all those things I should have said two years previous.
She replied, “I knew it.” I smiled, she smiled. “I could take everything you said, for I knew what your secret motivation was, with one exception.”
“What was that?” I implored, with a wry smile, curious of my real effect on this woman.
“I loved that sweater, my mother got it for me, and after you insulted it, I never wore it again.” She had an adamant expression, I was at a loss; I had no memory of insulting a sweater, on the contrary.
“You mean that purple Christmas sweater? I told you I liked it. The one time I told you the truth…”
Monday, December 20, 2010
NFL Week 15 Recap
So, to the one or two of you who actually read this, let me recap:
I picked against my Jets, and they won. Ben Roethlisberger, Steelers quarterback is perhaps the most clutch quarterback in the league, so when he was driving down the field at the end of the game after the Jets couldn't burn time on the clock, I was sure he would will the Steelers to a victory like he had done so many times, most recently in Baltimore. I was incorrect. Perhaps the Jets can make some noise in the playoffs this year....yeah right. (0-1)
Chargers beat the Niners, who, at 5-9 still can win their division. And who wouldn't love a to see a 7-9 49ers team host defending champion New Orleans in the wild card round? (1-1)
Peyton Manning reverted back to Peyton Manning and the Jaguars reverted to their also-ran status as they failed to make any significant gains rushing against a suspect Colts defense. Maybe next year, Jacksonville (or should I say Los Angeles?) (2-1)
I can't believe I picked the Texans over the Titans. In reality, I was going to pick the Titans, but then I realized my ex was a huge Titans fan, and coupled with Randy "Team Killer" Moss, I thought it best to go with the choking, playing for a paycheck Houston team. I am in good company not really caring about this game, considering Jeff Fisher and Gary Kubiak didn't really care either. (2-2)
I picked the Dolphins, even while making fun of them. The only reason I don't hate the Dolphins more than I already do is because the Patriots are so good. If New England and Miami had identical records, I would hate the Fish more. Yes, I am still lingering resentment over Dan Marino and that fake snap. (2-3)
Hoping against hope a team from the NFC West would finish the season at worst 8-8, I picked the Rams against a Chiefs team who doesn't seem to know they are destined to lose in their first playoff game, no matter how good they are, post-Montana. Seriously, remember when they had Dante Hall and went 13-3? No? Don't worry about it. Remember when they won the division in 1997 and then got their butts kicked against Denver, who went on to win the Super Bowl? No? Don't worry about it. (2-4)
I am never picking the Browns ever again. I guess I still have a soft spot for Eric Mangini. The Bengals only showed up because, well... because it was the "epic battle for Ohio." Yeah... that's it. (2-5)
A few weeks ago, I said I liked Joe Flacco the most out of any young quarterback. He went to the AFC Championship Game his rookie year in 2008, and followed that up with a win at New England in the wild card round last year. It is no shock to me the Ravens knocked off the Saints, who, at 10-4 are flying under the radar. Seriously, this time last year, how many stories, how many pictures of Drew Brees and his hot wife, how many Brees jerseys and bandwagon Saints fans were popping up? The answer: millions. Where are they now? (2-6)
I picked the Giants over the Eagles, and felt pretty secure with this pick when it was 31-10. In my preview I lauded Michael Vick and his accomplishments and his MVP talk. Perhaps I should listen to my own words and follow them. (2-7)
I had the Cowboys over the Redskins, not that it really matters. Do you realize both Dallas and Washington are 5-9, and officially higher in the standings than the 49ers, but are eliminated from the playoffs while the Niners, who play at St. Louis and home against Arizona in the final weeks only need to win those games and have the Seahawks lose either next week at Tampa Bay or home against the Rams to win the division? (3-7)
Speaking of terrible, how did the Bucs lose to the Lions? They remind me of the 1997 Jets, the first year of their recent respectability under then-new coach Bill Parcells. They went 2-6 in the division, went 9-7 and only needed to beat the Lions the final week of the season to make the playoffs. They didn't, but the next year they were in new uniforms and the AFC Championship Game. Maybe next year Tampa!! (3-8)
Jimmy Claussen played for his job in Charlotte against the Cardinals, but by being 2-12, his Panthers still have the inside line for the number one draft pick next year. With a heavy quarterback class coming out, he'll need a win or two more to secure a starting spot for 2011. (4-8)
I picked the Raiders, even before I knew Tim "Even Jesus bought my Jersey" Tebow was starting. I love Tebow, and was a huge mark for the guy at Florida, but the more I see him, the more I realize he doesn't have the tools to be a pro quarterback. He should go back in time, join the 2008 Dolphins and ride the Wildcat wave for a year and a half and then fade into obscurity while coaching at TCU or Baylor or whatever school is affiliated with whatever church he belongs to. (5-8)
The Falcons are legit, and they have all but locked up home field advantage throughout the playoffs with the win in Seattle and the Saints' loss in Baltimore. Saints 2.0 host Saints 1.0 on the biggest Monday Night Football Game since the Ass-Kicking in Foxboro a few weeks ago. Matt Ryan is money at home, so I wouldn't bet against them. (6-8, inching towards respectability...in the NFC West)
I really wanted my prediction of a Patriots victory to have been wrong. Matt Flynn played great, and almost made it so, but alas his inexperience on the big stage (a fluke BCS Championship, when he wasn't even the best quarterback on his team) not withstanding, caught up with him on the last drive. What a waste of time that game was. Tom Bundchen should have had that game won in the first half so I could have gotten on with watching Hot Fuzz for the millionth time instead of entertaining the idea the Patriots are stocked with a roster of humans, instead of Kryptonians with bad haircuts (Benjarvus Green-Ellis and Mr. Bundchen, I am looking at you.) (7-8)
Jay Cutler and the Bears won their division on Monday night in a game I knew Brett Favre would somehow con his way into. Why? With all of the unnecessary hype surrounding the game (Stadium-gate: the unfolding drama of the future of the Vikings,) with his streak snapped, Mr. Sexting would not let himself go quietly into that goodnight, he needed to latch on and be part of the story. Once I knew Favre was starting, I knew my (8-8) record was clinched, as was my second NFC West title in a row.
Thankfully, being in Reno puts me in the NFC West where my 8-8 record wins the division, but with the New Orleans Face Moles coming into town on a quest for a repeat, Commissioner Roger Goodell changed the Sunday 4pm Eastern time to Saturday night. Not showing up due to pregame celebrations hosted by Eugene Robinson at a casino downtown, BWB was forced to forfeit the playoff game.
I picked against my Jets, and they won. Ben Roethlisberger, Steelers quarterback is perhaps the most clutch quarterback in the league, so when he was driving down the field at the end of the game after the Jets couldn't burn time on the clock, I was sure he would will the Steelers to a victory like he had done so many times, most recently in Baltimore. I was incorrect. Perhaps the Jets can make some noise in the playoffs this year....yeah right. (0-1)
Chargers beat the Niners, who, at 5-9 still can win their division. And who wouldn't love a to see a 7-9 49ers team host defending champion New Orleans in the wild card round? (1-1)
Peyton Manning reverted back to Peyton Manning and the Jaguars reverted to their also-ran status as they failed to make any significant gains rushing against a suspect Colts defense. Maybe next year, Jacksonville (or should I say Los Angeles?) (2-1)
I can't believe I picked the Texans over the Titans. In reality, I was going to pick the Titans, but then I realized my ex was a huge Titans fan, and coupled with Randy "Team Killer" Moss, I thought it best to go with the choking, playing for a paycheck Houston team. I am in good company not really caring about this game, considering Jeff Fisher and Gary Kubiak didn't really care either. (2-2)
I picked the Dolphins, even while making fun of them. The only reason I don't hate the Dolphins more than I already do is because the Patriots are so good. If New England and Miami had identical records, I would hate the Fish more. Yes, I am still lingering resentment over Dan Marino and that fake snap. (2-3)
Hoping against hope a team from the NFC West would finish the season at worst 8-8, I picked the Rams against a Chiefs team who doesn't seem to know they are destined to lose in their first playoff game, no matter how good they are, post-Montana. Seriously, remember when they had Dante Hall and went 13-3? No? Don't worry about it. Remember when they won the division in 1997 and then got their butts kicked against Denver, who went on to win the Super Bowl? No? Don't worry about it. (2-4)
I am never picking the Browns ever again. I guess I still have a soft spot for Eric Mangini. The Bengals only showed up because, well... because it was the "epic battle for Ohio." Yeah... that's it. (2-5)
A few weeks ago, I said I liked Joe Flacco the most out of any young quarterback. He went to the AFC Championship Game his rookie year in 2008, and followed that up with a win at New England in the wild card round last year. It is no shock to me the Ravens knocked off the Saints, who, at 10-4 are flying under the radar. Seriously, this time last year, how many stories, how many pictures of Drew Brees and his hot wife, how many Brees jerseys and bandwagon Saints fans were popping up? The answer: millions. Where are they now? (2-6)
I picked the Giants over the Eagles, and felt pretty secure with this pick when it was 31-10. In my preview I lauded Michael Vick and his accomplishments and his MVP talk. Perhaps I should listen to my own words and follow them. (2-7)
I had the Cowboys over the Redskins, not that it really matters. Do you realize both Dallas and Washington are 5-9, and officially higher in the standings than the 49ers, but are eliminated from the playoffs while the Niners, who play at St. Louis and home against Arizona in the final weeks only need to win those games and have the Seahawks lose either next week at Tampa Bay or home against the Rams to win the division? (3-7)
Speaking of terrible, how did the Bucs lose to the Lions? They remind me of the 1997 Jets, the first year of their recent respectability under then-new coach Bill Parcells. They went 2-6 in the division, went 9-7 and only needed to beat the Lions the final week of the season to make the playoffs. They didn't, but the next year they were in new uniforms and the AFC Championship Game. Maybe next year Tampa!! (3-8)
Jimmy Claussen played for his job in Charlotte against the Cardinals, but by being 2-12, his Panthers still have the inside line for the number one draft pick next year. With a heavy quarterback class coming out, he'll need a win or two more to secure a starting spot for 2011. (4-8)
I picked the Raiders, even before I knew Tim "Even Jesus bought my Jersey" Tebow was starting. I love Tebow, and was a huge mark for the guy at Florida, but the more I see him, the more I realize he doesn't have the tools to be a pro quarterback. He should go back in time, join the 2008 Dolphins and ride the Wildcat wave for a year and a half and then fade into obscurity while coaching at TCU or Baylor or whatever school is affiliated with whatever church he belongs to. (5-8)
The Falcons are legit, and they have all but locked up home field advantage throughout the playoffs with the win in Seattle and the Saints' loss in Baltimore. Saints 2.0 host Saints 1.0 on the biggest Monday Night Football Game since the Ass-Kicking in Foxboro a few weeks ago. Matt Ryan is money at home, so I wouldn't bet against them. (6-8, inching towards respectability...in the NFC West)
I really wanted my prediction of a Patriots victory to have been wrong. Matt Flynn played great, and almost made it so, but alas his inexperience on the big stage (a fluke BCS Championship, when he wasn't even the best quarterback on his team) not withstanding, caught up with him on the last drive. What a waste of time that game was. Tom Bundchen should have had that game won in the first half so I could have gotten on with watching Hot Fuzz for the millionth time instead of entertaining the idea the Patriots are stocked with a roster of humans, instead of Kryptonians with bad haircuts (Benjarvus Green-Ellis and Mr. Bundchen, I am looking at you.) (7-8)
Jay Cutler and the Bears won their division on Monday night in a game I knew Brett Favre would somehow con his way into. Why? With all of the unnecessary hype surrounding the game (Stadium-gate: the unfolding drama of the future of the Vikings,) with his streak snapped, Mr. Sexting would not let himself go quietly into that goodnight, he needed to latch on and be part of the story. Once I knew Favre was starting, I knew my (8-8) record was clinched, as was my second NFC West title in a row.
Thankfully, being in Reno puts me in the NFC West where my 8-8 record wins the division, but with the New Orleans Face Moles coming into town on a quest for a repeat, Commissioner Roger Goodell changed the Sunday 4pm Eastern time to Saturday night. Not showing up due to pregame celebrations hosted by Eugene Robinson at a casino downtown, BWB was forced to forfeit the playoff game.
What would James Madison, Voltaire, Hugo Chavez, Steve-O, Wee Man, and David Icke say about Net Neutrality?
The First Amendment of the Constitution states: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
Sounds great, right? There was a reason the founders put the First Amendment first, and put so much in it, for they knew something we seemed to have forgotten, or perhaps this generation never knew. Living in a free society, having freedom isn't free if someone doesn't have the opportunity to express themselves, either by having ridiculous holidays, having the right to waste money, march on Washington, DC being led by comedians, or Chicken Little. All of those moronic ideas I linked are covered by the First Amendment, as is the subject of today's BWB: freedom of the press, specifically on the internet.
Because of the First Amendment's freedom of the press, which gives freedom of content on the internet, I am able to find, write about, link to, and comment on a whole slew of things, such as: gay animals, kissing cousins, self-destructive retards, interesting political commentary, whack jobs with nothing better to do than write terrible books fifteen people buy, wicked cool movie trailers, the best song of all-time, and even the worst. I thank Jemmy Madison and good ole TJ and the rest of the founding fathers of this nation for the right and ability to do so.
With the good, funny, and theinformational also comes the bad, but such is life. All joking aside, for those of you who do not know about the FCC's attempt at net neutrality, you must stop and take a look before it is too late. Under the guise of bringing the internet to the masses (as if it isn't already widely available for every American, generally,) they will seek to put stringent guidelines, rules, laws and regulations over anything and everything which is sent over the web. In other words: CENSORSHIP.
BWB contends the idea of censorship "for the sake of the children" is laudable, but still not the right of the government, no matter what our "in the best interest of most Americans" government thinks. It isn't the government's business what is in my best interest when it comes to my entertainment, political ideas, or even what I secretly believe, but not have the heart to write.
It is the Federal Government's job to regulate trade and commerce, protect our borders, build infrastructure, and that's about it. One could argue the internet is the greatest of all infrastructure, and I would agree. The government does already crack down and monitor internet traffic, protecting millions across the globe from hackers, right?
There is a fight brewing in Washington right now about net neutrality; the fight is only just beginning. Send an e-mail to your Congressman and Senators right away and ask them to not support net neutrality. No only that, I recommend writing them every single solitary day, telling them how you feel on every single topic known to you. After all, they represent you, and should thus vote accordingly.
I will leave you with two divergent opinions on this topic. The first, a supporter of net neutrality and government clampdowns in general, Hugo Chavez.
He probably hasn't heard of the deceased, yet dissenting voice, that of Voltaire, whose most famous attributed quote wasn't actually his, it seems. (Funny, I only found this out thanks to a free and open internet.)
Thanks again, James Madison!!!
Sounds great, right? There was a reason the founders put the First Amendment first, and put so much in it, for they knew something we seemed to have forgotten, or perhaps this generation never knew. Living in a free society, having freedom isn't free if someone doesn't have the opportunity to express themselves, either by having ridiculous holidays, having the right to waste money, march on Washington, DC being led by comedians, or Chicken Little. All of those moronic ideas I linked are covered by the First Amendment, as is the subject of today's BWB: freedom of the press, specifically on the internet.
Because of the First Amendment's freedom of the press, which gives freedom of content on the internet, I am able to find, write about, link to, and comment on a whole slew of things, such as: gay animals, kissing cousins, self-destructive retards, interesting political commentary, whack jobs with nothing better to do than write terrible books fifteen people buy, wicked cool movie trailers, the best song of all-time, and even the worst. I thank Jemmy Madison and good ole TJ and the rest of the founding fathers of this nation for the right and ability to do so.
With the good, funny, and theinformational also comes the bad, but such is life. All joking aside, for those of you who do not know about the FCC's attempt at net neutrality, you must stop and take a look before it is too late. Under the guise of bringing the internet to the masses (as if it isn't already widely available for every American, generally,) they will seek to put stringent guidelines, rules, laws and regulations over anything and everything which is sent over the web. In other words: CENSORSHIP.
BWB contends the idea of censorship "for the sake of the children" is laudable, but still not the right of the government, no matter what our "in the best interest of most Americans" government thinks. It isn't the government's business what is in my best interest when it comes to my entertainment, political ideas, or even what I secretly believe, but not have the heart to write.
It is the Federal Government's job to regulate trade and commerce, protect our borders, build infrastructure, and that's about it. One could argue the internet is the greatest of all infrastructure, and I would agree. The government does already crack down and monitor internet traffic, protecting millions across the globe from hackers, right?
There is a fight brewing in Washington right now about net neutrality; the fight is only just beginning. Send an e-mail to your Congressman and Senators right away and ask them to not support net neutrality. No only that, I recommend writing them every single solitary day, telling them how you feel on every single topic known to you. After all, they represent you, and should thus vote accordingly.
I will leave you with two divergent opinions on this topic. The first, a supporter of net neutrality and government clampdowns in general, Hugo Chavez.
He probably hasn't heard of the deceased, yet dissenting voice, that of Voltaire, whose most famous attributed quote wasn't actually his, it seems. (Funny, I only found this out thanks to a free and open internet.)
Thanks again, James Madison!!!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Unemployment rose again, thank God the recession is over, right?
Here in Reno, Nevada, we are dealing with some poor economic numbers. The unemployment rate has risen once again to
14.3%, even during the Christmas shopping and traveling season. That doesn't bode well for the future prospects of this state, considering our President's opinion on the matter. As an aside, that comment hasn't stopped him from a trip to Sin City, an oddly-timed trip to India, and everywhere in between.
I don't write these words to criticize Mr. President, I write them to show how words, however hollow and from however shallow a man can have reprecussions. The state of Nevada is hemmoraging, and nothing seems to be able to fix it. "The stabilizing unemployment rate indicates that the worst of the recession is over," chief economist for the Department of Employment, Training & Rehabilitation Bill Anderson said. "However, the unemployment rate will likely remain elevated well into 2011 before declining slowly over a number of years."
Let me ask you something, Mr. Anderson. How does that any of 186,000 Nevadanswho are out of work? Perhaps a recession, or a depression, isn't just defined by those who say the recession is over. BWB heartily belives in that numbers often don't tell the whole truth.
I suppose it could be worse, I would take Nevada over burning Europe anyday. At least riots, protests, and economic crashes don't take place here,right? Right? Seriously, right?
14.3%, even during the Christmas shopping and traveling season. That doesn't bode well for the future prospects of this state, considering our President's opinion on the matter. As an aside, that comment hasn't stopped him from a trip to Sin City, an oddly-timed trip to India, and everywhere in between.
I don't write these words to criticize Mr. President, I write them to show how words, however hollow and from however shallow a man can have reprecussions. The state of Nevada is hemmoraging, and nothing seems to be able to fix it. "The stabilizing unemployment rate indicates that the worst of the recession is over," chief economist for the Department of Employment, Training & Rehabilitation Bill Anderson said. "However, the unemployment rate will likely remain elevated well into 2011 before declining slowly over a number of years."
Let me ask you something, Mr. Anderson. How does that any of 186,000 Nevadanswho are out of work? Perhaps a recession, or a depression, isn't just defined by those who say the recession is over. BWB heartily belives in that numbers often don't tell the whole truth.
I suppose it could be worse, I would take Nevada over burning Europe anyday. At least riots, protests, and economic crashes don't take place here,right? Right? Seriously, right?
The Jets need to fire Rex Ryan
Welcome back, my friends to the week that never ends…okay, Week 15 of the NFL Season will end, but I cannot lie and say I wish it wouldn’t. After all, after this week, the New York Jets will have a three game losing streak, a quarterback who needs to get benched, and a head coach who needs to be replaced. Maybe I am just a very cynical fan. Maybe I remember 1986, where the Jets started 10-1, only to lose the next five games and back into the playoffs. Or perhaps it was the magical Favre year of 2008 when they were 8-3 when the Super Bowl talk commenced. Favre, instead of redeeming his costly interceptions in the previous season and the following season’s NFC Championship Games. Instead, the Jets went 1-4 and finished third behind the Miami Wildcats and the Brady-less Patriots.
So…
Take the STEELERS over the JETS, and don’t look back at the wreckage of the J-E-T-S’ crash-landing.
CHARGERS will beat the 49ERS. Actually, I am writing this about two hours after the game ended. It was quite an obvious pick, however, especially considering they brought out their powder blue uniforms.
I like INDIANAPOLIS over the JAGUARS, but only because they are the home team. Jacksonville won Week 4 at home, though I’m not certain anybody in northern Florida saw it. Peyton Manning might have a terrible cast around him, and he might be having the worst season of his career, but he is still Peyton Manning, and David Garrard isn’t.
TEXANS will defeat the TITANS, now with their season’s great aspirations of their first career playoff appearance destroyed under the weight of either their expectations or Gary Kubiak’s self-doubt.
The DOLPHINS are making an incredible push towards the playoffs, even with their non-existent offense led by a non-existent quarterback, and will continue to do so when they beat the BILLS Sunday. Seriously, are we sure Chad Henne isn’t actually Jay Fiedler in disguise?
The RAMS will win at home against the cross-state showdown with the CHIEFS. The Show-Me State is an appropriate host for a rivalry pitting the two West division leaders, both desperate for respect and for the self-confidence to close out their losable divisions. I like Sam Bradford shining against this defense. The Chiefs won’t be playing against St. Louis, they’re playing against the shadow of the surging Chargers, who are quite experienced chasing down the AFC West.
BROWNS and BENGALS both suck, but the Browns will win. Why? Does it matter?
The SAINTS will crush the hearts and spirits of the RAVENS and their fans one more time this season. As I said last week, I like Joe Flacco, and I like the Ravens a lot. But as my friend/co-worker Danny said the other day, “They should be better.” They should, they shouldn’t squeak out wins, they shouldn’t blow leads in the end; they shouldn’t have so many “respectable” losses. The Ravens have become the NFL’s version of S.D. Jones from the old WWF.
S.D. Jones was the most-popular wrestling jobber ever. He lost to everybody in the late 1980’s, all the top heels anyway. When there was a new bad guy on the prowl, like when King Kong Bundy arrived on the scene, or when “Mr. Wonderful” Paul Orndorff was challenging for the title against the Immortal Hulk Hogan, S.D. Jones was there to make them look good. S.D. always contended for the win, like the Ravens, and just like the Ravens, he was well-liked and well-respected for his fire and his toughness and his perseverance. Just like I would never pick S.D. Jones against Andre the Giant, I cannot pick Baltimore over the defending champions.
The GIANTS will beat the EAGLES. Michael Vick ran through the Eagles during their first encounter, and he very well might be the same. However, the Giants are at home, have been looking good, and are thinking Super Bowl. Couple all that in, I think the Giants win this game, and then lose their final two, while the Eagles win their final two and the Eagles take the division. Michael Vick is too good, and he should get serious MVP consideration, though Mr. Bundchen will win the award, deservedly so.
Are the COWBOYS going to be any good next season? (If there is a season in 2011.) I know they are playing much better since Jason Garrett has taken control of the team, though they suffered tough losses against tough opponents. Perhaps the Cowboys have become the new-school Brooklyn Dodgers, the bums who were always next-year’s champs. Still, they are much better than the dysfunctional WASHINGTON SENATORS (REDSKINS.)
Does anybody doubt the BUCCANEERS are the best worst team in the league? They are 8-0 against sub-.500 teams and they are 0-5 against those with winning records, expect that streak to continue as the LIONS come into town for another loss on the road. Detroit hasn’t been good on the road since Bob Seger.
The PANTHERS are a bad team with many, many problems. First off, ditch the bright-blue uniforms. They are a shade brighter than the famous Chargers powder blue, and nowhere near as classy. And what of that logo, why does that Panther have muscular dystrophy? They will beat the CARDINALS at home, however owing to the fact nobody could pick the Cardinals starting quarterback out at a bus stop in downtown Phoenix while he was wearing a football uniform, ironically the same way Ken Whisenhut picked him. I care so little of this game, I won’t even mention the guys’ name.
The RAIDERS are hanging on by a thread, but if the Chiefs lose, then they would only be one game behind the Chargers, who they beat twice, and the Chiefs, who’ve they already beaten and travel to play Week 17. They are playing for their lives against a BRONCOS team playing for a paycheck. I think they respond; they play well at home. The Raiders will win out, I predict.
FALCONS fans, be warned. A cross-country trip to Seattle is a losable game, especially with the SEAHAWKS clinging to playoff life. If you are as good a teams as people, including myself, think you are, then you must win this game. They are that good, they will win the division, crushing Roger Goodell’s fading hopes somehow the Rams or the Seahawks will miraculously win nine games, thus avoiding having to deal with the playoff reseeding debate. I wouldn’t put it past him and attempt a David Stern on us. (You know what I’m talking about.)
With it being College Week in the NFC North, what with former BCS Champion quarterback Matt Flynn starting against the PATRIOTS for the PACKERS, the Monday night game at the University of Minnesota’s home stadium, and the Lions’ being the NFL’s version of the paycheck-seeking cupcake school going into Camp Randall or the Big House in order to get rolled, I think it is only fitting I should teach our faithful readers one thing:
Don’t bet against the Patriots at home against a weakened opponent looking to find credibility. Tom Bundchen is terrific, Bill Belichick is a douchebag, but he’s a great coach and they are on a mission to win and win convincingly. And they will continue to do so.
Thank you for your time.
DA BEARS will win Monday night against the VIKINGS. Why? Because after taking it on the chin in terrible weather against the Patriots on their own field, they will have a much better game plan when it comes to playing on the ice rink on the University of Minnesota campus.
And what of the Vikings, where will they play next season? The architects who designed the Metrodome (I became aware earlier today that the stadium is no longer named the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. I sank my head and cried, and vowed to never call it what it is actually called, no matter how much money Mall of America paid.) Is it possible they up and move to another city “temporarily?” Will they be able to finagle a new stadium out of the great state of Minnesota? This will be the best off-season story of the year to watch, I guarantee it.
Last week: 11-5
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Excerpt from "The Devil Named Grey"
This is Chapter One of my recently penned manuscript, entitled "The Devil Named Grey." Should you like it, feel free to contact me for more information.
Chapter One: Soloman Grey
“Soloman Grey is the most important person in my life; nobody means more to me, regrettably. Soloman Grey is the most evil man I have ever met. He is cruel, malicious, and unwilling to apologize for it. Soloman Grey is the devil,” I said, attempting to answer the detective’s question of whether or not I knew Soloman Grey as honestly as possible.
His subtle movements gave it away, my outward honesty shocked him, but he wasn’t surprised with my answer. The early morning rain storm was pouring down, echoing on my tin roof porch. It was just after eight in the morning, I awoke to the pleasant gift of a morning rain; it seemed my present was short lived. Tension gripped my shoulders, neck, and back, and also paralyzed my brain; all efforts of the soothing storm be damned. Fear of why a Reno police detective was at my door asking about my best friend and worst enemy Soloman Grey coursed through my veins at the same pulse of the ever more-present precipitation. I beckoned the man into my house on a quiet, yet infamous street in Reno, Nevada, in desperate attempt to comprehend the situation. He spoke as he walked in, “Sounds like you had a great motive for killing him then.”
Detective Mitchell (so the badge said) followed me inside. Only when the door closed, dampening the frenetic energy of the rain and with it my heart, did everything finally settle in. “Wait,” I implored, “Soloman Grey is dead?” I wasn’t asking, I was more pleading with the man; though I wasn’t sure if I wanted the news to be true or not.
“As a matter of fact, yes he is,” he said as he gave an almost regret-filled pause; a pause which I knew wasn’t genuine. “We need you to come in and identify the body. And along the way, we can have a little discussion about your friend, Soloman Grey.” Detective Mitchell said this as hard and domineering as he could, I feared him instantly, as was his intention. I saw the flicker in his movements, directed towards his gun holstered to his hip, though he made no specific attempt to draw it; he wanted me to know it existed, that he was in charge. His looks were the likes of those on the silver screen somewhere, the ladies swooned wherever he went, I knew. To me, and most every other man, it just made me think less of him. The moment I saw him, I knew he was a pretty-boy, gym rat; douchebag type who’s only reason for getting up in the morning was to pat himself on the back while lifting weights naked in the mirror. All that being said, I gave this man the proper amount of fear he deserved; he already, at some level, suspected me of murdering Soloman Grey. If I wasn’t careful, I would be in serious trouble.
Agreeing to his request, I quickly dressed in the first clothes I could find, grabbed my coat and followed the man towards the unmarked police cruiser in front of my modest house casually, not altogether in a hurry to go into the back of a police car. I was savoring walking in the rain as I made the arduous, but willing, journey to Detective Mitchell’s car. Though I hated Soloman Grey, I would miss him on days like this the most, though I couldn’t place why. A thousand memories drizzled with the rain, seeping into my mind during the walk; I was missing Soloman Grey already. He had been the best friend I ever had in my life, though I couldn’t help but feel he got his comeuppance by lying in the morgue somewhere.
I slid into the backseat; thankful I wasn’t shackled to anything as Mitchell got in the driver’s seat and started the car. It was the most awkward drive of my entire life already, and Mitchell did me no favors as he started the conversation as we drove out of my West University neighborhood, past the Mormon Church, “You didn’t live here when that Merlino girl went missing, right?” He wasn’t asking, and I knew it, because I instantly I recognized him. “I was the lead detective on that case and I interviewed everyone on that street a million times. Most moved away pretty quickly after that happened.”
Everyone in Reno, and many around the nation followed that case with great interest, and I was no exception. I knew the house I lived in, which I had only moved into months ago, was next door to the house that poor girl was kidnapped from, but I gave it no real attention, other than as an interesting piece of local trivia. I wasn’t sure where Mitchell was going with this conversation, besides in attempt to pat himself on the back some and to put me on edge, both of which were extraordinarily unnecessary. Mitchell was attempting to build a fake rapport with me; I resented it immediately. Soloman Grey had done the same thing to me, and I was aware of the tricks, and I wasn’t going to fall for them again.
“No, I just moved here. I like it here, I plan on staying here for a while” I said, not attempting to give this man any ammunition against me.
“That’s quite interesting, you see,” Mitchell said, “because in attempt to find you, finding your physical address was quite difficult. You have your mail forwarded to your sister Jules’ apartment in Sun Valley; you have a monthly rental in the Heart O’ Town Motel registered in your name and paid until June of this year; and you also have a house on E Street in Sparks, leased in your name. But it is here in the West University neighborhood, where I found that you, upon digging, were registered to vote,” Mitchell recited these facts without looking at notes, without taking his eyes off the road, without even looking at me in the rearview mirror. I never once lost eye contact with him through that mirror though; I was transfixed at this man who knew more about me than my mother.
I had lived with my sister before moving to Buena Vista Avenue; I had forgotten to forward the mail. The motel downtown shocked me; I didn’t understand it at all. The house took me a moment, but eventually I understood, “Do you mean Soloman Grey’s house? Did he put his house in my name?” I asked. I wasn’t overly shocked, though I did my best to pretend I was.
“Yes. You were not aware of this? What a good friend!” Mitchell mocked, finally looking at me through the mirror as he parked the car at St. Mary’s Hospital downtown.
Soloman Grey had manipulated and used me yet again without my knowledge.
We walked in silence into the hospital, Mitchell leading me by a step and a half the entire way. His walk was strong and with purpose, I was jealous I didn’t walk with such a strong gait. Mitchell led me through St. Mary’s Hospital, which got smaller, darker, and more miserable through each passing door. The wards of sick, crying and dying people were all moaning and wailing for someone, anyone, to take them out of their misery and heal them with a magic touch. They were wailing towards me, or rather, towards Detective Mitchell, who merely nodded and smiled to all he passed by. All begged him to stop and come directly to them; I thought he was going to multiple times. The anguished despair coursing through all the patients also became apparent on his face.
After uncounted stairwells and too many hallways, we had arrived at a cold room in the basement which was incessantly bright, the morgue. An orderly was already awaiting our arrival next to a body, presumably that of Soloman Grey.
I stepped slowly to the body in the middle of the room, the one covered in a sheet. It was the longest walk from door to center of a room ever, or perhaps it was merely three steps. Finally tableside, Mitchell nodded to the meek orderly who was unable to look either of us in the eye; I got the impression he was uncomfortable with what was about to happen as much as I. With the nod to the orderly to proceed, Mitchell gave a subtle grin, reminiscent of Soloman Grey himself, and I understood the game that was being played on me.
“How did you meet Soloman Grey?” Mitchell asked. I wasn’t sure if he was attempting to build tension or relieve it off my shoulders. I gagged at the smell I had been consciously concealing since my arrival in the hospital, and it suppressed my answer. After the gag, I took a full breath and brought in every ounce of redolence available; the stench was remarkable. I had supposed Soloman Grey had just been killed, the pungency told me he had been deceased for some time. As I finally recovered, the orderly began to lift the sheet; the first body part I saw was a stub where the right pinky finger should have been.
“Mitchell, what the hell are you doing?!” The tall and muscular (and psychopathic) Mitchell shrank instantly to the hard baritone which had engulfed the room out of nowhere. All attention turned from the grotesque to the even more grotesque as we focused on the squat troll of a man who entered the morgue.
“Captain Davis, I was attempting to get an identification of the body,” Mitchell became squirmy and feathery; he was in trouble and playing ignorant. I suppressed my chuckle at Mitchell’s reaction at being caught in the act of his simple game.
“Get him out of here now and interview him properly!” Captain Davis yelled, Mitchell didn’t sulk this time, but simply nodded his head in agreement. Davis approached me with an awkward gait, as if his right ankle was constantly sprained and his left knee didn’t work, “My apologies sir,” he said as he reached out his hand, “he shouldn’t have brought you down here, that’s not the way we do things here.”
I grinned and thought ‘all evidence to the contrary,’ though I held my tongue.
He continued, “If you don’t mind too much, Detective Mitchell here has some questions for you, and as soon as you are done answering them at headquarters, he will bring you home.” I shook Davis’ hand, as cold and sweaty as any I had ever felt, and I recoiled. I hated Davis, even though he had just saved me.
Captain Davis had successfully manipulated me, something I would not let Detective Mitchell do; I agreed to go to headquarters and answer the questions posed to me. I never would have fallen for the old ‘show the perpetrator the disgusting, decomposing dead body in order to make them crack trick,’ though I applauded Mitchell’s effort at the attempt. I was not going to give this dumb arrogant prick anything.
We drove in silence from the Hospital down Arlington Avenue to 2nd Street fourteen blocks to the police station. Mitchell looked straight ahead, never attempting to engage me in any way, though my gaze never left him. My nerves were rattling me; I did my best to keep under control. My legs desperately wanted to dance and jump out of anticipation and fear, my eyes were yearning to twitch, but I controlled them. I wasn’t going to let my guard down again, and I wasn’t going to show Mitchell how spooked he had made me moments earlier, how uneasy I was about everything thus far. With Soloman Grey, I had done terrible things, all of which I regretted. However, the last thing I would allow to happen was incriminate myself and face the penalty of my actions; I was contrite, not stupid.
We arrived at headquarters and I followed him as his shadow again as we weaved not through hospital wards, but through the cramped desks and cubicles of Reno’s Finest. For a man as vain as he, and for how he wore the Merlino case as a badge of honor, I was quite excited to see his office. I was stunned, then appalled at the derelict conditions of the small corner of the bullpen he led me to. I was in the Grand Canyon of Junk; his desk was pushed against the far wall which bore nothing but cracked blue paint, no pictures of a family or even a dog, no awards, no notes. The desk was surrounded on the other three sides by file cabinets with the only way in or out through a cramped “entrance” no wider than four feet between the cabinets. Many cabinets were open though no one was going through them, with files and papers sticking out in every direction. Mitchell’s desk was a mess of papers as well with no discernable organization even attempted, unless if you count “trash heap” as a style.
The stale smell of cigarettes was unmistakable, though I didn’t see a pack or even an ashtray. Upon smelling the smoke, I looked towards and found Mitchell’s hand shaking in the same fashion mine might have been had I not been consciously controlling them. This wasn’t the man I had met and instantly feared. He lit a cigarette; I never saw a lighter nor heard a match; I was concentrating on why anyone would work in such a decrepit, depressing space. There were no windows in the bullpen, the only lights were from the halogen bulbs hanging from the ceiling, casting an antiseptic glow upon the dirt and grime that is police work with the exception of one small corner of the room: the one in which I found myself.
Mitchell had pulled the halogen bulb, which was situated above his desk out of its spot, instead using a small incandescent bulb in a small, non-descript office lamp as lighting. From where the lamp was situated, at the far corner of the desk, closest to the single opening in the wall of file cabinets hastily put up in pattern. Whether Cabinet-Henge was done by Mitchell to provide privacy or Captain Davis to hide Mitchell’s monstrosity was unknown. The result was that the light blocked my vision out of the office from where Mitchell motioned me to sit; I was alone with this man.
“Please, take a seat,” he said as I sat in the hard wooden chair, cherry I think, on the other side of his desk as he sat down in a cherry chair of his own, clasping his cigarette in his mouth. Never once did he mention the mess, he didn’t even see it anymore. With the dexterity of a surgeon, Mitchell pulled out a legal pad from the middle of the pile on his desk and began to write on it with a beautiful red ball-point pen. “Before we begin, I want to notify you that I will be recording this conversation; is that understood?”
“I understand,” I said. I wasn’t listening to him, I was sure that they would be recording it anyway. I was certain Captain Davis would be monitoring this conversation the entire time, even from this dirty, poorly lit corner of the police station.
“When’s the last time you saw Soloman Grey?” he asked first.
“January second of this year” I responded. I learned from Soloman Grey, to not give too much information, only give them the information they officially asked for; do not volunteer anything (unless you do it for a purpose). Give them too much, and they become suspicious; give them too little, they become suspicious.
“And what happened?”
“Soloman Grey invited me over to his house that day, and so I went over and we talked for about an hour or so.”
“And what time was that, do you remember?”
I remembered that day as if it was yesterday. It was yesterday to me, it also seemed like a past life long ago and far away. “He called me in the morning; I arrived during the middle of the day. I am not sure about the time.”
“What did you two talk about?”
Tension gripped me yet again; I knew when Mitchell arrived this morning I would have to tell him something of that day, but I wasn’t entirely sure of whether or not to tell him everything. I couldn’t be sure of what this man knew, whom he had spoken with previously. I had to assume he knew everything, so I had to tell Mitchell the truth, even though it went against all of my training at the hands of Soloman Grey, because if he caught me in a lie about what had transpired that day, I’d be in serious trouble. I began, “Soloman Grey was looking disappear for good, and he wanted my help to pull a job to make some big getaway money.”
Mitchell was shocked by this revelation; I couldn’t read his reaction as to why. Whether he believed me or not, I knew the theory enthralled him. I had Detective Peter Mitchell on the edge of his seat, leaning forward into the mountain of papers on his desk, his chiseled face close to the lamp casting a yellow glow, giving the appearance of a tan. “When you say, ‘pull a job,’ what job do you mean?” He knew which job I meant; he just wanted to see how far I would go, what I would tell him.
“You know,” I said as I gave him cock-eyed smile, a subtle grin that Soloman Grey always used to give me. If he was good at his job at any level, he would be able to put two and two together. I
“January second? You don’t mean the armored truck downtown, do you?” he asked. Mitchell, just like everybody else, knew of the robbery and the miraculous getaway, it had captured the attention of the nation, but like everyone else, he had no idea who pulled off the caper. I had told Soloman Grey that day there was no chance in hell, with the amount of cameras downtown, with the Nevada Gaming Commission, and the sheer amount of police manpower which would come his way that there would be no way on Earth he would escape undetected. But Soloman Grey had a perfect escape plan, and while I knew it worked, I was surprised it worked well enough for the police to know next to nothing about it.
“Yes, that’s the one I mean.” At that moment, my thoughts meandered to the small detached garage in Soloman Grey’s backyard on E Street, which contained a hidden room. Unconsciously, I reached for the key hidden under my shirt around my neck on a gold chain, the brother of which was hidden in my backyard; two of the three keys to that room, and to everything in said room (Soloman Grey had the other). The room officially being in my name, I thought it best to leave out that part of the story.
As my mind focused on the room and the possibility of hitting the lottery after all this had blown over, I couldn’t escape the feeling Mitchell already knew about the room somehow, his eyes now looked directly into mine without blinking. The little room under the garage that I helped build burned like fire on the backside of my head, as if every synapse in my brain stem were firing all at once. However it was happening I had felt it before, like someone was reading my thoughts.
“Are there any other jobs I should know about, concerning Soloman Grey?” Mitchell asked. He was beating around the bush; he was smart enough to not ask about my direct involvement in anything, for now.
He was attempting to backdoor information out of me; I called him out on it, “Look, you asked what we talked about that night, and that was the subject. I am not a narc, and I am not going to incriminate myself or anybody else any more than I already have.” I feigned impatience, but I didn’t want to burst even accidentally, I would do far more damage that way.
Getting the point after first watching me become a bit unglued, he changed the subject. “Do you know of anybody who’d want to kill Soloman Grey?” Mitchell asked me.
I couldn’t control it, I laughed harder than I had laughed my entire life. The sheer inanity of the question shocked me, “Why sir, of course I do. He was in fear for his life, or so he said, that last day I saw him. That’s why he wanted to get away. Moreover, I should think that everybody who ever met Soloman Grey wanted to kill him; he was the world’s biggest manipulator. He controls your life in such a way that you don’t even recognize yourself after leaving his presence. He was on a mission to dominate the entire world and control whomever he could to make that mission a reality. Though I have become the man I am now because of Soloman Grey and I mourn his passing, sadly I feel the world is better for not having him on it, and I don’t blame the person who killed him, because he surely had it coming.”
Mitchell was agreeing with my assessment was he puffed away like a chimney. Relaxing after a long relaxing drag, Mitchell peered towards me, “Okay,” he said, “give me some names of who would want to kill Soloman Grey.”
I rattled names off in the order they came to me and said, “Matthew, Julie, Lenny, Debbie, Veronica, Meghan, Drake, and Alex are the ones that come to my mind right now, but if you give me some time I am sure I can think of more.” I had mentioned more than one deceased person; I wasn’t sure if Mitchell knew.
Mitchell smiled as I said those names; I knew he knew most of them already. None had shocked them, and what’s more he never bothered to ask their last names. “It sounds like a veritable Roman Senate to me; Soloman Grey must be Julius Caesar. Beware the Ides of March,” Mitchell waxed poetically towards me as he took another drag and I shared a knowing chuckle. I had forgotten the date and stared toward the calendar. Today’s date was March 15, 2010.
Chapter One: Soloman Grey
“Soloman Grey is the most important person in my life; nobody means more to me, regrettably. Soloman Grey is the most evil man I have ever met. He is cruel, malicious, and unwilling to apologize for it. Soloman Grey is the devil,” I said, attempting to answer the detective’s question of whether or not I knew Soloman Grey as honestly as possible.
His subtle movements gave it away, my outward honesty shocked him, but he wasn’t surprised with my answer. The early morning rain storm was pouring down, echoing on my tin roof porch. It was just after eight in the morning, I awoke to the pleasant gift of a morning rain; it seemed my present was short lived. Tension gripped my shoulders, neck, and back, and also paralyzed my brain; all efforts of the soothing storm be damned. Fear of why a Reno police detective was at my door asking about my best friend and worst enemy Soloman Grey coursed through my veins at the same pulse of the ever more-present precipitation. I beckoned the man into my house on a quiet, yet infamous street in Reno, Nevada, in desperate attempt to comprehend the situation. He spoke as he walked in, “Sounds like you had a great motive for killing him then.”
Detective Mitchell (so the badge said) followed me inside. Only when the door closed, dampening the frenetic energy of the rain and with it my heart, did everything finally settle in. “Wait,” I implored, “Soloman Grey is dead?” I wasn’t asking, I was more pleading with the man; though I wasn’t sure if I wanted the news to be true or not.
“As a matter of fact, yes he is,” he said as he gave an almost regret-filled pause; a pause which I knew wasn’t genuine. “We need you to come in and identify the body. And along the way, we can have a little discussion about your friend, Soloman Grey.” Detective Mitchell said this as hard and domineering as he could, I feared him instantly, as was his intention. I saw the flicker in his movements, directed towards his gun holstered to his hip, though he made no specific attempt to draw it; he wanted me to know it existed, that he was in charge. His looks were the likes of those on the silver screen somewhere, the ladies swooned wherever he went, I knew. To me, and most every other man, it just made me think less of him. The moment I saw him, I knew he was a pretty-boy, gym rat; douchebag type who’s only reason for getting up in the morning was to pat himself on the back while lifting weights naked in the mirror. All that being said, I gave this man the proper amount of fear he deserved; he already, at some level, suspected me of murdering Soloman Grey. If I wasn’t careful, I would be in serious trouble.
Agreeing to his request, I quickly dressed in the first clothes I could find, grabbed my coat and followed the man towards the unmarked police cruiser in front of my modest house casually, not altogether in a hurry to go into the back of a police car. I was savoring walking in the rain as I made the arduous, but willing, journey to Detective Mitchell’s car. Though I hated Soloman Grey, I would miss him on days like this the most, though I couldn’t place why. A thousand memories drizzled with the rain, seeping into my mind during the walk; I was missing Soloman Grey already. He had been the best friend I ever had in my life, though I couldn’t help but feel he got his comeuppance by lying in the morgue somewhere.
I slid into the backseat; thankful I wasn’t shackled to anything as Mitchell got in the driver’s seat and started the car. It was the most awkward drive of my entire life already, and Mitchell did me no favors as he started the conversation as we drove out of my West University neighborhood, past the Mormon Church, “You didn’t live here when that Merlino girl went missing, right?” He wasn’t asking, and I knew it, because I instantly I recognized him. “I was the lead detective on that case and I interviewed everyone on that street a million times. Most moved away pretty quickly after that happened.”
Everyone in Reno, and many around the nation followed that case with great interest, and I was no exception. I knew the house I lived in, which I had only moved into months ago, was next door to the house that poor girl was kidnapped from, but I gave it no real attention, other than as an interesting piece of local trivia. I wasn’t sure where Mitchell was going with this conversation, besides in attempt to pat himself on the back some and to put me on edge, both of which were extraordinarily unnecessary. Mitchell was attempting to build a fake rapport with me; I resented it immediately. Soloman Grey had done the same thing to me, and I was aware of the tricks, and I wasn’t going to fall for them again.
“No, I just moved here. I like it here, I plan on staying here for a while” I said, not attempting to give this man any ammunition against me.
“That’s quite interesting, you see,” Mitchell said, “because in attempt to find you, finding your physical address was quite difficult. You have your mail forwarded to your sister Jules’ apartment in Sun Valley; you have a monthly rental in the Heart O’ Town Motel registered in your name and paid until June of this year; and you also have a house on E Street in Sparks, leased in your name. But it is here in the West University neighborhood, where I found that you, upon digging, were registered to vote,” Mitchell recited these facts without looking at notes, without taking his eyes off the road, without even looking at me in the rearview mirror. I never once lost eye contact with him through that mirror though; I was transfixed at this man who knew more about me than my mother.
I had lived with my sister before moving to Buena Vista Avenue; I had forgotten to forward the mail. The motel downtown shocked me; I didn’t understand it at all. The house took me a moment, but eventually I understood, “Do you mean Soloman Grey’s house? Did he put his house in my name?” I asked. I wasn’t overly shocked, though I did my best to pretend I was.
“Yes. You were not aware of this? What a good friend!” Mitchell mocked, finally looking at me through the mirror as he parked the car at St. Mary’s Hospital downtown.
Soloman Grey had manipulated and used me yet again without my knowledge.
We walked in silence into the hospital, Mitchell leading me by a step and a half the entire way. His walk was strong and with purpose, I was jealous I didn’t walk with such a strong gait. Mitchell led me through St. Mary’s Hospital, which got smaller, darker, and more miserable through each passing door. The wards of sick, crying and dying people were all moaning and wailing for someone, anyone, to take them out of their misery and heal them with a magic touch. They were wailing towards me, or rather, towards Detective Mitchell, who merely nodded and smiled to all he passed by. All begged him to stop and come directly to them; I thought he was going to multiple times. The anguished despair coursing through all the patients also became apparent on his face.
After uncounted stairwells and too many hallways, we had arrived at a cold room in the basement which was incessantly bright, the morgue. An orderly was already awaiting our arrival next to a body, presumably that of Soloman Grey.
I stepped slowly to the body in the middle of the room, the one covered in a sheet. It was the longest walk from door to center of a room ever, or perhaps it was merely three steps. Finally tableside, Mitchell nodded to the meek orderly who was unable to look either of us in the eye; I got the impression he was uncomfortable with what was about to happen as much as I. With the nod to the orderly to proceed, Mitchell gave a subtle grin, reminiscent of Soloman Grey himself, and I understood the game that was being played on me.
“How did you meet Soloman Grey?” Mitchell asked. I wasn’t sure if he was attempting to build tension or relieve it off my shoulders. I gagged at the smell I had been consciously concealing since my arrival in the hospital, and it suppressed my answer. After the gag, I took a full breath and brought in every ounce of redolence available; the stench was remarkable. I had supposed Soloman Grey had just been killed, the pungency told me he had been deceased for some time. As I finally recovered, the orderly began to lift the sheet; the first body part I saw was a stub where the right pinky finger should have been.
“Mitchell, what the hell are you doing?!” The tall and muscular (and psychopathic) Mitchell shrank instantly to the hard baritone which had engulfed the room out of nowhere. All attention turned from the grotesque to the even more grotesque as we focused on the squat troll of a man who entered the morgue.
“Captain Davis, I was attempting to get an identification of the body,” Mitchell became squirmy and feathery; he was in trouble and playing ignorant. I suppressed my chuckle at Mitchell’s reaction at being caught in the act of his simple game.
“Get him out of here now and interview him properly!” Captain Davis yelled, Mitchell didn’t sulk this time, but simply nodded his head in agreement. Davis approached me with an awkward gait, as if his right ankle was constantly sprained and his left knee didn’t work, “My apologies sir,” he said as he reached out his hand, “he shouldn’t have brought you down here, that’s not the way we do things here.”
I grinned and thought ‘all evidence to the contrary,’ though I held my tongue.
He continued, “If you don’t mind too much, Detective Mitchell here has some questions for you, and as soon as you are done answering them at headquarters, he will bring you home.” I shook Davis’ hand, as cold and sweaty as any I had ever felt, and I recoiled. I hated Davis, even though he had just saved me.
Captain Davis had successfully manipulated me, something I would not let Detective Mitchell do; I agreed to go to headquarters and answer the questions posed to me. I never would have fallen for the old ‘show the perpetrator the disgusting, decomposing dead body in order to make them crack trick,’ though I applauded Mitchell’s effort at the attempt. I was not going to give this dumb arrogant prick anything.
We drove in silence from the Hospital down Arlington Avenue to 2nd Street fourteen blocks to the police station. Mitchell looked straight ahead, never attempting to engage me in any way, though my gaze never left him. My nerves were rattling me; I did my best to keep under control. My legs desperately wanted to dance and jump out of anticipation and fear, my eyes were yearning to twitch, but I controlled them. I wasn’t going to let my guard down again, and I wasn’t going to show Mitchell how spooked he had made me moments earlier, how uneasy I was about everything thus far. With Soloman Grey, I had done terrible things, all of which I regretted. However, the last thing I would allow to happen was incriminate myself and face the penalty of my actions; I was contrite, not stupid.
We arrived at headquarters and I followed him as his shadow again as we weaved not through hospital wards, but through the cramped desks and cubicles of Reno’s Finest. For a man as vain as he, and for how he wore the Merlino case as a badge of honor, I was quite excited to see his office. I was stunned, then appalled at the derelict conditions of the small corner of the bullpen he led me to. I was in the Grand Canyon of Junk; his desk was pushed against the far wall which bore nothing but cracked blue paint, no pictures of a family or even a dog, no awards, no notes. The desk was surrounded on the other three sides by file cabinets with the only way in or out through a cramped “entrance” no wider than four feet between the cabinets. Many cabinets were open though no one was going through them, with files and papers sticking out in every direction. Mitchell’s desk was a mess of papers as well with no discernable organization even attempted, unless if you count “trash heap” as a style.
The stale smell of cigarettes was unmistakable, though I didn’t see a pack or even an ashtray. Upon smelling the smoke, I looked towards and found Mitchell’s hand shaking in the same fashion mine might have been had I not been consciously controlling them. This wasn’t the man I had met and instantly feared. He lit a cigarette; I never saw a lighter nor heard a match; I was concentrating on why anyone would work in such a decrepit, depressing space. There were no windows in the bullpen, the only lights were from the halogen bulbs hanging from the ceiling, casting an antiseptic glow upon the dirt and grime that is police work with the exception of one small corner of the room: the one in which I found myself.
Mitchell had pulled the halogen bulb, which was situated above his desk out of its spot, instead using a small incandescent bulb in a small, non-descript office lamp as lighting. From where the lamp was situated, at the far corner of the desk, closest to the single opening in the wall of file cabinets hastily put up in pattern. Whether Cabinet-Henge was done by Mitchell to provide privacy or Captain Davis to hide Mitchell’s monstrosity was unknown. The result was that the light blocked my vision out of the office from where Mitchell motioned me to sit; I was alone with this man.
“Please, take a seat,” he said as I sat in the hard wooden chair, cherry I think, on the other side of his desk as he sat down in a cherry chair of his own, clasping his cigarette in his mouth. Never once did he mention the mess, he didn’t even see it anymore. With the dexterity of a surgeon, Mitchell pulled out a legal pad from the middle of the pile on his desk and began to write on it with a beautiful red ball-point pen. “Before we begin, I want to notify you that I will be recording this conversation; is that understood?”
“I understand,” I said. I wasn’t listening to him, I was sure that they would be recording it anyway. I was certain Captain Davis would be monitoring this conversation the entire time, even from this dirty, poorly lit corner of the police station.
“When’s the last time you saw Soloman Grey?” he asked first.
“January second of this year” I responded. I learned from Soloman Grey, to not give too much information, only give them the information they officially asked for; do not volunteer anything (unless you do it for a purpose). Give them too much, and they become suspicious; give them too little, they become suspicious.
“And what happened?”
“Soloman Grey invited me over to his house that day, and so I went over and we talked for about an hour or so.”
“And what time was that, do you remember?”
I remembered that day as if it was yesterday. It was yesterday to me, it also seemed like a past life long ago and far away. “He called me in the morning; I arrived during the middle of the day. I am not sure about the time.”
“What did you two talk about?”
Tension gripped me yet again; I knew when Mitchell arrived this morning I would have to tell him something of that day, but I wasn’t entirely sure of whether or not to tell him everything. I couldn’t be sure of what this man knew, whom he had spoken with previously. I had to assume he knew everything, so I had to tell Mitchell the truth, even though it went against all of my training at the hands of Soloman Grey, because if he caught me in a lie about what had transpired that day, I’d be in serious trouble. I began, “Soloman Grey was looking disappear for good, and he wanted my help to pull a job to make some big getaway money.”
Mitchell was shocked by this revelation; I couldn’t read his reaction as to why. Whether he believed me or not, I knew the theory enthralled him. I had Detective Peter Mitchell on the edge of his seat, leaning forward into the mountain of papers on his desk, his chiseled face close to the lamp casting a yellow glow, giving the appearance of a tan. “When you say, ‘pull a job,’ what job do you mean?” He knew which job I meant; he just wanted to see how far I would go, what I would tell him.
“You know,” I said as I gave him cock-eyed smile, a subtle grin that Soloman Grey always used to give me. If he was good at his job at any level, he would be able to put two and two together. I
“January second? You don’t mean the armored truck downtown, do you?” he asked. Mitchell, just like everybody else, knew of the robbery and the miraculous getaway, it had captured the attention of the nation, but like everyone else, he had no idea who pulled off the caper. I had told Soloman Grey that day there was no chance in hell, with the amount of cameras downtown, with the Nevada Gaming Commission, and the sheer amount of police manpower which would come his way that there would be no way on Earth he would escape undetected. But Soloman Grey had a perfect escape plan, and while I knew it worked, I was surprised it worked well enough for the police to know next to nothing about it.
“Yes, that’s the one I mean.” At that moment, my thoughts meandered to the small detached garage in Soloman Grey’s backyard on E Street, which contained a hidden room. Unconsciously, I reached for the key hidden under my shirt around my neck on a gold chain, the brother of which was hidden in my backyard; two of the three keys to that room, and to everything in said room (Soloman Grey had the other). The room officially being in my name, I thought it best to leave out that part of the story.
As my mind focused on the room and the possibility of hitting the lottery after all this had blown over, I couldn’t escape the feeling Mitchell already knew about the room somehow, his eyes now looked directly into mine without blinking. The little room under the garage that I helped build burned like fire on the backside of my head, as if every synapse in my brain stem were firing all at once. However it was happening I had felt it before, like someone was reading my thoughts.
“Are there any other jobs I should know about, concerning Soloman Grey?” Mitchell asked. He was beating around the bush; he was smart enough to not ask about my direct involvement in anything, for now.
He was attempting to backdoor information out of me; I called him out on it, “Look, you asked what we talked about that night, and that was the subject. I am not a narc, and I am not going to incriminate myself or anybody else any more than I already have.” I feigned impatience, but I didn’t want to burst even accidentally, I would do far more damage that way.
Getting the point after first watching me become a bit unglued, he changed the subject. “Do you know of anybody who’d want to kill Soloman Grey?” Mitchell asked me.
I couldn’t control it, I laughed harder than I had laughed my entire life. The sheer inanity of the question shocked me, “Why sir, of course I do. He was in fear for his life, or so he said, that last day I saw him. That’s why he wanted to get away. Moreover, I should think that everybody who ever met Soloman Grey wanted to kill him; he was the world’s biggest manipulator. He controls your life in such a way that you don’t even recognize yourself after leaving his presence. He was on a mission to dominate the entire world and control whomever he could to make that mission a reality. Though I have become the man I am now because of Soloman Grey and I mourn his passing, sadly I feel the world is better for not having him on it, and I don’t blame the person who killed him, because he surely had it coming.”
Mitchell was agreeing with my assessment was he puffed away like a chimney. Relaxing after a long relaxing drag, Mitchell peered towards me, “Okay,” he said, “give me some names of who would want to kill Soloman Grey.”
I rattled names off in the order they came to me and said, “Matthew, Julie, Lenny, Debbie, Veronica, Meghan, Drake, and Alex are the ones that come to my mind right now, but if you give me some time I am sure I can think of more.” I had mentioned more than one deceased person; I wasn’t sure if Mitchell knew.
Mitchell smiled as I said those names; I knew he knew most of them already. None had shocked them, and what’s more he never bothered to ask their last names. “It sounds like a veritable Roman Senate to me; Soloman Grey must be Julius Caesar. Beware the Ides of March,” Mitchell waxed poetically towards me as he took another drag and I shared a knowing chuckle. I had forgotten the date and stared toward the calendar. Today’s date was March 15, 2010.
Europe's on fire, al Qaeda's on the attack? Don't worry, Congress is...passing more bloated budgets, and DHS is clamping down at Wal-Mart
It has been one hectic couple of days in my life, and I am glad to be back on the computer full-time, doing what I love. There are so many things which are upon my mind, I hardly know where to begin...
"Fair and Balanced?" That I cannot say, but the Murdoch-O'Reilly News Agency seems to be moving forward, all right. They are already planning a 2012 Republican Presidential Debate, in 2011! I'm guessing Hannity, Glenn Beck, and even Greta are so anxious to get rid of President Barry, they have decided to skip a year and a half of the King's reign. Personally, I don't blame them, however I must also challenge their credibility.
Me: Hey, remember Al Qaeda?
You: Huh? (still drunk from an early Christmas party) the 9/11 guys?
Me: Yep. It looks like they are attempting to attack us again this Christmas.
You: Did they attack us last Christmas?
Me: Yep. Apparently they have been trying to destroy us for over ten years. We have forgotten about it as a society for a while. Here's some info, though I'm certain things won't get too bad here, right?
Riots seem to be en vogue in Europe, just like hot mistresses. The paragon of peace and freedom for all, Russia is in an uproar over ethnic tensions, Greece is falling apart due to their economy, and Italy might very well be on the brink, as well. Spain, a historically unstable country for generations due to separatist movements, seems ready to lose their AAA credit rating, possibly spelling doom for their government. Don't worry though, so long as the strong European Union exists, there will be bailout money. Right?
In more important, aka American news, Congress' approval ratings are the lowest in the Gallup Poll's history. 83% of Americans disapprove, but don't worry, not only are they attempting to help the situation with $1.1 Trillion in spending, though with many cuts (including $10 Billion more than the President requested in defense), the over-bloated federal bureaucracy seems to be doing rather well.
In Big Sister news, a new iPhone app makes it easier to turn in your "suspicious" friends and neighbors. It'll make going to Wal-Mart easier, at any rate.
With all the stress of the holidays, at least I have a great football team to root for down the stretch. Or do I? The New York Jets are the biggest villains of the entire NFL, and while I do love a good villain, attempting to trip and hinder players from the sideline is not only cheap and low, it is douchebaggy. I don't believe one moment Sal Alosi is the only responsible coach for such things happening. This is but one more example of a poorly-disclipined but talented team who needs a better coach next season, or else they will do a 2010 Dallas Cowboys next season. Fire Rex Ryan, bring in Bill Cowher!!!
"Fair and Balanced?" That I cannot say, but the Murdoch-O'Reilly News Agency seems to be moving forward, all right. They are already planning a 2012 Republican Presidential Debate, in 2011! I'm guessing Hannity, Glenn Beck, and even Greta are so anxious to get rid of President Barry, they have decided to skip a year and a half of the King's reign. Personally, I don't blame them, however I must also challenge their credibility.
Me: Hey, remember Al Qaeda?
You: Huh? (still drunk from an early Christmas party) the 9/11 guys?
Me: Yep. It looks like they are attempting to attack us again this Christmas.
You: Did they attack us last Christmas?
Me: Yep. Apparently they have been trying to destroy us for over ten years. We have forgotten about it as a society for a while. Here's some info, though I'm certain things won't get too bad here, right?
Riots seem to be en vogue in Europe, just like hot mistresses. The paragon of peace and freedom for all, Russia is in an uproar over ethnic tensions, Greece is falling apart due to their economy, and Italy might very well be on the brink, as well. Spain, a historically unstable country for generations due to separatist movements, seems ready to lose their AAA credit rating, possibly spelling doom for their government. Don't worry though, so long as the strong European Union exists, there will be bailout money. Right?
In more important, aka American news, Congress' approval ratings are the lowest in the Gallup Poll's history. 83% of Americans disapprove, but don't worry, not only are they attempting to help the situation with $1.1 Trillion in spending, though with many cuts (including $10 Billion more than the President requested in defense), the over-bloated federal bureaucracy seems to be doing rather well.
In Big Sister news, a new iPhone app makes it easier to turn in your "suspicious" friends and neighbors. It'll make going to Wal-Mart easier, at any rate.
With all the stress of the holidays, at least I have a great football team to root for down the stretch. Or do I? The New York Jets are the biggest villains of the entire NFL, and while I do love a good villain, attempting to trip and hinder players from the sideline is not only cheap and low, it is douchebaggy. I don't believe one moment Sal Alosi is the only responsible coach for such things happening. This is but one more example of a poorly-disclipined but talented team who needs a better coach next season, or else they will do a 2010 Dallas Cowboys next season. Fire Rex Ryan, bring in Bill Cowher!!!
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