My whims often set the standard for the rest of the United States. Mormons won't cross the street until I eat a candied yam. Things like that happen all the time. But I exist off the radar, like a quarter in the bottom of an empty beer mug across the service road from a refereeing school in Wichita. But I don't care. Watch and learn. (REMEMBER SEASON ONE?) - - - - SUPER BOWL An open letter to all video game manufacturers in the known universe. Dear Video Game People, Here is my idea: You've got four guys to choose from. One is ethnic and short. Maybe he has those Mexican army bullets wrapped around his torso. He could play a ukulele when he is happy. One is tall, balding, German perhaps (closet homosexual), a real taskmaster. Another is a cigar-chomping, crew-cutted tyrant. The last is a woman in sweatclothes with jumbo breasts. An ample bosom. Doesn't matter really, most video games are full of stereotypes, and we can figure out what appeals to kids and adults later. Anyway, this is the opening. You choose one. They are marching band leaders. Teachers. You start with nothing, and then, in a Sim-City-esque fashion, try to elevate your band to magnificence. Let me explain: In the early stages, you're in charge of nine deadbeat junior high students in ripped canvas high-tops, unironed uniforms, mismatched socks. They can't march. They're lazy. They're out of tune. Maybe they play four recorders, a bugle and a snare drum. The rest play kazoos or shout. They all perform on a dusty field with no grass. It is your job to instruct them—get them to pay attention, and then enter some competitions. Instructing them isn't a hand-eye thing, and it doesn't mean whapping away on your controller, browbeating them into shape. It is more subtle, like paying attention to the right things. It will grow slowly. If they do well, you get some cash (there can be a little money bag icon in the upper right corner) to work on your marching band. After every competition and semester, you can also lobby the school board for funds. Your character will appear at a little podium, and you will get "reactions" (a color bar that scrolls from sympathetic to unsympathetic and attaches a corresponding dollar amount) to statements you've prepared. You may also show them slow-motion footage of past competitions and use a gavel if you choose. If lobbying works, your band blossoms, and soon more kids want to join the band, and you can pick out better uniforms, etc. (Watch out, though, because even the tailor wants to screw with you.) If you're ineffective as an instructor, and lobbying doesn't work, you'll see instruments rust and decay. Your band will go barefooted and get some sort of pox on their faces. You'll catch them masturbating and getting hooked on tapas. Let's think positive, though: if things are going really well, maybe a kid in your band starts playing a fat, shiny, white tuba. Maybe a guy dressed in a tiger suit starts break-dancing behind them. But with success comes pitfalls, too. You constantly have to keep track of your band members' grades, and there are recruiters who will try to woo your ringers, kids will graduate, and some will turn to drugs. Keep an eye on them, Coach. You'll see your surroundings get better as well. The field will get greener. The bleachers will turn from wood to concrete. The concession stands in the background will have colorful awnings. (There may at some point be an homage to the game Track and Field, where your majorette fires his baton way up high, off screen, and kills a pelican with it, for an extra five grand). You could even wind up in a dome with Astroturf. You'll have to keep track of little budget things like laundry bills, hotel and airline bills, kerosene bills (by the end, you'll have a chance to shoot a flaming goat or donkey out of a cannon at a really big half-time show). Each level will represent a new grade. If you can take the ninth-graders all the way through to college (by then, the marching band should have 152 musicians, 2 majorettes, 3 mascot/dancers, and 1 cannon with 2 optional midgets in tiny cars, but mind your budget), you'll get a raise, and the chance to start all over again. Do I have any takers? Super Bowl Prediction: Giants 23, Ravens 10. - - - - CONFERENCE CHAMPIONSHIPS Minnesota at New York Giants — Prediction: Minnesota. The only way they will lose is if I pick them to win. Baltimore at Oakland — Prediction: Oakland. It is a long flight home. I had been slacking off lately. This week I was going to up the ante and come up with something funny. That didn't happen. Yesterday at work, I got a phone call from a reporter friend of mine from Columbus, Ohio, whom I know but rarely see. We had recently been in touch, and up to that minute, everything that had maybe been unanswered or a mystery had been neatly and efficiently brought up to speed. When he identified himself on the phone, I knew that something was seriously wrong. Our mutual friend, Jerry Wick, the singer of the band Gaunt, had been riding home on his bike late Tuesday night and a car hit him and kept going. He died shortly thereafter. This has nothing to do with football, or humor, but at the risk of sounding like some bloviating blogger who plagues the Internet with the banalities of his life, I'm pretty glad I have this forum. People show up here and actually read this stuff, no matter what. And I think it is pretty important that I tell you about Jerry Wick. I've had about fifty jobs in the last decade and one of them was tour managing his band in the spring of 1998. They had a lot of minor successes: kids loved them, adults loved them, they toured Europe, and they could actually make money or at least break even by touring in the United States. By all accounts, he was a prick, though. If a stranger went to Columbus, walked into a record store and said, "Do you know Jerry Wick?" The clerk would say, "That asshole?" but mean it sorta lovingly. People warned me about him. They said touring with him wouldn't be easy. And he was a drama queen. He would see a story in a newspaper, hear a record, read a book, or eat a sandwich and declare that it had completely changed his life. He'd sometimes start drinking at about two in the afternoon, or he'd yell at his band, or yell at the soundman, or storm out of the club, or whine, or complain, or keep arguing with someone for five or six hours after even he knew he was wrong. He never did that to me, though. We got along quite well. He looked an awful lot like the kid who starred in My Bodyguard, the old Matt Dillon movie where a wimpy high schooler hires a huge dirtball to protect him, but eventually learns to fight for himself. It was a dark little comedy. It was filmed in Chicago at the end of the Carter Administration, and it was overcast the whole time. Maybe it was the film quality, though. It was cheap. It looked like Krakow, or Warsaw—or even worse, Milwaukee—the whole time. Martin Mull and even Ruth Gordon were in it, too. The kid wins in the end, but generally has shitty luck. So did Wick. He was an underdog in every sense of the word. People loved him, but not enough. People bought his records, but not enough. He was signed to a major label, but not for long. Like a lot of folks, Wick's evil was just a defense mechanism. And it was funny. He knew it was hilarious and entertaining, and he usually wasn't happy unless someone else was miserable. He relished the attention. Since no one else could take it, we were roommates on that tour for about two and a half months. I had a blast. He loved to talk about anything. People got sick of hearing it, but I didn't. The band had just bought this 90,000-passenger Ford van, pulled out the middle seats, and stored all the gear there. I met them in Atlanta, and we went counter-clockwise around the entire country. Anyway, if you were driving, you and your co-pilot had no idea what was going on in the back of the van. Wick decided to buy walkie-talkies. He insisted on it. Because they'd been together forever, the band used the most insane jargon to communicate. Everything would be silent for hours on end, and then Wick would pick up the walkie-talkie to check in on the cockpit. He and Jovan Karcic, the guitar player, had come up with phrases that they loved to randomly shout. "Aa-Doooouuusssh," could mean just about anything. So did "10-5-5-1." Except that always had to be said in a southern accent. In Minneapolis, there was a billboard for a local meteorologist, Dave Dahl, a clean-cut-looking, responsible fellow. After seeing it, whenever anything went wrong, the members of Gaunt would simply announce "Dave Dahl, everybody." It just meant, "Here we go again," or "Sweet Jesus," or "Fuck That," or "Why Bother?" and it always worked. Wick loved baseball, so when we got to New York, we took the train to Yankee Stadium. He bought a sweatshirt. I think I have a picture somewhere. I'm sure of it. It was pretty funny. He wasn't Goth, but he always wore a black shirt, black jeans and maroon Chuck Taylors. Always. And he always died his hair black, too. So he looked pretty regular in a Yankees sweatshirt. Like a guy from Long Island, maybe. He was really happy that night. And after babysitting adults for a while, it was calming for me. It felt like another world. Jovan looked exactly like the devil with Brian May's haircut, and would always be the first guy out of bed on tour, making coffee in his room, reading the newspaper, writing, whatever. As people woke up, if they actually woke up before we got kicked out of the hotel, they'd drop in and get a cup of coffee. Jovan is quiet, introspective, smart, and extremely polite. At the mid-point of the tour, we had about a week off in their hometown of Columbus. Wick decided he was gonna bring his espresso machine on the tour, too. It was a fucking mess. He traveled with one backpack, a plastic deli bag full of espresso and hair dye, and one comb. Inevitably, the stuff would always intermingle with each other. Everyone else would be impatiently waiting in the van as Wick scrambled to fill some crappy hotel Styrofoam cup with three ounces of boiling espresso that he absolutely had to have. Then he'd unplug the machine, race out of the room, and leave coffee grounds all over everything. He also used every single towel within five minutes of checking in. We got stuck in a Motel 6 on the outskirts of Oklahoma City during a heat wave, and while everyone else felt restless, Wick loved the downtime. He swam. He stayed up watching a Larry Sanders marathon with me. We watched thirty episodes of The Andy Griffith Show, and we ate four or five dinners at the Jack-In-The-Box one night. He wasn't pissed about any cancelled shows. It was like being in the army, I think. It was amazing getting to see every city in the United States. Reading maps, negotiating a different metropolitan area's rush-hour traffic every day, calling Days Inns, hauling gear, selling merchandise, eating crappy burritos. It felt like we were at war with everything around us. Even bugs. Wick was a hell of a showman. I liked to watch Gaunt after a particularly shitty drive or bad news from the label, or whatever. If the chips were down, you could count on Gaunt to explode. You couldn't back them into a corner. It was almost fun to have adversity with them. They took it out on stage. They never argued after a show. There wasn't enough energy to do anything but drink. They were too fucking tired. It was peaceful. I haven't done any justice here, probably. My thoughts are too scattered. How many times have I typed "always"? What seems funny to me might have gotten lost in translation or my haste to get it written down. But Jerry Wick was real, and if you didn't know him I wish you would have. I'm gonna miss him a whole lot. I loved the guy. - - - - DIVISIONAL PLAYOFFS Now that Monday Night Football is over (or does ABC have the title game? I haven't bothered to research), I am suggesting that other announcers join Al Michaels and Dan Fouts in the broadcast booth for the 2001 campaign. I am also suggesting that this week's games be dubbed "The Mini Super Bowls," because of their grave importance to us, and our upcoming crisis with the Scottish people who have betrayed us. Really, the winner of the Tennessee/Baltimore game should be our world's champion. Anyway, due to sucky ratings, the following people should be given an audition: Jim Morrison — He's dead, but they could conjure up his ghost with a few Pizza Hut candles and some cheap Zinfandel, no? Every white guy in prison in the United States would probably profess that the Doors had some role in his crime and/or lifestyle choices. Whether it was cryptically, through "voices" in the Doors' recorded efforts, or through "visions" while the listener tried out some blotter and gazed at the turntable, Morrison's acolytes have all howled their way through painful existences, but at least they've lived, Baby. What kind of poetry might Jim Morrison craft about a cruel hit that Broncos' LB Bill Romanowski makes? Maybe something like this: "He screamed into Jay Fielder, like a fanged goat, enflamed with syphilis, he crushed that pussy, hard. My man. Because he had to, and that is all the will of the wild Colorado Stallion, and the unforgiven prayer of the inebriated Bronco." And a long pass from Daunte Culpepper to Randy Moss? "Peace be praised, my African brethren, I apologize for agony in this our hour of negative freedom. That pass perpetuated the belief that we can all endure. I feel soulful, right now. How 'bout you, Fouts? You got any spirit left in your thick Charger mother-beard? Or are you merely stapling empty days together while the porpoise finds his victuals?" Rush Limbaugh — They flirted with him before. Most of us can identify with him. His insignificance outweighs his self-importance. Toni Morrison — If Jim Morrison falls through. Bill Walton — Because he is a weird, effervescent hippie, who gets really out there, but is also brutally honest. I love him. He has never uttered this statement, but I'm dying to hear it in his voice: "Ray Lewis inflicted a monsoon of pain on Jeff George and it is about time someone did. He's been coddled like a baby goose at the Pampers Hall of Fame for forever, Al. Jeez. Come on. And speaking of monsoons, that reminds me of Jerry Garcia reigning AND raining over a West Tallahassee pudding bar, after we had voraciously smoked a couple of thermal Indo-bones and were melted. It was stupendous. Butterscotch pudding cannot be denied. And there's nothing like plucking a Malaysian banjo for a three-week sweat lodge, detoxifying and then barking down at least a gallon of warmed pudding, fellas. Nothing like that and a sixer of Ginseng Fruitopia to whet your proverbial whistle. Unless it is a 33-below-zero bomb from Brett Favre to Tony Freeman, who'll haul in the icy pigskin, with no time on the clock, spike the ball, and then maybe thunder out in the locker room to some Phish bootlegs from Manitoba '93. Amen." Ray Suarez — The old NPR guy. The opening Monday Night Party music would change to birch flutes and harps, with an occasional muffled duck call. He could say: "You know, Al, there seems to be no one in the NFL with the middle name Martine. Kofi Annan says it could be due to the fact that the parents of a lot of football-birthed children weren't familiarized with French names, and to me that is a minor tragedy. I wonder what Disraeli might say?" Dan Dierdorf — CBS is like Siberia for Dierdorf, who was used to getting his mug on the prime-time airwaves and gently reminding us that every player today is awesome, but not quite as good as he was. I say bring him and Gifford back. New Orleans at Minnesota — Prediction: New Orleans. Can you believe the Vikings lost to the Falcons in Minneapolis just two years ago? No? Well, this oughta help you remember. Miami at Oakland — Prediction: Oakland. Anything else is impossible. Baltimore at Tennessee — Prediction: Tennessee. The final score will be 5-3. Philadelphia at New York Giants — Prediction: Giants. This could be the ugliest game of the year. Full of penalties and punts. - - - - WILD CARD WEEKEND Last Week: 9-6
There was a flattering story on me in a Minneapolis weekly newspaper. You don't need to read it. If you have, let me make two corrections: I tour managed Gaunt, a group of Columbus misfits, while they toured with Nashville Pussy. I did not have the pleasure of tour managing Nashville Pussy, but I did smoke weed with them in the Denver/Boulder area. The rest of the time I watched them receive accolades from Gene Simmons and George Clinton, and hide from wayward porno stars, and wanna-be porno stars. I also watched their former bassist Corey Parks kick a few dudes in the face from the stage. They are a troubling band. Their manager Peter Davis is a genius. So is, in his own skewered way, their old sound guy, Minneapolis' punk rock producer Tim Mac. He follows his own plan. Make a record with him. Secondly, I worked for the Associated Press in New York, for about two months, not Eau Claire. But I did work for the Eau Claire Leader-Telegram. Working for the Associated Press was painful yet fun. It was a news factory. I had to leave. That's when I started tour managing bands, and contemplating some of the Lord's more difficult questions. A few other things I need to clear up: 1) I broke up with YOU, okay? So just keep your yap shut. 2) Miami coach Dave Wannstedt's mustache is beautiful. I never called it a cookie-duster. 3) The rules of floor hockey never mention free linoleum-burns. I'm sorry I used them. As I am on vacation, I can't write a lot now, but I will return to the computer to flesh out a few ideas. They may be posted or not. It is zero degrees where I am, and I sat in a plane for 19 hours yesterday. Miami will beat Indianapolis. - - - - WEEK SEVENTEEN Last Week: 8-7
Other Transactions. Jacksonville at New York Giants — Montrell Oliver, 30, a sales associate at Bronx Couches, left for Riker's Island Penitentiary. His collection of adult poems was allegedly "inadvertently mailed" to the actress Estelle Getty. Prediction: New York Giants. San Francisco at Denver — Abe Yutters, 49, math teacher, took a leave of absence from Colorado Springs Lincoln Junior High after having overwhelming feelings of grief about a lawn-care lie he told his father in 1976. Prediction: Denver. Buffalo at Seattle — Minnie Walker, 62, retired as dietician for the Seahawks. Her pleas for them to avoid Jack-In-the-Box went largely ignored. Prediction: Seattle. Arizona at Washington — Daniel Patrick Moynihan retired from Senate. Prediction: Redskins. Kansas City at Atlanta — Levi Sherpa, 19, got a new Graphix bong. Prediction: Kansas City. Attendance prediction: Under 15,000. Chicago at Detroit — Wayne Fontes, ex-head coach of the Lions, got some new plumbing at his cottage. Prediction: Lions. Wish: Bears. Tampa Bay at Green Bay — Noah Wurtzel, 20, left St. Norbert College after achieving an 0.49 G.P.A. He has joined the Best Buy Corp. as a sales associate. Prediction: Green Bay. Miami at New England — Tammy Rae Eichelberger, 26, left Brassy's, a strip club, to take some Spanish classes and work on dioramas of New England slaughter yards in the 1850's. Prediction: New England. St. Louis at New Orleans — Skeeziks Munson, 46, left his N.A. meetings, and now "operates out of" (his term) a one-room suite at the Lavender Inn. He requested cable and long-distance phone service. They denied it because he wouldn't put down enough for a deposit. Prediction: New Orleans. They will go far in the playoffs, too. Sorry, Ditka. Cincinnati at Philadelphia — Old Salts bought a 1987 Ford Taurus wagon. Prediction: Philadelphia. New York Jets at Baltimore — We interrupt "Other Transactions" to say that the Jets have really disappointed everyone in New York this year, to the point of having to count on the Giants for football fun. And that is difficult. Prediction: Baltimore. Pittsburgh at San Diego — Greg Afult, 39, of La Jolla, gave up his quest to create a "Smoking Singles" webpage when he spilled a peach Snapple on his "HTML for Dummies" text. He has taken to using his old "I was in the Merchant Marines" line at TGI Friday's. Prediction: Pittsburgh, but don't bet the spread against San Diego; they're gonna try to play ugly and cruel. Minnesota at Indianapolis — June Simmons, 48, changed her tune in her monthly confessional at St. Bede's Church outside of Lafayette, IN. She now admits that her son Dwight will be a virgin for life not because of poor grooming, but because she euthanized his parrot Tony when he went canoeing against her wishes in the summer of 1982. Prediction: Minnesota, because they need it. Carolina at Oakland — Mutt O'Gara, 56, left his three-month stint as a private dick to return to amateur bookmaking. His wife will still manage the Tarot Hut in Stockton, CA, as per his wishes. Prediction: Oakland. Dallas at Tennessee — Troy Aikman, Cowboys' Quarterback, will retire at season's end. Prediction: Tennessee. - - - - WEEK SIXTEEN Last Week: 11-4
We are proud to say that:
A message about football from our new President, George W. Bush: I am happy to be presidenting the United States towards our further and cautious inching into the new and indeterminate millennial. My fondest hope about sports is that someone wins. And that is a cherished hope on my behalf because there can and will be a clear winner, unlike the five-week delay we endured at the hands of American Democrats during the last election, one in that, I was pronounced the sole winner by the Superior Court. I was pronounced "number uno" by many of you, and I offer a swift thank you. Many NFL football teams are looking ahead at the playoff pictures and saying "How can I get in?" And with that, I have a wish for them all to make it, but only a few chosen can travel into the foggy future of playoffs. I think if a team loses, at this time of year, I can clear it up by saying, "Go home. You are out." Unless, there is a round robin-effect that I am not certain of? Has a round robin-effect been passed into the playoff-tiered system of winner-determination? Most likely not. It is something we should look into though, if these boys want to keep challenging each other far into the winter of 2001. Lord knows they are getting the solid paychecks to entertain most of us. By the way, I am in ownership of a team of professionally seasoned baseball athletes. I think I still own the Texas Rangers. I can check, and probably has something back to you by the weekend. But I am not an aggressive owner, and on the sidelines or in the dugouts. I sit back and let them do their jobs, and then I send faxes if what I see doesn't live up to my expected expectations and forecasts. I know that you all would like to see a decrease in felonies committed by our pro athletes and I say, "I hear your pain." How can I, as the President address this? Well, let me say that I go to football games, and many of them are great hosts, in fine stadiums and the culinary... nachos, hot dogs, with several condiments, are enjoyable. I think this is step number one, if we are to achieve something of epic and visionary impotence. I'm sure no one will disagree or unconcur with that. And now there is a ringing answer, I say look to our teams in Pensacola, Sacramento, and Tucson as BIG winners of close games. Those are fun bets. I'd make them with seniors or challenged citizens or YOU, any time. I'd wager an unopened cask of mother Bush's Christmas porridge. I'll also wager that in my four years, I will tackle this recession and make sure a lot more poor people have computers, if not to own, than to rent or look at. With the Micro, or, and, the Microsoft. And in terms of public transportation, and this ties into football too, there are traffic jams...on the way to work and games! I believe that if people rode mules it would lessen decongestion of our freeways, and make them safe for people who have nice cars and more important jobs. Get it? There are shortcuts to take with mules, too. Why, it wouldn't be difficult to cut through steep mountain passes on a mule or even Newark City's busy thorough-commons. I think if minority actors and singers rode them first, they'd get "cool," but I am not above getting a Janet Reno, or a James Baker on a mule, or even one of those strong ostriches, if it will help people. And there is still bikes too. Jeez. That's another thing, and we should ride them when it isn't cold. And that solves that. Shit, I'm not even in office yet, and a lot of this stuff is clearing right up. Finicky people will say, "Mr. Bush, you made a lot of money through oil, how can you endorse mule rides to busy football games in Milwaukee, Raleigh/Durham, and Boise?" and I will say, "It is something I should realistically examine more." But I have not only compassionate conservatism, but happy hope, and playful pragmatism, and if need be, aggressive asshole-ism. So, if you think about it, there's more thought we could all put into animal-based transportation, isn't there? It shouldn't be up solely to me, but to those who want, or have the desire to travel by mule. And if we did it incrementally, it could be a slow conversion. So, I am looking forward to the next couple of rounds of the Super Bowl, and it is always nice that they are spread out through our country, our North American country of states that are united by wins and losses. And we all know that it is never over until it is completed, or done. We should take that to the bank. Washington at Pittsburgh — Prediction: Pittsburgh. Oakland at Seattle — Prediction: Oakland New England at Buffalo — Prediction: Buffalo. Jacksonville at Cincinnati — Prediction: Cincinnati, yes. Tennessee at Cleveland — Prediction: Tennessee. Denver at Kansas City — Prediction: Denver. Green Bay at Minnesota — Prediction: Minnesota. Atlanta at New Orleans — Prediction: New Orleans. Detroit at New York Jets — Prediction: New York Jets. San Diego at Carolina — Prediction: Carolina. Chicago at San Francisco — Prediction: San Francisco. Indianapolis at Miami — Prediction: Miami. Baltimore at Arizona — Prediction: Baltimore, though they will have a let down. New York Giants at Dallas — Prediction: New York Giants; they can taste the sweet boiled cake of victory. St. Louis at Tampa Bay — Prediction: St. Louis, in a shocker. - - - - WEEK FIFTEEN Last week: 12-3
Grades of previous weeks' picks, and fan notes on tickets, etc. (We're getting close to wrapping up the season, and there are some new readers, so this guide will tell you what to go back and relish, or what to avoid.) New England at Chicago — Week 1. A strong and bizarre start. A-. From Wade Yudders, 39, DeKalb, IL. I got these tickets through Sunshine Insurance and Casualty. Some s.o.b. from there had been calling my daughter and trying to sell her an auto package, and then he went and gave her his home phone number. That wasn't kosher with me. That's a telemarketing no-no, and I should know. I sold fertilizer and lawn care premiums, via telephone, from 1991-1997. Took third in sales in '93, thank you very little. But I never did nothing like that, and that's Gospel. So I got on and said, "Get me your boss." His boss gets on and I say, "Vicki's gonna be married in May, so she ain't interested in your wares, capeesh?" He plays dumb and I said, "Ever heard of the Better Business Bureau? We don't take calls from swinging singles at this number." Then that jarred his morals, you know? He said "How about we settle this mano-a-mano?" I said, "I like the Bears." And we got the tickets. Case closed. Prediction: Chicago. Philadelphia at Cleveland — Week 2. I was rusty but there's some good material if you search. Still, kinda weak. C. From Lionel Foster, 49, Cleveland Heights: I run a drum and bugle corps, and honestly Browns tickets weren't what I had in mind, but I got outvoted. I like museums, and especially wax museums that feature old English lasses in frilly undergarments. But that's neither here nor there, I suppose. I might usually say that I'm boss, but we have a lot of the kids dropping out, so I am kinda at the mercy of the program. We got a heck of a group discount, and I have some things I can work on in the stands if the gang doesn't get too rowdy. We'll try and have a good time. Prediction: Philadelphia. Detroit at Green Bay — Week 3. The Bobby Knight story at the end is good, the rest stink. C-. From Mike Steinke, 29, DePere: Once upon a time, when I was doing a lot of pinch-hitters down in the rec room, I didn't have enough pride to hold down a job for too long. I watched the Pack topple, um, whoever's ass they kicked in the Super Bowl a few years ago, from a hospital bed, 'cause I had some... I had a screw loose. That's what the common terminology is. Then Father Tim came to see me, and I tried to get all tough with him, and he said to me, make a choice, basically. And I was gonna say get the heck outta here. And he said, coincidentally, 'cause God is gonna say get the heck outta here. And I said, Gee Father Tim, I don't think God would say that. And he said, Oh really Mike? You think you know what God would say? That's pretty Goddamn funny. God is one tired bastard, and if you think he's pleased as punch to see one of his flock making a pile of mistakes, well then you're just as wrong as rain. And I said, God's mad? And he said, God's more than mad. So then we started bowling and taking walks, and I went to some crummy meetings, but I found out the crummy meetings helped me, and now I'm gonna go to my first professional football game sober, and I'm gonna try to leave my first professional football game sober. And to me the score won't matter. Prediction: Packers. Cincinnati at Tennessee — Week 4. Forgotten Moments in the Forgotten Football Leagues of America was top-notch. The rest of the picks were forced, and had a phoned-in feel. B. From Dwight Sliwka, 9, Athens, OH: I've been taping every Bengals game this season and then trying to run some of their more successful plays at recess. My yardage is down this year. It is sorta tough to throw after eating hot lunch. I have given up on the Bengals. Prediction: Tennessee. Carolina at Kansas City — Week 5. The Randall Cunningham interview was good, and the fake e-mail was too, then the rest of the picks kind of sucked. B-. Prediction: Kansas City. Tampa Bay at Miami — Week 6 was genius. A. Prediction: Miami. Pittsburgh at New York Giants — Week 7. The "ham" story is sort of funny. C. One exercise I often try is pretending that Steelers' coach Bill Cowher is really into the Dave Matthews Band. And he's in his office with steel-blue sunglasses on, and headphones on, and an Austin 3:16 shirt on, and no one's gonna get him down. That way, when I run out of things he does that bother me, I fall back on that. Of course, pretending Giants' coach Jim Fassel takes Jacuzzis with his team in vintage corduroy OP shorts while eating baby Three Musketeers bars isn't a bad device either. Prediction: New York Giants, in bad weather. Arizona at Jacksonville — Week 8. The Team Fight Songs idea was good. A. This game thunders of Zubaz. There might be more people at this game whose parents bailed and cajoled them out of long jail sentences than at any other game in recent memory. There will be a lot of pig cooking in the parking lot. And there will be women who drink beer and women who drink wine coolers. They won't fight about that, though; they're all there to party. Prediction: Jacksonville. San Diego at Baltimore — Week 9. The Pep Talks. Good, but the rest was flat. B. Prediction: Baltimore. Seattle at Denver — Week 10. A misfire. Some laughs. Not many, though. C-. My best gal goes to Denver for the weekend. I will miss her. But she won't be at the game. Prediction: Denver. Washington at Dallas — Week 11. Elaborate election-based conceit. Full of detail, yet not overly hilarious. C+. Prediction: Washington. Minnesota at St. Louis — Week 12. "If/Then" picks. Enjoyable. Especially the New Orleans one. B. Prediction: St. Louis. New Orleans at San Francisco — Week 13. All over the place. Some genius. Some crap. C+. Prediction: San Francisco. New York Jets at Oakland — Go to mrbellersneighborhood.com and look for a story about the Jets and halftime in the archive. It is a brilliant tale. Prediction: Oakland. Buffalo at Indianapolis — Week 14. "If this game were a..." picks. Decent concept. Okay execution. B. Prediction: Buffalo, because Indianapolis is getting worse. - - - - WEEK FOURTEEN Last week: 7-8
Detroit at Minnesota — If this game were a beer: It would be pretty warm, and pretty light. The ad campaign would be flashy. You would want to buy it, but midway through, you'd be disappointed. Then your kid would find the rest of the six-pack in the garbage and drink it all. He'd take your family wagon through the front window of a credit union and do four years at a reform school. He'd really know to play the bugle when he got out and you'd just shake your head. Prediction: Vikings. Seattle at Atlanta — If this game were a beach: The sand would be fake. No one would be there, and yet you'd feel claustrophobic. Your parents would call you on the cell phone that was sitting on your towel. The family dog would be missing. The sun would hide behind some clouds. You'd weep. Prediction: Atlanta. Miami at Buffalo — If this game were a car: It would be a rusty Pontiac Fiero. The cloth seats would be doused with Polo by Ralph Lauren. One window wouldn't roll up. There'd always be the faint smell of exhaust coming in. Hence, you figure, the cologne. It would always make you mad. Prediction: Miami. Arizona at Cincinnati — If this game were a trampoline: It would be missing the trampoline part. And the lawn underneath it wouldn't have been mowed. Prediction: Cincinnati. Denver at New Orleans — If this game were an airport: There'd be a bar called Mickey's. Everyone would be drinking Black Russians. There'd be a shop where you could buy a flag from every state in the union. A hippie from a cancelled flight would be playing a Tracy Chapman song on a steel drum. Prediction: New Orleans. Tennessee at Philadelphia — If this game were a belt: It would be black. The notches would be all worn in. There'd be a scuff from the time your ex-wife tried to hit you with it. The jailer would take this belt away when you went to the slammer for trying some weird fraudulent thing at Nobody Beats the Wiz. Prediction: Tennessee. Oakland at Pittsburgh — If this game were a can of tuna: It would be the kind nobody buys except lonely blue-collar workers and single moms who play the Lotto. There'd be a story a tough guy would catch in Reader's Digest about all the vitamins in tuna. He'd call his ma about an infection and she'd grill him on his diet. He'd go to the store and say, "Tuna's tuna," and buy it. Prediction: Pittsburgh. Dallas at Tampa Bay — If this game were a suntan lotion: It would smell strangely of apricot and broken promises. Prediction: Tampa Bay. New York Giants at Washington — If this game were a meeting: Someone would be getting chewed out for forgetting to cc Donald about the third-quarter slump due to an outbreak of the flu in some Midwestern states. The person getting chewed out would insist it wasn't his fault. Someone else would say, "That's no excuse." When the meeting ended, the not-my-fault guy would drive home and hear a song by the band Bread, and think of all the people in the world who don't love him. Then he'd get the sports page and read it at a Blimpie. Prediction: Washington. St. Louis at Carolina — If this game were a mugging: It would be fast, ugly, and not much would be taken, because you'd have a twenty and your house keys in your sock, because you know better. Prediction: Carolina. San Francisco at San Diego — If this game were your old high school crush: She'd be on the phone trying to sell bulk cleaning products to hotels and nursing homes. You'd remember a postcard she once sent that said, "Sink or Swim." You'd start looking for an old snorkel. Prediction: San Francisco. Indianapolis at New York Jets — If this game were lightning: It would go through the head of an old sheep on a wet hill who was going to die anyway. Prediction: New York Jets. Cleveland at Jacksonville — If this game were a family on vacation: Two children wouldn't be talking because one forgot to ask for syrup on his waffles at the last stop, and resents the one who said "Maple" when it was her turn. The father would be drinking decaf coffee by accident, and the mother would be trying to think of when she quit smoking. Prediction: Jacksonville. Green Bay at Chicago — If this game were actually a game: It would say, "Remember when we used to be a Monday Night Football Game? And then it would say, "Yeah," and sigh longingly. Prediction: Green Bay. Kansas City at New England — If this game were a truant officer: It would be out of bed early, but never fair. Prediction: New England. - - - - WEEK THIRTEEN Last week: 8-7
New Orleans at St. Louis — If you visit my predictions from last Thanksgiving, you'll know that a lot of "special" things have happened to me on and about this holiday. This year has been no exception. Last night, I went to see a band that I had to write about for my real job: The Wu-Tang Clan. Their new record, The W, came out yesterday. I tracked them around town for a while this fall, and got to know them in that shallow, yet lovable, way that only a journalist can. The guy I really love, Ol' Dirty Bastard, hadn't been able to do much for the record because he was in a rehab facility in California, under court orders, and couldn't get out much. Do a web search on him if you want a run-down of all the trouble he's in. He's been shot, has 13 kids, got into a gunfight with the NYPD and sued them, and been busted for drugs a couple of times. He's also saved a couple of people's lives. He's fucked up, but he's a superhero. About a month and a half ago, he snuck away, got hold of a cell phone, made a bunch of calls, and then quietly returned to the facility. He knew he'd be in more trouble, but everything seemed A-OK. The band talked a lot about missing him and praying for him and all that stuff, and then a week or two after the cell phone incident, he ran away from the facility for good. The cops weren't happy. The judges weren't happy. No one knew where he was, or at least that's what they said. It kind of tarnished the whole project, because he is such a big part of what the Wu-Tang Clan is all about. Anyway, for their record release party, Wu-Tang played the Hammerstein Ballroom, which holds around 2,000-3,000 people. It took 45 minutes to get in. The people sneaking ahead of me in line weren't the sort of characters one would reprimand for such behavior. Wu-Tang decided, in a show of goodwill, to give their fans an open bar. So I got a few in me. They'd only give you one at a time, but I told the bartender that my friends were in the bathroom, so she gave me enough drinks for all of "them." Apparently that's what everyone else did too. Several times. It was pure chaos from the word go. So the show starts and the group does a few songs, and then the piano sample from Ol' Dirty's hit "Shimmy Shimmy Ya" comes on and the group leader RZA announces they have a special guest. Dirty, on the lam from every authority under the sun, comes out and does his stuff. The place went ballistic. It was genius, and inspirational in a Rocky Balboa sort of way. Then me and my gal bailed in the middle of the last song to beat the crowd. Out in front, in a giant orange parka, with a couple of thug handlers, Ol' Dirty Bastard walked by. He made it past all the cops. They had no idea who he was. I went to shake his hand but the handlers told us to get the hell away from him and stop drawing attention. Then he stopped and shook our hands and asked, "Hey who loves you?" I said, "ODB," and he said, "You goddamn right." It was only on the cab ride home that I got the idea of inviting him over for Thanksgiving. Prediction: St. Louis. Chicago at New York Jets — Please email me about spare tickets for this contest. That is your first priority. Prediction: New York Jets. New England at Detroit — Why I Think I'd Be a Good Ref, by Bill Pertlund, Jr., of Livonia, Michigan: Well, let me see. One thing is I like the game of football, and am fair and impartial to "most" causes. I put "most" in quotes, because there's a lot of cocksuckers out there who don't deserve an even break. Like the ones who toilet-papered my house on last 31 October. When my wife and children were taking it down (it must've taken six hours), I sat on the sofa thinking about why someone would do something like that to a decent family man like me. I presume it was jealousy. No one who vandalizes would get a fair shake from me in the NFL. That's just how it works. And I'm sure the Commissioner would agree. I might turn a blind eye to the occasional late hit or face mask, but if I heard an S.O.B. on either squad had once egged a house or some such, I'd be on his case like a broken jar of molasses all afternoon. But I like my sales job right now, and to be honest, I don't believe they'd want someone like Bill "Eagle Eye" Pertlund determining what's fair in the NFL or not. They're all just a bunch of spoiled millionaires anyway. That reminds me about the time I got kicked off of jury duty, simply because I thought arson wasn't all that abominable. Unless you are the victim of it. And I agree that might not be pleasant, but a felony? Come on, people! But, none of this would come into play if I was on the sideline in my zebra stripes. Yes, I think I have the "goods." And the "goods" are the skills and fairness to put me in the upper echelon of referees today. Prediction: Detroit. Minnesota at Dallas — Pre-Thanksgiving Tension, Volume One: In line for my morning waffles in the corporate cafe |