- - - -
Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
- - - -
COMPILED BY JEFF JOHNSON - - - - These picks are not intended for use by people who gamble, and will generally not contain rhymes, question marks or other tall punctuation. Residents of Fairbanks, Alaska, Hebardville, Georgia, and Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin may find the picks to be the exact opposite of what is stated in the text as it actually occurs on said web page/browsing device. Readers of predictions may be asked, at some point during the upcoming football season, to spend an afternoon with a marketing intern from a nearby state college, sampling various advancements in the field of snack foods, canned sodas, pudding, sherbet, ethnic sitcom pilots, hand-held paging and reference devices, and filling out surveys. - - - - WEEK TWELVE The Market corrected itself last week, 13-2.
Three Johnsonesque Thanksgiving Tales 1) We Won't Rock You. On Thanksgiving 1991, I was fortunate enough to have quite a little fanzine going. Things were going so well that a gentleman in Minneapolis started getting me into a lot of free concerts and loading me up with CDs. I was pretty thankful about it all. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were playing at the Roy Wilkins Auditorium in St. Paul on the Friday after Thanksgiving, and my buddy hooked me up with four or five floor tickets. This was when the band had still had a shred of dignity and self-respect, and didn't have to cover their bellies with neon cummerbunds to try and fake like they were skinny. I assume there's been a lot of narcotics and a lot of nachos in their camp over the last decade. Anyway, once the word got out about the free tickets I had a lot of new friends, however, I decided to take my roommate, his girlfriend and a couple of other shitheads that I hung around with. We lived just over an hour away and it started snowing on Thanksgiving night and continued until about May 15th of the following year. It was the kind of snow that makes all the kielbasa-fed people's hearts explode into a million pieces if they try to shovel. Each flake must have weighed a pound and held a gallon of water. By the time we left on Friday afternoon, we were about the only stupid bastards who'd dare put a vehicle on the highway, but we were gonna see this show by hook or crook, because Pearl Jam and the Smashing Pumpkins were the opening acts. Can you imagine that? It is true. Things were a lot different in the early 1990's, people. Tavist-D wasn't even on the market yet, and businessmen had to masturbate to pornographic videocassettes, not the Internet. My roommate's girlfriend wanted to drive because her parents had a conversion van with a television and thirty-odd reclining seats. We were always running late in those days because there was a marijuana problem, and my roommate would often look everywhere in our house for his keys except his left hand. Once we got going, we were in a bit of a quandary because of the weather and our tardiness. But we forged ahead. The girlfriend was a fetching young lass with absolutely no self-confidence. As soon as she started driving, she immediately announced that we were going to crash, that she was scared, and that she couldn't see. She wouldn't let anybody else drive though. So my roommate, who was riding shotgun, promptly fell asleep with a bag of those hot-purple Cheetos in his lap. I was in the back nervously checking my watch and vaguely paying attention to "What About Bob?" which was on the TV. She was driving seven or eight miles an hour and every truck that passed submerged the van in a mountain of snow. She'd clench her teeth and close her eyes, and veer toward the ditch. When the concept of "Baby Steps," came up in the movie, I cracked everyone up by saying, "Baby Steps, ten miles an hour, Baby Steps, fifteen miles an hour," but she didn't find that too amusing. When we got to the show, Pearl Jam was just ending their "high-voltage" set. The crowd was a puzzled hodgepodge of hippies, Goth kids and Aryan-funkateers. There were even metalheads, because you couldn't really determine the Pearl Jam demographic then, except that they all had long filthy tresses, and they were all crybabies. Smashing Pumpkins fans were way worse, though. Billy Corgan hadn't quite made his mark as the alterna-martyr, but to his few suburban-hipster, clove-smoking fans, who were incessantly shouting out obscure song titles, and hyperventilating in between every tune, well, he was pretty much their Marshall Applewhite, or David Koresh, or John Lennon, or whoever. The roommate and his girlfriend went up to the balcony to take a few Xanax and complain about how tough the ride home was gonna be, and it was just Blaire Bundy and me on the floor. Corgan refused to believe that he was going bald in those days, so he wore his red hair in a scraggly, receding tangle. He had a huge sweater on and purple denim pants that were unflatteringly baggy in the ass. Bundy looked at me after about four songs and said, "Who is this sad sack?" We got a lot of angry looks from our neighbors, who kept on praising Corgan. After a couple more songs, Corgan came to the front of the stage and said, "Listen, it is cool of you guys to shout out songs, but we're just in our own groove up here, and we're really not listening to anything you say tonight." The crowd was aghast. I was laughing my ass off, and I nudged Bundy and said, "Well how about this one, do you know 'Fuck you'?". At the moment that I said it, I figured that the band was going to start playing again, so I kind of shouted it. As soon as "Fuck you," came out of my mouth, the arena was dead silent; Corgan and about 1700 people heard me loud and clear. Corgan was astonished. Everyone on the floor was sneering at me. Corgan set down his guitar and walked to the front of the stage and said, "Fuck me? Fuck you, Pal." Then there was a smattering of cheers from his minions. I had to respond. I yelled, "Just play your songs and change your diaper, you bastard." Then Bundy fell over laughing and Corgan dedicated a song to "The Asshole," who I presume was me. It was a minor success in my book, I'd say. 2) Heavy D Once I got in a tussle with a fat white guy on Thanksgiving Eve. I had already committed the Cardinal Sin of eating a turkey sub at bar time, and removing my surveillance device that the local police had strapped to my ankle, so I was going for the sheer rebellion trifecta. As I drunkenly consumed the sandwich, a white guy and his homely girlfriend came into the shop. He was pretending that he was MC Street Cred, and trying to use a lot of hip-hop lingo, so I interrupted his soliloquy and asked him if he was supposed to be the white Heavy D. He tried to choke me. 3) Facewash! On Thanksgiving Day at my grandma's house one year there was a massive snowstorm. There was a giant sledding hill in her front yard. I was six years old, and all my cousins were in town, gleefully eating turkey and tobogganing down the hill. There was a family of whiny little girls across the street, who'd later on grow up to steal one another's boyfriends, and dress them in the putrid pre-Gap togs of County Seat. One of the girls launched a snowball and volleyed it across the street narrowly missing my sister's head. My older cousin Jeff (yes Jeff), who liked to shoot sparrows off our pontoon with a .357, saw this as an indisputable act of hostility, so to impress him I went over and tackled the smallest girl and gave her a facewash. NFL WEEK 12 Thursday, November 25
Miami at Dallas -- Miami. Sunday, November 28
Jacksonville at Baltimore -- Baltimore. Cincinnati at Pittsburgh -- Pittsburgh. Tennessee at Cleveland -- Tennessee. Arizona at NY Giants -- Giants. Philadelphia at Washington -- Washington. San Diego at Minnesota -- Minnesota. New Orleans at St. Louis -- St. Louis. Tampa Bay at Seattle -- Seattle. NY Jets at Indianapolis -- Indianapolis. Kansas City at Oakland -- Oakland. Atlanta at Carolina -- Carolina. Green Bay at San Francisco -- Green Bay. - - - - WEEK ELEVEN Last Week: 8-6-1.
Ring the alarm. We have a winner. The contest is over. It is Dan Fogelberg, a musician. At least he says he is. He gets an "A" for effort, but now I can't get rid of him. This is how it all happened, in real-time: Sunday morning Fogelberg pulls up in front of my apartment in a 1995 royal blue Dodge Dakota pick-up truck (California plates) waving a piece of yellow legal paper. The payload of the truck is filled with tree frogs, and old Sunshine Family sleeping bags. He has a rumpled butterscotch-colored Carhartt jacket on, and a frumpy woman in a batik Houston Oilers' dress is exiting the passenger seat. She is carrying an acoustic guitar (presumably his). She's wiping sleep out of her eyes. There's a Thermos full of what looks to be tomato soup falling out his door and spilling in the gutter. Jocelyn Wildenstein, the feline-faced divorcee is around, too. She spent the evening at my apartment. She is the final conquest in my bid to seduce all the living wives of the former Vice Presidents of the United States. She's never been the wife of a Vice President, but nobody knows that, and neither does she. She's got a wig on that makes her look like Marilyn Quayle. I barrel down the stairs and out the front door. Fogelberg has been honking his horn out front for fifteen minutes. Dan: Johnson, I presume? Me (on the stoop): Yes? Dan: How do? Me: Not bad. I got a doorbell, you know. Dan (in a panic): Your contest. I have WebTV. I fell off the stage in Pasadena a year and a half ago. My nurse bought me WebTV, and I am on the world wide web all the time now. Me: Take it easy. Dan: I had a cast up to my thigh. I have an essay. I drove it out here. Me: Please. You seem to be walking fine now. Stage? What were you doing? Dan: Performing my songs. Me: Oh yeah. Dan: I am a singer/songwriter. Dan Fogelberg. The premier singer/songwriter of the 1980s. Jocelyn (leaning out window): Kenny Loggins. Now there was a singer/songwriter. "Top Gun" soundtrack. Who's down there? I can't see a thing without my fucking monocle. Me (to Jocelyn): Don't rightly know, says his name's Fogelberg. Would you put some clothes on? Jocelyn: (not listening, she has no clothes on): How you like your Eggos? I set the toaster on stun. Me: Ha Ha. Jocelyn: No, seriously, the dial is on the light orange part, but I can set it on burnt umber or something, if need be. We got any poached pears? I want poached pears. Wouldn't a poached pear be a good topping for a toaster waffle? Huh? Me: Go get the goddamn newspaper, Jocelyn. Dan: I am Dan Fogelberg. Read my essay. Me: It is not even Thanksgiving. Dan: We want to move in. Just for a while. I am still getting mechanicals on "Leader of the Band." It will all be back to normal soon. At this point, Donald Regan, the old Secretary of the Treasury shows up again (see earlier weeks). So the cat's out of the bag. We live on King Street, ok? Regan's in town doing a reading at the Astor Place Barnes and Noble and looking for a stray piece of ass if he can get it for the right price. He's been at the bagel shop on the southwest corner of King and Varick. Donald: "Leader of the Band," ehh? That song makes me cry. (looking up at my window) Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, is that Jocelyn Wildenstein? Me: No. Dan's Wife: I am Suzette. Donald: Not you. (does a double take) Well, well, well, Crepes Suzette, perhaps? Dan: She's Suzette, my valet and lover. She was a Naval officer, Donald. Jocelyn: She's a pain in the hindquarters and not much to look at. Why'd ya bring her when the contest was just for one person? Dan: If I left her at home I woulda had to kiss her good-bye. Donald: Touché, Macramé. Suzette: I don't want turkey. I want haggis. Me: How do you even know that you've won the contest? Dan (pleading): Look at us. For the love of God, just look at us. Donald: Don't be such a fucking spoilsport, Jeff. Me: That's easy for you to say, Regan. Walking around town getting hookers with a goddamn advance from Mort Janklow. What stories do you possibly have left to tell, anyway? Donald (walks out into traffic and starts dancing in between speeding taxis): There's gonna be new ones, Pardner! I'm climbing the World Trade Center tonight. I'm gonna tear this damn city in two, and what I can't screw, I'm gonna buy, and what I can't buy, I'm gonna sell, and what I can't sell, I'm gonna kill! Can't you feel the magic? Are you such a prick that you won't allow an old music man a turkey dinner? Jocelyn (shutting window): This is crap. Me: Shut your yap! I've treated you a thousand times better than that crooked art dealing bastard! Donald (jumping back on curb): Just read the essay. Let's calm down. Everything's fine now. Dan: Just read the essay. It is exactly 300 words. I was a quarterback for Chula Vista High School. I dated Colleen Werthmann once, too. Me: She's everywhere. Suzette: Haggis. end of scene Fogelberg's essay wasn't half bad. I may run it next week. Regan's on his way to Havana. New England at Miami -- Prediction: Miami. Buffalo at NY Jets -- Prediction: NY Jets. Pittsburgh at Tennessee -- Prediction: Tennessee. Seattle at Kansas City -- Prediction: Seattle. Indianapolis at Philadelphia -- Prediction: Indianapolis. Detroit at Green Bay -- Prediction: Green Bay. Atlanta at Tampa Bay -- Prediction: Tampa Bay. Carolina at Cleveland -- Prediction: Cleveland. Baltimore at Cincinnati -- Prediction: Baltimore. Dallas at Arizona -- Prediction: Arizona. NY Giants at Washington -- Prediction: Washington. Chicago at San Diego -- Prediction: San Diego. St. Louis at San Francisco -- Prediction: St. Louis. New Orleans at Jacksonville -- Prediction: Jacksonville. Oakland at Denver -- Prediction: Denver. - - - - WEEK TEN Ugly. 6-8 last week.
The NFL picks page announces a contest just in time for the Thanksgiving holiday. Many of us are often lonely, or far away from our loved ones at this time of year, and I know firsthand how difficult that can be. That is why I am inviting all seven of my readers to submit a 300-word essay describing why they should spend Thanksgiving Day watching the Chicago Bears and eating turkey with me, the NFL predictions prognosticator for McSweeney's. The contest winner will be treated to a free meal at Chez Johnson, and the three runners-up may watch us eat dinner from the street, if they so desire. My sister and I have a lovely apartment in Soho. She's a good cook, but abhors televised sports, so it could get tricky. Personally, I think she will be out-numbered by football fans, so she's going to have to deal with it. McSweeney's contributor and resident plagiarist Mike Topp and his beloved sidekick Fall, with a really long Dutch last name, will be joining us, as well as Chicago jazz and indie-rock luminary Noel Kupersmith. Fall punched me in the face last week, so if you win the contest you may want to watch out for her. There will be a few other people on hand, too. Here are the rules and regulations:
Miami at Buffalo -- Prediction: Buffalo. Cleveland at Pittsburgh -- Prediction: Pittsburgh. Tennessee at Cincinnati -- Prediction: Tennessee. Indianapolis at NY Giants -- Prediction: Indianapolis. Washington at Philadelphia -- Prediction: Washington. Minnesota at Chicago -- Prediction: Chicago. Kansas City at Tampa Bay -- Prediction: Who gives a shit? San Francisco at New Orleans -- From my 1997 Saints' Training Camp Diary: "There is a certain contingent of fans though, who are no less rabid than the reporters. Fifty to a hundred kids of all ages wielding Sharpies arrive early each morning. They hang on the chain link fences with runny noses, cleats, and binders full of football cards, howling at the players and making outrageous demands: "Sign my wig!" "Tape Mannix for me!" "Get my dad's teeth out from under the couch!" "Reintroduce a stronger strain of Polio to France!" The fans here, in a way, are like gold prospectors going after as many signatures as possible, panning for the one that might someday be good for a down payment on a used Ford Escort. They indiscriminately ask any shmo for his John Hancock without any idea who the player actually is. There is little to no difference in their zeal to collect the autographs of third-string rookie punters from Southwest Appalachia Banjo Repair School and veteran Pro-Bowlers alike. Even the assistant to the equipment manager is treated with the same awe usually reserved for middle brother in the band Hanson. On the other hand, there are those fans who know exactly who the third-string punter is, and, well, they are equally disturbed." Prediction: New Orleans. Because San Francisco is that friggin' bad. Carolina at St. Louis -- Kurt Warner. All-Pro or lucky grocery bagger? Prediction: St. Louis. Baltimore at Jacksonville -- Prediction: Jacksonville. San Diego at Oakland -- Prediction: Oakland. Detroit at Arizona -- Prediction: Detroit. Green Bay at Dallas -- Prediction: Green Bay, only because of the injuries. Denver at Seattle -- Prediction: Seattle. NY Jets at New England -- Prediction: New England. - - - - WEEK NINE Last Week: 8-5-1
Buffalo at Washington -- Fantasy League Pointers, Part One:
When I worked at Mr. Steak in Whittier, CA (before I worked for Mr. Steak's
Corporate Headquarters in Bakersfield, CA, as part of the Franchise
Inspection Unit's Silverware and Utensil Management Branch-- or FIUSUMB, to
those in the know) our crew chief had quite a bad marijuana habit. As such, my
duties were limited to babysitting, dishwashing, and complaining about the
Los Angeles Rams. I also handled the lion's share of all the iceberg lettuce
coordination, inventory and preparation. After work, I would often ride
around in the death seat of the head cook's Camaro. He was a 36 year-old
minimum wage-playboy named Oliver. As we made our way back to his clapboard
duplex for some bong maintenance, he'd say, "I have a good plan." The plan
usually involved nothing more than staying up all night working on a meth
recipe, reading intense passages from Tolkien to each other, talking about
how bad white men have things in the USA, waking his kids up to look at a
Lego women's prison that he had drunkenly assembled, or playing Tecmo Bowl
on the old 8-bit Nintendo system. There was no real point I was trying to
make.
Tennessee at Miami -- One E-Mail I Received About the NYC Marathon and
Hating Bill Maas: Tim made no mention to me about coming for the marathon.
I'd rather clip off my nuts than run a marathon. I need to tape my ankles
and Ben-Gay the shit out of my back just to go out and get a cheeseburger.
Somebody should arrest [CBS Announcer] Bill Maas. He is a class A jackass:
"Hey Ronnie, why do people hate me? I'm doing the work, I say 'smash-mouth'
all the time, and no one really knows whether it is me or Madden talking
until they hear Summerall knock over his bottle of gin." Whoever hired that
half-wit ought to resign and move out of the country.
Arizona at NY Jets -- Bad Haiku With No Rules, 1:
(it is called "constructive criticism," and as a matter of fact I will do another about the Jets and their stupid fans: fire helmet idiot
Pittsburgh at San Francisco -- FYI: If a clown dies suddenly during a performance, it is bad luck to ask the guy doing the autopsy what was in his stomach. Prediction: San Francisco. St. Louis at Detroit -- Bad Haiku With No Rules, 2:
Philadelphia at Carolina -- Bad Haiku With No Rules, 3:
Dallas at Minnesota -- Another snippet from my forthcoming novella, Cantos for Dominique Moceanu. This is about a race of parrot people: Krove had befriended the parrot kids, err, the twins, Truman and Xaxxon. They had shunned the Dockers and were wearing a lot of "Tommy Hilfinger" stuff. They got their beaks caught in the braces of a lot of loose thirteen year-old girls. Terence Trent D'Arby's "Sign Your Name Across My Heart," was on an oldies R&B station as Krove drove them to Burnsville Mall's Sbarro one afternoon. "It isn't the new millennium, yet," the smart one kept insisting. "Yeah, but if you have a car," Krove explained, "and you're driving around, and you're in it when all the numbers roll over, that's what is special. That's what is important. " Xaxxon ignored him. "I want wigs, like this guy has," Truman pointed to the dashboard. "They're called dreads, I think," Krove responded. There was silence as they sped down Francis Scott Key Parkway. "Oh, okay. Whatever. Dreads," Truman shifted in the bucket seat, and began
molting again.
Baltimore at Cleveland -- Let's talk about Ned Oldham. He doesn't play
football, but he did just move to Baltimore. His brother Will gets all the
hype, but I have been making most of the picks while listening to Ned's band's
record of Nursery Rhymes, called "Mother Goose." It is comforting, and the
band is called The Anomoanon.
Tampa Bay at New Orleans -- Bad Haiku With No Rules, 4:
Green Bay at Chicago -- I loved Walter Payton.
Cincinnati at Seattle -- Bad Haiku With No Rules, 5:
Kansas City at Indianapolis -- I will always think of Indianapolis in this
light: "One Day at a Time." I saw Pat Harrington in "Death of a Salesman,"
in a Scranton, PA dinner theater, and I contracted Legionnaire's disease
from the eggs and air conditioning. The medic and I argued the whole way to
the hospital about Harrington and his inability to step outside his Dwayne
Schneider character.
Jacksonville at Atlanta -- Bad Haiku With No Rules, 6:
Denver at San Diego -- What I neglected to mention last week about "The Vinny Testaverde Story": Scott Baio went to a spa in Utah for six months and drank purified water and ran 14 miles a day to play Testaverde. He also spent the summer Qbing the Gdansk Catastrophe to a 6-47 record in NFL Russia. "Acting is a bitch," says co-star Jack (who now wants to be called Jacques) Klugman, "but I think Baio is gonna surprise a lot of people." Oh yeah? "Yeah. If you've ever watched Sommersby, you'll know what I mean. This is
gonna blow the doors off of that."
- - - - WEEK EIGHT Last week, I had a minor recovery. I went 9-5, going to 66-33-1 overall. Kinda eerie isn't it? Seattle at Green Bay -- The Lambeau Field Journals, Volume One:
Minnesota at Denver -- A true story with a slightly puerile ending, Part
One:
Buffalo at Baltimore -- The reason I mention Doug Flutie so much is because
I'm trying to clog every internet search engine with McSweeney's links. If
you're doing a search for Doug Flutie, you deserve to inadvertently stumble
upon this page, anyway.
San Diego at Kansas City -- The Lambeau Field Journals, Volume Two:
NY Giants at Philadelphia -- A true story with a slightly puerile ending,
Part Two:
Chicago at Washington -- The Lambeau Field Journals, Volume Three:
Jacksonville at Cincinnati -- No significant news about either one of these
teams, but I got a postcard this week telling me to watch old Rocky Bleier
footage while listening to Kenny Rogers' version of "Ruby, Don't Take Your
Love to Town."
Carolina at Atlanta -- I decline to predict this game. Cleveland at New Orleans -- Harmony Korine has convinced Jack Klugman and
Scott Baio to star in "The Vinny Testaverde Story." It will be shot on
grainy Hi-8, and Klugman will reportedly gain 75 pounds to play Bill
Parcells. Baio, who is anxious to jump-start his ailing career, is willing
to blow out his Achilles' tendon. I'm doing some script-doctoring for it.
There will be a steamy scene at a Soho diner with Wayne Chrebet and Toni
Tenille, too, otherwise I walk, dammit!
St. Louis at Tennessee -- A true story with a slightly puerile ending, Part
Three:
Miami at Oakland -- Fan Note: Ruben Filla, 34, of Muncie, Indiana only likes
the Jets, the Mets and the Nets. The Mets got their ticket cancelled last
week, and when the Jets lost on the last play of the game on Sunday to the
Oakland Raiders, Filla was pretty sore. He duct-taped his toddler Luther, 3,
to a long-ignored tricycle and implored him to ride it. Then he collapsed in
the front lawn and howled until his wife Debbie came home from Shopko.
New England at Arizona -- Halloween in Tempe can't be fun, unless dietetic
toffee is your cup of tea.
Dallas at Indianapolis -- Prediction: Indianapolis. Tampa Bay at Detroit -- Prediction: Detroit. - - - - WEEK SEVEN Last Sunday was another poor week for me. I went 8-6, bringing the tally to 57-28-1. If I ever go below .500 there's a free bowl of soup with your name on it. To my faithful readership (the one-way corresponders):
Green Bay at San Diego --
On game day, take the above ingredients into the woods and get yourself
a
pheasant. Tell coach you thought game was on Monday night.
New Orleans at NY Giants --
Let ferment in crock pot until someone kicks a longer field goal than 63 yards. Prediction: New Orleans. Atlanta at Pittsburgh --
Wake Bradshaw from horse tranquilizer-induced fog. Open gigantic door.
Pick
up Louisville Slugger "Ted Williams" model baseball bat. Tell Bradshaw
"We
can do this my way (look at baseball bat) or we can do this the easy
way."
Nod at open door. When Bradshaw jumps, cover ears or you will go deaf
from
collective applause of entire universe. Even people who have been dead
since
1348 or so will rise from their graves and thank you. Even God will stop
everything and buy you a turkey sandwich.
Philadelphia at Miami --
The rest is up to you, Sugar.
Chicago at Tampa Bay --
Kansas City at Baltimore --
Tell a couple jokes. Mix a few drinks. Find a place for her mink. Throw
one
arm across mantlepiece. Stoke the fire. Repeat until dawn, or until you
can't find your trousers.
NY Jets at Oakland --
Add a dash of pro-wrestling, a smidge of angry loan-sharks, a pair of
jumper
cables, a subscription to Barely Legal, and a sleeve of saltines. Dial
911
repeatedly.
Buffalo at Seattle --
Let retire. Should turn into severe asshole after a couple years.
Cincinnati at Indianapolis --
Denver at New England --
Washington at Dallas --
Detroit at Carolina -- I don't care.
San Francisco at Minnesota --
Cleveland at St. Louis -- St. Louis Rams quarterback Kurt Warner is this
season's rags-to-riches story. Like every other NFL quarterback, he has
a
disturbed child, too. I'm on your side, Kurt.
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