Saints Freeze Hell Over

It's hard not to be warmed by last night's Saints victory in the Super Bowl. It was a terrific game. (We almost had that elusive overtime yet again.) Drew Brees is a great player and seemingly an even greater person. The city of New Orleans and the entire gulf region deserve this moment.

But when all the hoopla dies down (in New Orleans, that will be sometime in late summer, perhaps), all I can think of is this: The Jets will never win one of these.

Watching the Saints, here you have a team that had won two playoff games in 42 years before this year. The Jets have won 10 and appeared more often. Both teams have broken hearts and been laughingstocks.

But the Saints rose to the occasion and beat a Colts team the Jets could barely touch. They held the Colts to 7 points after the first quarter. They took advantage of a scaredy-cat timidity with the Colts' decision to run three times after a momentum-shifting goal-line stand at the end of the first half. The Saints favored boldness again with their suprise onside kick to start the third quarter. And for the first time in recent memory, Peyton Manning threw a late interception to lose a game.

Drew Brees cemented himself as an elite quarterback, winning the biggest game of his life without much of a running game. He outplayed the best quarterback I've ever seen play on the game's biggest stage.

One day that might be Mark Sanchez. But if that's the case, he'll probably be 32 years old and playing for the fucking Bills.

Three Sundays

My brother sent me the following quotes in an email today:

1. "Teams that have the top-ranked defense and running game in the NFL almost always enjoy postseason success. Since the NFL merger in 1970, of the seven teams that have led the league in both categories, two won the Super Bowl and three made it to the conference championship game." - Mark Cannizaro, NY Post

2. "This year's Colts are not a powerhouse, despite starting the season 14-0 before tossing in the towel, forfeiting to the Jets and Bills and fastforwarding to playoff preparation. In weeks seven through 10, they beat the 49ers, Texans, Patriots and Ravens by a combined 10 points. They won seven games with fourth-quarter comebacks, the most since the merger. It proves they are resilient. And vulnerable." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

3. "Manning is the best quarterback in the league, but he is only 8-8 in the playoffs. For all his numbers and terrific seasons, this is his 12th year and he has won just one Super Bowl and been to just one Super Bowl. He has not been nearly as good in the playoffs as he has been in the regular season." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

4. "The Colts are one dimensional: They were dead last running the ball. Wayne will enter Revis Island and never be heard from again Sunday. Then it's up to the rest of the secondary and the linebackers to control Dallas Clark, Austin Collie and Pierre Garcon. The Colts' leading rusher is Joseph Addai with only 828 yards." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

5. "One edge for the Jets: The Colts' new home at Lucas Oil Field is not as noisy as the old RCA Dome." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

6. "Forty-one years ago, another Colts team faced the Jets as a prohibitive double-digit favorite. That was Super Bowl III, the Joe Namath "guarantee," the game that essentially forced the NFL-AFL merger. Forty-one years ago, nobody in Baltimore and almost nobody in America thought the upstart Jets had a chance. Well, they have a chance Sunday. They absolutely have a chance." - Bob Kravitz, Indianapolis Star

He's abandoned a lifetime of hard lessons in Jets history to embrace Rex Ryan's steroidal optimism. While I know the Jets have a chance on Sunday, I'm forever haunted by the previous two AFC Championship games I've seen the Jets play in my life. The column below, published on the eve of the first home game in the doomed Eric Mangini Era, still stands as a solid assessment of my feelings about the green and white.

In three Sundays, the Jets might be playing in the Super Bowl. But this team doesn't strike me as ready for greatness just yet. This whole postseason has been a giddy bonus. So I'm bracing for the third Sunday in my collection of haunting Jets moments when everything almost comes together.

When you're a Jet you're a Jet all the way

9/16/2006

I am a Jets fan. In a dark and dangerous world, there are certainly worse things to be. Tom Arnold, for one.

But as another season starts -- teasing only the foolish with a pubescent coaching staff and a win against the feeble Tennessee Titans -- now is as good a time as any to examine the masochistic joys of living under a green and white cloud with a lining black as soot.

I've been going to Jets games since I was 4 years old and mostly interested in the pretzels and ice cream served at Shea Stadium. Those were the days. A jumbo pretzel hardly ever disappointed like the team on the field.

My dad would grease the ticket guy with $1, and I'd sit on his lap (my dad, not the ticket guy). As I grew older, I learned to love the Jets despite their regular disappointments. I imagine this is how Paris Hilton's parents feel about their daughter.

Oh, there were many brilliant, shining moments. I saw the 51-45 aerial shootout against Miami in 1986. The raucous home divisional playoff win against Jacksonville in 1998. The fourth quarter 23-point ""Miracle at the Meadowlands'' comeback in 2000. I rooted for the worthy Wesley Walker, Al Toon, Mickey Shuler, Lance Mehl, Joe Klecko, Freeman McNeil and Wayne Chrebet.

But then I witnessed a potential division lead shot through the heart with a Dan Marino fake spike. Watched as Dennis Byrd lay temporarily paralyzed. Caught Joe Walton picking his nose on TV and listened as Richie Kotite treated his team of losers like gentlemen. Saw Mark Gastineau commit a personal foul against Cleveland in a 1986 divisional playoff game on fourth and 26 that allowed Cleveland to tie the game and win in double overtime. Squirmed through the multiple concussions and premature retirement of our most prolific receiver. Twice. Sat motionless watching the 1982 AFC Championship Game as A.J. Duhe trucked his way through the Miami mud toward the endzone. Twice. In 1998, I saw a 10-point lead crumble just 30 minutes and 30 years from another shot at a Super Bowl. And I saw the best coach we would ever have skip town on his first day to build a dynasty in New England.

In my 27 or so years as a sentient fan, the Jets starting quarterbacks have included the likes of Bubby Brister, Browning Nagle, Glenn Foley, Tony Eason, Rick Mirer, Ray Lucas and Quincy Carter. The only thing these guys should have been starting was a list of alternate career choices. And the Jets choices on draft day are most remembered for the boos they generated among the New York crowd.

It says something about Jets fans that we have embraced ""Gang Green'' as our team nickname. Because there's nothing better to describe the squad than the bacterial decay of body tissue requiring amputation.



But I'll still be out there tomorrow with my dad and brother, my friends and girlfriend, grilling meats and tossing a ball in anticipation of anything to cheer about. There is something hopelessly hopeful and unintentionally cruel about cursing your children with the Jets in a town that demands winners. But I've never blamed my dad. When I was born, Joe Namath still glowed from his league-shaking Super Bowl III victory and wobbled his way through games on crippled knees. Traces of magic could shoot from his arm.

My brother should know better. He brought his 8-month-old daughter to a preseason tailgate outfitted in a pink Jets shirt and sucking on a Jets pacifier. The looming tragedy of this young life made me want to call Child Protective Services.

Luckily she's way too young at the moment to comprehend complex shapes and actions, much less the certain disaster of another Jets season. So until she's sitting on her dad's lap in the new Meadowlands stadium, I'm glad she's clueless and happy sucking on that pacifier.

There's just too much of that kind of thing on the field.

We already work around the clock!

As a life-long sad-sack Jets fan, I can hardly contain my conflicted emotions over this coming Sunday's AFC Championship Game.

I mean, I've been down this road before with what I at least perceived to be better teams -- in 1982 and 1998. Anything can happen, I suppose. But in the NFL playoffs, the better team usually wins. The Jets might have been better than the Bengals. We've got a great defense, but I think overall, the Jets only played better than a bumbling Chargers team. And they'll need to do everything right and catch similar breaks to beat the Colts.

But whatever happens, however horribly it unfolds, I think we can all agree on this: After this weekend, CBS MUST stop showing the commercials for that fucking pathetic Harrison Ford-Brendan Frasier flick. Right? Pretty please?

Merry Christmas

And Happy New Year!

T.V. Gaga

OK. It's taken a few months here. The honeymoon is over. Time to get something off my mind. And yeah, maybe it wouldn't hurt to move the freeze frame of my wife's boobies a little further down the page.

But what's on my mind, sadly, is Barbara Walters' 10 Most Fascinating People of 2009. God help me.

No one respectable has ever bothered to accuse Barbara of breaking the integrity bank when it comes to her celebrity interviews, specials, involvement with "The View," or anything since she interviewed the Shah of Iran in 1979. The woman really is a shameless panderer. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose.

But watching her show last weekend out of pure boredom, I could hardly believe her definition of "fascinating" could be reconciled with my understanding of the English language. I mean, a turd baking on a hot stretch of highway can be fascinating. The pain from a kidney stone attack -- of which I've had five -- while excrutiating, tear-inducing and homicide-impulse-inducing, could also be described as fascinating.

But look at this list:

Michelle Obama, Lady Gaga, Glenn Beck, Tyler Perry, Kate Gosselin, Adam Lambert, Sarah Palin, Brett Favre, Jenny Sanford, Michael Jackson’s three children.

Holy bucket of ass hairs.

I'm trying here. It's not easy. But I'm trying hard to come up with a list of people who might have aggravated a larger quantity of the living shit out of me in 2009. I mean, Joe Lieberman took most of the year off before recently resurrecting his campaign as my state's biggest, most rancid human-shaped enema.

But these others? Other than Michelle Obama, and the blameless Jenny Sanford and the Jackson kids, this is a list of horrible, horrible, pathetic jackasses. And listen, I'm going on the record to say I'm fascinated by the orange self-proclaimed guidos of "Jersey Shore" and the human wrecks of the Dr. Drew rehab shows.

Kate Gosselin is a harpy fame whore whose loathsome qualities can only be surpassed, sadly and amazingly, by her doucherific ex-husband.

Adam Lambert looks like Dracula in drag and sings like one of those head phone hearing-test beeps at the DMV.

I'm not in any position to judge, so I'll let Spike Lee filet Tyler Perry as basically the manager of a modern day minstrel show.

I'm glad that until about two months ago, I'd never even heard of Lady Gaga. Now that I've seen her, she makes me want to gaga all over the floor.

Glenn Beck is Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity's retarded kid brother. Only more unhinged and possibly more likely to insight the kind of violence his type always seem to insight during times of economic hardship.

Sarah Palin is a know-nothing celeb-u-tante masquerading as a deep thinking realist. She quit her elected office to make a fortune. More power to her. But the only thing fascinating is how anyone could possibly continue to take her seriously.

Which brings me to Brett Fucking Favre. If he had spent the rest of his most recent "retirement" on his Mississippi lawn tractor, I would have no feelings about him whatsoever. Maybe he could have retained a handful of the fond feelings I had for him when he was the plucky, infectious winner in Green Bay. But after his endless public soap opera over the first retirement/comeback, it was hard enough to root for him playing for my own team. After the Jets and his right arm imploded last year, I was glad to be rid of him. His ego could hardly fit in the new stadium.

Now he's fucking 11-2. Looking better than ever on a team with Adrian Peterson. If he wins the Super Bowl the only thing more fascinating might be whom I might kill as a result of my homicidal rage.

Do you think Kate Gosselin would come to my Super Bowl party?

Somebody's Getting Married

A teaser for the full-length wedding video I'm almost finished cutting...

Real World

By Bruce Springsteen

Mister Trouble come walkin' this way
Year gone by feels like one long day
But I'm alive and I'm feelin' all right
Well I run that hard road outta heartbreak city
Built a roadside carnival out of hurt and self-pity
It was all wrong well now I'm moving on

Ain't no church bells ringing
Ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me and you and the love we're bringing
Into the real world
Into the real world

I built a shrine in my heart it wasn't pretty to see
Made out of fool's gold memory and tears cried
Now I'm headin' over the rise
I'm searchin' for one clear moment of love and truth
I still got a little faith
But what I need is some proof tonight
I'm lookin' for it in your eyes

Ain't no church bells ringing
Ain't no flags unfurled
Just me and you and the faith we're bringing
Into the real world
Into the real world

Well tonight I just wanna shout
I feel my soul waist deep and sinkin'
Into this black river of doubt
I just wanna rise and walk along the riverside
And when the morning comes baby I don't wanna hide
I'll stand right at your side with my arms open wide

I wanna find some answers I wanna ask for some help
I'm tired of running scared
Baby let's get our bags packed
We'll take it here to hell and heaven and back
And if love is hopeless hopeless at best
Come on put on your party dress it's ours tonight
And we're goin' with the tumblin' dice

Ain't no church bells ringing
Ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me and you and the hope we're bringing
Into the real world
Well into the real world
Oh into the real world

I Do

As read Aug. 30, 2009:

I sat down to write these vows last October. Congress had just passed a $700 billion Wall Street bailout, and as I typed, the Dow Jones sunk 800 points. We were in the home stretch of a presidential campaign getting nastier by the second. Wars raged and newspapers vanished. The future seemed as cloudy and confused as ever.

And here we are today. I had no way of knowing what the world would look like. I just knew I wanted to look at it with you.

We got engaged 563 days ago. It feels like yesterday. I knew then as I know now that marriage is not some simple ceremony to cement our commitment and celebrate our love. We have lived these 563 days much like we will live every day afterward. Getting married is an expression of commitment, yes. But it is also the only time in my entire life you’ll ever likely see me express something else: faith.

Not faith in a supreme being or politicians or the fortunes of a football team. But simple, pure, unending faith in you. Faith in us.

I vow to follow all the usual rules of marriage. I promise to love you, protect you, honor you, hear you, make you laugh and embrace the times you must laugh at me.

I also promise to pronounce your name properly and try my best to keep the popcorn off the top shelf where you can’t reach it.

But above all, I vow to never lose faith in the bond that has grown between us. To respect its strength and sanctity.

I vow to be the best husband I can be. To cultivate hope, soften pain, ease fears, and build with you a home immune from the insanity of this world. I vow to never leave your side as we walk forward from here to forever.

Sort of social. Demented and sad, but social.

It's a cliche, but John Hughes sort of defined high school existence for a generation of kids who dreamed of getting out of there even before they got there. Celebrate the guy who gave the world Farmer Ted.

And for some reason, among the hoards of tribute videos, I have a soft spot for this mother dragooning her children into performing in her reenactment of a movie they're too young to see.

Holy Matrimony!

No, I don't think we'll be doing anything like this next month. But you've gotta give these guys credit for the right attitude and effort. And for having at least three members of the wedding party who look like Seth Rogen.

Summing Up

Ed McMahon (old and sick), Farrah Fawcett (middle aged and cancerous), Michael Jackson (middle aged, generally weird and addicted) and now Steve McNnair (young, fit and possibly unlucky in love).

None of this has anything to do with anything else. It just seems helpful at times to take stock of what is happening in the world.

And by that, I mean a world in which Iran attempts to stifle a populist revolt against Islamist fascism, North Korea threatens to fire missiles at Hawaii, and U.S. governors are Terminators issuing IOUs for a bankrupt state, beauty pageant (and vice presidential) runners-up quitting so as not to act like a quitter, and philanderers embroiled in Argentinian romances with soul mates.

There's a show on TV in which fat people dance in whore attire and another in which someone who calls himself a doctor eats tainted vegetables to produce parasitic worms from his poo.

Gays are getting married, a black guy is in the White House and I've had a poison ivy rash on my leg for almost two months now. Interesting times, indeed.

But when did Mad Magazine start scripting our current events?

The Kid Is Not My Son

More than one person has remarked to me since yesterday: What's the big deal about Michael Jackson?

A fair question. He has been an irrelevant freak for so long, it's hard to recall what was so special about him in the first place. My bride-to-be had never even seen the videos for "Thriller" or "Beat It" until I showed them to her a few months back on YouTube.

Check out his legendary performance from the Motown 25th anniversary special. Yes, there was a time when these moves were fresh and unique. Yes, there was a time when he looked mostly human even if his talent made him appear from another world. Yes, he can hold a room entranced even while lip-syncing. When he moonwalks toward the end, part of the audience appears to spit out their eyeballs.

But even if you're not taken in by his voice, his dance moves or his undeniable stage presence, the numbers don't lie. The man reached a popularity untouched by anyone since Elvis and The Beatles.

I was never really a huge Jackson fan. I can recall someone at camp playing the "Thriller" album over and over again in the summer of 1983. Granted, I didn't have much taste in music then, but it didn't do anything for me. And there was even a point in 1984 when I was watching a Prince video on MTV (remember when they played videos?) and couldn't understand why Michael Jackson was so hairy.

And he was always so weird. The chimp, Elizabeth Taylor, the hyperbaric chamber, Neverland, the glove, the gay-military outfits, the Elephant Man's bones, Lisa Marie, the accusations of pedophilia, the high-pitched girly voice, the seeming desire to become white, the plastic surgury that eventually lopped off his nose.

At the heart of it appeared to be an arrested development triggered by an abusive taskmaster of a father who made his children into superstars only to watch them go supernova and burst into pieces. Andrew Sullivan has a pyschological/cultural take as worthy as any.

Michael Jackson was an international sensation, as recognized around the world as the NY Yankees' logo, McDonald's or -- once upon a time -- Muhammad Ali. On a list of the most prominent world figures whose death might spark as much interest, I can think of only Ali, the Pope (though perhaps not the current one), Obama and Paul McCartney. Frank Sinatra and Johnny Carson were pretty big, but mostly in the U.S.

But the question of why should we care is different from why we should take note.

We should not care as though we have lost a loved one. Michael Jackson was a celebrity entertainer, not our parent or child. But in the way our culture created him, chewed him up and spat him out, perhaps he's a symbol for a sick world. It appears Jackson wanted to remain a child. I'm not exusing him for the choices he made in his own life. And I ain't saying it's my responsibility, but someone really should take better care of such people.

Phishing Down By The River

Haven't blogged in a while. Don't suppose this counts for much, but I just wanted to reassert my love for YouTube. Which provides for 19 quality minutes such as this:

State of The State

By TPerl

In case you missed it, MTV is finally allowing The State DVD to be released.

July 14th.

You may now commence ball-dipping.

A Disgrace To The Name

By Arielle

James Harrison - you know, the 242-pounder who somehow managed to trudge a slow 100 yards to score a touchdown in the Super Bowl before collapsing - is skipping the Steelers' White House visit this week. 

Prior obligation? Loyalty to McCain? On the no-fly list and concerned about the rising price of gas?

Nah. 

He just thinks the president doesn't want to see him bad enough.

"This is how I feel - if you want to see the Pittsburgh Steelers, invite us when we don't win the Super Bowl. As far as I'm concerned, he [Obama] would've invited Arizona if they had won," Harrison told a Pittsburgh TV station. 

This is probably too dumb to even bother blogging about. But just for kicks...

Harrison seems to be under the impression that the president customarily invites his favorite football team to the White House. Or that Barack Obama and his predecessors (Harrison also skipped the team's 2006 meeting with George W. Bush) had nothing better to do than shuffle through their NFL trading cards to decide which spandex-clad giant they'd most like to hang out with in the rose garden, then command that it be so. Or that Obama invited the Steelers for any substantive reason besides they fact that they. won. the. Super. Bowl.

Seriously. On Harrison's logic, Nicolas Sarkozy should reject his next White House invitation on the grounds that, had Segolene Royal won the election, Obama would be inviting her instead. 

But in case you were worried that Obama would be missing out because of this non-snub, Harrison's pre-Super Bowl brush with fame occurred after he was arrested for allegedly slapping his girlfriend during an argument about their son's baptism. The charges were later dropped after he took an anger management class.

Truly. The loss will be Barack's.

Favre Christ's Sake

Quick thoughts on the reincarnated speculation Brett Favre will once again un-retire and try to play football.

When Favre played for the Packers, I always rooted for him. Right up to the very last interception he threw against the Giants.

When Favre played for the Jets, I rooted for him. But only because, as a Jets fan, I had to. (See: Rick Mirer, Bubby Brister, Ray Lucas, Frank Reich, Browning Nagle, Neil O'Donnel, etc.)

If Favre comes back to play for the Vikings or some other team, I will root against him. With rabid glee.

And if he stays retired, struggling with the finality of his decision while mowing his Mississippi lawn with a tractor, I swear to God, I will root for the weeds.

And Knowing Is Half The Battle

For those of you who grew up watching G.I. Joe, here's a more mature take on the franchise from Adult Swim. People actually get shot. No convenient parachutes from exploding helicopters. And it still hits the nostalgia sweet spot. I don't know what to make of this summer's life-action movie, but this came out of nowhere and entertained me.

And enjoy the spoof public service announcements above. Pork chop sandwiches!

100 Ways To Procrastinate

A compilation of "The 100 Most Iconic Internet Videos."

Go ahead. You know you have nothing to do today.

When Will The World End?

I remember learning about the five Ws in elementary school. These were the question words. All of the world's answers lay just beyond their asking.

In our global, digitally connected society, that has never been more true.

Still, I never really think of asking Google direct questions. Mostly I use keywords. The idea of typing “Why does my ass hurt?” doesn't seem, to me, as productive or as elegant as simply typing “hemorrhoids” or “sex play riding crop injury.”

But all you need to do these days is type a word or two into the Google search box, and by perusing the automated suggestions you can get a pretty good idea of what's on people's minds.

Some are scientific: Why is the sky blue? What does my name mean?

Some are political: Who should I vote for? Where do I vote?

Some are paranoid: Where was Obama born? Why do men cheat?

(Be careful typing in something like “why do black.” At least if anyone is watching you. Or you have a sense of shame.)

And my favorites are philosophical, enigmatic, and – if you don't recognize the pop cultural significance of the phrase – absurd: Where the hell is Matt? Who moved my cheese? When will I grow up? Why do men have nipples? Why do dogs eat poop? Why did I get married? Where are they now?

Indeed. Questions for the ages.

--------------------------------------

Google's suggestions for life's burning questions in April 2009:

Who wants to be a millionaire

Who is

Who wants to be a millionaire online game

Who killed the electric car

Who is big poppa on real housewives of altanta

Who wants to be a millionaire game

Who is winning the election

Who should I vote for

Who moved my cheese

Who is my congressman

What not to wear

What is my ip

What does my name mean

What time is the inauguration

What is my ip address

What time is it

What i like about you

What is a good credit score

What is twitter

When i grow up lyrics

When is easter 2009

When is the superbowl

When does twighlight come out on dvd

When is the superbowl in 2009

When is superbowl 2009

When will i die

When is thanksgiving

When will i grow up

When will the world end

Where do I vote

Where does the vice president live

Where was Obama born

Where the wild things are

Where are they now

Where is Santa

Where do I go to vote

Where the hell is Matt

Where are you Christmas lyrics

Where am I registered to vote

Why is the sky blue

Why do cats purr

Why do men cheat

Why so serious

Why did the chicken cross the road

Why do men have nipples

Why lyrics

Why did i get married

Why do dogs eat poop

Why georgia lyrics

How to tie a tie

How i met your mother

How to kiss

How to get pregnant

How stuff works

How to cook a turkey

How to

How to lose weight

How to draw

How to knit

Raise The Bridge!

Roger Ebert fucks with O'Reilly. A fun little take-down.

For some wonderful nostalgia of a dying newspaper, don't miss his latest blog post.