I am feeling downright, outright goofy. This happens with overstimulation.
I mean, imagine yourself as me. C'mon, be a sport. It won't take. I mean, you won't literally turn into me. I promise.
This goofiness flows from some intense physical pain, some worry over tomorrow's appointment with the surgeon, and a series of 5 (five) inane phone calls with a durable medical equipment supplier customer service representative.
It doesn't matter what product sector is being discussed, does it? All you have to do is reference "customer service" and your audience is primed. Sitting up straight, grabbing a fresh beverage, ready to smile and scoff!
Ah, but I am sorry to add that my addled state is also a combination of Sandusky, McQueary, the whole general topic of abused children, Coach K's landmark achievement, the discovery of a new poetics, and the inevitable buildup to the annual Cal - Stanford Big Game.
Maybe it is the pain medication, maybe not. I am just going to vomit the junk, the news, the thoughts, the expectations, and my essential pettiness... out. That's right, I'm going to purge all over you one more time.
Fred did his duty; He stood shifting from foot to foot, his weight over his left leg, then over his right, a short smile frozen under his incredibly sexy moustache -- looking all the world like a toddler about to wet his pants. We joke about it being his ADHD stance, the shifting being a heroic effort to maintain focus on my jabbering, my intense gossip, my steadfast repetition this afternoon of what I said last night.
Fred was saved by the bell. The kitchen timer went off, and he fairly ran out of Marlinspike Hall, my savory and cheesy polenta casserole carefully wrapped in a pink-and-white bath towel, destined for consumption at this Wednesday's Supper with his beloved bevy of Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists. O! To be Fred.
[O! I wish I had doubled the recipe and kept half for myself and the rest of The Manor Staff condemned to pass Wednesday evenings at home. Because that, my friends, was some excellent polenta -- if the many taste-testings it required were representative of its final superior wonderfulness.]
Like I said, goofy.
I would have thought that, by now, the automatic suggestion feature on Google Search would have adapted so that when you type "s-a-n-d" into the search subject box, "Sandusky" would appear.
Nope! "Sandra Bullock," that's what pops up as the suggested topic. I don't know, maybe that's a good thing. She's a good actress, a beautiful woman, funny, and by all accounts, a fine human being. All things that Jerry Sandusky is not.
Before I forget, let me say that I found Bob Costas' eyes incredibly compelling last night as he spoke with the alleged child rapist. They were red, tired-looking, and laser-like in the middle of an appropriately drawn visage.
In the wake of the continued disaster that is Assistant Coach Mike McQueary, I have a theory. [There's room in the Disaster Wake for my theory and millions more!] Now that he has torpedoed his hold on veracity by attempting to make himself look better in an email, it has also come out that the prosecution has been unable to identify, much less locate, the boy McQueary saw in the shower with Sandusky in 2002. My theory is that Sandusky is making a play on the situation's weaknesses and has bought the services of some former participant in The Second Mile, the charity through which the coach seems to have acquired access to kids -- a sickening reinterpretation of the expression "at-risk child," the charity's target population. With McQueary increasingly discredited, imagine Sandusky's triumph were he to produce the mystery victim of the shower incident recounted to the grand jury, and were that victim to deny the rape, and support the version of events that labels the interaction just naked rough-housing?
I smell a rat. What other scenario would support the otherwise clearly idiotic decision to give an interview to anyone, much less an on-the-air Bob Costas?
I was so hoping that we could send one clear message to the kids who are being abused right now, today, as you read this. Something along the lines of "we've got our act together now, young ones... we are listening now, we understand now, and we are coming to save you... hang on!" It's no surprise to them that this is turning into another adult clusterfuck.
Let's think about something more pleasant. In Palo Alto Saturday, it's the 114th Big Game between Cal and Stanford. The Game, the Big Game, yadda yadda. What we all are referencing between the ears, of course, is The Big Play. That's right. November 20, 1982. Wikipedia lends the day sufficient gravitas, I suppose, in its accounting:
Uploaded by 10TVMan to YouTube on May 5, 2008
You know what? I kind of wish we could just stay in that moment! Arms in the air, band in the end zone, Cal over Stanford, what could be more right?
Anyway... Go Bears!
I made reference to having discovered a new (to me) poetics. For some reason, I was very much wanting to be in the Bay Area today -- thoughts of the Big Game (and memories of the Big Play) surely have given that away! So, of course, I fell into memories of late afternoon poetry readings and hitting the bookstores without any money to buy books, up one San Francisco hill and down another. I was thinking about Ferlinghetti, making sure he hadn't died (he hasn't) and that City Lights is still going strong (it is), and in the midst of all that clicking, I came upon an ad for something called The CHENI@D by Bill Costley, "poet, playwright, journalist, blogger," that has been published at The New Verse News.
Here, for instance, is Book 1:
It is, we are told, and I believe it, an "epic in progress." And somewhere in my readings, I could swear it was passed off as a new poetic, though maybe I made that up. The New Verse News blog site is dedicated to "politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues," not at all something new, but something I have always supported, and so, will lie about, if that helps the cause at all.
That about covers the broad strokes of my goofiness, my alleged goofiness. Except for the terrible pain, except for tomorrow morning's appointment with the surgeon, except for the hilarious phone stylings of the guy aiming to help me get a new wheelchair.
If you but apply yourself, Dear Reader, I'm sure you can approximate the pain, the surgeon, and that inanity much more efficiently on your own than with my bumbling, mumbling assistance. Plus, I am very likely to bring it up again.
Tomorrow.
I mean, imagine yourself as me. C'mon, be a sport. It won't take. I mean, you won't literally turn into me. I promise.
This goofiness flows from some intense physical pain, some worry over tomorrow's appointment with the surgeon, and a series of 5 (five) inane phone calls with a durable medical equipment supplier customer service representative.
It doesn't matter what product sector is being discussed, does it? All you have to do is reference "customer service" and your audience is primed. Sitting up straight, grabbing a fresh beverage, ready to smile and scoff!
Ah, but I am sorry to add that my addled state is also a combination of Sandusky, McQueary, the whole general topic of abused children, Coach K's landmark achievement, the discovery of a new poetics, and the inevitable buildup to the annual Cal - Stanford Big Game.
Maybe it is the pain medication, maybe not. I am just going to vomit the junk, the news, the thoughts, the expectations, and my essential pettiness... out. That's right, I'm going to purge all over you one more time.
Fred did his duty; He stood shifting from foot to foot, his weight over his left leg, then over his right, a short smile frozen under his incredibly sexy moustache -- looking all the world like a toddler about to wet his pants. We joke about it being his ADHD stance, the shifting being a heroic effort to maintain focus on my jabbering, my intense gossip, my steadfast repetition this afternoon of what I said last night.
Fred was saved by the bell. The kitchen timer went off, and he fairly ran out of Marlinspike Hall, my savory and cheesy polenta casserole carefully wrapped in a pink-and-white bath towel, destined for consumption at this Wednesday's Supper with his beloved bevy of Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists. O! To be Fred.
[O! I wish I had doubled the recipe and kept half for myself and the rest of The Manor Staff condemned to pass Wednesday evenings at home. Because that, my friends, was some excellent polenta -- if the many taste-testings it required were representative of its final superior wonderfulness.]
Like I said, goofy.
I would have thought that, by now, the automatic suggestion feature on Google Search would have adapted so that when you type "s-a-n-d" into the search subject box, "Sandusky" would appear.
Nope! "Sandra Bullock," that's what pops up as the suggested topic. I don't know, maybe that's a good thing. She's a good actress, a beautiful woman, funny, and by all accounts, a fine human being. All things that Jerry Sandusky is not.
Before I forget, let me say that I found Bob Costas' eyes incredibly compelling last night as he spoke with the alleged child rapist. They were red, tired-looking, and laser-like in the middle of an appropriately drawn visage.
In the wake of the continued disaster that is Assistant Coach Mike McQueary, I have a theory. [There's room in the Disaster Wake for my theory and millions more!] Now that he has torpedoed his hold on veracity by attempting to make himself look better in an email, it has also come out that the prosecution has been unable to identify, much less locate, the boy McQueary saw in the shower with Sandusky in 2002. My theory is that Sandusky is making a play on the situation's weaknesses and has bought the services of some former participant in The Second Mile, the charity through which the coach seems to have acquired access to kids -- a sickening reinterpretation of the expression "at-risk child," the charity's target population. With McQueary increasingly discredited, imagine Sandusky's triumph were he to produce the mystery victim of the shower incident recounted to the grand jury, and were that victim to deny the rape, and support the version of events that labels the interaction just naked rough-housing?
I smell a rat. What other scenario would support the otherwise clearly idiotic decision to give an interview to anyone, much less an on-the-air Bob Costas?
I was so hoping that we could send one clear message to the kids who are being abused right now, today, as you read this. Something along the lines of "we've got our act together now, young ones... we are listening now, we understand now, and we are coming to save you... hang on!" It's no surprise to them that this is turning into another adult clusterfuck.
Let's think about something more pleasant. In Palo Alto Saturday, it's the 114th Big Game between Cal and Stanford. The Game, the Big Game, yadda yadda. What we all are referencing between the ears, of course, is The Big Play. That's right. November 20, 1982. Wikipedia lends the day sufficient gravitas, I suppose, in its accounting:
The Play refers to a last-second kickoff return during a college football game between the University of California Golden Bears and the Stanford University Cardinal on Saturday, November 20, 1982. Given the circumstances and rivalry, the wild game that preceded it, the very unusual way in which The Play unfolded, and its lingering aftermath on players and fans, it is recognized as one of the most memorable plays in college football history and among the most memorable in American sports.
After Stanford had taken a 20–19 lead on a field goal with four seconds left in the game, the Golden Bears used five lateral passes on the ensuing kickoff return to score the winning touchdown and earn a disputed 25–20 victory. Members of the Stanford Band had come onto the field midway through the return, believing that the game was over, which added to the ensuing confusion and folklore. There remains disagreement over the legality of two of the laterals, adding to the passion surrounding the traditional rivalry of the annual "Big Game."
With Cal leading 19–17 late in the fourth quarter, quarterback John Elway and the Cardinal overcame a 4th-and-17 on their own 13-yard line with a 29-yard completion, then managed to get the ball within field goal range for placekicker Mark Harmon. Elway called a timeout with 8 seconds left on the clock. Had Elway let the clock run down to four seconds before calling time, the ensuing kickoff would not have taken place since the clock would have run out on the field goal. But Elway was under instruction from coach Paul Wiggin to call time out at the 8 second mark to allow time for a second field goal try in case Stanford drew a penalty on the first attempt. Harmon's 35-yard kick was good, putting Stanford ahead 20–19. However, the team's celebrations drew a 15-yard penalty, enforced on the ensuing kickoff. This was crucial, as Stanford was now kicking off from their 25 instead of the 40. At that point, Cal announcer Joe Starkey praised Stanford and Elway for their efforts, and added, "Only a miracle can save the Bears now!"
With 4 seconds left, Stanford special teams coach Fred von Appen called for a squib kick on the kickoff. Due to confusion, Cal took the field with only ten men, one short of the regulation eleven, but still legal in American football. What happened next became one of the most debated and dissected plays in college football history.
The Play
- Harmon squibbed the kick and Cal's Kevin Moen received the ball inside the Cal 45 near the left hash mark. After some ineffective scrambling, Moen lateraled the ball leftward to Richard Rodgers.
- Rodgers was very quickly surrounded, gaining only one yard before looking behind him for Dwight Garner, who caught the ball around the Cal 45.
- Garner ran straight ahead for five yards, but was swallowed up by five Stanford players. While Garner was being tackled, however, he managed to pitch the ball back to Rodgers. It was at this moment, believing that Garner had been tackled and the game was over, that several Stanford players on the sideline and the entire Stanford band (which had been waiting behind the south end zone) ran onto the field in celebration.
- Rodgers dodged another Stanford player and took the ball to his right, toward the middle of the field, where at least four other Cal players were ready for the next pitch. Around the Stanford 45, Rodgers pitched the ball to Mariet Ford, who caught it in stride. Meanwhile, the Stanford band, all 144 members, had run out past the south end zone—the one the Cal players were trying to get to—and had advanced as far as twenty yards downfield. The scrum of players was moving towards them.
- Ford avoided a Stanford player and sprinted upfield while moving to the right of the right hash mark, and into the band, which was scattered all over the south end of the field. Around the Stanford 27, three Stanford players smothered Ford, but while falling forward he threw a blind lateral over his right shoulder.
The Cal players celebrated wildly—but the officials had not signaled the touchdown. Stanford coach Paul Wiggin and his players argued to the officials that Dwight Garner's knee had been down, rendering what had happened during the rest of the play moot. Meanwhile, the officials huddled. The chaos at the end of The Play made the officials' task very challenging. In particular, the questionable fifth lateral took place in the midst of the Stanford band, greatly reducing visibility. Referee Charles Moffett recalled the moment:
- Moen caught it at about the 25 and charged toward the end zone. One Stanford player missed him, and another could not catch him from behind. Moen ran through the scattering Stanford Band members for the touchdown, which he famously completed by running into unaware trombone player Gary Tyrrell.
After determining that Cal had scored and no one had ruled any of the laterals illegal, Moffett signaled the touchdown, rendering the illegal participation penalty on Stanford irrelevant and ending the game. The final score was Cal 25, Stanford 20.
“ I called all the officials together and there were some pale faces. The penalty flags were against Stanford for coming onto the field. I say, 'did anybody blow a whistle?' They say 'no'. I say, 'were all the laterals legal'? 'Yes'. Then the line judge, Gordon Riese, says to me, 'Charlie, the guy scored on that.' And I said, 'What?' I had no idea the guy had scored. Actually when I heard that I was kind of relieved. I thought we really would have had a problem if they hadn't scored, because, by the rules, we could have awarded a touchdown [to Cal] for [Stanford] players coming onto the field. I didn't want to have to make that call.
I wasn't nervous at all when I stepped out to make the call; maybe I was too dumb. Gee, it seems like it was yesterday. Anyway, when I stepped out of the crowd, there was dead silence in the place. Then when I raised my arms, I thought I had started World War III. It was like an atomic bomb had gone off.”
Uploaded by 10TVMan to YouTube on May 5, 2008
You know what? I kind of wish we could just stay in that moment! Arms in the air, band in the end zone, Cal over Stanford, what could be more right?
Anyway... Go Bears!
I made reference to having discovered a new (to me) poetics. For some reason, I was very much wanting to be in the Bay Area today -- thoughts of the Big Game (and memories of the Big Play) surely have given that away! So, of course, I fell into memories of late afternoon poetry readings and hitting the bookstores without any money to buy books, up one San Francisco hill and down another. I was thinking about Ferlinghetti, making sure he hadn't died (he hasn't) and that City Lights is still going strong (it is), and in the midst of all that clicking, I came upon an ad for something called The CHENI@D by Bill Costley, "poet, playwright, journalist, blogger," that has been published at The New Verse News.
Here, for instance, is Book 1:
CHENEY Qu@driDr@gon
And here, Book CXV, fast become an inexplicable favorite of mine:
CHENEY Qu@driDr@gonspits 4 sizzling bullets,
splitting his unravelling
reptilian-tongue in 4:
1: pricks Dubya’s 1-track brain,2: sprays the Ov@l Office w/vicious juice,3: invokes the CHENEY, Bush & Rove Trinity4: bewails his VP-apotheosis’ limitationto quadrennial surges of dr@conic-power.
Hidden in a quasi-virtual cavern,a dr@gon-slayer matches those 4-tonguesup/w a Shick Qu@dr@, mantra-ing:
“Detongue the Qu@driDr@gon…”
unaware a 5-bladed Gillette Fusion
will take his tongue as well…
CHENEY sits in a FL bar
far from where liberals are,
nursing a Shirley Temple dry,
listening to local AM radio
for news of Crist vs Rubio,
smirking at its internecinity.
“Thank God for ex-Cubans”
he murmurs, cheerily; nearby
2 bar-flies stare blankly.
It is, we are told, and I believe it, an "epic in progress." And somewhere in my readings, I could swear it was passed off as a new poetic, though maybe I made that up. The New Verse News blog site is dedicated to "politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues," not at all something new, but something I have always supported, and so, will lie about, if that helps the cause at all.
That about covers the broad strokes of my goofiness, my alleged goofiness. Except for the terrible pain, except for tomorrow morning's appointment with the surgeon, except for the hilarious phone stylings of the guy aiming to help me get a new wheelchair.
If you but apply yourself, Dear Reader, I'm sure you can approximate the pain, the surgeon, and that inanity much more efficiently on your own than with my bumbling, mumbling assistance. Plus, I am very likely to bring it up again.
Tomorrow.
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