The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas: Day Twelve

On the 12th Day of Gheorghemas, Big Gheorghe Gave to Me:

12 More Appreciations
11 Months of Gheorgheness
10 (or more) LIV TOUR Factoids
Nine (semi) Bold Predictions for 2023
Eight People and Places In My Neighborhood
Seven books for reading (and one for burning)
Six splurges for Christmas
Five Good News Stories, courtesy of Shlara
Soon to be Four on the Floor
Three Habits Forming
Two beers with Marcus Aerelius, an OBX Dave Joint, and
Two(?) dudes bested by Kazansky

Well, hello, everyone, and welcome to another tardy installment of Day 12 of Gheorghemas. Recently I wondered quietly to myself, “Why does it take so long to compose/post (combined as 'compost') Day Twelves??”

I mean, come on!

2008	12/31/2008
2009	12/31/2009
2010	12/31/2010
2011	12/30/2011
2012	12/31/2012
2013	3/25/2014
2014	1/27/2015
2015	?
2016	??
2017	???
2018	12/31/2018
2019	1/6/2020
2020	12/31/2020
2021	2/22/2022
2022	1/31/2023

Wait a minute… there’s no way I missed 3 years running! Is there? There's not. Get the G:TB interns on this.

Anyway, it’s really simple. 12 things of anything is a whole lot! I can barely name 12 songs I like by Cat Power (I can, though), much less wax philosophically grateful for 12 new things each and every Gheorghemas. It’s exhausting. Day 2 and Day 3 writers, you can buzz off.

Okay, enough whining. It’s the end of January, so here’s the end of Gmas. Hope you’ve all been gheorghey for gheorgheness’ sake.

12 (new and different) Appreciations

Music Writing and Those Who Kick Ass At It

I’m far from the most avid reader among the gheorgherati. In fact, I’d wager a library card that when it comes to... those bound things… ah yes, books, you folks call them… I’m the least well-read of any of us. Like my father, I’m drawn to more compact entries, i.e., periodicals. Newspapers, magazines, and new formats like “blogs,” as the kids say. ADD a-blazin’, this works best.

And music writing – ah, yes, this soothes my soul. Historically, this means names like Dave Marsh, Rob Sheffield, Jon Landau, Robert Christgau, Ann Powers, Will Hermes, and yes, of course, Lester Bangs. Chuck Klosterman when he swerves into the lane. Oh, and William Miller.

In terms of those who came along with the ascension of online music journalism, Stephen Thomas Erlewine reviewed a thousand albums I enjoy on AllMusic.com, and I probably check in with his recs on a more-than-weekly basis. Seriously… more than I check in with my mom. What a creep son I am.

Steven Hyden is my current go-to. Discovered him on Grantland, followed him when it disintegrated. He’s at Uproxx now and runs a segment called “indie mixtape.” Way worthy. He also writes them “book” things, and I just bought his Long Road: Pearl Jam and the Soundtrack of a Generation for the missus. His Your Favorite Band Is Killing Me. What Pop Music Rivalries Reveal About the Meaning of Life from 2016 is an assemblage of well-crafted morsels on bands I love… and don’t. Humble, clever, relatable.

Which brings us to my newest discovery. Elizabeth Nelson. Oh, my. I found her in a New Yorker article about… well, her. She’s spent some time in the area that became known as the DMV after I left. She fronts a punk/garage rock band called The Paranoid Style with her husband. And she writes. Writes… is not a strong enough word, to profane John Candy’s lovely sentiment in PT&A. She captures perfectly. She’s virtuosic.

She does so in 140 characters, as above, which is pretty much my sole reason for staying on Twitter now. (Oh, and for you, Teej. And Mike Mills, Isbell, Cleese, Flea, Danny Rosin, and the Muppets.) When she stretches her music-writing muscles into into longer-form work, like this Warren Zevon piece or this Lowell Gheorghe piece in the Oxford American, Ms. Nelson is even more remarkable. Her sonic loves seem to mirror my own, which helps, but that also means when she focuses on stuff I don’t know, I’m cannonballing into the deep end on whoever that is. 

I’ll confess to reading some music writers with a big byline and sometimes feeling what I guess I'd characterize as sour grapes envy. Not the case with Elizabeth Nelson. All I feel is a sense that I can't do that like she does, and I'm just glad to have come across her. I look forward to what comes next, since I’ll learn and love more music. Anyway, check her stuff out, both written and sung.

The artwork behind her is utterly congruent

Standup and Be Counted

Let’s follow up an extended blather with a ‘nuff said. With every passing year, I love standup comedy more. I’ll dig into this in a future post with more examples, but I’ve recently seen some great acts in person. I’ve attended WandM’s own Patton Oswalt live a few times now. Always brilliant. We saw Jim Gaffigan two weeks ago. Yeah, not edgy, but really funny. We have tickets to Nate Bargatze in a few months here. This bit (better in full) tickles me.

I’ve always been tempted to give it a try at an open mic. We shall see. One of our favorite local bartenders is all over the regional standup scene. Someday…

Two Great Tastes That Go Great Together

You folks know I love Wilco. (New album out last year was aces.) I also love standup comedy. You know that because you can read and don’t have what HM had. I really enjoy Nikki Glaser's work. Her bit on a "hastily packed suitcase" is exquisite. Getting peanut butter onto the chocolate...

Check it out.  Love it. 

Cool Stories ‘Twixt Parents and Children

This is so good. My kids… they need to up their game.

 A teen found his dad’s unreleased song from the '70s and put it on TikTok. And now it’s going viral.

I’m Not Kidding About This

Bring it back! Now!

Home Technology: Music

My not-quite-prolific recording efforts took a hiatus when Les Coole Studios moved this summer (along with everything else I own). In addition to Random Idiots’ ode to Johnny G, I did release this number, which began as a guitar track that Doug, a fraternity brother and art professor who lives outside Detroit, sent me unsolicited. That kind of interaction makes me super happy.

Do any among you do short videos? That’s the next phase of Les Coole & The Cukes. Either that or retirement.

Home Technology: Podcasts

I listen to exactly one (1) podcast with any regularity. We Defy Augury. I’m the last guy (besides Marls) to feed Dave’s ego, but it’s truly great. To me, the best aspect of what might otherwise be a simple review of literary works is the segueing Dave employs to (a) other works, (b) his recent life activities, in a humorous way, and (c) life and how to live it, to borrow from R.E.M.  There are perspectives that Dave offers that expand well beyond the limitations of the bodies of work he’s discussing, and frankly, a demonstration of depth that I didn’t know Dave had. I have comments that strike me during each episode, and sometimes I register them at SoD, but it’d be better if we congregated around the water cooler at EB High’s teacher’s lounge.

 

If 27 episodes seem overwhelming, get your feet wet on these (my favorite faves starred):

• Geoff Dyer… Beginnings, Endings, and Indecision
• Colson Whitehead… Location, Location, Location
• Ghettoside vs. Murderbot
• City on Fire… with Mob Tropes
• Revising Our Notions About Pirates*
• Playing the Tomorrow Game
• Apocalypse New*
• Southbound with S.A. Cosby
• Adrift in the Digital Doldrums*
• Charismatic Megafauna
• Stars, Caves, and Everything In Between

Some are gross (Dr. Moreau, All the Not So Pretty Horses), some are on subjects lost to me (the sci-fi stuff), but it’s all shockingly compelling.

Dave, keep cranking.

Juvenilia Forever

I like a little bit of anarchy. And I love juvenilia. Old as I am now, this moronic crap still gets a chuckle out of me. I expect that won’t change. So dumb.

The Air Force has confirmed that a KC-135 aerial tanker flying over the Middle East on Friday broadcast an “inappropriate” call sign, Lt. Col. Michael Hertzog, a spokesman for U.S. Air Forces Central Command, told Task & Purpose on Sunday.

Hertzog did not say what this call sign was, but the KC-135 had been identified as “Titties” on Flight Radar 24, a flight tracking service.

Dreams I’ll Never See

Dave hates when people talk about dreams. He mentions this in the podcast. And I get it, but sometimes I have dreams with people who aren’t here any more, in either cameos or starring roles. And it’s equal parts awesome and depressing, in that order. But I prefer to look at it as a visit. Just makes me happier. I sent this to a few of our late, great buddy Flynn’s friends recently.

So Flynn made a cameo in a dream of mine last night. Always makes me happy, hasn’t happened in quite a while. 

We were in a station wagon, presumably headed to play softball or something. Tins was driving, I was in the middle seats, Flynn was lounging in the way back where the seats were down -- we big guys like to keep spaced apart, you know. Flynn somehow found a handle of Fireball back there, and we passed it around, taking slugs of it and cracking jokes, cruising down the road. 

Just wanted to let you guys know, seems like he’s doing just fine.

Six Nations… Part Two (Three)

Yep… we’re heading to Edinburgh to watch some rugby. A la Dublin 2019. And my trip to Cardiff in 2000.

What could go wrong?

Finding What Was Lost

Did you ever have/make something pretty cool, and be careless about where you kept it, and then lose it? (Danny Boy?) What if you could get it back?

Over 20 years ago, Dave and I set out to write a screenplay. We wrote three. We even finished one while Dave was in Syria! One got reviewed by a Hollywood Studio.! (Our first try… and they passed.) We even made it through a couple of rounds of Matt Damon and Ben Affleck’s Project Greenlight contest! (Dave can tell you what happened. Maybe in a blogpost. It’s tragic and emotional.)

And then… uh, I don’t know. But along the way, we lost all our work. We moved a lot, and we are sloppy and disorganized and we weren’t any further along the road to stardom than the Random Idiots vehicle had shot us. And one of us got divorced twice and lost most of his shit. In every sense of it. It was all gone.

I don’t know how. I really don’t. But twice in the past year and a half our movie scripts have made their way back to us. One came from our buddy Kites Weaver, who had a copy of our rugby-themed one (Ruck and Maul) from our initial foray and had hung onto it. He made copies and sent them back. Very cool. Then I opened up a bin in my move last summer and there was our third screenplay sitting there. Let your stuff go. If it never comes back, it was never yours. If it does, hell yes.

Three Decades of What Could Have Lasted Four Days

The 30^th Annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip is this year. 30. That’s a lot of fishing. Very, very nearly.

I’m also grateful for being given a 10% stake of the cottage. And our old girl is getting fixed up soon, so I’m hopeful to be able to keep on keepin’ on down there for the duration. Worth the expen$e. Love the Martha Wood Cottage like no other.

Gheorghe: The Blog

This blog is just so damn much fun to me. And we have some milestones in 2023 (Good Lord willing and the price to blog don’t rise). We are 50ish posts from hitting 5,000. Dang.  And this year’s G:TBDay is our 20 year mark. Dang again.

Keep it up, people. Makes us (me) happy.

Cue the Norman Dale. I love you guys.

Baker's Dozen Edition: Music Playlists!

Here's my 20 from 2022 retrospective of new music.

The Chronicles of Big Dunc: Episode Two

When we last looked in on Duncan Ferguson, the Scottish footballing legend turned coach was straightening out the academic application of a young Evertonian. With upheaval at his long-time club has come opportunity for Big Dunc in the form of his very first opportunity to manage an EFL side.

Ferguson was announced last week as the manager of Forest Green Rovers, currently scuffling in last place in League One, the third level in the English professional pyramid. Rovers have been around since 1889, but only entered the top four divisions in 2017. The more interesting part of their story has little to do with football and much more with their ecological bonafides. Green energy entrepreneur Dale Vince bought the club in 2010 and set about transforming it. In 2018 Forest Green became the first club in the world to be recognized by the United Nations as a carbon-neutral enterprise. Prior to that, in 2015, Vince decreed that the club would go vegan - all players and staff would eat vegan meals in training, and all concessions at the club's New Lawn ground would be vegan, as well.

This element of the club's story made for good, clean, awkward fun during the announcement of Big Dunc's appointment:

Can we *please* get cameras in to document every second? Working series title: Quorn or Nothing https://t.co/3WZsPUYepC

— Melissa Reddy (@MelissaReddy_) January 27, 2023

Big Dunc took to the sidelines for Rovers for the first time this afternoon at Shrewsbury Town. His side took a 1-0 lead in the 18th minute through Jamaican national Jordan Garrick. In a perfect script, Forest Green would've held on, and they did, until second-half extra time, when they conceded twice to ruin the fairytale.

On to Peterborough. Up the Green. Up Vegan Big Dunc!

Fashion is Awesome and the Kids Are Alright

On Christmas Eve, we went out to dinner as a family at a reasonably upscale local spot. There were men wearing blazers and slacks, women in evening dresses. To be sure, there were also those like me in jeans and a sweater - I said 'reasonably' upscale. And then there was my 21 year-old. 

Like, what even is this?

They wore an outfit that's a bit hard to describe, but maybe thrift gothpunk gets close. Black skirt, chunky belt, white t-shirt torn in the style of Sid Vicious, black men's suit coat purchased at, well, a thrift store. Funky eyeshadow and nubby spikes in their hair completed the look.

My little one was marginally more conventional, going with a skater hobo get-up that featured very ripped jeans and a baggy sweater over her Doc Martens. Very on-brand for her.

As it turns out, my kids are just two of many in their generation who've decided that convention is for other people in the realm of fashion. According to a Washington Post story that conveniently published on December 27, Gen Z don't give a damn about your rules. (You gotta read the article, if only for the pictures of the fashion on display. It's a riot of color and style.)

From the piece, describing the scene at St. John's in Queens, "...the student body — sometimes even the individual student — looked like a loud pastiche of late-20th century styles. There were miniskirts. Slip dresses. Bra tops, especially paired with gigantic blazers. Towering, chunky lug-sole boots and loafers. Skirts on men, cargo pockets on women. Thrifted items of every color, shape and era. It’s like a costume for ‘Clueless’ meets a construction worker."

That is my kids to a (ripped) T. 

And in recent weeks, the generation found a visible standard-bearer right here in the DMV. Wizards forward Kyle Kuzma showed up in the following fits at recent games:

I showed those to my kids, and they responded, "swag". Which I think is good. 

Gen Z has been through it like few other cohorts during this period of their lives. And they were raised by Generation X, casual, authority-questioning grungelords. As Ashley Fetters Maloy writes in the Post piece linked above, "Is it any wonder, then, that Gen Z — the born-skeptical children of Gen X — has similarly made “weird” its whole aesthetic?"

Weird is good, I tell my kids. Just don't ask me to dress like them.

Futile Superfans, Arise!

We know quite a bit around these parts about sports-fan futility. We've got Jets fans and Commanders fans and Jaguars fans and Knicks fans and, obviously, William & Mary hoops fans. But I don't think any of us are prepared to be fans of the U.S. Men's Team Handball squad. 

Team Handball is the domain of European countries, by and large. South Korea is the only non-European nation to win an Olympic medal, a silver in Seoul in 1988. Qatar won silver in 2015 as the host of the International Handball Federation (IHF) men's world championships, marking the only time in the 27 editions of the competition that a non-European country medaled. 

The sport's kinda like water polo without the water. Teams of seven (six field players and a goalie) attempt to throw a volleyball-sized ball into a net from outside a 6-meter semicircle. Players can hold the ball for up to three seconds before having to pass it or dribble it (a maximum of three times). It's fast-paced, physical, and high-scoring. Here's a handy primer:

Frankly, this is a sport Americans should dominate.

We do not.

In fact, before this week, the U.S. Men's Team Handball side had participated in six world championships (failing to qualify for 21), played 25 matches, and lost every single one. Our Olympic record is slightly better - we've won four, drawn one, and lost 30 in the six Games for which we qualified. We haven't made the Olympic field since 1996.

But we will be in the 2028 Summer Games, because we're the host nation, so it's time USA Handball started getting its shit together. And this week, we began to gather some of that shit. On Friday, Team USA opened its 2023 IHF World Championship play with a 28-27 win over Morocco in Jönköping, Sweden. The men followed that result up with losses against Bahrain and Egypt, good enough to advance from the Group Stage to the Main Draw.

Team USA fell to Bahrain and Croatia before Belgium, 24-22, in their final match, doubling the USA's all-time win total. Pal Merkovszky was named man of the match. Way to go, Pal!

We'll be keeping a close eye on our handballers in the run-up to the 2028 Olympics. Because if we love anything, it's lousy sports teams. Go America!

Sentence of Dave Inspires Me, Alternatively Titled "My Earliest Appearances in Court"

Dave of Sentence of Dave wrote two recent Davish posts about his son's speeding tickets and subsequent court appearance, including an aside that "Alex should be thankful that he has a supportive father who accompanied him to court" just to prove that Dave wrote it.  This inspired today's post.

Almost 30 years ago I spent a summer in the Burg living with rootsy, Nelson, and Juan Moritz on Braxton Court.  This confederacy of dunces encountered a comedy of errors including broken pipes, shower fungus, and a misunderstanding of when the co-eds from whom we sublet the place expected us to be out.  But we managed to eke out some fun along the way.

I used Hoopy's name to get a job working at the Short Stop Cafe.  I think I made it through three shifts before I was fired.  I misread the calendar and showed up for a dinner shift when I was supposed to work a lunch.  The manager said "We have a policy here, no show, no call, no job."  I replied without skipping a beat, naturally, "No shit." and handed him my apron and Shortstop polo shirt.  I'm still bad at calendars but I haven't been fired since.

I was not phased by this turn of events.  I knew I wasn't cut out for the waitering life, with its formalities and expectations like courtesy and politeness.  I was too sick and rude to wait.

Shortly afterwards, I saw a sign at Paul's Deli advertising an opening for a delivery driver.  This seemed like a good fit.  I like to drive, it involved minimal customer interaction, I got a free meal on each shift, the commute was about 250 feet, and I could smoke cigarettes on the job.  It suited my 21-year-old lifestyle to a T.

Except for the part about the cops.  Williamsburg is crawling with them.  Campus Police, Colonial Williamsburg Police, Ford's Colony Police, Kingsmill Police, Williamsburg Police, James City County Police, State Troopers, all of them looking to pull over a young guy in a Japanese car with NJ plates driving 6 to 9 MPH over the limit.  All this is to say I had a lot of interactions with the local constabulary.  In these situations I would point to the pile of pizza and sandwiches in the passenger seat, explain that I deliver for Paul's, and occasionally they would let me off with a warning.  Or they might give me a ticket for improper equipment, a misdemeanor that doesn't put points on your license.  About half the time they would give me a speeding ticket for 5-9 MPH over the limit (no matter how fast I was really going).

I couldn't afford the points and resulting insurance hike so I would put on a jacket and tie, take the ticket to court and beg the judge for mercy.  Sometimes the cop wouldn't show up so the judge had to let me go scot-free.  Other times the judge would knock the ticket down to improper equipment, maybe they liked Paul's French dip (truly a hidden gem of a sandwich).  Once I negotiated with the prosecutor before the proceedings started and walked out with improper equipment instead of speeding.

My favorite courtroom appearance, to this day, arose from such a situation.  I was driving on Route 60 towards the Outlets and the myriad hotels, motels, and mobile estates out that way.  I made this run a million times and knew every crack and pothole in the road.  I also knew where the 25 MPH zone ended and the 40 MPH zone began.  I was cruising along at about 30 MPH in the 25, and once I was within sight of the 40 MPH sign I sped up.  Almost instantly, out of a shitty little hidey-hole tucked twixt two shrubberies popped Sneaky Pete.  I looked down, saw I was doing about 37 MPH, and pulled over immediately.

Radio off, interior light on, window down, rearview tilted up so I didn't get blinded by the coplights, hands on the wheel.  A Statie rolled up, a young guy.  He gave me permission to get my documents from the glove box, asked how fast I was going, and I told him "37 MPH because I could see the 40 MPH sign" and gave him my usual song and dance about Paul's.  He appreciated my honesty so he was honest too.  "It's the end of the month and I need to make my number.  You've been straight with me so if you come to court I'll tell the judge you were cooperative so he might reduce the fine."  This is why people hate the regulatory state but I didn't get into that right then and there, instead I took what the defense gave me and checked down to "Thank you sir."  After we exchanged the relevant paperwork I went back about my business with the popcorn shrimp and hot Hollies.

For whatever reason I had to appear at the courthouse in Yorktown.  The judge was straight out of central casting, a Southern fried take-no-bullshit sumbitch like Fred Gwynne in "My Cousin Vinny" and he looked like the judge from "Air Bud."  The entire proceeding irritated him and he had complete disdain for most of the lawbreakers who came before him.  He threw the figurative book at almost everyone.  Almost.

I got there a little bit before the appointed time, and that was a stupid move--this court also has jurisdiction over maritime issues so I had to sit through an hour of boating and crabbing shenanigans.  And they really were shenanigans.  In the maritime session, a Vietnamese guy tried to fight a ticket for taking some undersized crabs.  The judge lit into him, "This is whyyyyeh we don't have enough cray-yibs innymore!  Becuz pyeople lahk yeeeew are tayehkin' unnersahzed cray-yibs en overcrabbin' the bay!"  The defendant couldn't follow what was going on and barely managed to say anything in English in response.  The judge yelled some more and hit him with a $750 fine.

Very next guy up was Jimmy Joe Jim Bob John from Croaker or Norge or whatever.  The cop explained the facts--same as the previous guy, except he had two coolers full of too-small crabs.  The defendant was incensed.  "Judge" he said, "Ah've bin crabbin the bay since ah wiz knee-hah to a grasshopper en ah've nivver bin tickitted fer sumpin lahk this!!"  I swear to god he said knee-high to a grasshopper.  The judge was suddenly accommodating and said "Sir, ah unnerstan how yew fee-yil, buuht the sitchy-ation here is bay-yid.  Pyeople are overcrabbin the bay!  An if yew keep takin 'em fore they're ole nuff tuh reeper-duce, sum day we wone have inny lift!"  Jimmy Joe Jim Bob John adjusted his mesh baseball hat, put his hands on his hips, and screwed up his face as if to say "Ah cay-yint argue with tha-yit."  The judge turned him out with a $250 fine and an admonishment to consider future generations of crabbers.

White privilege is real.

Eventually they got to the landlubber moving violations.  The defendants were called based on the cop who caught them, so that each cop worked through all his criminals in one batch, allowing him to promptly get back to eating donuts and giving himself testicular cancer with the radar gun.  The judge demolished everyone, he didn't want to hear anyone's excuses or stories about anything until a pretty little girl went to the defendant's table for a ticket written by Sneaky Pete, the same guy who wrote mine.  She was accompanied by a guy who I assumed was her father until he entered an appearance as Sam Slickness from Dewey Cheatam & Howe.  The cop explained that he pulled her over making a U-turn at a stoplight that had a "NO U-TURN" sign.  Open and shut, right?  No!  Slickness did his dizzle.

First he asked the cop if the little girl had any other moving violations on her license.  She didn't.  Then he asked if she was polite when pulled over.  She was.  Then he asked if any drugs or alcohol were involved.  They weren't.  Slickness then said "Yer onner, as you can see, li'l Suzy Sweetness nivvir did innythin lahk this before, she was pulaht to the ossifer, en there are no extenyatin circumstances with the incident.  She jus gradjeeated from Yorktown Hah School, she's about to be a frishmin at the University of Virginia, en her daddy, Poppa Sweetness, is on the town council here in Yorktown."

The judge leaned forward and grinned like the Cheshire cat.  "Li'l Suzy Sweetness, dew yew promise yer nivvir gonna do this agin?"  Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth as she coyly relied "Yessir" and batted her eyes.  "Aw-rite thin" purred the old judge, "ahm givin yew a ticket for im-proper equipmin.  Run along now, en ah don't wanna see yew in my courtroom agin," smiling the whole time.

Then they called me.

Sneaky Pete explained the facts as he recalled them and based on his notes, ending with 37 MPH in a 25.  Then I did Slickness's dizzle.

I did not know anything about precedent or stare decisis, but I figured I should say what the lawyer just said, adapting to my facts of course.  The only differences were (1) I was within sight of a sign that allowed me to do what I was doing, and (2) my daddy wasn't on the town council here in Yorktown.  I assumed there was no way he couldn't let me off if I did what the lawyer did, otherwise it would be clear that the only reason Suzy Sweetness skated was her father's position on the town council.

So I asked the cop if I had any other moving violations on my license.  I didn't (thanks to all those "improper equipment" trips to court previously).  I asked if I was polite when pulled over.  I was.  I asked if any drugs or alcohol were involved.  They weren't.  I asked if I was within sight of a 40 MPH sign when the cop hit me with the radar gun.  I was.

Then I said to the judge "Your honor, I have no other moving violations on my record, I was polite when pulled over, and there are no extenuating circumstances with the incident.  I was doing 37 MPH because I was within sight of the 40 MPH sign, and I was speeding up in anticipation of entering the 40 MPH zone.  I deliver food for Paul's Deli so I'm familiar with where the different zones begin and end.  I'm about to be a senior at the College of William & Mary, and I promise I'm never going to do this again."

The judge was livid.  He saw exactly what I was doing, and exactly why he couldn't throw the book at me.  He leaned forward and through clenched teeth asked me "Suuun, did yew say yer a stewdin ay-it the laaaw skoo-wul?"

"No sir" I replied, "I'm just an undergrad delivering pizza to pay some bills."

He could've spit nails. "Ahm fahnin yew fer im-proper equipmin, yew be-yin the im-proper equipmin!!  En ah don't ever wanna see yew in mah courtroom agin!!"  Then he banged his gavel.

Some of the poor slobs waiting their turn before this hanging judge gasped.  One or two cheered a bit, there was even a brief smattering of clapping.  I left the courtroom to pay my fine and a middle-aged woman ran after me.  She caught up to me and panted, "That was incredible, how did you do that?"  I replied "I just said what the lawyer right before me said, I figured if it worked for him it should work for me."  Stunned, she smiled and went back into the courtroom.  I like to think that everyone else followed my lead and went home with im-proper equipmin fines too. 

Divisional Round Final Day Filler

Our man Zed has something teed up for tomorrow, but it's been a few days, and I know y'all are dying to have a place to talk about this afternoon's gridiron action, so I'm here for you. 

In a way, this one's tied to Z, as well. 

I don't know why, but I seem to get a lot of things in my Twitter feed about the Buffalo Bills. In particular, about what terrific dudes Stefon Diggs and Josh Allen seem to be. There's a great piece here on the relationships the two players have with youngsters. 

Here's Diggs with five year-old Aydin Laborde. The pair's relationship started in preseason, shortly after Aydin's father had passed away. Diggs has made it a point to stay a part of Aydin's life.

Remember @StefonDiggs’ buddy Aydin?

Stef met up with him tonight for a special pregame moment. ❤️💙 #BillsMafia pic.twitter.com/FpC7vp6XDz

— Buffalo Bills (@BuffaloBills) December 18, 2022

Allen has a similar relationship with Abbie McNett, who he met this summer as she was battling cancer. They got together last week, too.

.@JoshAllenQB met cancer warrior Abbie over the summer.

Abbie recently found out her tumor is gone, so Josh had her on-field pregame to celebrate.

We love every bit of this moment. ❤️💙 pic.twitter.com/pV7cYf2K5w

— Buffalo Bills (@BuffaloBills) December 18, 2022

That's the good stuff. 

Guestie: Mystery Submission

 Sometimes these things just appear in my inbox...and I post them on behalf of Mr. Lee.

Grinds My Gears, 2023 Version

I should be starting the new year off w/ positive thinking, but some things have been bugging me. 

Grammar

It’s almost cliché to complain about, but the language is dying one word/phrase at a time. Examples:

1. “Real-i-tor”  This is so simple.  It’s REAL-TOR.  

2. “Vetrans” – on the opposite side of the spectrum.  It’s “Vet-er-ans Day”.  The second e is not fucking silent.  Say the requisite syllables as fast or slow as you want, but let’s stop adding/subtracting letters and just say the word as it’s spelled.  No more, no less.  

3. “And I” – the misuse of this phrase has taken over the world, folks.  You do not send the email to Julie and I; you send it to Julie and me.  Subject vs object.  Easy cheat: say the sentence without “Julie and”. “Send the email to I” sounds stupid right?  [Bonus gripe: I heard someone say (I’m paraphrasing) “Are you attending Bob and I’s presentation”. I can’t even look at them anymore]

4. “Estatic” – I’m not estatic, I’m ecstatic.  Show the c some respect (sounds dirtier than intended).

5. “Sherbert” – this one’s been mispronounced for so long that we just equivocated and now either pronunciation is somehow acceptable.  It’s spelled S-H-E-R-B-E-T; we’re not in a Guy Ritchie movie - WE DON’T PUT R’S WHERE THEY DON’T BELONG.   Act I of a future John Wick sequel is going to open with our hero in the frozen section of his local Safeway (Publix for the FLA guys) when he overhears someone pronouncing it incorrectly…

Partisanship

I’ve absolutely had it with party identity.  HAD.  IT.  Not a new take, but the us/them, voting for/supporting the name on the front of the jersey rather than the back is at critical mass and an increasingly tiresome exercise in zero sum democracy.

First, the double standards – the conduct of our leaders (or anyone else) is either good or bad, it isn’t influenced by whether or not the person aligns with my party/ideology.  Whataboutism sucks.

Second, coalition building across the aisles is nonexistent and, more troubling, not enough people seem bothered by that fact – they’ve just accepted the continuous wheel of “whomever has more seats in the Congressional house pushes the party agenda without compromise”.  “The motion passed 54-46, with all 54 X Party senators voting Yes” is no way to govern.  You represent all of your constituents, not just the ones who voted for you.  This way of governing is also creating MASSIVE regulatory swings (i.e. costs and inefficiencies) as administrations/party in power changes and all the rules change with it.  Compromise should be the norm – everybody else in every other job does it nearly every damn day.  It should be a sign of strength, intelligence, and good faith, rather than the exception or cause for being portrayed as a traitor by your party’s leaders or booed by its voters.  

The recent events are mind blowing for what did and didn’t transpire.  Having yourself nominated for a position more than 3 or 4 times in a row seems like some stone cold narcissism (not to mention aligned party members only found the “send” button on their keyboard to disavow a certain freshman Congressmen from NY after his vote for Speaker was recorded, all 15 times).  More disconcerting – it seems like nobody’s blinking an eye that a party leader would negotiate for votes with the most extreme 10th percentile of their own party instead of crossing the aisles and engaging a larger percentage of serious-minded moderates on the other side.  And did the D’s even try to work the situation for a moderate, collaborative-minded candidate, or better split on committees to enable coalitions, or did they just say “don’t worry, let’s just see if they’ll EFF it up themselves?” I’m frustrated that they seemingly took the zero to play out this diametric opposition method of governing for 2 more years.  We should demand more from everyone involved.

Ordering “shaved” meat at a deli/grocery store

Saved the most consequential issue for last.   I’m predisposed to upholding the status quo and not making people go out of their way for me.  So, it causes me incredible strife and requires substantial soul searching and mental preparation on my part when my wife sends me to the grocery store with a list that includes e.g. “2 pounds of ham (shaved)”.  That’s how she always writes it; she sneaks in “shaved”.

You may have seen this method where the meat is nearly translucent and a different texture, and the slicer has to go through about 200 rotations just to get anywhere close to 1/4 pound of meat.  Every deli clerk THINKS they can shave meat, but you know after one slice – when they hold it up for your inspection – whether that is actually in their skillset.  It’s like, if you THINK you can write in calligraphy, you CAN’T write in calligraphy.

Properly shaving meat is, apparently, an especially niche skill you hardly ever find in nature.  There are like 15 people in the world who can actually “shave” meat rather than just “slice it really thinly”, and I always imagine they trained for years under a strict vow of silence at some Shaolin-esque temple on a desolate island or hanging off the edge of a cliff near a waterfall somewhere.  But setting that aside, and assuming they CAN shave it, REQUESTING they do so is SUPER awkward.  The attendant slices the meat for 5 minutes, weighs it, and of course it’s not anywhere close, slices more, rinse repeat, repeat, repeat.  Meanwhile 9 people who just wanted a ½ pound of moderately priced Jarlsberg are piling up behind you and they’re all alternately staring at you and the deli clerk, like you and the deli clerk are shooting a snuff film.  There may be some law of physics that shaving ham speeds up the ham molecules in a way that makes it exponentially tastier than thin-sliced (my conscience, along with a histamine intolerance, precludes me from eating it to confirm/correct), but the cost-benefit scale is tipped dramatically in the wrong direction.

Tighter Than a Tick

There are many in the know that consider the English League Championship (the "second" division of English soccer, one rung below the Premier League) the toughest league in professional soccer. This year, a division that's routinely a mad scramble has upped its game, poised for a rollercoaster ride (see what we did there?) of a run in to the final matches. 

With respect to the competition's toughness, start with the fact that each of the 24 teams plays 46 regular season league matches (before factoring in outside competitions like the FA Cup and the League Cup), which is considerably more than any other league my deep research has identified. By way of comparison, the Premier League, Spain's La Liga, France's Ligue 1, and Italy's Serie A play 38 matches. Those tissue-soft Germans only play 34 in the Bundesliga.

Add to the fixture congestion the notion that the top two teams automatically qualify for promotion to the world's most prominent league (and teams 3-6 play a mini-tournament to identify the third promoted side each year) and we get highly motivated squads competing up and down the table.

Finally, and despite the number of matches, Championship football is routinely described as more physical than the Premier League. The level of skill isn't quite as high as that at the top of the pyramid, so there's more of a premium on pace, fitness, and physicality - the beautiful game, it ain't always.

Given what's at stake, the final matches of a Championship season are always fraught. I've lived this over the past several years as a fan of a yo-yo club like Fulham (so described because they've had a recent habit of getting relegated from the Premier League, winning promotion, and being relegated right back down - seems we've kicked that pattern, at least for this season*). This year, though, the race for the playoff makes five-wide at Daytona seem like riding Tomorrowland Speedway at DisneyWorld.

*vigorously knocks wood

Check this mess out:

Recently relegated Burnley is playing really good stuff under new manager (and playing legend in his own right) Vincent Kompany, and along with second-place Sheffield United seem a good bet to cruise to automatic qualification. After that, we've got the 5 on a Friday afternoon. The distance between Watford in third and Hull City in 16th is nine points, or three wins/losses on the trot. Last place Wigan (on 25 points) is only 16 points out of a playoff spot (the last of which is currently held by West Bromwich Albion. Ten teams are within six points of the playoffs, including Sunderland, who suffered the ignominy of relegation from the Premier League to the Championship to League One in consecutive seasons in 2016-17 and 2017-18 (if you haven't seen the documentary Sunderland 'til I Die, which chronicles those seasons, I insist you fix that).

At least one of you follows a team that's flirting with relegation from the Premier League to the Championship (though I find that an unlikely outcome), so it might be worth your time to get familiar with the grind. Regardless, if you're looking for some dumb fun, you could do worse than paying attention to the car crashes happening right below the top division.

Coasting

The headline, in this case, describing both the content to come and the level of effort the assembled Gheorghieage put forth during my trip to the University Cheer Association (UCA) national championships in Orlando. Bygones.

There are people in the world who have a serious rollercoaster jones. They've got a club and everything (the American Coaster Enthusiasts, in case you're interested). They plan vacations around hitting the fastest, highest, newest coasters. I am not one of these people.

But I do enjoy a good thrill ride. The only parks I really ever get to are Busch Gardens Williamsburg, DisneyWorld, and Universal Studios, so my recent experience is a bit limited. I dig The Griffon and Verbolten at the former (and count the venerable Loch Ness Monster as my first ever big-boy coaster experience). Disney's short on real coaster muscle, though Rock 'n' Roller Coaster at Hollywood Studios has a nice jackrabbit start and Expedition Everest in Animal Kingdom has one of the best sets I've seen. I also really like The Incredible Hulk at Universal - first time I did it I felt like I was drunk when I got off, in terms of the effect to my equilibrium. 

This past weekend, as noted in the comments thread a few days ago (which is probably the same thread that's been up for five days), I got to ride Universal's newest whip, VelociCoaster. It is damn near impossible to describe the sensation of riding a fast, looping, spinning coaster, and so I won't really try. This one gets up to 70 mph, which is fast, but not excessively so in the context of global coasters (Formula Rossa at Ferrari World in Abu Dhabi gets up to 150 mph, which sounds preposterous). Its genius comes in the unrelenting nature of its speed and g-forces. VelociCoaster has no chill - it's spins on turns on loops on accelerations on climbs on drops, as you can see here:

VelociCoaster was rated the best new coaster in America by the Golden Ticket Awards in 2021, and was ranked the #5 overall steel coaster in 2022 by the same folks. Beauty (and exhilaration) being in the eye of the beholder, your mileage may vary.

What Have You Done For Me Tomorrow

It was as predictable as it was discouraging. Celebratory cigar smoke hadn’t even cleared the Georgia locker room after the Bulldogs’ vivisection of TCU Monday night when the headlines and stories started dropping. “Historic three-peat now in sight for Georgia as returning stars focus on avoiding entitlement entering 2023” – CBSSports.com “Why You Shouldn’t Bet Against a Georgia Three-Peat Next Year” – Fox Sports “Can the Bulldogs Three-Peat as National Champions in 2023?” – Athlon Sports “Why the Bulldogs are primed to three-peat” – Los Angeles Times. 

Granted, the game deserved little journalism detail, since it was non-competitive after about an hour of real time. But Jesus H. on rollerblades, can we not permit the Bulldogs to enjoy themselves for even a day before kicking down the door of “what’s next?” and “can you do it again?” 

The answer, of course, is no. Must feed the beast, the beast in this case being journalism and its reflexive scramble to supposedly get out in front of a story. And since the story of the national championship game was toe-tagged at halftime, a legion of keyboards and microphones sprinted for the future. 

I was part of that ecosystem for roughly 35 years, so I get it. I was guilty of it at times, but overall did my best to steer clear of that kind of reporting, since it isn’t actual reporting. More like a magic 8-ball with depth charts. Reporters and editors defend predictive pieces and look-aheads as supplemental to the here-and-now, and what eyes and ears want. Unspoken is that they also don’t want to be the 18th outlet to mention it, because timeliness, or something like that. 

I’d argue that the Rush to the Unknown is unimaginative and, in cases of notable accomplishment, rather tone-deaf. It's human nature to ponder what’s next, and it’s likely accelerated by a microwave society that’s given us the attention span of German shepherds. Sports and sports fans, however, seem more susceptible to the dynamic. 

When folks are wrapping up a wedding reception, nobody says, ‘This was a great bash, but how are we going to top it for Thanksgiving?’ Immediately after it was unveiled, Chisel magazine didn’t say, ‘La Pieta is a dandy chunk of marble, Mickey, but what do you have for us next?’ Inventors Illustrated didn’t say, ‘Sure, Tommy Eds produced the telegraph, light bulb and phonograph, but if that’s all, did he underachieve?’ Does a supervisor say, ‘Bill, you set records in sales last year and were terrific with clients and customer engagement. Let’s ratchet that up by 15 percent this year.’ (Wait, scratch that. That’s precisely how American business works.) 

The inability to allow an accomplishment a decent shelf life is joined by its equally annoying cousin: ‘Yeah, but can he or she do it at the next level?’ The current chew toy in that exercise is Georgia QB Stetson Bennett. Sure, he made history by winning back-to-back Nattys, but what kind of NFL prospect is he? Can he throw the deep ‘out?’ Can he play in the League? 

The correct answer is: It doesn’t much matter right now, if ever. Pro scouts and biologists will start poking and prodding soon enough and determine his value, but if he never plays a meaningful snap for a paycheck (I’d wager that he will), it wouldn’t and shouldn’t diminish what he’s already done. Bennett and a slew of achievers barely have time for a good soak before somebody wants to drain the tub and say, ‘Towel off and juggle these hatchets.’ 

Several pieces already have Georgia as the betting favorite for the 2023 national title, owing to returning players and a favorable schedule. One piece postulated that the Dawgs would be 10-0 heading to Knoxville for a Nov. 18 date against Tennessee for the SEC East title, an interesting bit of cart and horse placement that begs the question: if they’re 9-1 or egads 8-2 heading into that game, will that be a disappointment? 

The answer, unfortunately for some, will be yes. 

That championship was sooooo 10 months ago. The one before that was almost two whole years ago. Who can remember back that far? Fans certainly can be unreasonable. Some media hate having their narratives upended, even if they know objectively that sports predictions, particularly for entire seasons, are a yard full of garden rakes at dusk. There’s no reason to expect change. Shots will fall and fail, passes caught and dropped, folks right and wrong about what happened and what’s gonna happen. 

Everyone back to their respective barstools and chatrooms. Those arguments won’t kindle themselves.