(I have attempted to cross-post this on Cnati, but it appears they may not take it. Hope you enjoy. Who Dey!)
Some of you may know that William Safire passed away last month. Among a great deal many other things, Mr. Safire wrote a weekly column for the New York Times on language frequently dealing with new words or new uses of old words. In his honor, I would like to propose a new word that springs from the crushing disappointment of last week’s game against the Houston Texan’s.
Coats: Kōts verb definition: to make an error, to perform poorly, to self- destruct.
I know what you’re thinking: the loss wasn’t all Coats’ fault. Caldwell had plenty of drops. There were blown assignments and coverages. Stupid penalties again were prevalent. While I agree and do not pin the loss solely on Daniel Coats, I do find his performance crystallizing. So close, yet so far away. Full of potential, but ultimately doomed to fail.
The Bengals have shown a disturbing trend to self-destruct. This isn’t the first Bengal team to Coats it. This trend existed before this game, before this season, but I believe we have the players to finally beat the trend. After all we did cut St. Louis. We can win, in fact we have. But if we are going to make it to the play-offs we have to start playing complete games. To do that, we have to stop self- destructing. The way I see it, in order for the Bengals to fully put their inner-Bungle behind them, something drastic must be done. I think as a unified front of Management, Coaches, Players and Fans, we have to collectively pull a Costanza. As in George Costanza of Seinfeld and DO THE OPPOSITE. We have to break the cycle. This is a call to action. I’m not talking about a rally cap here. This is bigger than that. I’m talking about messing with the very fabric of space and time.
Apparently Katie and Mike are already on board, they were busy dealing with Jerry Jones for a Tight End. They didn’t close the deal but still…when’s the last time you heard of the Bengals trying a mid-season trade? That’s the Costanza, baby!
When Bratkowski is in the booth on 1st down, instead of running Benson right side? He’s got to give ‘em the ole Costanza and throw a pass.
When Carson reads blitz and decides to audible, Carson must Constanza their asses and keep the same play on.
When the play is designed to go to Coats, you guessed it, just go ahead and slip them a Costanza-roo and throw it right to him. It’ll catch the Bear’s defense off guard.
Beyond the team, we as fans can contribute.
If you sit on the right side of couch, sit on the left.
If you normally eat the wings, eat the legs and vice versa.
If you drink Bud Light, reach for the Nati on Sunday.
I am prepared to do my part in this massive effort to un-jinx this team. Instead of watching the game from the comfortably thin air of the 3 deck in PBS, I am going to wake up Saturday and drive to Chicago and watch the game in a dark bar surrounded by men wearing Urlacker jerseys. Broad shouldered men, whose names end in vowels.
When the dust settles Sunday night, I can’t tell you if the Bengals will be 5 and 2 or 4 and 3. But I can tell you that desperate times call for desperate measures, and these times call for the Costanza.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Black Flag
I stared at him. And he stared right back at me. Insolent and Brooding. Defiantly upright, and glaringly out of place. Again and again, it repulsed my advances with an electric razor. Equal parts of fascination and repulsion forced me closer to the mirror. It was even more disgusting up close. It looked less like a hair than a thorn, and emerged from my face almost parallel to the ground and then turned abruptly 90% towards the sky like a sapling searching for the sun.
It wasn’t there yesterday, but it was here today. With grim determination, I grabbed it with my bare hands fully prepared to physically uproot the abomination. To my dismay, I found I could not grip it. It had some sort of defense mechanism, an oily substance that oozed from it, rendering plucking bare handed quite impossible. I grabbed a pair of tweezers. As I stared at my target, I brought my weapon ever closer. A small but persistent fear began to set in. I found myself thinking of icebergs. Icebergs have the greater portion of their mass beneath the sea. The pilot of the Titanic under estimated an iceberg and people died. A hair that big, that evolved, might rip a big crater in my face coming out. I could bleed out in the bathroom all alone. My resolve shattered and my hands shaking, I put the tweezers down.
How did I come to be here in front of the mirror wrestling with a part of my body turned against me?
We constantly fight a war, ceaselessly suppressing a revolution embed in our very DNA. Oh Deoxyribonucleic Acid! You double-helix’d traitor! Over time, as the rebels cells wear down the established order, we begin to see the effects of aging. It starts small, a hair falls out, or perhaps you tweak your back getting out of the car. As the rebels gain momentum and power, male pattern baldness sets in. Next thing you know, your back always hurts and maybe your knees start to ache when it rains. The war rages on. You eat better, you exercise. You think you might be turning the tide on middle age. Then it happens, the Forces of Decay send up a signal to mock you. A thick black bristle, conspicuously placed. Its message is un-mistakable: We are in control.
What evolutionary purpose could such a growth have? If my whole body was covered in them, I would likely be impervious to assault from most primitive weapons. However, one or two random super hairs offer no protection against my enemies. Perhaps its emergence is intended to signal to females of the species. Stay away from this one, he is too old to be a reliable mate.
No one warned me of long dormant follicles, secreted in bizarre unfortunate places. No one told me they lay in wait as a biological countdown sequence ran down to zero before releasing their boar-bristle progeny. Nobody prepared me for this. Where’s the cute book in the library that warns little Timmy that one day, all his hair will fall out, that his eyebrows will try to merge and his waistline will expand without warning. There are plenty of books that warn Timmy about death and dying. There are no books that say, “Timmy, One day, all of a sudden, you’ll be disgusting. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, all you can do is manage it the best you can. Good luck.”
It wasn’t there yesterday, but it was here today. With grim determination, I grabbed it with my bare hands fully prepared to physically uproot the abomination. To my dismay, I found I could not grip it. It had some sort of defense mechanism, an oily substance that oozed from it, rendering plucking bare handed quite impossible. I grabbed a pair of tweezers. As I stared at my target, I brought my weapon ever closer. A small but persistent fear began to set in. I found myself thinking of icebergs. Icebergs have the greater portion of their mass beneath the sea. The pilot of the Titanic under estimated an iceberg and people died. A hair that big, that evolved, might rip a big crater in my face coming out. I could bleed out in the bathroom all alone. My resolve shattered and my hands shaking, I put the tweezers down.
How did I come to be here in front of the mirror wrestling with a part of my body turned against me?
We constantly fight a war, ceaselessly suppressing a revolution embed in our very DNA. Oh Deoxyribonucleic Acid! You double-helix’d traitor! Over time, as the rebels cells wear down the established order, we begin to see the effects of aging. It starts small, a hair falls out, or perhaps you tweak your back getting out of the car. As the rebels gain momentum and power, male pattern baldness sets in. Next thing you know, your back always hurts and maybe your knees start to ache when it rains. The war rages on. You eat better, you exercise. You think you might be turning the tide on middle age. Then it happens, the Forces of Decay send up a signal to mock you. A thick black bristle, conspicuously placed. Its message is un-mistakable: We are in control.
What evolutionary purpose could such a growth have? If my whole body was covered in them, I would likely be impervious to assault from most primitive weapons. However, one or two random super hairs offer no protection against my enemies. Perhaps its emergence is intended to signal to females of the species. Stay away from this one, he is too old to be a reliable mate.
No one warned me of long dormant follicles, secreted in bizarre unfortunate places. No one told me they lay in wait as a biological countdown sequence ran down to zero before releasing their boar-bristle progeny. Nobody prepared me for this. Where’s the cute book in the library that warns little Timmy that one day, all his hair will fall out, that his eyebrows will try to merge and his waistline will expand without warning. There are plenty of books that warn Timmy about death and dying. There are no books that say, “Timmy, One day, all of a sudden, you’ll be disgusting. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, all you can do is manage it the best you can. Good luck.”
Friday, October 9, 2009
Its Scary to be a Bengals Fan.
It’s hard to be a Bengals fan even when you’re 3-1. This team is making me a nervous wreck. My heart has been in my throat every weekend. Every game to date has been scary. Our supposed lay-up game last week was a panic attack inducing, possession swapping OT fest. Following this team is like walking a tight rope. I’m afraid to look down, afraid to take another step. Most of all, I am afraid we’ll go from 3 and 1 to over and done before November.
The game in Baltimore is still a few days away and I am already breaking into cold sweats. This game is the test. And that scares me. The Ravens, as a team, scare me. Flacco’s arm scares me. Ray Lewis, I don’t care who you are, is flat out scary. Jesus, even their stuffed Mascot is a little scary – like some ‘roided up Jeckel or Heckel.
Lewis and Bratkowski talking tough about establishing the run against a very stingy Baltimore defense scares me. Larry Johnson was the last back to get over 100 yards against them. He hasn’t been good for years and Cedric, while revitalized, is no Larry Johnson.
Flacco throwing bombs to Kelley Washington scares me. I know he’s their number 4 or 5 threat but who was Massaquoi last week and where did he come from?
Carson Palmer running for 1st downs scares me. He looked like the Tin Man left out in a hurricane, squeaking and creaking his way down field. Ray Lewis will kill him if he tries that this week.
Laverneus Coles’ hands scare me.
I’ll cover my eyes every time the kicking team comes on because with the exception of Huber, they scare me.
The reality is, we don’t need to win this game. There is no shame in losing to Baltimore at Baltimore. We can lose this game and still stay in the playoff hunt. We can lose this game and nobody will care because nobody really expects us to win. But winning this game will signal to the world that the Bengals are for real. It will establish us as real contenders in the AFC North and put us in the driver’s seat going into the second quarter of the season. But more importantly, it will signal to all those long suffering fans that maybe, just maybe, it’s OK to believe. And believing again scares me most of all.
I’ll watch the game, parked on the couch in my Geathers jersey, with my hands half covering my eyes. I might make my wife hold my hand. I know the odds are against us. A win is improbable at best. But as a wise man once said, “Never tell me the odds.”
The game in Baltimore is still a few days away and I am already breaking into cold sweats. This game is the test. And that scares me. The Ravens, as a team, scare me. Flacco’s arm scares me. Ray Lewis, I don’t care who you are, is flat out scary. Jesus, even their stuffed Mascot is a little scary – like some ‘roided up Jeckel or Heckel.
Lewis and Bratkowski talking tough about establishing the run against a very stingy Baltimore defense scares me. Larry Johnson was the last back to get over 100 yards against them. He hasn’t been good for years and Cedric, while revitalized, is no Larry Johnson.
Flacco throwing bombs to Kelley Washington scares me. I know he’s their number 4 or 5 threat but who was Massaquoi last week and where did he come from?
Carson Palmer running for 1st downs scares me. He looked like the Tin Man left out in a hurricane, squeaking and creaking his way down field. Ray Lewis will kill him if he tries that this week.
Laverneus Coles’ hands scare me.
I’ll cover my eyes every time the kicking team comes on because with the exception of Huber, they scare me.
The reality is, we don’t need to win this game. There is no shame in losing to Baltimore at Baltimore. We can lose this game and still stay in the playoff hunt. We can lose this game and nobody will care because nobody really expects us to win. But winning this game will signal to the world that the Bengals are for real. It will establish us as real contenders in the AFC North and put us in the driver’s seat going into the second quarter of the season. But more importantly, it will signal to all those long suffering fans that maybe, just maybe, it’s OK to believe. And believing again scares me most of all.
I’ll watch the game, parked on the couch in my Geathers jersey, with my hands half covering my eyes. I might make my wife hold my hand. I know the odds are against us. A win is improbable at best. But as a wise man once said, “Never tell me the odds.”
Somebody hold me....
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The Power of the Sandwhich Thin
I walked by a man working on a presentation yesterday. I couldn’t help but notice that the title of the slide was: The Power of the Sandwich Thin. The power indeed. It was in that brief passing moment that I truly grasped the absurdity of my job. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am sure that were I to read the presentation, I would discover that Sandwich Thins don’t get enough credit for the sales they generate. I’m sure they are like the unsung hero of the bread aisle. Everybody just assumes that the standard loaf is the where the action’s at, but they don’t see the numbers behind the numbers. They don’t see the Power.
I work in a field where it is your job to convince others that your Product A, any Product A, is the answer. And it doesn’t really matter what the question is.
Profit not where it needs to be? Have you looked at our Sandwich Thins??
Not getting the right basket ring? Check out the retails on these.
Can’t get Health Care Legislation passed? How about you invite the House and Senate over for Turkey and Cheese Sandwiches, served on our new line of Sandwich Thins. That’ll get them working together.
Can you feel the Power?!
In general, I do a pretty good job of not thinking too much about the industry I’m in. Because on one hand you can argue that it’s all a big meaningless game, and the person who sells the most stuff – regardless of what it is, wins. And in its defense, it can be a very interesting game. Every day in my world, there are millions of dollars in play. It can be very dramatic and very exciting One could also argue that the people who buy and sell these goods are passionate people who care about good retailing and good product. Some do. Others….not so much. And the really good ones enjoy the game and accept it for what it is.
I enjoy the game sometimes, and then sometimes I remember that I am getting all worked up over the equivalent of a piece of bread. A thin piece of bread, shipped in a plastic bag, made in a factory by underpaid workers and focused grouped until some marketing person feels comfortable enough to generate a slide entitled The Power of Sandwich Thins. And when I see that slide, I feel anger and a silent but persistent hunger for something….more. We spend more time on our jobs than most any other developed nation. We’re only given so much time on this planet and we squander it sitting under fluorescent lights designing ridiculous power points for the things that nobody really needs.
I have friends who once stated their goal was to work as little as possible. I laughed at that notion a few years ago. I thought it was both un-ambitious and perhaps a bit lazy. Now I realize they were geniuses, prophets, and visionaries of the highest order. Of course, my enlightenment comes after a large mortgage, 2 car payments, 2 kids and other miscellaneous debt. So it looks like I’ll keep making those stupid power points a bit longer. But someday, someday I will break these shackles that bind me to my laptop. I will crush my mouse beneath my feet, throw my blackberry down the dimly lit corridor and shout to the mottled ceiling tiles “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last!”
I work in a field where it is your job to convince others that your Product A, any Product A, is the answer. And it doesn’t really matter what the question is.
Profit not where it needs to be? Have you looked at our Sandwich Thins??
Not getting the right basket ring? Check out the retails on these.
Can’t get Health Care Legislation passed? How about you invite the House and Senate over for Turkey and Cheese Sandwiches, served on our new line of Sandwich Thins. That’ll get them working together.
Can you feel the Power?!
In general, I do a pretty good job of not thinking too much about the industry I’m in. Because on one hand you can argue that it’s all a big meaningless game, and the person who sells the most stuff – regardless of what it is, wins. And in its defense, it can be a very interesting game. Every day in my world, there are millions of dollars in play. It can be very dramatic and very exciting One could also argue that the people who buy and sell these goods are passionate people who care about good retailing and good product. Some do. Others….not so much. And the really good ones enjoy the game and accept it for what it is.
I enjoy the game sometimes, and then sometimes I remember that I am getting all worked up over the equivalent of a piece of bread. A thin piece of bread, shipped in a plastic bag, made in a factory by underpaid workers and focused grouped until some marketing person feels comfortable enough to generate a slide entitled The Power of Sandwich Thins. And when I see that slide, I feel anger and a silent but persistent hunger for something….more. We spend more time on our jobs than most any other developed nation. We’re only given so much time on this planet and we squander it sitting under fluorescent lights designing ridiculous power points for the things that nobody really needs.
I have friends who once stated their goal was to work as little as possible. I laughed at that notion a few years ago. I thought it was both un-ambitious and perhaps a bit lazy. Now I realize they were geniuses, prophets, and visionaries of the highest order. Of course, my enlightenment comes after a large mortgage, 2 car payments, 2 kids and other miscellaneous debt. So it looks like I’ll keep making those stupid power points a bit longer. But someday, someday I will break these shackles that bind me to my laptop. I will crush my mouse beneath my feet, throw my blackberry down the dimly lit corridor and shout to the mottled ceiling tiles “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last!”
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