It's Official

You know, I know nothing--but nothing--about professional sports; my exposure to them has been limited to overheard yells from the next room where my father and brother are watching a game, and from the commentary I overhear as I pass through said room on my way to the fridge for a bottle of water. So when I say I know nothing, I mean I really know nothing. But even I (know-nothing!) know this: Joe Theisman is a terrible commentator. Terrible. He's dull and witless and lacks even the minimal insight one would expect from a veteran of the game, in which he was far from the greatest player. So how did he get the job? Oh, we know. We all know why:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9l6bxIXGXA&mode=related&search=

Yeah, that's why. He got hurt. He got hurt bad. His leg broken at an angle that you could measure with a protracter. Wow. Ouch. End of his career. But so...hypnotic...the car accident of sports injuries. We owe him so much for this. So let's throw him a bone and give him a job spouting idiocies from the booth. Well, no, let's not. He's a f*cking moron and he's coasting on a brutal piece of footage.

But no more. No more. Because now, now there's this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6Ghupxbj9g

And oh my. Oh...oh...oh my. I can watch the Theisman footage. I can't watch this. It's too much. It's too grisly and awful and sweet Christ I can't even imagine the pain. Shaun Livingston can look Theisman in the eye and call him out. So let's bump Theisman. He's no longer the "Oh my God that's the guy who busted his leg so bad" guy. Not anymore. Shaun Livingston holds that title. And unless somehow a grizzly gets onto the course at the Master's and actually tears off Tiger's lower limbs on the 14th hole, Livingston's gonna hold it for a long, long time...

In short, fire Theisman. He's no longer That Guy, and he has nothing else to offer.

Warning: Adult Content

Please note: I normally try to keep this blog Safe For Work, but this post won't work without explicit, if repetitive vulgarity, so consider yourself forewarned.

I didn't watch the Oscars last night, because I don't anymore--sweet Jesus, they've sucked for decades (really, ever since they stopped holding it as a banquet) and we must always remember that neither Orson Welles nor Citizen Kane won Best Director or Best Picture, negating the objective validity of the award. (Don't get me wrong: How Green Was My Valley is a great movie, and if Welles had to lose to someone, at least it was Ford--but still, COME ON.) Regardless, let me say this about last night:

This should have been Scorsese's acceptance speech:

"I want to thank the Academy. I want to, and I would have, about 25 fucking years ago, when this award should have gone to me. For fuck's sake, I'm like the only living director you can mention in the same breath as Kurosawa and Bergman and not get a laugh, and this is my first fucking Oscar?!?! All due respect, you antediluvian shitheads, but what the fucking fuck?! I should have fucking won for Mean Streets, I should have fucking won for Taxi Driver, I should have fucking won for Raging Bull, I should have fucking won for King of Comedy, I should have fucking won for Goodfellas, and I don't mean I should have won for one of them--I mean I should have won for fucking all of them. But no. No, instead, thanks to you cowardly, witless octogenarian fucks, I've had to sit back and watch myself lose to no-talent fuckwads likes Kevin fucking Costner, Robert fucking Zemeckis, and Ron fucking Howard. You gave this fucking thing to Opie before you gave to me? Fuck you people. Fuck you to death. I'm out of here--if anybody wants me, he can go fuck himself--I'm gonna go on a bender that would make William Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson shit their pants. In summary: I wish you all bone cancer. FUCK. YOU."

That's what he should have said. You know it; I know it. Ah well, at least we know he was thinking it. And somewhere in Heaven, Orson Welles--who can read his thoughts--is laughing.

He Puts It Rather Well

From Emerson's essay on Education:

"Alas for the cripple Practice when it seeks to come up with the bird Theory, which flies before it. Try your design on the best school. The scholars are of all ages and temperaments and capacities. It is difficult to class them, some are too young, some are slow, some perverse. Each requires so much consideration, that the morning hope of the teacher, of a day of love and progress, is often closed at evening by despair. Each single case, the more it is considered, shows more to be done; and the strict conditions of the hours, on: one side, and the number of tasks, on the other. Whatever becomes of our method, the conditions stand fast--six hours, and thirty, fifty, or a hundred and fifty pupils. Something must be done, and done speedily, and in this distress the wisest are tempted to adopt violent means, to proclaim martial law, corporal punishment, mechanical arrangement, bribes, spies, wrath, main strength and ignorance, in lieu of that wise genial providential influence they had hoped, and yet hope at some future day to adopt. Of course the devotion to details reacts injuriously on the teacher. He cannot indulge his genius, he cannot delight in personal relations with young friends, when his eye is always on the clock, and twenty classes are to be dealt with before the day is done. Besides, how can he please himself with genius, and foster modest virtue? A sure proportion of rogue and dunce finds its way into every school and requires a cruel share of time, and the gentle teacher, who wished to be a Providence to youth, is grown a martinet, sore with suspicions; knows as much vice as the judge of a police court, and his love of learning is lost in the routine of grammars and books of elements."


Precisely, Ralph. Precisely.

I Live

Not so much a posting as a confirmation that, yes, I am continuing to maintain my metabolic processes at a rate consistent with stable health, and no, I'm not lying in a moribund state on the floor of my shower, not quite yet achieving enough 'parfum de decay' to summon the landlord and the coroner and providing a variation of diet for my cats.

So yeah, I'm still alive. Just not much to report, alas. I'm uncreative these days--well, except for my in-class work, where I continue to improvise my ass off, usually to great effect--they're either impressed or completely confused, which they inevitably chalk up to their own mental inadequacy rather than to the fact that I am complete and utterly detached from relevance or logic. Nice job, this.

But for right now, I'm treading water, professionally, personally, intellectually, emotionally. Statis does not make for riveting narrative--has anyone ever read Waiting for Godot a second time? I think not. So I am silent until struck by the muse. And until I can stop using revoltingly precious phrases like "struck by the muse," which I may think are cutely ironic, but which are just tediously facile. So there.

30 Below Zero

Do I really need say more? I walked my walk to class in weather that, with wind-chill, was 30 below zero. I am either a god or a risk for suicide. Either way, it was cold. Very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very,very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very cold.

Very.

I Have No Words. Well, One.

Allow me to quote the National Weather Service in their latest missive regarding my locale:

THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE HAS ISSUED A WIND CHILL ADVISORY...LOW TEMPERATURES TONIGHT WILL RANGE FROM AROUND ZERO TO 5 BELOW...WITH MODERATE NORTHWEST WINDS. THIS WILL BRING WIND CHILL READINGS TO BELOW 20 BELOW ZERO. THE COLD TEMPERATURES AND BITTER WIND CHILLS WILL CONTINUE THROUGH THE MID PART OF NEXT WEEK. A WIND CHILL ADVISORY IS ISSUED WHEN VERY COLD AIR TEMPERATURES...AND WINDS OF 10 MPH OR GREATER...WILL CREATE HAZARDOUS WIND CHILL VALUES OF BETWEEN 20 BELOW TO 34 BELOW ZERO. THESE CONDITIONS WILL RESULT IN FROST BITE...AND COULD LEAD TO HYPOTHERMIA IF PRECAUTIONS ARE NOT TAKEN.

Allow me to offer my response to this statement: F***.

That is all.

Up and Downs

Felt pretty good today, as I just received my student evals from last semester, and apparently, I blew the doors off of every class that I taught. (They tell me that's particularly surprising for the remedial comp. class that I was teaching. Meh, so they say.) But still--nice to be told by my victims that I tortured them with a firm and gentle hand. Felt good, as I say.

Then I found out that Molly Ivins died yesterday at the offensively early age of 62. She wasn't done. She just wasn't done. Breast cancer, which by her own account, she let go undetected for far too long. This news took the shine out of my day. She wasn't done.

Stop reading this, go find something of hers, and read that. Now.