Drop Back Five And Punt

Today, the other shoe finally fell in the story of embattled Oakland Raiders' coach, Lane Kiffin. Over the past decade, it seems that all the Raiders have had are "embattled" head coaches. Most of them have cited their relationship with the team's owner, Al Davis. Kiffin’s job security was in question as far back as January, when a dispute with Davis over whether he could replace their defensive coordinator led to the owner sending his coach a letter of resignation to sign.
And that's when the bell went off in my head. Remember in last Friday's debate, when John McCain started off by telling a story about Dwight D. Eisenhower: "President Eisenhower, on the night before the Normandy invasion, went into his room and he wrote out two letters. One of them was a letter congratulating the great members of the military and Allies that had conducted and succeeded in the greatest invasion in history, still to this day, and forever. And he wrote out another letter, and that was a letter of resignation to the United States Army for the failure of the landings at Normandy. Somehow, we've lost that accountability." He went on to link Eisenhower and his letter to McCain's repeated calls in recent days that Securities and Exchange Commission chairman Christopher Cox resign for his role in the financial crisis. Mister Cox wrote this in response: "History will judge the quality of our response to this economic crisis, but now is not the time for those of us in the trenches to be distracted by the ebb and flow of the current election campaign.... The best response to political jabs like this is simply to put your head down and not lose a step doing the best job you can possibly do on behalf of those you serve."
For history's sake, the actual note Eisenhower wrote wasn't a letter of resignation, but rather one assuming responsibility for a failed invasion, if it had come to that. Eisenhower should be lauded for his strength of character, but it doesn't take a lot of guts to point fingers and assign blame.
And so, we watch as Al Davis pulls the lever on another head coach. One who only managed to win five of the twenty games he coached, so one might understand the response. Meanwhile, John McCain continues to look for someone else to fire as the nation's financial crisis continues to swirl ever closer to that open drain.

For You

Well, we're just four weeks into the NFL season, and we already know who is going to be playing in the Super Bowl. Okay, to be more specific, we know who will be playing at the Super Bowl: Mister Bruce Springsteen. And as is my custom, I couldn't be more ambivalent.
Of course I will watch. I'm a football fan. I'm a Springsteen fan. Why wouldn't I? Maybe because I have made such a loud and cynical point of deriding all those other "dinosaurs" who have showed up on Super Sunday over the past few years. Paul McCartney. Aerosmith. The Rolling Stones. Prince. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. U2. It's only a matter of time before AC/DC shows up to complete the "classic rock" setlist. Once again, I feel compelled to mention that I like all of these artists, but the notion that they have all been deemed "safe" by the National Football League. Sure, I know that we live in more enlightened times, and the TV networks probably wouldn't even flinch even if Mick Jagger did sing "Let's spend the night together." After all, many, if not all NFL franchises like to blast the Stones' song "Start Me Up" just before kickoff, they just don't get to that last verse.
That's beside the point. It's not Bruce's lyrics that will get him into trouble. It's his politics. I'm guessing that he won't be cranking on "Devils and Dust" or "Long Walk Home," and if he does play "Born In The U.S.A." you can bet it will be with more than a touch of irony. I'm guessing that it will be a pretty straightforward Greatest Hits set, and that will be fine, though something about watching Springsteen play for twenty minutes as opposed to three hours just seems wrong.
When I was in high school, one of my peak experiences was playing in front of seventy thousand Denver Bronco fans, along with the rest of the Boulder High Band and Color Guard. Up until 1988, marching bands were the featured halftime entertainment at the Super Bowl. Yes they often had to share the field with Up With People, but it you practiced and kept your uniform clean, you might get a chance to be on TV. Nowadays they don't even show the bands playing on college halftime shows. Instead we're getting scores from around the nation. On Super Sunday, there are no other scores, just very expensive commercials, so sit tight and watch the extravaganza unfold.
Or not. By the time February first rolls around, I will probably have forgotten all these misgivings, but I reserve the right to wince as they announce, "Ladies and gentlemen, Bridgestone Tires is proud to bring you a man who has a Hungry Heart and is Born To Run..." Yeesh.

Signs

I have been trying, since Friday night, to have some sort of open mind about this whole presidential election. But it's just not working. It probably has a lot to do with my approach, which has been somewhat akin to the way I look at professional sports. When I sat down to watch the debate, I was wearing my "jersey": my Kelly green O'Bama shirt. We had pizzas and soft drinks, and sent the kids out of the room so we could focus on the competition. What competition?
No one ever showed me a final score, but both sides were quick to claim victory. The conventional wisdom espoused by the pundits suggested that Obama didn't win the debate, but McCain didn't lose it. Does that mean it was a tie? From where I was sitting, along with a roomful of bleeding heart liberal types, Barack scored early and often and appeared much more relaxed and presidential. John looked old.
I don't know what I expected to happen. This is the filter that I put in place months ago, and barring some ugly unforeseen revelation, I don't imagine that it will change much. Barack Obama was preaching to the choir in my living room. Every time John McCain invoked the past: Reagan, Kissinger, and anything connected to "victory" in Iraq, I felt the urge to turn off the television and go outside for some fresh air.
This morning I walked around the neighborhood with my son, to get a little fresh air and help him complete his science homework. Just around the corner, I saw that the guy on the corner has a "McCain-Palin" sign taped up in his window. I was a little surprised at first, since this is the only other Denver Bronco fan I have encountered outside of my house within the city limits of Oakland. Then I remembered the "Support Our Troops" sign that had been in the window where "McCain-Palin" had taken up residence. I wondered if I shouldn't limit my discussions with him to football for the next thirty-eight days.

Cool

I grew up watching Paul Newman. I remember being impressed that a star of his magnitude would appear in one of Irwin Allen's disaster epics, "The Towering Inferno." In a skyscraper filled with greats and near-greats, including the likes of O.J. Simpson and Fred Astaire, Paul was the voice of calm reason amidst the flames. Compared to the other nominal hero of the piece, Steve McQueen, I understood this guy. He had seen his dream compromised by the bean-counters who had sacrificed quality for quantity and now he was the designer of a one hundred and forty floor death trap. I didn't get that same sense of authenticity from O.J.
"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" is one of the few movies that I will stop everything to watch, no matter where I happen to tune in. It is the model on which all other "buddy" movies have been made in the past forty years. Whether it's the pending knife fight with Harvey for leadership of the gang, or the last few desperate moments before he and Sundance go out in a blaze of gunfire glory, Butch is the epitome of wiseacre cool.
But nobody was as cool as Luke. I first saw "Cool Hand Luke" when I was in high school. It was, I believe, an attempt to get us to relate film to the written word, as well as a nice two-hour chunk of time that our English teacher could catch up on her grading. That didn't matter. I would happily have spent the entire semester dissecting the symbolism and character of this ne'er do well who, like Butch Cassidy, always had an answer for everything, even if that answer wasn't always right. I suspect that Luke's egg-eating exhibition may have been the thing that sparked my own interest in stunt-eating.
As role models go, I expect I could do a whole lot worse than Paul Newman. When asked about his ability to remain faithful to his wife of fifty years, Joanne Woodward, he said, "I have steak at home, why go out for hamburger?" The fact that he was included on Nixon's enemies list because of his liberal views was one of his proudest achievements. He was also one of the most dedicated and generous souls, giving tens of millions of dollars to charity, including setting up camps for severely ill children.
And he drove race cars. Professionally. How cool was that? Tom Cruise only wishes he was that cool. Paul Newman was.

Legacy Of Fear

This morning on the radio, a commentator made this mind-boggling suggestion: "Why don't we wait until after the election to sort this whole financial mess out?" I guess this guy doesn't watch much TV. If he wasn't spending all that time on radio, he would know that this is a CRISIS. It is a MELTDOWN of EPIC proportions. We should, to quote Geena Davis, be afraid. Very afraid.
After all, wasn't that what we did in 1929? On Black Tuesday, didn't terrified investors fall from the windows like rain? After all, that's what people do in a PANIC. It's an image that lives up to the name: CRASH.
Well, here it comes again. Only this time it appears as though we can buy ourselves out of it. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't be full of fear. On the contrary. Ever since the turn of this century, we have been operating in a near-constant state of terror. There were a great many folks who expected Y2K to be the end of the world, or at least the financial world, as we knew it. The lack of a few digits didn't bring down the system. Eight years later, we are just now finishing off the duct tape that we were given as a "Whew-the-lights-are-still-on-and-there-were-no-riots" present from a friend who had prepared for the worst.
The worst, sadly, was yet to come. Pinhead's entire presidency has been leveraged by fear. Thanks to the tragic events of September 11, 2001, we were given a color-coded vision of the future. He has decided that we are better off living with suspicion and anxiety in a very limited range of hues. Have we been allowed a day of green among the past seven years of yellow, orange and red? Not one. Then there were the hurricanes. And the blizzards. And after much debate and discussion, global warming. We have spent most of the last decade fearing for our lives and livelihood. This administration has made its hay off of terror.
And so, I'm looking forward to more rational discussions. Ones that are not based on the reactions of our lizard brains. I'm looking forward to decisions based on long-term goals and proactive reasoning. I'm looking forward to a president who is a thinker, not a decider.

Sadie Hawkins Day

It was a banner week here in our household. For a change, this didn't involve the purchase of any electronics or the completion of any household improvement projects. No, this week will always be remembered as the week during which my son was first asked out by a girl. I understand that at the ripe old age of eleven, he would much rather stay at home and build fantastic machines out of Legos, but it was still a milestone.
Apparently, this girl had been following him around at lunch time for a couple of weeks, along with one of her friends, and with the Fall Dance fast approaching, it was time to strike. She told him that she thought he "looks like that kid in 'Stuart Little.'" I had made the same observation, but that was a few years ago, and since that movie was made nine years ago, little Jonathan Lipnicki is now eighteen years old, and even he doesn't look much like little Jonathan Lipickni anymore. I am also his father, not a sixth grade girl, so I don't expect my opinion to factor in quite the same way.
As his father, however, I did feel the need to pry. Was she cute? Did she ask you in front of all her friends, or did she wait for a quiet moment alone? And most importantly, what did you say? He told her no. He was polite, and he let her down easy. I told him this was a good idea since he couldn't be certain of the next time something like this would happen. I waited for many years before any girl asked me for anything except to act as go-between them and one of my friends. Then again, I spent a lot of time hanging around my house building with Legos, so maybe I missed a few of those opportunities. Whatever the case, a new era has begun at our house, and I'm looking forward to meeting the girl he likes more than Legos.

Barley Pop

I remember smelling my father's cold Coors beer when I was a kid and thinking that it was probably a very refreshing drink for a hot day. I remember thinking that it would be almost as good as the can of Coca Cola that was waiting for me at the bottom of the ice chest. Time does interesting things to our perspectives, and these days I feel about the same way as I did back then. But I can also recall the first time I tasted somebody else's beer: My cousin Dex was sitting on the hillside behind our mountain cabin, sipping on a bottle of Miller High Life. When I approached, he leaned forward to show me the writing on the label, "King of Beers." At the time I hadn't fully connected with the notion that my cousin's last name was also Miller (no relation), but I suspect this was the source of his pride. He asked me if I wanted a sip. How could I turn this offer down? My cool cousin Dex was sharing his beer, the King of Beers, with me and I was only twelve.
My first thought was: "Wow, it's just like Seven-Up," but then suddenly it wasn't. It didn't have the refreshing taste of "The Uncola," the flavor was more reminiscent of a sock. I must have made quite a face, judging from the chuckle I got from Dex.
"How about another?" he asked, still grinning.
I already had an older brother to get me to try things that I probably wouldn't like, so I thanked him as politely as I could amid my gagging sounds, and trotted off down the hill to get a can of anything that didn't taste like a sock.
Years later, when I started drinking beer professionally, my brew of choice was Miller High Life. I know that I spent many afternoons and evenings peering through that amber liquid at the back of the label: "Miller Stands Clear." I learned that if you drank it fast enough, the refreshing part lasted a little longer, and if you drank enough of it, the sock thing became less of an issue.
These days the only beer I see comes from roots, and I'm happy not to have to reconcile my taste buds with my age. Come to think of it, there are probably a few more lessons I learned when I was twelve that I could benefit from right now. I hope I live long enough to remember them too.