Are you a Chicago Blackhawks fan in the Memphis area? LeftWingCracker and I want to know. Show yourselves!
We’re looking maybe to organize something in town. Maybe there’s already a Hawks group you’re a part of? You can contact me here to let me know if you’re interested or know of a group already.
From Mrs. Collins:
While in Target, Michael looks at some Hello Kitty stuff and winces and looks scared. I ask why.
He says, “Maybe if Hello Kitty had a mouth she wouldn’t make me so uncomfortable!”
I ask him where the Hello Kitty stuff is and Sean casually responds, “Over there by the lady with the lady beard.”
For that matter, anyone who has had “rocky” times in their marriage, shut the hell up. I do not need to know that. Quit making with the verbal vomit about your personal life. I don’t care about your marriage. IT’S NOT MY BUSINESS. Look, it’s one thing if I’m talking with a friend and we’re discussing our marriages. That’s one thing. That’s like sharing the human experience and junk. Because, the thing is, our friends and family are involved in our relationships and marriages whether they want to be or not, if for no other reason than they share space with us.
I don’t take kindly to having to hear about the indiscretions–real or imagined–of politicians, actors, sports figures, or anyone else in the public eye. The reason has nothing to do with morality. The reason is that my interaction with these people is strictly a business transaction. That Sports Figure A cannot keep it in his pants is a matter of no concern to me. As long as he can get the ball through the hoop, into the end zone, or out of the park, I’m fine. Now, should he cease to do those things regularly, I’ll move on. But I don’t care about the reason. Well, unless it’s because he’s actually a droid powered by blow. And the blood of virgin newts. Who also had the genitals of a carpenter ant. That I would want to know about.
But, Tiger, dude, you say on your website, “I am dealing with my behavior and personal failings behind closed doors with my family. Those feelings should be shared by us alone.” Yeah. So shut the hell up.
I don’t get it. I had a discussion this afternoon with my brother-in-law, Frère Jacques, about Tiger and his woods. It went something like this:
Me: So I don’t understand why he’s got to issue a statement that seems as if it’s worded by the DOD. A non-denial denial about an event that may or may not have happened in a marriage that may or may not be troubled. Why can’t he just say, ‘you know what, it’s none of your damn business what happened. Nobody was hurt. No animals were harmed. Move along now. Nothing to see here.’
FJ: We like our heroes contrite. I’m sure Nike forced this whole thing.
Me: So, your sponsor says, we won’t drop you, but you have to apologize publicly. In return, we’ll not drop you becasue we know in a week this will all blow over. The sponsor really owns you at this point because they know you’ve now got to work your ass off for another 20 years to pay the $10 million a year in alimony you’re about to get stuck with.
FJ: Bingo. We have a winner. I think the best thing would be that those who are offended by his actions to stop buying his stuff and everyone else can just go about their business.
Me: I do think the best way to protest is with the wallet. Also, unless you are paying me, I don’t want you name plastered all over my clothes and accessories.
FJ: Luckily for Nike, you’re about alone in that.
Me: Nike, Prada, Gucci. Any of them. I mean, unless you’re a friend and I’m shilling for you. Like by wearing a Lucy Furr t-shirt, for instance.
FJ: Way to go. You’ve just completely undermined capitalism and the free world. I hope you’re happy.
Now, just to go back to something I mentioned earlier, I’d like to talk about the genitals of the carpenter ant. I was informed today–you know who you are–that the genitals of carpenter ants can be, and do get, removed. They remove them so they are able to keep their minds on their work so they won’t just stand around on the sidewalk making catcalls at the lady ants. I am also told that a droid powered by both the blood of virgin fire ants as well as the genitals of carpenter ants would always get its ass kicked by Chuck Norris apparently for looking a bit like Michael Jackson.
You see, ladies and gentlemen, when you write, you get to have discussions like this. It is not goofing off time. It is research. This is why I can’t understand why everyone doesn’t blog.
I don’t write about sports, and I want to be up front with that in this post. This is a total fluff piece, okay? You want in depth news and analysis of the sports world, go to deadspin.com. You can thank me later.
This is a love letter.
Dear Saints,
I do not remember a time I did not root for you.
I remember the dark days when people would show up at the Superdome with bags over their heads so people wouldn’t recognize them. I will admit to having called you, once or twice, The Aints. I remember the Bum Phillips days when occasionally his sideline jibes to the officials were more interesting than the game. I remember the last Bum Phillips day because it was, I believe, the first starting game for Bobby Hebert.
I remember the Jim Mora days when, yes, you had that Dome Patrol, but you could still blow a double digit lead in the single digits of the fourth quarter. I didn’t care. If all else failed, I could just make googly eyes at Jim. That Jim Mora is a beautiful man, my friends.
Fast forward through the acid trip that was Ditka, Venturi, and Haslett, and here we are. You are undefeated. People outside of a 200 mile radius of New Orleans can name at least three of your players. I can regularly find people in bars in Memphis wearing a #25 jersey. I had a conversation about Jeremy Shockey in the line at Schnuck’s the other day, and it DIDN’T involve me explaining who he is.
I love you because you are the team that made me love football. I stick with you even though you make me cry. I stick with you even though you’ve never been to a Super Bowl. I stick with you because you are the closest thing to a home team I will ever have because I don’t root for the Titans. Unless they play Miami, that is. I stick with you even though, last night, when you were up by 21 points with five minutes left to go, I thought you might still lose, and I was afraid to turn off the game. I stick with you because you turned a good quarterback into a great one. I stick with you because last night you had, what, like four players out with injuries–including your star running back– and at the end of the night everyone was like, “Reggie Who?” And I mean that in the nicest possible way, Mr. Bush, sir.
It makes me happy when people ask if they can jump on the Saints bandwagon. A true Saints fan will always say yes because we know the more the merrier.
And this exchange from two friends this morning makes me happy. I’m paraphrasing a bit.
Friend 1: I know that it’s only football and there are a lot more important things in the world to worry about but, I’m very happy that for the last eleven weeks the New Orleans Saints have put a smile on my face.
Friend 2: You don’t have to put a caveat on that statement. Anyone who would give someone crap for being happy about their team by saying,“there are more important things in the world than sports, you know,” should be smashed in the face with a shovel! Yeah, ass face, we know there are more important things, but these little distractions keep us from focusing on the problems of the world non-stop. Enjoy the ride! And if anyone gives you crap about enjoying it I will be happy to supply the shovel!
Congratulations on your season so far. You’ve earned it. And so have your fans.
Love,
Bergs
Yeah, I’ll tell you about Thanksgiving later. I’ve got to tell you about how there are two kinds of people in this world. You’re either The Beatles or Rolling Stones.
I know this is not a new concept to some of you. You guys are also the ones who know you’re either a Oreos whole or Oreos separator person. I have added a new category as well. You’re either Flannery O’Connor or Eudora Welty.
I’m a Rolling Stones, Flannery Separator. And while I might occasionally not break open my Oreo so that I can, as my friend says, see how the other half lives, in my heart of hearts I am a break-apart Oreo girl.
Given the option, I’m always going to pick Mick over Paul. I’ll take Charlie over Ringo; although if I like one of The Beatles best, it’s Ringo. I’m going to pick “Sister Morphine” over “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” every time. Every single time. One does not need be a big fan of either band to fall into one of the two camps. It’s really more of a state of mind thing.
Further, there are journey people and destination people. I’m not talking about bands now. You can tell because I’m contractually obligated to refer to “Journey”, the band, as “Journey: Featuring That Dude Who Ain’t Steve Perry.” I am a journey person. I bring this up because the other night we were discussing seekers.
Journey people like to take the train. Destination people will always take a plane. Seekers, an entirely different breed, will want to know which of the options will make them happier and want to know this before they board. Seekers think other people can make them happy. I find that your average seeker is a bit of a bore. They don’t commit very well, they make unreliable friends, and they buy lots of self-help books.
I’m thinking about all of this because lately I’ve been thinking of the nature of commitments, specifically of the relationship variety. I keep coming across people—seekers, mainly—who think that if a relationship is real, is true, there will be no work involved in its maintenance. That, my friends, is a giant, fresh, hot, steaming pile of bullshit. You don’t get in a good relationship by accident any more than you end up in Santa Fe by touring Santa Barbara. And you don’t stay in a bad relationship by accident either. You choose it. Every day. You choose it because it’s the devil you know, and the devil you don’t might be worse.
Every time you don’t make a decision to leave, it’s a decision to stay. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Take the first step in faith. You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.” It’s the same thing with relationships whether new or old. Whether coming or going.
I don’t want to get too heavy here because that’s not my schtick, but I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately and I figured one of you would pipe up with something interesting to say on the subject.
Monday will resume my regular schedule of posting. I know, I know. You were wondering when the hell of my radio silence would end. Your wait is over.
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From Mrs. Collins…
Last Thanksgiving we decided to stay home and have a “just us” holiday. Instead of a traditional turkey, I decided to get cornish game hens and pretend they were our own personal turkeys.
Of course, because they were our own personal turkeys, we named them. Sean named his Steve. I loaded up Steve and all the fixin’s onto Sean’s plate. As Sean is walking to the table, something awful shoots out of Steve and on to the floor.
In a stunned silence, we stared at the floor where the black goo Steve had given birth to landed.
Reverently, Sean whispers, “And we shall name that stuff Harold. And it shall herald the Christmas season.”
HAPPY THANKSGIVING, Y’ALL!!





