I was hoping for a snow day today, but not for the usual reasons. I had a summons for jury duty, and I only saw it about a week before I was due to appear because I had been in Miami, and someone did not mention that it had come while I was away.
If there had been a snow day, I could have left the big kids in charge of the almost three year old, and her little two year old friend who is spending two weeks with us while her parents are away.
So the predictions of 3-6 inches of snow did not materialize, although the snow is currently making a valiant effort to make up that deficit. We may end up with early dismissals.
Anyway, I figured let me go down and see what I can do, maybe the case will be dismissed and it will be considered "time served," as happened with MBB. Either way, I had been SUMMONED! so I needed to take care of it.
I asked my almost 16 year old to stay home, and I'd figure out around lunch time getting her to school for math, and getting coverage for the two little girls.
I went to do my civic duty, and got yelled at. After instructions on filling out the back of the summons (even that word makes it hard to try to think about dodging), and collection of those cards the movie began. The "you've got to be kidding me, my taxes paid for this???" movie about the jury trial system, that begins in medieval times with "trial by ordeal." If you're accused of a crime, grungy looking people, some weeping, some looking severe, bind you and throw you in the river. If you float you're guilty, if you sink you're innocent (and based on the amount of time it took the Obi Wan Kenobi looking judge to decide whether he sunk or not, I'd say possibly dead)all narrated by Ed Bradley. Right around the time Diane Sawyer came on to expound on the wonders of jury service, I went into another room to speak to the woman in charge,the Commissioner of Jurors, who with a title like that should really dress better, if not a uniform, then at least something more Commisionery then a V-neck polyester loud print tunic over black leggings and high heeled short boots. I asked if she knew when lunch was, because I had some child care issues to work out. She got all angry at me, and said "we don't know you have children, that's why we send the summons out three weeks in advance so you can send us this info."
In my defense, I did not tell her this, it says clearly that you have to pick a date two to six months in the future. Ummmm, that's not really any better for me, so I went down to serve the day, but apparently you're on call for a week, and she told me later when she called me back in that she can't take a chance that I wouldn't get selected, and gave me a two year deferment, contingent on my sending in a birth certificate for Little Miss Eat Everything. I also did not mention that I was in Florida when the summons came and did not see it right away.
It really doesn't say anywhere in the summons that you can be excused (not postponed)for young children, so I don't really feel bad that I went down there. It was my time that was wasted not hers, so I don't think she had to be so nasty. Granted, you want a pool of a certain amount of people, but c'mon! She does this every day, and I do it....never. Anyway, I would have liked to gone through Voire Dire, but I guess at this stage in my life (like many other things) it will have to wait.
Trial by Ordeal, indeed.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
The Invisible Woman
How many times have you opened a newspaper or magazine and seen ads for a dinner honoring "Mr. and Mrs. So and So" with a picture of a very happy smiling man? Last I checked, a couple included a man and his wife.
I understand that the world we live in keeps women out of the spotlight, but then don't honor couples. Don't have a video presentation where only one half of the "ticket" gets to speak or be shown. For that matter, don't honor any women teachers, because then there are no video tributes apparently possible. Well, that's not true. If she teaches girls under fourth grade they could video tape them talking about what a great teacher she is, and of course her male bosses, and her husband. You know, the guy who will accept the award for her.
Yeah, yeah, let's all wring our hands at the scourge of frum men, who obviously NEVER leave their houses, being subjected to unclean images in their homes (see: newwpapers/magazines above) or at a dinner, when they know going in who the honorees are.
It's something we shake our heads at and wonder what the world is coming to in a tsk, tsk way, but truthfully it's a really big deal.
We are raising a generation of women who are growing up in a culture that so diminishes them, and then ties it to religion. How do you argue with religion? what's WRONG with you? So what's the end game, in this culture that the boys are growing up in too? Do we end up with girls who don't understand that marriage is an equal partnership, and are unable to communicate their needs and wants to their husbands because they've been brought up in a society that seems to relegate them to secondary status? How can we expect more from young husbands who have been taught throughout society that women are "the other?"
I was sitting at a party the other day, and a woman from a town in NJ was talking about all the snow they had one weekend, and how she was trying to walk through huge tractor tire treads, but every time she saw a man approaching she had to move off the treads into the 20 inches of snow. Ummmm...this woman is shorter than me. Why would she not think for a minute to let the MAN let HER pass? Most men are taller than five feet (this woman is not, as I mentioned, she's shorter than me), 20 inches of snow would come up a lot lower than on a woman in a skirt.
I'm sure many of you have heard me tell the story of my niece's eighth grade graduation. There was a guest speaker who stood up and told over the story of R' Akiva and his wife Rachel. What better message for girls about to embark on a tough road to high school, and the road to real adulthood, then to tell them they have no mitzvah of limud torah, but if they want a piece of it they don't need to wait until their husbands are learning and they are facilitating it. No, they should "have a plate of cookies waiting for your brothers when they get home from Yeshiva. Better yet, bake them cookies."
Nothing about ways to better serve God on their own, and nothing about how to better connect through prayer, and the beautiful Mitzvos that women ARE obligated in. No we focused on how to have religion by proxy. How to subjugate yourself for someone else, because we all know that that is the best way to serve God.
A society that both diminishes women and then expects the world of them at the same time. It makes no sense. What does make sense is that God is true and just, those who have co opted his "P.R.," so to speak, are miles away.
I understand that the world we live in keeps women out of the spotlight, but then don't honor couples. Don't have a video presentation where only one half of the "ticket" gets to speak or be shown. For that matter, don't honor any women teachers, because then there are no video tributes apparently possible. Well, that's not true. If she teaches girls under fourth grade they could video tape them talking about what a great teacher she is, and of course her male bosses, and her husband. You know, the guy who will accept the award for her.
Yeah, yeah, let's all wring our hands at the scourge of frum men, who obviously NEVER leave their houses, being subjected to unclean images in their homes (see: newwpapers/magazines above) or at a dinner, when they know going in who the honorees are.
It's something we shake our heads at and wonder what the world is coming to in a tsk, tsk way, but truthfully it's a really big deal.
We are raising a generation of women who are growing up in a culture that so diminishes them, and then ties it to religion. How do you argue with religion? what's WRONG with you? So what's the end game, in this culture that the boys are growing up in too? Do we end up with girls who don't understand that marriage is an equal partnership, and are unable to communicate their needs and wants to their husbands because they've been brought up in a society that seems to relegate them to secondary status? How can we expect more from young husbands who have been taught throughout society that women are "the other?"
I was sitting at a party the other day, and a woman from a town in NJ was talking about all the snow they had one weekend, and how she was trying to walk through huge tractor tire treads, but every time she saw a man approaching she had to move off the treads into the 20 inches of snow. Ummmm...this woman is shorter than me. Why would she not think for a minute to let the MAN let HER pass? Most men are taller than five feet (this woman is not, as I mentioned, she's shorter than me), 20 inches of snow would come up a lot lower than on a woman in a skirt.
I'm sure many of you have heard me tell the story of my niece's eighth grade graduation. There was a guest speaker who stood up and told over the story of R' Akiva and his wife Rachel. What better message for girls about to embark on a tough road to high school, and the road to real adulthood, then to tell them they have no mitzvah of limud torah, but if they want a piece of it they don't need to wait until their husbands are learning and they are facilitating it. No, they should "have a plate of cookies waiting for your brothers when they get home from Yeshiva. Better yet, bake them cookies."
Nothing about ways to better serve God on their own, and nothing about how to better connect through prayer, and the beautiful Mitzvos that women ARE obligated in. No we focused on how to have religion by proxy. How to subjugate yourself for someone else, because we all know that that is the best way to serve God.
A society that both diminishes women and then expects the world of them at the same time. It makes no sense. What does make sense is that God is true and just, those who have co opted his "P.R.," so to speak, are miles away.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Bring It On
We sit here, awaiting snow. There is no doubt that tomorrow will be a snow day, though we were convinced we'd have SOME sort of precipitation last weekend when nary a drop flake or flurry fell from the sky. Tales of 26 and 33 inches of snow were cruelly out of reach 90 miles to our south.
I expect we will not be spared this time, and I welcome the white stuff. Snow pants are ready for the kids to go sledding, baking supplies are in the house, and the Wii is at the ready. The freezer is well stocked with three types of Ben and Jerry's, which just adds an amendment to life lesson #246. Life Lesson #246 states do not go shopping while hungry. Amendment to Life Lesson #246 is do not go shopping when you are hungry - right before a major snow storm.
Luckily our municipality uses our high property tax dollars to provide good snow removal (and good garbage pick-up), so I do not expect to end up like my cousin in Baltimore who had to hire a private plow to plow her street, on MONDAY!!! after it snowed on Friday, I have no idea what they're going to do with another 20 inches of snow. The people should pack it in their cars and bring it down to their city council and dump it on the floor of the council room. What are these guys doing that they're not plowing streets for three days?
So bring on the white stuff, the ground was due to be frozen solid and snow covered for the next week or so, as it is every year, so that MBB has to dig and pour boiling water on the ground so we can put up the jester!
I expect we will not be spared this time, and I welcome the white stuff. Snow pants are ready for the kids to go sledding, baking supplies are in the house, and the Wii is at the ready. The freezer is well stocked with three types of Ben and Jerry's, which just adds an amendment to life lesson #246. Life Lesson #246 states do not go shopping while hungry. Amendment to Life Lesson #246 is do not go shopping when you are hungry - right before a major snow storm.
Luckily our municipality uses our high property tax dollars to provide good snow removal (and good garbage pick-up), so I do not expect to end up like my cousin in Baltimore who had to hire a private plow to plow her street, on MONDAY!!! after it snowed on Friday, I have no idea what they're going to do with another 20 inches of snow. The people should pack it in their cars and bring it down to their city council and dump it on the floor of the council room. What are these guys doing that they're not plowing streets for three days?
So bring on the white stuff, the ground was due to be frozen solid and snow covered for the next week or so, as it is every year, so that MBB has to dig and pour boiling water on the ground so we can put up the jester!
Monday, February 8, 2010
Working Off the Surplus
FBB's previous post, about our current embarrassment of lime riches, reminded me of another, far-more-damaging case of over-purchasing, which took place many years ago.
When my brother was 7 years old or so (and I was 12), he suddenly developed an affinity for root beer. Naturally, my father picked up several cases of C&C Root Beer at the "soda place." By that time, soda was being sold in disposable plastic bottles, but we still patronized the same establishment where we'd purchased our glass bottles of Hoffman or Cornell sodas, and returned the empty bottles to be refilled. These places are nearly obsolete nowadays, but I will always remember them with great fondness.
In reality, my father probably bought only one case (6 bottles) of C&C Root Beer, but it certainly seemed like a lot more. Shortly after these sodas had been procured, my brother's taste for root beer disappeared, as abruptly as it had developed. We sensed that something was wrong when he repeatedly eschewed the root beer, choosing to drink any other flavor soda that was available, even pineapple. I'm not sure what pineapple soda was doing on our table in the first place, considering that no one in my family speaks Spanish.
So there we were, stuck with a bunch of bottles of root beer that nobody wanted to drink. We'd rather drink water than root beer. Yes, water. From the tap. Or from the garden hose outside.
Our situation started to become desperate, and my father did everything he could to unload that root beer. First, he tried to convince us to drink it, even at breakfast. Then, he recommended that we invite friends over to the house, so that he could try to get them to drink it. That didn't work, either.
One day, with my martyr complex in full bloom, I decided to "take one for the team," and drank nearly an entire bottle of the stuff. I drank it while giving my brother the evil eye, and promised to never let him forget what he had caused (I remind him about it from time to time, 'till this very day). My sister helped me polish off the bottle. Unfortunately, we still had about 5 bottles left.
Technically, we could've just given the remaining root beer away to homeless people, but it wasn't that simple. This took place during the early 1980s in New York City, a period I've referred to as the "Brazen Homeless Era." People were making a very big deal about the plight of the homeless, and frankly, these domicile-challenged individuals were letting it get to their heads. In those days, you could go into a deli, purchase a huge hot corned beef sandwich, and hand it to the first homeless guy you saw outside, and more likely than not, his response would be, "What, no pickle?"
The homeless crowd really started to get uppity with the 1989 launch of the "Street News." The Street News was a newspaper written and distributed by homeless people (mostly on the subways). They charged $0.75 or $1.00 for it, and the seller would get to keep about $0.50 for each newspaper he/she sold. An enterprising fellow could sell enough newspapers in a day to buy about 5 crack rocks.
At its peak, about four months after its launch, the Street News sold one million copies. By 2002, the paper sold only 18,000 copies all year. Interestingly, considering its circulation decline curve, and the obviously liberal slant of its articles, the Street News is really just a poor man's New York Times. Actually, a homeless man's New York Times. They're really the same newspaper, if you think about it. That is, if the Street News had moved into a massive new headquarters building at the height of the New York City commercial real estate market, incurred billions of dollars in debt, failed to develop a realistic, profitable online business model, and sold a big chunk of itself to a Mexican mega-billionaire who will visit all sorts of indignities on its brand in the coming years. Then, they'd be the same newspaper.
Without the homeless distribution outlet as a viable alternative, and realizing that the local squirrels preferred to drink beer out of half-empty bottles and cans they found in knocked-over garbage cans, we had to face the grim reality that our C&C Root Beer inventory would be with us for a while. In this way, we were sort of like the U.S. steelmakers at the time. Eventually, over a period of several years, we were able to finish the root beer, and put the entire sad chapter behind us.
I'm not worried about our overabundance of limes, though. FBB (also known in Blogland as the "comment magnet") seems to have received a quite a few recommendations for the eventual use of these limes. Some of these ideas sound appetizing, others not as much.
No matter how you slice it, though, it's got to be tastier than a root beer float.
When my brother was 7 years old or so (and I was 12), he suddenly developed an affinity for root beer. Naturally, my father picked up several cases of C&C Root Beer at the "soda place." By that time, soda was being sold in disposable plastic bottles, but we still patronized the same establishment where we'd purchased our glass bottles of Hoffman or Cornell sodas, and returned the empty bottles to be refilled. These places are nearly obsolete nowadays, but I will always remember them with great fondness.
In reality, my father probably bought only one case (6 bottles) of C&C Root Beer, but it certainly seemed like a lot more. Shortly after these sodas had been procured, my brother's taste for root beer disappeared, as abruptly as it had developed. We sensed that something was wrong when he repeatedly eschewed the root beer, choosing to drink any other flavor soda that was available, even pineapple. I'm not sure what pineapple soda was doing on our table in the first place, considering that no one in my family speaks Spanish.
So there we were, stuck with a bunch of bottles of root beer that nobody wanted to drink. We'd rather drink water than root beer. Yes, water. From the tap. Or from the garden hose outside.
Our situation started to become desperate, and my father did everything he could to unload that root beer. First, he tried to convince us to drink it, even at breakfast. Then, he recommended that we invite friends over to the house, so that he could try to get them to drink it. That didn't work, either.
One day, with my martyr complex in full bloom, I decided to "take one for the team," and drank nearly an entire bottle of the stuff. I drank it while giving my brother the evil eye, and promised to never let him forget what he had caused (I remind him about it from time to time, 'till this very day). My sister helped me polish off the bottle. Unfortunately, we still had about 5 bottles left.
Technically, we could've just given the remaining root beer away to homeless people, but it wasn't that simple. This took place during the early 1980s in New York City, a period I've referred to as the "Brazen Homeless Era." People were making a very big deal about the plight of the homeless, and frankly, these domicile-challenged individuals were letting it get to their heads. In those days, you could go into a deli, purchase a huge hot corned beef sandwich, and hand it to the first homeless guy you saw outside, and more likely than not, his response would be, "What, no pickle?"
The homeless crowd really started to get uppity with the 1989 launch of the "Street News." The Street News was a newspaper written and distributed by homeless people (mostly on the subways). They charged $0.75 or $1.00 for it, and the seller would get to keep about $0.50 for each newspaper he/she sold. An enterprising fellow could sell enough newspapers in a day to buy about 5 crack rocks.
At its peak, about four months after its launch, the Street News sold one million copies. By 2002, the paper sold only 18,000 copies all year. Interestingly, considering its circulation decline curve, and the obviously liberal slant of its articles, the Street News is really just a poor man's New York Times. Actually, a homeless man's New York Times. They're really the same newspaper, if you think about it. That is, if the Street News had moved into a massive new headquarters building at the height of the New York City commercial real estate market, incurred billions of dollars in debt, failed to develop a realistic, profitable online business model, and sold a big chunk of itself to a Mexican mega-billionaire who will visit all sorts of indignities on its brand in the coming years. Then, they'd be the same newspaper.
Without the homeless distribution outlet as a viable alternative, and realizing that the local squirrels preferred to drink beer out of half-empty bottles and cans they found in knocked-over garbage cans, we had to face the grim reality that our C&C Root Beer inventory would be with us for a while. In this way, we were sort of like the U.S. steelmakers at the time. Eventually, over a period of several years, we were able to finish the root beer, and put the entire sad chapter behind us.
I'm not worried about our overabundance of limes, though. FBB (also known in Blogland as the "comment magnet") seems to have received a quite a few recommendations for the eventual use of these limes. Some of these ideas sound appetizing, others not as much.
No matter how you slice it, though, it's got to be tastier than a root beer float.
It's Not Easy Being Green
I really don't know what I was thinking. Probably, it had something to do with me having been away for a a few days in Florida without MBB.
When I got home I saw a few remnants of his favorite "cocktail," Diet Coke with a slice of fresh lime in it. And no, he doesn't like Diet Coke with Lime, he likes Diet Coke with a slice of fresh lime.
This is not something he drinks often, but I know he likes it, and will drink it especially while watching football (even the debacle that was the championship game. You people do not even KNOW how amazing it is that there was not a single post about this year's Minnesota Vikings, an excellent team, and one that would have beaten the Colts in the Super Bowl, had they not beaten THEMSELVES against the stupid Saints, who they ABSOLUTELY outplayed. They just kept turning the ball over. Then again I think the unwritten football posts came pouring out in a torrent this weekend....).
Anyway, I came home on Tuesday night, and Thursday I found myself at Costco. I saw this bag of limes, and immediately thought of my dear husband, and purchased the small sack of 20 or so limes.
After I got home and opened the package to fix him a drink (how domestic!!)it dawned on me that one lime usually takes him about a week to finish.
Well, so far I made chicken wraps with fresh lime juice, and apples with lime juice, and I guess I could buy some mint and make some mojitos. Anyone with any good recipes involving limes or lime juice is welcome to post it in the comments sections.
I could use the help.
When I got home I saw a few remnants of his favorite "cocktail," Diet Coke with a slice of fresh lime in it. And no, he doesn't like Diet Coke with Lime, he likes Diet Coke with a slice of fresh lime.
This is not something he drinks often, but I know he likes it, and will drink it especially while watching football (even the debacle that was the championship game. You people do not even KNOW how amazing it is that there was not a single post about this year's Minnesota Vikings, an excellent team, and one that would have beaten the Colts in the Super Bowl, had they not beaten THEMSELVES against the stupid Saints, who they ABSOLUTELY outplayed. They just kept turning the ball over. Then again I think the unwritten football posts came pouring out in a torrent this weekend....).
Anyway, I came home on Tuesday night, and Thursday I found myself at Costco. I saw this bag of limes, and immediately thought of my dear husband, and purchased the small sack of 20 or so limes.
After I got home and opened the package to fix him a drink (how domestic!!)it dawned on me that one lime usually takes him about a week to finish.
Well, so far I made chicken wraps with fresh lime juice, and apples with lime juice, and I guess I could buy some mint and make some mojitos. Anyone with any good recipes involving limes or lime juice is welcome to post it in the comments sections.
I could use the help.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
That Nagging J-O-B-S Issue
In retrospect, I should have seen this one coming.
When we gathered the end-of-the-year stock market predictions for our annual contest , we received 7 contest entries. Not a single one anticipated a decline in the stock market in 2010. In terms of an investor sentiment index, that's a very bearish signal, as the sentiment index is a contrarian indicator, wherein any reading above 50% bullish is negative. The IcebergCarwash sentiment indicator is 100% bullish, which is downright scary.
The idea behind the investor sentiment index is rather simple. If a significant percentage of investors are bullish, for example, the assumption is that these people are already in the market, so current price levels indicate their optimism. If, on the other hand, most investors are bearish, this typically means that many investors are currently on the sidelines, and when their sentiment changes for the better, their buying activity will put upward price pressure on the market.
It is debatable as to whether or not investor sentiment indices are accurate predictors of the future short-term direction of financial markets, but there are plenty of advisory services who track it.
Using the IcebergCarwash sentiment index, then, we should've been bearish on the market at the outset of the year. Indeed, through Friday, February 5th, the market is down 4.4% for the year, as measured by the S&P 500.
IcebergCarwash's increasingly obvious (or obviously increasing?) relevance in the world of Finance aside, the market's recent performance seems to be a matter of financial market participants starting to catch on to the idea that we cannot have a meaningful recovery in the U.S. without job growth. On Friday, the Labor Department reported that the U.S. economy lost about 20,000 more jobs in January. While that's not a large number by any means, it does indicate that our economy is not yet adding a significant number of jobs, and that any employment-driven recovery is still a while off.
The implication, of course, is that the government needs to focus nearly all of its legislative efforts on job creation. Things like health care reform, while important, will only serve to distract our lawmakers from the task of creating jobs. We absolutely need to put any other major items on the back burner. Unfortunately, the President and his liberal brethren in Congress are much more concerned with pushing through the key elements of their liberal agenda than with actually helping Americans get back to work.
If our lawmakers were to actually put the appropriate amount of focus on job creation, the hope here is that any resulting policies and tactics would result in actual job creation. For example, while extending unemployment benefits (yet again) is certainly a good thing to do from a humanitarian standpoint, it doesn't actually do much to create jobs. Like it or not, companies need to be convinced that adding workers at this point is in their best interests. Considering that so many companies have been managing rather well for quite some time now with reduced headcount, and enjoying the resulting improvements in their respective operating cost models, there's a real reluctance to add jobs. We've got to grease the rails, by offering something like corporate tax credits for newly created positions. Those who typically assail anything that even smacks of "corporate welfare" will surely howl, but these people are clueless, and should not be listened to.
If Congress doesn't act soon to fuel a recovery in employment, the stock market's performance might turn out to be the least of our worries.
As for me, my 2010 year-end stock prediction was the lowest of all of the entries, so if the market declines in 2010, I'll win the contest. It won't be much of a consolation, though.
When we gathered the end-of-the-year stock market predictions for our annual contest , we received 7 contest entries. Not a single one anticipated a decline in the stock market in 2010. In terms of an investor sentiment index, that's a very bearish signal, as the sentiment index is a contrarian indicator, wherein any reading above 50% bullish is negative. The IcebergCarwash sentiment indicator is 100% bullish, which is downright scary.
The idea behind the investor sentiment index is rather simple. If a significant percentage of investors are bullish, for example, the assumption is that these people are already in the market, so current price levels indicate their optimism. If, on the other hand, most investors are bearish, this typically means that many investors are currently on the sidelines, and when their sentiment changes for the better, their buying activity will put upward price pressure on the market.
It is debatable as to whether or not investor sentiment indices are accurate predictors of the future short-term direction of financial markets, but there are plenty of advisory services who track it.
Using the IcebergCarwash sentiment index, then, we should've been bearish on the market at the outset of the year. Indeed, through Friday, February 5th, the market is down 4.4% for the year, as measured by the S&P 500.
IcebergCarwash's increasingly obvious (or obviously increasing?) relevance in the world of Finance aside, the market's recent performance seems to be a matter of financial market participants starting to catch on to the idea that we cannot have a meaningful recovery in the U.S. without job growth. On Friday, the Labor Department reported that the U.S. economy lost about 20,000 more jobs in January. While that's not a large number by any means, it does indicate that our economy is not yet adding a significant number of jobs, and that any employment-driven recovery is still a while off.
The implication, of course, is that the government needs to focus nearly all of its legislative efforts on job creation. Things like health care reform, while important, will only serve to distract our lawmakers from the task of creating jobs. We absolutely need to put any other major items on the back burner. Unfortunately, the President and his liberal brethren in Congress are much more concerned with pushing through the key elements of their liberal agenda than with actually helping Americans get back to work.
If our lawmakers were to actually put the appropriate amount of focus on job creation, the hope here is that any resulting policies and tactics would result in actual job creation. For example, while extending unemployment benefits (yet again) is certainly a good thing to do from a humanitarian standpoint, it doesn't actually do much to create jobs. Like it or not, companies need to be convinced that adding workers at this point is in their best interests. Considering that so many companies have been managing rather well for quite some time now with reduced headcount, and enjoying the resulting improvements in their respective operating cost models, there's a real reluctance to add jobs. We've got to grease the rails, by offering something like corporate tax credits for newly created positions. Those who typically assail anything that even smacks of "corporate welfare" will surely howl, but these people are clueless, and should not be listened to.
If Congress doesn't act soon to fuel a recovery in employment, the stock market's performance might turn out to be the least of our worries.
As for me, my 2010 year-end stock prediction was the lowest of all of the entries, so if the market declines in 2010, I'll win the contest. It won't be much of a consolation, though.
I Brake For...No One
Unlike many others, I did not take any joy in the news of Toyota's mounting troubles over these past couple of weeks.
For one thing, I never like to see any corporation, in any country, faced with billions of dollars in losses (or lost business), even if their difficulties were of their own doing.
On another, more personal, note, I currently work for a Japanese company, and Toyota is one of our parent company's largest shareholders, owning approximately 14% of the outstanding shares. At least publicly, I need to exhibit sympathy for the automaker. Privately (and let's face it, IcebergCarwash is still rather private), I'm hopeful that this situation can lead to some long-term competitive benefits for the U.S.-based automakers. It's also gratifying to see that foreign companies have major issues too.
The latest part of the story struck me as very interesting, however. Last week, reports emerged that the Toyota Prius - the world's #1-selling hybrid vehicle and a veritable symbol of "green" sensitivities - had experienced a disturbingly high number of incidents of brake pedal failures. Now, I'm not a mechanic, and I've never subscribed to "Road & Track" or "Motor Trend" magazine, but even I know that if your brake pedal doesn't work, that's more than just a minor inconvenience.
Think about it.
A hybrid vehicle, which could possibly end up killing a bunch of humans?
Why, that car is an environmentalist's dream!
I hope Al Gore drives one. Then again, Mr. Gore has nothing to worry about, given his own personal, built-in airbags, which deploy whenever he collides with a microphone.
For one thing, I never like to see any corporation, in any country, faced with billions of dollars in losses (or lost business), even if their difficulties were of their own doing.
On another, more personal, note, I currently work for a Japanese company, and Toyota is one of our parent company's largest shareholders, owning approximately 14% of the outstanding shares. At least publicly, I need to exhibit sympathy for the automaker. Privately (and let's face it, IcebergCarwash is still rather private), I'm hopeful that this situation can lead to some long-term competitive benefits for the U.S.-based automakers. It's also gratifying to see that foreign companies have major issues too.
The latest part of the story struck me as very interesting, however. Last week, reports emerged that the Toyota Prius - the world's #1-selling hybrid vehicle and a veritable symbol of "green" sensitivities - had experienced a disturbingly high number of incidents of brake pedal failures. Now, I'm not a mechanic, and I've never subscribed to "Road & Track" or "Motor Trend" magazine, but even I know that if your brake pedal doesn't work, that's more than just a minor inconvenience.
Think about it.
A hybrid vehicle, which could possibly end up killing a bunch of humans?
Why, that car is an environmentalist's dream!
I hope Al Gore drives one. Then again, Mr. Gore has nothing to worry about, given his own personal, built-in airbags, which deploy whenever he collides with a microphone.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
The Ghost of Super Bowls Past: Part VI (Road Trips)
The final installment of our Super Bowl Party blog series:
I've really got to wrap this thing up. The Super Bowl kicks off in about 21 hours, and Ken Burns just called, and told me that this thing was really starting to drag on for too long.
In February 2005, we were faced with a logistical challenge. Our kids had mid-winter vacation, and we'd be taking a trip to Baltimore, MD and Hershey, PA. Once again, FBB rose to the occasion, planning the trip so that we'd be in our hotel to watch the game on Sunday evening. On Sunday morning, we bought provisions, to supplement the ribs which FBB had prepared the prior week, and we had a nice time watching the game. The Patriots beat the Philadelphia Eagles 24-21, in a decent game. More importantly, we proved capable of having a really good Super Bowl party even away from home.
The next year, the Super Bowl also took place during mid-winter vacation. This time, we were in the Washington, D.C. area (northern Virginia, to be exact). We watched the game in our two-bedroom hotel suite, as the Pittsburgh Steelers defeated the Seattle Seahawks 21-10 in Super Bowl XL. What the game lacked in excitement was outweighed by the good food, and the generally festive atmosphere. By this point, I started to believe that FBB could arrange a good party in Mongolia, if needed. (I've seen pictures of Mongolia; they could use a good party).
In February 2007, we were back in town, but had long-since relegated our TV to a dark corner of the garage. Undaunted, FBB and I decided to watch the game in my office, where I had a TV. We picked up some food on the way there (I brought some chili, of course), and had a nice, quiet viewing experience. The Indianapolis Colts beat the Chicago Bears 29-17.
Super Bowl XLII, played in February 2008, marked the first time in about 25 years that I watched the Super Bowl alone. FBB and the kids were in Detroit (at FBB's sister's house) for mid-winter vacation, and I pulled the old TV out of the mothballs, made some chili and watched the game. The New York Giants beat the New England Patriots 17-14, in a stunning upset. The Patriots had not lost a game until that point that season, and had set the record for the most points scored in a season. FBB watched the game in Detroit, and called me several times to offer her observations on the game. At that point, I confirmed what I had previously suspected. FBB was not just a great party-thrower. She had become a full-fledged football fan. By now, two years after Super Bowl XLII, I can honestly say that she probably knows more about football than 50% of the men that I know. By next year, it'll be 75% - 80%.
In February 2009, FBB and I watched the game alone together again, this time in Queens, at my parents' empty house (they were in Miami Beach). We bought hamburgers at this new "burger bar" place, one of those joints where you could customize your burger to your specifications. The burgers were excellent, and we've really got to go back to that place one of these days. Shortly after arriving at the house, I discovered the hard way that my parents had changed the alarm code without telling me, and I had to call my father to get the new code in order to turn the darn thing off. The really pathetic thing is that they had changed the code about 10 years earlier. Talk about being out-of-the-loop! Of course, because I hadn't turned the alarm off in time, we were visited by the cops. I began to wonder whether or not they had the game on down at the station house (I'm sure they did). Fortunately, they bought my story about being the homeowners' son, and we settled down to watch the game, without missing a play.
The game was very exciting, with several big plays and lead changes, and the Pittsburgh Steelers eventually prevailed over the Arizona Cardinals, by a final score of 27-23.
It's now a year later, and it's time for the Super Bowl once again (funny how that works). This year feels a lot like 1998-99 to me, as the Vikings, who had a wonderful 12-4 season, then routed the Dallas Cowboys in the playoffs, lost in heartbreaking fashion to the New Orleans Saints (in overtime) two weeks ago in the NFC Championship Game. Still, it's the Super Bowl, and I look forward to watching/listening to it.
I won't make a prediction for Super Bowl XLIV. Both the Indianapolis Colts and the New Orleans Saints were great all season, and the Super Bowl shapes up as an exciting, high-scoring affair. I don't know who is going to win, but I'm sure the food will be good.
I've really got to wrap this thing up. The Super Bowl kicks off in about 21 hours, and Ken Burns just called, and told me that this thing was really starting to drag on for too long.
In February 2005, we were faced with a logistical challenge. Our kids had mid-winter vacation, and we'd be taking a trip to Baltimore, MD and Hershey, PA. Once again, FBB rose to the occasion, planning the trip so that we'd be in our hotel to watch the game on Sunday evening. On Sunday morning, we bought provisions, to supplement the ribs which FBB had prepared the prior week, and we had a nice time watching the game. The Patriots beat the Philadelphia Eagles 24-21, in a decent game. More importantly, we proved capable of having a really good Super Bowl party even away from home.
The next year, the Super Bowl also took place during mid-winter vacation. This time, we were in the Washington, D.C. area (northern Virginia, to be exact). We watched the game in our two-bedroom hotel suite, as the Pittsburgh Steelers defeated the Seattle Seahawks 21-10 in Super Bowl XL. What the game lacked in excitement was outweighed by the good food, and the generally festive atmosphere. By this point, I started to believe that FBB could arrange a good party in Mongolia, if needed. (I've seen pictures of Mongolia; they could use a good party).
In February 2007, we were back in town, but had long-since relegated our TV to a dark corner of the garage. Undaunted, FBB and I decided to watch the game in my office, where I had a TV. We picked up some food on the way there (I brought some chili, of course), and had a nice, quiet viewing experience. The Indianapolis Colts beat the Chicago Bears 29-17.
Super Bowl XLII, played in February 2008, marked the first time in about 25 years that I watched the Super Bowl alone. FBB and the kids were in Detroit (at FBB's sister's house) for mid-winter vacation, and I pulled the old TV out of the mothballs, made some chili and watched the game. The New York Giants beat the New England Patriots 17-14, in a stunning upset. The Patriots had not lost a game until that point that season, and had set the record for the most points scored in a season. FBB watched the game in Detroit, and called me several times to offer her observations on the game. At that point, I confirmed what I had previously suspected. FBB was not just a great party-thrower. She had become a full-fledged football fan. By now, two years after Super Bowl XLII, I can honestly say that she probably knows more about football than 50% of the men that I know. By next year, it'll be 75% - 80%.
In February 2009, FBB and I watched the game alone together again, this time in Queens, at my parents' empty house (they were in Miami Beach). We bought hamburgers at this new "burger bar" place, one of those joints where you could customize your burger to your specifications. The burgers were excellent, and we've really got to go back to that place one of these days. Shortly after arriving at the house, I discovered the hard way that my parents had changed the alarm code without telling me, and I had to call my father to get the new code in order to turn the darn thing off. The really pathetic thing is that they had changed the code about 10 years earlier. Talk about being out-of-the-loop! Of course, because I hadn't turned the alarm off in time, we were visited by the cops. I began to wonder whether or not they had the game on down at the station house (I'm sure they did). Fortunately, they bought my story about being the homeowners' son, and we settled down to watch the game, without missing a play.
The game was very exciting, with several big plays and lead changes, and the Pittsburgh Steelers eventually prevailed over the Arizona Cardinals, by a final score of 27-23.
It's now a year later, and it's time for the Super Bowl once again (funny how that works). This year feels a lot like 1998-99 to me, as the Vikings, who had a wonderful 12-4 season, then routed the Dallas Cowboys in the playoffs, lost in heartbreaking fashion to the New Orleans Saints (in overtime) two weeks ago in the NFC Championship Game. Still, it's the Super Bowl, and I look forward to watching/listening to it.
I won't make a prediction for Super Bowl XLIV. Both the Indianapolis Colts and the New Orleans Saints were great all season, and the Super Bowl shapes up as an exciting, high-scoring affair. I don't know who is going to win, but I'm sure the food will be good.
The Ghost of Super Bowls Past: Part V (The Young 'uns Get Invited)
The penultimate installment of my Super Bowl-related blog series:
In 1998, we moved to our current home, and our first Super Bowl party here was in January of 1999, when the Denver Broncos played the Atlanta Falcons in Super Bowl XXIII. My brother came in from medical school in Pennsylvania to join us for the game. Unfortunately, my brother and I were still bummed out over the Minnesota Vikings' upset loss to the Falcons in the NFC Championship Game a couple of weeks earlier. That year, the Vikings had finished the regular season with a 15-1 record, and had set a record for most points scored in a season (that record was broken by the 2007 Patriots). In over 30 years rooting for the Vikings, I can't recall a better team. More than a decade later, I still can't believe that they fell short of the Super Bowl. Predictably, the Falcons, who had played the game of their lives against the Vikings, offered little resistance to the Broncos, who won easily, by a score of 34-19.
While the Broncos were winning their second consecutive title, my brother and I glumly ate the chili I had prepared, and watched the game mostly in silence, except to mutter "we would've put up a better fight." That's probably the first time I've ever used the words "chili" and "glumly" in the same sentence, but it really applies. The interesting thing is that looking back, the Super Bowl XXIII chili is probably the best chili I've ever made. Everything just came together properly. In fact, perhaps the bitter disappointment I felt over the Vikings' recent loss was the missing ingredient in the chili. Much like a great artist during his "blue period," or Eddie Poe while he was stuck living in Baltimore, perhaps I just needed some negative motivation to break out of my creative shell.
The next year ushered in the brief-but-exhilarating "mini hot dog" era. Our oldest child was then nearly 6 years old, her younger sister was 4, and they were deemed old enough to participate in the festivities. FBB bought a large pack of cocktail franks, and we boiled them up, and put them in a large bowl in front of our delighted offspring. They looked at each other in wide-eyed wonder as if to say, "Okay, let me get this straight. They're letting us watch TV, giving us these delicious little hot dogs, and we're staying up way past our bedtimes in the process." They just could not believe their good fortune.
The game itself was reasonably exciting, as the St. Louis Rams beat the Tennessee Titans 23-16, in a game that wasn't decided until the final play, as the Titans' last-gasp drive ended when Kevin Dyson was tackled about one-yard short of a potential game-tying touchdown.
Super Bowl XXXV, in January 2001, was another blowout, as the Baltimore Ravens routed the New York Giants 34-7. Once again, the mini hot dogs were the star of the show.
Super Bowl XXXVI marked the first time the game was played in February. The Super Bowl took place on February 3, 2002, and we were treated to an exciting game, as the New England Patriots defeated the St. Louis Rams 20-17. This was considered an upset, as the Rams were favored, and it marked the beginning of the Patriots' dynasty, as they would end up winning 3 Super Bowls in 4 years, and play in 4 Super Bowls over a 7 year period. We watched the game at home, with the family, who enjoyed the customary sandwiches and side dishes, and, of course, the ubiquitous cocktail franks. I still couldn't convince anyone to even try my chili, which seemed to somehow get spicier by the year, and was practically mocking my acid medication by this point.
The Super Bowl moved back to January in 2003, as the Tampa Bay Buccaneers defeated the Oakland Raiders 48-21 in Super Bowl XXXVII. The kids were really starting to look forward to the party now, even recommending certain menu items. My chili had become more brazen than ever. At one point earlier in the day, I stepped out of the kitchen, only to return a few minutes later to catch the chili making harassing phone calls to my gastroenterologist. On a weekend, no less.
Super Bowl XXXVIII, played in February of 2004, was an entertaining, back-and-forth game, with a total of 37 points scored in the fourth quarter. The New England Patriots defeated the Carolina Panthers, by a score of 32-29. I decided to de-jalapeno the chili that year, which helped to tame it somewhat.
The next year, it was time to take the Super Bowl party on the road.
In 1998, we moved to our current home, and our first Super Bowl party here was in January of 1999, when the Denver Broncos played the Atlanta Falcons in Super Bowl XXIII. My brother came in from medical school in Pennsylvania to join us for the game. Unfortunately, my brother and I were still bummed out over the Minnesota Vikings' upset loss to the Falcons in the NFC Championship Game a couple of weeks earlier. That year, the Vikings had finished the regular season with a 15-1 record, and had set a record for most points scored in a season (that record was broken by the 2007 Patriots). In over 30 years rooting for the Vikings, I can't recall a better team. More than a decade later, I still can't believe that they fell short of the Super Bowl. Predictably, the Falcons, who had played the game of their lives against the Vikings, offered little resistance to the Broncos, who won easily, by a score of 34-19.
While the Broncos were winning their second consecutive title, my brother and I glumly ate the chili I had prepared, and watched the game mostly in silence, except to mutter "we would've put up a better fight." That's probably the first time I've ever used the words "chili" and "glumly" in the same sentence, but it really applies. The interesting thing is that looking back, the Super Bowl XXIII chili is probably the best chili I've ever made. Everything just came together properly. In fact, perhaps the bitter disappointment I felt over the Vikings' recent loss was the missing ingredient in the chili. Much like a great artist during his "blue period," or Eddie Poe while he was stuck living in Baltimore, perhaps I just needed some negative motivation to break out of my creative shell.
The next year ushered in the brief-but-exhilarating "mini hot dog" era. Our oldest child was then nearly 6 years old, her younger sister was 4, and they were deemed old enough to participate in the festivities. FBB bought a large pack of cocktail franks, and we boiled them up, and put them in a large bowl in front of our delighted offspring. They looked at each other in wide-eyed wonder as if to say, "Okay, let me get this straight. They're letting us watch TV, giving us these delicious little hot dogs, and we're staying up way past our bedtimes in the process." They just could not believe their good fortune.
The game itself was reasonably exciting, as the St. Louis Rams beat the Tennessee Titans 23-16, in a game that wasn't decided until the final play, as the Titans' last-gasp drive ended when Kevin Dyson was tackled about one-yard short of a potential game-tying touchdown.
Super Bowl XXXV, in January 2001, was another blowout, as the Baltimore Ravens routed the New York Giants 34-7. Once again, the mini hot dogs were the star of the show.
Super Bowl XXXVI marked the first time the game was played in February. The Super Bowl took place on February 3, 2002, and we were treated to an exciting game, as the New England Patriots defeated the St. Louis Rams 20-17. This was considered an upset, as the Rams were favored, and it marked the beginning of the Patriots' dynasty, as they would end up winning 3 Super Bowls in 4 years, and play in 4 Super Bowls over a 7 year period. We watched the game at home, with the family, who enjoyed the customary sandwiches and side dishes, and, of course, the ubiquitous cocktail franks. I still couldn't convince anyone to even try my chili, which seemed to somehow get spicier by the year, and was practically mocking my acid medication by this point.
The Super Bowl moved back to January in 2003, as the Tampa Bay Buccaneers defeated the Oakland Raiders 48-21 in Super Bowl XXXVII. The kids were really starting to look forward to the party now, even recommending certain menu items. My chili had become more brazen than ever. At one point earlier in the day, I stepped out of the kitchen, only to return a few minutes later to catch the chili making harassing phone calls to my gastroenterologist. On a weekend, no less.
Super Bowl XXXVIII, played in February of 2004, was an entertaining, back-and-forth game, with a total of 37 points scored in the fourth quarter. The New England Patriots defeated the Carolina Panthers, by a score of 32-29. I decided to de-jalapeno the chili that year, which helped to tame it somewhat.
The next year, it was time to take the Super Bowl party on the road.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Ghost of Super Bowls Past: Part IV (The Married Years)
The saga of my Super Bowl experiences continues…
As Super Bowl XXVIII approached, I didn’t really know what to expect. This would be my first Super bowl as a married man, and FBB and I didn’t have a TV, so we’d have to figure out where to watch it. I don’t think FBB had ever watched the Super Bowl before, so I wasn’t sure whether or not she’d be interested.
We ended up watching the game at the small, basement apartment of a friend of mine. It was just the three of us: my friend, FBB and I. We watched the Buffalo Bills lose again, this time by a 30-13 score against the Dallas Cowboys.
FBB provided the food, including some homemade potato salad. We ate well, and enjoyed the experience, even though the game, as usual, wasn’t very close.
Even though I didn’t realize it at the time, that Super Bowl marked the first pairing of our nation’s ultimate sporting event with someone who would soon become the greatest party-thrower I have ever met. I’m referring, of course, to FBB. Over the years, I have attended many parties, both Super Bowl-related and otherwise, and NO ONE throws a party like FBB. Equally adept at home or on the road, with a dairy or meat-based menu, she has achieved legendary status in this area.
In fact, if I had one party to throw, with my reputation and everything else on the line, of all of the people in the world, I’d choose FBB to run the thing. She’s the Joe Montana of parties.
Of course, I’d like to think that she cut her party teeth on our Super Bowl parties during the 1990s.
The next year, FBB and I attended the Super Bowl party at the home of a close friend of mine. There were about three or four couples at the game, and the wives prepared the food. I believe that the host and I procured the soda.
We had a very nice time at this game, which was really over before I took a seat on the couch. The San Francisco 49ers scored on their third play of the game, en route to a 49-26 trouncing of the San Diego Chargers. At one point, the 49ers led 42-10. The food was good, of course, and I recall tasting pumpkin pie for the first time. I enjoyed it very much.
By the next year, we had moved to Queens, and it was finally time for us to host our own Super Bowl party. This was a watershed moment for us. FBB’s brother joined us for the game, as the Cowboys beat the Steelers 27-17. Pittsburgh’s quarterback, Neil O’Donnell, threw three interceptions in the game, including two that he threw directly to Larry Brown of the Cowboys. One of these interceptions was so hideous that I started to wonder if O’Donnell had gotten into some trouble in the mob, and had made a deal with them that he would throw the game, in return for his life. In retrospect, that theory doesn’t hold up, as the Cowboys didn’t end up covering the 13-1/2 point spread, and Neil O’Donnell is still alive (I think).
After the game, I walked my brother-in-law downstairs to his car, and we noticed that he had a flat tire. I “helped” him to change the flat tire, but frankly, I was not of much use. I’ve never been a skilled tire-changer. In fact, if you had one tire to change, with a lot riding on the outcome, you would definitely NOT want me to change your tire. I am NOT the Joe Montana of tire changing. I think that I am the Neil O’Donnell of tire changing.
The next year, we hosted another Super Bowl party at our home, as we watched the Green Bay Packers defeat the New England Patriots 35-21. As a Minnesota Vikings fan, I detest the Packers, and I wasn’t pleased that they won the Super Bowl. All was not lost, however. That year, for the first time, I made chili, using a recipe that I had found in a cookbook. The chili was good (I liked it, at least), and that game ushered in the “Super Bowl Chili Era,” which continues to this day.
There are many different ways to make chili, but no matter the specific recipe, there are two basic rules:
(1) Checking – and sampling – the chili every five minutes does NOT make it cook any faster.
(2) Despite Rule #1, I’m going to check the chili every 5 minutes anyway. It’s my chili, and I’ll try it if I want to.
The next year marked our final Super Bowl party in Queens, as the Denver Broncos finally won the franchise’s first Super Bowl after 4 losses, defeating the Green Bay Packers 31-24, in a very exciting game. It was nice to see John Elway, one of the most talented quarterbacks I’ve ever seen, finally win a Super Bowl title, and it was even more gratifying to watch the Packers lose.
We call that “football schadenfraude.”
(MBB note: IcebergCarwash has already copyrighted the phrase “football schadenfraude.” So, for those of you who were thinking of putting that catchy phrase on T-shirts, coffee mugs and the like, and then selling these items to the public, I’d advise you to cease and desist. We are very serious. Do not make us get our lawyers involved. They are a nasty bunch, and have not eaten much in the last three days).
As Super Bowl XXVIII approached, I didn’t really know what to expect. This would be my first Super bowl as a married man, and FBB and I didn’t have a TV, so we’d have to figure out where to watch it. I don’t think FBB had ever watched the Super Bowl before, so I wasn’t sure whether or not she’d be interested.
We ended up watching the game at the small, basement apartment of a friend of mine. It was just the three of us: my friend, FBB and I. We watched the Buffalo Bills lose again, this time by a 30-13 score against the Dallas Cowboys.
FBB provided the food, including some homemade potato salad. We ate well, and enjoyed the experience, even though the game, as usual, wasn’t very close.
Even though I didn’t realize it at the time, that Super Bowl marked the first pairing of our nation’s ultimate sporting event with someone who would soon become the greatest party-thrower I have ever met. I’m referring, of course, to FBB. Over the years, I have attended many parties, both Super Bowl-related and otherwise, and NO ONE throws a party like FBB. Equally adept at home or on the road, with a dairy or meat-based menu, she has achieved legendary status in this area.
In fact, if I had one party to throw, with my reputation and everything else on the line, of all of the people in the world, I’d choose FBB to run the thing. She’s the Joe Montana of parties.
Of course, I’d like to think that she cut her party teeth on our Super Bowl parties during the 1990s.
The next year, FBB and I attended the Super Bowl party at the home of a close friend of mine. There were about three or four couples at the game, and the wives prepared the food. I believe that the host and I procured the soda.
We had a very nice time at this game, which was really over before I took a seat on the couch. The San Francisco 49ers scored on their third play of the game, en route to a 49-26 trouncing of the San Diego Chargers. At one point, the 49ers led 42-10. The food was good, of course, and I recall tasting pumpkin pie for the first time. I enjoyed it very much.
By the next year, we had moved to Queens, and it was finally time for us to host our own Super Bowl party. This was a watershed moment for us. FBB’s brother joined us for the game, as the Cowboys beat the Steelers 27-17. Pittsburgh’s quarterback, Neil O’Donnell, threw three interceptions in the game, including two that he threw directly to Larry Brown of the Cowboys. One of these interceptions was so hideous that I started to wonder if O’Donnell had gotten into some trouble in the mob, and had made a deal with them that he would throw the game, in return for his life. In retrospect, that theory doesn’t hold up, as the Cowboys didn’t end up covering the 13-1/2 point spread, and Neil O’Donnell is still alive (I think).
After the game, I walked my brother-in-law downstairs to his car, and we noticed that he had a flat tire. I “helped” him to change the flat tire, but frankly, I was not of much use. I’ve never been a skilled tire-changer. In fact, if you had one tire to change, with a lot riding on the outcome, you would definitely NOT want me to change your tire. I am NOT the Joe Montana of tire changing. I think that I am the Neil O’Donnell of tire changing.
The next year, we hosted another Super Bowl party at our home, as we watched the Green Bay Packers defeat the New England Patriots 35-21. As a Minnesota Vikings fan, I detest the Packers, and I wasn’t pleased that they won the Super Bowl. All was not lost, however. That year, for the first time, I made chili, using a recipe that I had found in a cookbook. The chili was good (I liked it, at least), and that game ushered in the “Super Bowl Chili Era,” which continues to this day.
There are many different ways to make chili, but no matter the specific recipe, there are two basic rules:
(1) Checking – and sampling – the chili every five minutes does NOT make it cook any faster.
(2) Despite Rule #1, I’m going to check the chili every 5 minutes anyway. It’s my chili, and I’ll try it if I want to.
The next year marked our final Super Bowl party in Queens, as the Denver Broncos finally won the franchise’s first Super Bowl after 4 losses, defeating the Green Bay Packers 31-24, in a very exciting game. It was nice to see John Elway, one of the most talented quarterbacks I’ve ever seen, finally win a Super Bowl title, and it was even more gratifying to watch the Packers lose.
We call that “football schadenfraude.”
(MBB note: IcebergCarwash has already copyrighted the phrase “football schadenfraude.” So, for those of you who were thinking of putting that catchy phrase on T-shirts, coffee mugs and the like, and then selling these items to the public, I’d advise you to cease and desist. We are very serious. Do not make us get our lawyers involved. They are a nasty bunch, and have not eaten much in the last three days).
The Ghost of Super Bowls Past: Part III (ages 18-23)
The third installment of our series of posts about my previous Super Bowl viewing experiences:
In January 1988, the Washington Redskins played the Denver Broncos in Super Bowl XXII. I was still smarting over the Minnesota Vikings’ 17-10 loss to the Redskins a couple of weeks earlier, in the NFC Championship Game, but I was determined to enjoy the Super Bowl nonetheless.
A good friend of mine had gotten engaged a few weeks prior to the game, and he invited me, along with another friend of ours, to his future in-laws’ house to watch the game. We had a pretty good time, and dined in a manner which was appropriate for the occasion. As to the game itself, after falling behind by a 10-0 score in the first quarter, the Redskins put together what is probably still the most dominant quarter of football I’ve ever seen, scoring 35 points in the second quarter to take a 35-10 lead at halftime. The final score was 42-10.
This particular Super Bowl was much more memorable for what happened after the game. During the fourth quarter, with the game clearly in hand for the Redskins, the broadcast showed several shots of Redskins fans partying in the Georgetown area. After the third such shot, our recently-engaged friend said, “You know, we could probably get down there in less than an hour.” My other friend and I just looked at each other and shrugged, as if to say “why not?” and off we went, listening to the final few minutes of the game on the radio.
We got to D.C. and drove right into one of the greatest party scenes I’ve ever seen. Given the mediocre state of the Redskins franchise nowadays, people tend to forget how crazy the Redskins’ fans are about their team. The Redskins currently boast the longest streak of sellouts in the NFL, having sold every ticket to every home game they’ve played since 1967. (Yes, you read that correctly. 1967).
We drove through the Georgetown area, and just sat in a massive traffic jam, as people danced in the streets. Interestingly, the Redskins had just won the Super Bowl five years earlier, so it wasn’t exactly a title-starved fan base (like, for instance, the beleaguered Vikings’ fans). At one point, we entertained ourselves by pretending to not know who had won the Super Bowl. We called out to anyone who was close enough to our car and asked, “Hey, does anyone know who won the Super Bowl?” Most people looked at us like we were crazy, but this one guy, who must’ve been an exchange student or something from somewhere in Africa, said to us, in this incredibly wacky accent, “The Redskins win the Super, 42 for them 10 for the others. We are very, very happy!” Back in the late ‘80s, before everyone became so uptight, this was considered extremely funny. Trust me on this one.
By the next year, my friend had gotten married, and he just made the Super Bowl party at his apartment. The party was a lot of fun; there must have been over 20 people crowded into that place. The food was plentiful and excellent. Bear in mind that this particular friend of mine is from Texas, and they just know a lot more than the rest of us when it comes to roasting animal flesh over an open fire. The group must have consumed at least an entire side of beef. I’m pretty sure this party marked the first time I’d heard the word “mesquite” used in a sentence. I opted not to participate in the baked bean –eating contest, but it was definitely fun to watch.
The game itself, which pitted the San Francisco 49ers against the Cincinnati Bengals, provided the first exciting finish to a Super Bowl game in years. It was a dull, low-scoring affair for most of the time, as the teams were tied 3-3 at halftime, and 6-6 late in the third quarter. However, late in the game, with the 49ers trailing 16-13, Joe Montana, the 49ers’ quarterback, led the team on an epic, 92-yard drive in the final three minutes, capped by a perfectly-thrown 10-yard scoring pass to John Taylor.
Although the 49ers had already won two Super Bowls with Joe Montana at the helm, this game probably did more than anything to cement his reputation as a great big-game performer. As a quarterback, Montana did not have the strongest arm, but he was incredibly precise, and he was always at his best in the big games, never overwhelmed by the moment. Legend has it that when the 49ers started their final drive in that Super Bowl, backed up at their own 8 yard line, and trailing by 3 points with only 3 minutes left, Montana looked at his teammates in the huddle, and before calling out the play, said something like, “Hey, I think I just saw John Candy in the stands. How cool is that?”
Then, there was his name. Joe Montana. Joe Montana. I used to wonder if that was his real name (It is). If you were pitching a show to the Cartoon Network, and your main character was named Joe Montana, here’s what the network’s executives would probably tell you:
Hey, we really love the show. The animation is great, the writing is funny and hip, and the story lines are really attention grabbing. One thing, though. Joe Montana? Really? Doesn’t that sound a bit too cartoonish? How about something more subtle, like Bobby Blammo?
If you asked 10 avid football fans to name the greatest quarterback of all time, you’d probably get at least 7 different answers. But, if you had one game to win, and you could choose any quarterback in history for your team, it would probably be Joe Montana.
When the Super Bowl rolled around in January of 1990, I was in Israel, and I knew that watching the game would pose a logistical challenge. Of course, I found a solution. Some people had arranged a slightly tape-delayed viewing of the game in a local movie theater. Basically, some guy was recording the game in four quarterly pieces (it was available in Israel if you had the right satellite capability), and sending it to the theater, where they had hooked up a VCR to the giant screen. More than 200 people showed up to watch the game, which began at about 2AM, and finished sometime around 6AM. To this day, this represents the largest group with which I have watched the Super Bowl. It is also the only time I’ve had to pay to watch the game. The organizers of the event also set up a concession stand, from which I purchased a soda or two. As for food, I simply went to a store before the game, bought some food, and slipped a schwarma-filled pita into either pants pocket and walked in. About 5 minutes into the game, I realized that about 150 other people had done the same thing.
The game itself, between the 49ers and the Broncos, was completely uncompetitive, with the 49ers taking a 27-3 halftime lead en-route to a 55-10 blowout victory. I’m pretty sure the 49ers could’ve scored 70 points that night, if they had wanted to.
Back in the States the next year, I attended, along with about a dozen of my closest friends, an excellent party, at the home of a guy we knew who lived in town. I was 21 years old, and at that age, it was important to be friendly with guys who were a couple of years older than you and married, with their own homes and televisions.
The primary menu items were make-your-own submarine (“hero”) sandwiches. Our host set up a long table full of sliced meats, sub rolls, pickles, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, and more condiments than I knew existed. (Hey, I was young, and naïve). This was the first time I had eaten sandwiches such as these at a Super Bowl party, and I was hooked. This was the perfect item. You could tailor the sandwich to your specifications, and you didn’t have to worry about your food getting cold. In other words, each partygoer could eat at his own pace.
To be sure, I’ll never turn down a hamburger, any time of day or night. The hamburger is a divine gift to mankind, an obvious manifestation of G-d’s boundless benevolence. Still, the hero sandwich makes a better Super Bowl party menu item. Ever since Super Bowl XXV, the hero sandwich has been a staple of my Super Bowl menu.
That year, the game featured the Buffalo Bills against the New York Giants. The Giants gave the favored Bills all they could handle, and the score was 20-19 in favor of the Giants, with 8 seconds left, when Buffalo’s kicker, Scott Norwood, lined up for a 47-yard field goal, which would have given the Bills the victory, if it had been successful. Alas, Norwood’s kick was wide to the right, and the Giants won. This game turned out to be the first of four consecutive Super Bowl appearances for the Bills, but it was also the closest they came to actually winning. The next three games would be blowouts.
For Super Bowl XXVI, I attended a party at the home of another friend of mine, and as usual, the food was good, and there was a large group of attendees. The Washington Redskins beat the Buffalo Bills 37-24, in a game that was not as close as the final score indicated. The Redskins led 37-10, before the Bills scored two meaningless touchdowns late in the game.
That year, I was actually faced with a bit of a dilemma as to which party to attend, as I had been invited to two. It was pretty obvious to me which party I wanted to attend (the one I ended up going to), but a very close friend of mine tried his hardest in the week leading up to the game to go to the other party. This particular friend has never been much of a football fan, but he liked a good party as much as the next guy. It was pretty obvious to me why he wanted to attend that other party. Through the grapevine, he had heard that some of the local girls he knew would be at the party. (The home of the guy who was hosting that party was something of a local hangout). Unfortunately, this violated one of my primary Super Bowl rules at the time: No girls. As it turned out, the local females also had a similar, unwritten rule for all of their Super Bowl parties (or just about any other occasion as well): No MBB. So, I attended one party, and my friend went to the other one.
By the time the Buffalo Bills and Dallas Cowboys lined up for Super Bowl XXVII, FBB and I had just recently become engaged (to each other). The party that year was at my parents’ house; my brother had invited a bunch of friends over. There was a generally festive atmosphere in place, as my parents were in a very good mood, owing to their having solved their “MBB problem.” They even allowed my brother and me to bring a small table into the den from the living room (i.e. The Room That Shall Never Be Entered), to be used as our “meat table.” My brother and I grilled every kind of meat we could get our hands on. We had beef, veal, lamb, turkey, chicken, hot dogs, and a wide assortment of sausage. We also introduced serious pastry into the equation, hence the requirement of a “pie table.”
During the second half of the game, which was as a 52-17 rout in favor of the Cowboys, a close friend of mine came by. Earlier that day, he had gotten engaged to a girl who lived about 20 minutes away from me, and knowing that he’d be in the area, I had invited him to come watch the game as soon as he could get away. The two of us had watched several Super Bowls together, and his attendance at that game added to the already festive atmosphere.
That game marked the last Super Bowl that I watched as a single man. Beginning the next year, FBB would be part of the equation. At the time, I had no idea what to expect.
In January 1988, the Washington Redskins played the Denver Broncos in Super Bowl XXII. I was still smarting over the Minnesota Vikings’ 17-10 loss to the Redskins a couple of weeks earlier, in the NFC Championship Game, but I was determined to enjoy the Super Bowl nonetheless.
A good friend of mine had gotten engaged a few weeks prior to the game, and he invited me, along with another friend of ours, to his future in-laws’ house to watch the game. We had a pretty good time, and dined in a manner which was appropriate for the occasion. As to the game itself, after falling behind by a 10-0 score in the first quarter, the Redskins put together what is probably still the most dominant quarter of football I’ve ever seen, scoring 35 points in the second quarter to take a 35-10 lead at halftime. The final score was 42-10.
This particular Super Bowl was much more memorable for what happened after the game. During the fourth quarter, with the game clearly in hand for the Redskins, the broadcast showed several shots of Redskins fans partying in the Georgetown area. After the third such shot, our recently-engaged friend said, “You know, we could probably get down there in less than an hour.” My other friend and I just looked at each other and shrugged, as if to say “why not?” and off we went, listening to the final few minutes of the game on the radio.
We got to D.C. and drove right into one of the greatest party scenes I’ve ever seen. Given the mediocre state of the Redskins franchise nowadays, people tend to forget how crazy the Redskins’ fans are about their team. The Redskins currently boast the longest streak of sellouts in the NFL, having sold every ticket to every home game they’ve played since 1967. (Yes, you read that correctly. 1967).
We drove through the Georgetown area, and just sat in a massive traffic jam, as people danced in the streets. Interestingly, the Redskins had just won the Super Bowl five years earlier, so it wasn’t exactly a title-starved fan base (like, for instance, the beleaguered Vikings’ fans). At one point, we entertained ourselves by pretending to not know who had won the Super Bowl. We called out to anyone who was close enough to our car and asked, “Hey, does anyone know who won the Super Bowl?” Most people looked at us like we were crazy, but this one guy, who must’ve been an exchange student or something from somewhere in Africa, said to us, in this incredibly wacky accent, “The Redskins win the Super, 42 for them 10 for the others. We are very, very happy!” Back in the late ‘80s, before everyone became so uptight, this was considered extremely funny. Trust me on this one.
By the next year, my friend had gotten married, and he just made the Super Bowl party at his apartment. The party was a lot of fun; there must have been over 20 people crowded into that place. The food was plentiful and excellent. Bear in mind that this particular friend of mine is from Texas, and they just know a lot more than the rest of us when it comes to roasting animal flesh over an open fire. The group must have consumed at least an entire side of beef. I’m pretty sure this party marked the first time I’d heard the word “mesquite” used in a sentence. I opted not to participate in the baked bean –eating contest, but it was definitely fun to watch.
The game itself, which pitted the San Francisco 49ers against the Cincinnati Bengals, provided the first exciting finish to a Super Bowl game in years. It was a dull, low-scoring affair for most of the time, as the teams were tied 3-3 at halftime, and 6-6 late in the third quarter. However, late in the game, with the 49ers trailing 16-13, Joe Montana, the 49ers’ quarterback, led the team on an epic, 92-yard drive in the final three minutes, capped by a perfectly-thrown 10-yard scoring pass to John Taylor.
Although the 49ers had already won two Super Bowls with Joe Montana at the helm, this game probably did more than anything to cement his reputation as a great big-game performer. As a quarterback, Montana did not have the strongest arm, but he was incredibly precise, and he was always at his best in the big games, never overwhelmed by the moment. Legend has it that when the 49ers started their final drive in that Super Bowl, backed up at their own 8 yard line, and trailing by 3 points with only 3 minutes left, Montana looked at his teammates in the huddle, and before calling out the play, said something like, “Hey, I think I just saw John Candy in the stands. How cool is that?”
Then, there was his name. Joe Montana. Joe Montana. I used to wonder if that was his real name (It is). If you were pitching a show to the Cartoon Network, and your main character was named Joe Montana, here’s what the network’s executives would probably tell you:
Hey, we really love the show. The animation is great, the writing is funny and hip, and the story lines are really attention grabbing. One thing, though. Joe Montana? Really? Doesn’t that sound a bit too cartoonish? How about something more subtle, like Bobby Blammo?
If you asked 10 avid football fans to name the greatest quarterback of all time, you’d probably get at least 7 different answers. But, if you had one game to win, and you could choose any quarterback in history for your team, it would probably be Joe Montana.
When the Super Bowl rolled around in January of 1990, I was in Israel, and I knew that watching the game would pose a logistical challenge. Of course, I found a solution. Some people had arranged a slightly tape-delayed viewing of the game in a local movie theater. Basically, some guy was recording the game in four quarterly pieces (it was available in Israel if you had the right satellite capability), and sending it to the theater, where they had hooked up a VCR to the giant screen. More than 200 people showed up to watch the game, which began at about 2AM, and finished sometime around 6AM. To this day, this represents the largest group with which I have watched the Super Bowl. It is also the only time I’ve had to pay to watch the game. The organizers of the event also set up a concession stand, from which I purchased a soda or two. As for food, I simply went to a store before the game, bought some food, and slipped a schwarma-filled pita into either pants pocket and walked in. About 5 minutes into the game, I realized that about 150 other people had done the same thing.
The game itself, between the 49ers and the Broncos, was completely uncompetitive, with the 49ers taking a 27-3 halftime lead en-route to a 55-10 blowout victory. I’m pretty sure the 49ers could’ve scored 70 points that night, if they had wanted to.
Back in the States the next year, I attended, along with about a dozen of my closest friends, an excellent party, at the home of a guy we knew who lived in town. I was 21 years old, and at that age, it was important to be friendly with guys who were a couple of years older than you and married, with their own homes and televisions.
The primary menu items were make-your-own submarine (“hero”) sandwiches. Our host set up a long table full of sliced meats, sub rolls, pickles, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, and more condiments than I knew existed. (Hey, I was young, and naïve). This was the first time I had eaten sandwiches such as these at a Super Bowl party, and I was hooked. This was the perfect item. You could tailor the sandwich to your specifications, and you didn’t have to worry about your food getting cold. In other words, each partygoer could eat at his own pace.
To be sure, I’ll never turn down a hamburger, any time of day or night. The hamburger is a divine gift to mankind, an obvious manifestation of G-d’s boundless benevolence. Still, the hero sandwich makes a better Super Bowl party menu item. Ever since Super Bowl XXV, the hero sandwich has been a staple of my Super Bowl menu.
That year, the game featured the Buffalo Bills against the New York Giants. The Giants gave the favored Bills all they could handle, and the score was 20-19 in favor of the Giants, with 8 seconds left, when Buffalo’s kicker, Scott Norwood, lined up for a 47-yard field goal, which would have given the Bills the victory, if it had been successful. Alas, Norwood’s kick was wide to the right, and the Giants won. This game turned out to be the first of four consecutive Super Bowl appearances for the Bills, but it was also the closest they came to actually winning. The next three games would be blowouts.
For Super Bowl XXVI, I attended a party at the home of another friend of mine, and as usual, the food was good, and there was a large group of attendees. The Washington Redskins beat the Buffalo Bills 37-24, in a game that was not as close as the final score indicated. The Redskins led 37-10, before the Bills scored two meaningless touchdowns late in the game.
That year, I was actually faced with a bit of a dilemma as to which party to attend, as I had been invited to two. It was pretty obvious to me which party I wanted to attend (the one I ended up going to), but a very close friend of mine tried his hardest in the week leading up to the game to go to the other party. This particular friend has never been much of a football fan, but he liked a good party as much as the next guy. It was pretty obvious to me why he wanted to attend that other party. Through the grapevine, he had heard that some of the local girls he knew would be at the party. (The home of the guy who was hosting that party was something of a local hangout). Unfortunately, this violated one of my primary Super Bowl rules at the time: No girls. As it turned out, the local females also had a similar, unwritten rule for all of their Super Bowl parties (or just about any other occasion as well): No MBB. So, I attended one party, and my friend went to the other one.
By the time the Buffalo Bills and Dallas Cowboys lined up for Super Bowl XXVII, FBB and I had just recently become engaged (to each other). The party that year was at my parents’ house; my brother had invited a bunch of friends over. There was a generally festive atmosphere in place, as my parents were in a very good mood, owing to their having solved their “MBB problem.” They even allowed my brother and me to bring a small table into the den from the living room (i.e. The Room That Shall Never Be Entered), to be used as our “meat table.” My brother and I grilled every kind of meat we could get our hands on. We had beef, veal, lamb, turkey, chicken, hot dogs, and a wide assortment of sausage. We also introduced serious pastry into the equation, hence the requirement of a “pie table.”
During the second half of the game, which was as a 52-17 rout in favor of the Cowboys, a close friend of mine came by. Earlier that day, he had gotten engaged to a girl who lived about 20 minutes away from me, and knowing that he’d be in the area, I had invited him to come watch the game as soon as he could get away. The two of us had watched several Super Bowls together, and his attendance at that game added to the already festive atmosphere.
That game marked the last Super Bowl that I watched as a single man. Beginning the next year, FBB would be part of the equation. At the time, I had no idea what to expect.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Ghost of Super Bowls Past: Part II (Ages 13 - 17)
Continuing my recap of previous Super Bowl experiences...
In January 1983, the Washington Redskins defeated the Miami Dolphins 27-17, in Super Bowl XVII. The star of the game was Washington's running back John Riggins, who rushed for 166 yards and the game's pivotal touchdown. On a 4th down and 1 from the Miami 43, Riggins took a handoff, and ran to the left. Miami's Don McNeal had a shot at stopping Riggins behind the line of scrimmage, but the much heavier and stronger Riggins broke free of McNeal's grasp, and rumbled up the sideline for a 43-yard touchdown.
A couple of years later, Riggins gained a large measure of notoriety when, having imbibed too much alcohol at a Washington Press Club dinner, he approached Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor and said "C'mon, Sandy baby, loosen up." He then promptly fell asleep under the table.
I watched this game at home. The rest of my family went out to the hamburger place for dinner, and brought some food home for me. My parents felt that I was old enough (13) to be left home alone, and besides, they had tired of my "transistor radio act" by then.
In those days, it seemed as though every time there was a football game on, my parents suddenly got the urge to take us out to the pizza shop or some other venue. In retrospect, it is entirely possible that this was just a coincidence, given that the weekly football games started at 1:00PM on Sunday, I got home from school at about 12:45, and it was a perfectly reasonable time to go out for lunch.
I'm not buying it, though. I still think that it was a conspiracy.
Not to be denied, I would accompany my family on these excursions, but I would bring along my trusty white transistor radio, and hold it to my ear at the table in the pizza shop, listening to the game. In those days, people who walked around in public listening to a transistor radio tended to smell like urine and pushed around shopping carts full of assorted junk. I usually avoided the urine smell and the shopping cart, but I imagine that the radio thing chagrined my parents nonetheless.
Over the years, my father got his revenge by making sure to tell his favorite "jokes" to my friends whenever they came over or we met them in public. On a couple of occasions, I'm pretty sure he flashed me a look that said, "If you don't like my jokes, perhaps you should just listen to that transistor radio of yours for entertainment."
I don't remember exactly what my parents brought home for me to eat during that Super Bowl, but for some reason, I seem to think it was a steak sandwich. At the very least, the timetable (January 1983) seems to line up with my relatively brief adolescent steak sandwich phase. (To be clear, I was the adolescent; the steak sandwich was mature, albeit a bit chewy at times).
The next year I went away to high school, and watching the Super Bowl required more resourcefulness. I refer to Super Bowls XVIII through XXI as "the lean years."
In Super Bowl XVIII, the Washington Redskins returned to the big game, and were routed by the Los Angeles Raiders, 38-9. The game ushered in a depressingly long stretch of uncompetitive Super Bowls, with only one or two exceptions. I watched the game at the home of an uncle of a friend of mine who lived near our school. I think we drank some soda, but I don't think we actually ate anything.
The next year, on a bitterly cold evening, the San Francisco 49ers beat the Miami Dolphins 38-16. The Miami quarterback, Dan Marino, had practically re-written the NFL's record book that year, and despite the bad loss, it seemed like Marino would have many other chances at a Super Bowl victory during his career. As it turned out, Marino never returned to the Super Bowl, and he remains one of the greatest players to never win a Super Bowl. Along with two friends of mine, I watched a good chunk of the game at a local Carvel store, where the Indian proprietor was happy enough to have some company, and any kind of revenue on a 20 degree night. I ate a milkshake during the first half. In the second half, with the game out of reach, I ate a banana split.
Super Bowl XX was another blowout, with the Chicago Bears defeating the New England Patriots 46-10. I watched the game with about 7 friends, at a hotel lounge. I drank some Diet Coke, and had stopped at 7-11 on the way over there for about 2 lbs. of Raisinets.
In January of 1987, the New York Giants beat the Denver Broncos by a score of 39-20. I watched the first half of the game with a handful of friends at an electronics store down the road from our school, and listened to the second half of the radio with the same group, while eating three Bagel Dogs.
The Bagel Dog, which was one of the great gastronomical advances of my time, was like a brilliant meteor, which flashed ever-so-briefly across the sky. It was the perfect food, but then disappeared about as abruptly as it had appeared on the scene.
Here's how I typically ate a bagel dog:
(1) Put the entire thing in a microwave for ten seconds, to soften the outer part of the Bagel Dog.
(2) Slice open the top of the Bagel Dog and slip the hot dog out.
(3) Pour a small amount of your condiment of choice (I usually used ketchup) into the bottom of the hollowed-out Bagel Dog.
(4) Put the hot dog back inside.
(5) Place the entire Bagel Dog into the microwave, and cook it for 90 seconds.
There are other ways to prepare and eat Bagel Dogs, but these methods are an abomination.
As the Giants celebrated their victory on that night in January of 1987, I realized that my Super Bowl viewing experience, and the games themselves, had left a lot to be desired over the preceding four years.
A change for the better would begin the next year.
In January 1983, the Washington Redskins defeated the Miami Dolphins 27-17, in Super Bowl XVII. The star of the game was Washington's running back John Riggins, who rushed for 166 yards and the game's pivotal touchdown. On a 4th down and 1 from the Miami 43, Riggins took a handoff, and ran to the left. Miami's Don McNeal had a shot at stopping Riggins behind the line of scrimmage, but the much heavier and stronger Riggins broke free of McNeal's grasp, and rumbled up the sideline for a 43-yard touchdown.
A couple of years later, Riggins gained a large measure of notoriety when, having imbibed too much alcohol at a Washington Press Club dinner, he approached Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor and said "C'mon, Sandy baby, loosen up." He then promptly fell asleep under the table.
I watched this game at home. The rest of my family went out to the hamburger place for dinner, and brought some food home for me. My parents felt that I was old enough (13) to be left home alone, and besides, they had tired of my "transistor radio act" by then.
In those days, it seemed as though every time there was a football game on, my parents suddenly got the urge to take us out to the pizza shop or some other venue. In retrospect, it is entirely possible that this was just a coincidence, given that the weekly football games started at 1:00PM on Sunday, I got home from school at about 12:45, and it was a perfectly reasonable time to go out for lunch.
I'm not buying it, though. I still think that it was a conspiracy.
Not to be denied, I would accompany my family on these excursions, but I would bring along my trusty white transistor radio, and hold it to my ear at the table in the pizza shop, listening to the game. In those days, people who walked around in public listening to a transistor radio tended to smell like urine and pushed around shopping carts full of assorted junk. I usually avoided the urine smell and the shopping cart, but I imagine that the radio thing chagrined my parents nonetheless.
Over the years, my father got his revenge by making sure to tell his favorite "jokes" to my friends whenever they came over or we met them in public. On a couple of occasions, I'm pretty sure he flashed me a look that said, "If you don't like my jokes, perhaps you should just listen to that transistor radio of yours for entertainment."
I don't remember exactly what my parents brought home for me to eat during that Super Bowl, but for some reason, I seem to think it was a steak sandwich. At the very least, the timetable (January 1983) seems to line up with my relatively brief adolescent steak sandwich phase. (To be clear, I was the adolescent; the steak sandwich was mature, albeit a bit chewy at times).
The next year I went away to high school, and watching the Super Bowl required more resourcefulness. I refer to Super Bowls XVIII through XXI as "the lean years."
In Super Bowl XVIII, the Washington Redskins returned to the big game, and were routed by the Los Angeles Raiders, 38-9. The game ushered in a depressingly long stretch of uncompetitive Super Bowls, with only one or two exceptions. I watched the game at the home of an uncle of a friend of mine who lived near our school. I think we drank some soda, but I don't think we actually ate anything.
The next year, on a bitterly cold evening, the San Francisco 49ers beat the Miami Dolphins 38-16. The Miami quarterback, Dan Marino, had practically re-written the NFL's record book that year, and despite the bad loss, it seemed like Marino would have many other chances at a Super Bowl victory during his career. As it turned out, Marino never returned to the Super Bowl, and he remains one of the greatest players to never win a Super Bowl. Along with two friends of mine, I watched a good chunk of the game at a local Carvel store, where the Indian proprietor was happy enough to have some company, and any kind of revenue on a 20 degree night. I ate a milkshake during the first half. In the second half, with the game out of reach, I ate a banana split.
Super Bowl XX was another blowout, with the Chicago Bears defeating the New England Patriots 46-10. I watched the game with about 7 friends, at a hotel lounge. I drank some Diet Coke, and had stopped at 7-11 on the way over there for about 2 lbs. of Raisinets.
In January of 1987, the New York Giants beat the Denver Broncos by a score of 39-20. I watched the first half of the game with a handful of friends at an electronics store down the road from our school, and listened to the second half of the radio with the same group, while eating three Bagel Dogs.
The Bagel Dog, which was one of the great gastronomical advances of my time, was like a brilliant meteor, which flashed ever-so-briefly across the sky. It was the perfect food, but then disappeared about as abruptly as it had appeared on the scene.
Here's how I typically ate a bagel dog:
(1) Put the entire thing in a microwave for ten seconds, to soften the outer part of the Bagel Dog.
(2) Slice open the top of the Bagel Dog and slip the hot dog out.
(3) Pour a small amount of your condiment of choice (I usually used ketchup) into the bottom of the hollowed-out Bagel Dog.
(4) Put the hot dog back inside.
(5) Place the entire Bagel Dog into the microwave, and cook it for 90 seconds.
There are other ways to prepare and eat Bagel Dogs, but these methods are an abomination.
As the Giants celebrated their victory on that night in January of 1987, I realized that my Super Bowl viewing experience, and the games themselves, had left a lot to be desired over the preceding four years.
A change for the better would begin the next year.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Ghost Of Super Bowls Past: Part I (Ages 8 - 12)
This Sunday, the Indianapolis Colts and the New Orleans Saints will square off in Miami in Super Bowl XLIV (or "44," for normal people. I just love how the National Football League uses Roman numerals for the Super Bowl. It's wonderfully pretentious).
In that spirit, I'd like to offer some personal reminiscences of the Super Bowls I've witnessed over the years. My primary emphasis will not be on the games themselves, but on the venue where I watched the game.
The first Super Bowl I remember occurred in January, 1978, when I was eight years old. The Dallas Cowboys played the Denver Broncos. I recall that the pregame show featured an interview with John Denver, who was asked to predict the winner of the game. "Denver, of course," he said. Unfortunately for the Broncos, Mr. Denver turned out to be as adept at the art of prognostication as he was at piloting ultra-light aircraft. The Cowboys won easily, 27-10. I didn't get to watch the entire game, having been sent to bed at halftime. Naturally, in true "Young MBB" style, I did not go to bed peacefully, wanting very badly to see the remainder of the game. Looking back, I definitely put up more of a fight than did the Broncos that evening...and I was probably a lot more sore than they were the next morning, too.
The next year, the Cowboys returned to the Super Bowl, facing the Pittsburgh Steelers, in what became the first Super Bowl I watched from start to finish. The match-up between two of the league's marquee franchises did not disappoint, with the Steelers holding off a furious 4th quarter rally by the Cowboys to pull out a 35-31 victory.
In January 1980, with the Pittsburgh Steelers playing the Los Angeles Rams in Super Bowl XIV, I attended my first real Super Bowl party. The occasion was the 10th birthday party of a good friend of mine, who also happened to be a Steelers fan. There were 10 of us in all, and we started the day with a 5-on-5 football game at the local park. We then went to Burger Nosh, a now-defunct fast food restaurant, which was in its infancy back then. I remember amazing my friends by ordering - and finishing - a "Super Nosh" (in honor of the Super Bowl, of course), which was this massive concoction, featuring two quarter-pound hamburger patties.
The game itself was an entertaining affair, with the heavily-favored Steelers trailing the Rams heading into the 4th quarter, before pulling away with two touchdowns in the final period.
After the party, I stayed at my friend's house to sleep over. That night, we pondered whether or not there was a greater experience on this earth than watching your team win the Super Bowl on your birthday. After some discussion, we decided that there wasn't. Thirty years later, I'm not sure I'd change my answer.
The next year, the Oakland Raiders defeated the Philadelphia Eagles 27-10, in a game that was even more one-sided than the final score indicated. I ended up listening to most of this game on radio, as I was grounded, and forbidden from watching the game. For the life of me, I can't remember what I had done to deserve that punishment, but it must have been a doozy.
Doesn't that sound like something that would come up at a serial killer's trial? "Yes, your honor, when my client was 11 years old, his parents did not allow him to watch the Super Bowl. Please take that into account when considering his sentence."
Fortunately, in January of 1982, I managed to curb my natural instinct to misbehave long enough that I merited watching the San Francisco 49ers beat the Cincinnati Bengals 26-21 in Super Bowl XVI. The game was played in the Pontiac Silverdome, in suburban Detroit. That building, which sat empty for a few years after the Detroit Lions moved to a new stadium, was recently sold to a development group for a box of doughnuts (day old, I believe).
In that spirit, I'd like to offer some personal reminiscences of the Super Bowls I've witnessed over the years. My primary emphasis will not be on the games themselves, but on the venue where I watched the game.
The first Super Bowl I remember occurred in January, 1978, when I was eight years old. The Dallas Cowboys played the Denver Broncos. I recall that the pregame show featured an interview with John Denver, who was asked to predict the winner of the game. "Denver, of course," he said. Unfortunately for the Broncos, Mr. Denver turned out to be as adept at the art of prognostication as he was at piloting ultra-light aircraft. The Cowboys won easily, 27-10. I didn't get to watch the entire game, having been sent to bed at halftime. Naturally, in true "Young MBB" style, I did not go to bed peacefully, wanting very badly to see the remainder of the game. Looking back, I definitely put up more of a fight than did the Broncos that evening...and I was probably a lot more sore than they were the next morning, too.
The next year, the Cowboys returned to the Super Bowl, facing the Pittsburgh Steelers, in what became the first Super Bowl I watched from start to finish. The match-up between two of the league's marquee franchises did not disappoint, with the Steelers holding off a furious 4th quarter rally by the Cowboys to pull out a 35-31 victory.
In January 1980, with the Pittsburgh Steelers playing the Los Angeles Rams in Super Bowl XIV, I attended my first real Super Bowl party. The occasion was the 10th birthday party of a good friend of mine, who also happened to be a Steelers fan. There were 10 of us in all, and we started the day with a 5-on-5 football game at the local park. We then went to Burger Nosh, a now-defunct fast food restaurant, which was in its infancy back then. I remember amazing my friends by ordering - and finishing - a "Super Nosh" (in honor of the Super Bowl, of course), which was this massive concoction, featuring two quarter-pound hamburger patties.
The game itself was an entertaining affair, with the heavily-favored Steelers trailing the Rams heading into the 4th quarter, before pulling away with two touchdowns in the final period.
After the party, I stayed at my friend's house to sleep over. That night, we pondered whether or not there was a greater experience on this earth than watching your team win the Super Bowl on your birthday. After some discussion, we decided that there wasn't. Thirty years later, I'm not sure I'd change my answer.
The next year, the Oakland Raiders defeated the Philadelphia Eagles 27-10, in a game that was even more one-sided than the final score indicated. I ended up listening to most of this game on radio, as I was grounded, and forbidden from watching the game. For the life of me, I can't remember what I had done to deserve that punishment, but it must have been a doozy.
Doesn't that sound like something that would come up at a serial killer's trial? "Yes, your honor, when my client was 11 years old, his parents did not allow him to watch the Super Bowl. Please take that into account when considering his sentence."
Fortunately, in January of 1982, I managed to curb my natural instinct to misbehave long enough that I merited watching the San Francisco 49ers beat the Cincinnati Bengals 26-21 in Super Bowl XVI. The game was played in the Pontiac Silverdome, in suburban Detroit. That building, which sat empty for a few years after the Detroit Lions moved to a new stadium, was recently sold to a development group for a box of doughnuts (day old, I believe).
Probability Theory
Earlier this week, I found myself in the checkout line at a Quick Check in central New Jersey (which beats finding a worm in your apple), preparing to pay for a 32-ounce, carbonated, mostly sugar-free, caramel-colored, caffeine-containing beverage. I anticipated a rather easy, fast transaction. I was in a bit of a hurry, which probably explains why I was in that store in the first place, and hadn't decided to take my chances at the Extremely Slow Check (also known as the Sunoco A+ Mini Market).
Much to my chagrin, there was a line at the checkout counter. There were four people in front of me. Not a problem, I figured. These lines tend to move rather quickly; this would result in just a minor inconvenience for me. Unfortunately, the people in front of me were all buying lottery tickets. Apparently, the SuperDuperMegaPowerballLottoBlowout jackpot was somewhere in the area of $100,000,000.
Ah, yes, the lottery. Or, as I like to call it, the Stupid Tax. Amazingly, this quartet of Pascal's disciples was actually trying to pick specific numbers. This is a brilliant concept. Using one's brother's birthday as the basis for lottery numbers has been proven to improve one's odds of winning from 103,578,901-1 to 102,498,091 to 1. Hey, I've got an idea. Instead of playing his birthday, why not play your brother's zip code? This way, I can try to figure out exactly where he lives, drive over there, and slap him around for having such a loser sibling.
Eventually, the desired numbers were chosen, the soon-to-be-worthless papers were printed out, and the State of New Jersey collected more Stupid Tax. I approached the register to pay for my beverage, already in a less-than-charitable mood. The woman at the register looked at me, and said:
"Would you like to buy a lottery ticket?"
"Yeah, sure," I replied. "This way, when I'm driving back to the office, if a leprechaun pops out of a storm drain next to my car while I'm waiting at a red light, and he offers to hand me his large pot of gold coins in exchange for a small piece of paper with a bunch of numbers randomly printed on it, I'll be prepared...and very rich."
I know that some of you who are reading this are offended by my "winning the lottery/meeting an incredibly generous leprechaun" analogy, and the implication that the odds of either event occurring are roughly the same. "Someone wins the lottery," you're thinking, "and leprechauns aren't even real." To which I reply, "If leprechauns aren't real, why do we all know exactly what they look like?" (MBB puts the "p-a-r-t-y" in "witty repartee.")
Of course, I didn't actually say that thing about the leprechaun. I thought it. Which might be an even more powerful statement.
Here's what actually happened:
Woman Behind the Checkout Counter (WBCC): "Would you like to buy a lottery ticket?"
Me (in a barely audible mumbling tone, not making eye contact): "No, thanks."
WBCC (scanning my beverage): "That'll be $1.06, please." (MBB's note: That's a pretty good deal, by the way).
Me (handing over two $1 bills): "Here you go."
WBCC (in a slightly annoyed tone of voice): "You don't have any change?"
Me (remembering that all of my coinage - enough to weigh my car down to the extent that my vehicle's fuel efficiency is about 0.15 miles/gallon lower than it should be - is sitting in my car): "Uh, no. Sorry." (That last word was said in so sheepish a manner that it triggered flashbacks to my childhood, when my mother would interrogate me with impossible-to-answer questions such as "You called your teacher what? Where'd you even learn that word?")
Still feeling a bit ashamed, I then proceeded to slink out of the store, my outward mannerisms belying the feeling of superiority I now possessed, knowing full well that I was above buying a lottery ticket.
I took a triumphant sip of my beverage, and declared, to no one in particular, "I spit on the lottery, and its foolish so-called 'jackpot.'"
I then got into my car and drove off, hoping that I would run into a leprechaun who needed to exchange a $50 bill for a nice mix of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies.
Much to my chagrin, there was a line at the checkout counter. There were four people in front of me. Not a problem, I figured. These lines tend to move rather quickly; this would result in just a minor inconvenience for me. Unfortunately, the people in front of me were all buying lottery tickets. Apparently, the SuperDuperMegaPowerballLottoBlowout jackpot was somewhere in the area of $100,000,000.
Ah, yes, the lottery. Or, as I like to call it, the Stupid Tax. Amazingly, this quartet of Pascal's disciples was actually trying to pick specific numbers. This is a brilliant concept. Using one's brother's birthday as the basis for lottery numbers has been proven to improve one's odds of winning from 103,578,901-1 to 102,498,091 to 1. Hey, I've got an idea. Instead of playing his birthday, why not play your brother's zip code? This way, I can try to figure out exactly where he lives, drive over there, and slap him around for having such a loser sibling.
Eventually, the desired numbers were chosen, the soon-to-be-worthless papers were printed out, and the State of New Jersey collected more Stupid Tax. I approached the register to pay for my beverage, already in a less-than-charitable mood. The woman at the register looked at me, and said:
"Would you like to buy a lottery ticket?"
"Yeah, sure," I replied. "This way, when I'm driving back to the office, if a leprechaun pops out of a storm drain next to my car while I'm waiting at a red light, and he offers to hand me his large pot of gold coins in exchange for a small piece of paper with a bunch of numbers randomly printed on it, I'll be prepared...and very rich."
I know that some of you who are reading this are offended by my "winning the lottery/meeting an incredibly generous leprechaun" analogy, and the implication that the odds of either event occurring are roughly the same. "Someone wins the lottery," you're thinking, "and leprechauns aren't even real." To which I reply, "If leprechauns aren't real, why do we all know exactly what they look like?" (MBB puts the "p-a-r-t-y" in "witty repartee.")
Of course, I didn't actually say that thing about the leprechaun. I thought it. Which might be an even more powerful statement.
Here's what actually happened:
Woman Behind the Checkout Counter (WBCC): "Would you like to buy a lottery ticket?"
Me (in a barely audible mumbling tone, not making eye contact): "No, thanks."
WBCC (scanning my beverage): "That'll be $1.06, please." (MBB's note: That's a pretty good deal, by the way).
Me (handing over two $1 bills): "Here you go."
WBCC (in a slightly annoyed tone of voice): "You don't have any change?"
Me (remembering that all of my coinage - enough to weigh my car down to the extent that my vehicle's fuel efficiency is about 0.15 miles/gallon lower than it should be - is sitting in my car): "Uh, no. Sorry." (That last word was said in so sheepish a manner that it triggered flashbacks to my childhood, when my mother would interrogate me with impossible-to-answer questions such as "You called your teacher what? Where'd you even learn that word?")
Still feeling a bit ashamed, I then proceeded to slink out of the store, my outward mannerisms belying the feeling of superiority I now possessed, knowing full well that I was above buying a lottery ticket.
I took a triumphant sip of my beverage, and declared, to no one in particular, "I spit on the lottery, and its foolish so-called 'jackpot.'"
I then got into my car and drove off, hoping that I would run into a leprechaun who needed to exchange a $50 bill for a nice mix of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies.
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