LET'S PUT A BOUNTY ON GOODELL.

1633

The punishment hasn't fit the crime so incongruently since Galileo exposed the universe the way it really operated.



2012

Coach Sean Payton, standing before Grand Inquisitor Goodell, having lost his job for a year now stands to lose upwards of $8 million dollars.

The team, the best in the NFL, obliterating several longstanding NFL records this year, who could only lose to themselves (588 turnovers vs. a scrappy San Francisco in the NFC Championship) now finds themselves stripped of their head coach for the year, GM and linebackers coach for half the year, their second round draft picks for the next two years...and the firing squad may just unload a 21-gun "salute" at the defense).

Seems pretty arbitrary doesn't it?  Know why it's unprecedented?  That's right.  Because there's no precedent.  

Only arbitrary punishments can be inflicted by someone with absolute power.

Journalist Tim Kowlishaw, in shock, says the penalties the NFL imposed on the Saints go beyond severe.

Dave Zirin, a columnist who says he is "shock-raged" about the over-the-top crippling of the Saints put's Goodell's sanctimony in a clear perspective:

"...But this fails the most basic of smell tests. If Goodell cared about player safety, he wouldn’t be pushing for an eighteen-game season. He wouldn’t have spent last off-season fighting the NFL Players Association on expanding health benefits or limiting “voluntary” off-season workouts. He wouldn’t be promoting Thursday-night games, which will accelerate injuries by giving players a shorter week to heal."

By the end of his column, Zirin encourages Saints season ticket holders, like me, to sue the NFL. 

And it's not as if Sean Payton can just take his talents elsewhere this year and coach in the competing AFL this year...he can't.  The NFL is a monopoly.  In a way it's all the Saint's fault. 

BFF!  OMG!  LOL!  XOXOXO!

Back in 1966, Louisiana wanted a professional football franchise.  Badly.  The NFL and AFL wanted anti trust merger exemption (read: monopoly).  Pete Rozelle winked at his friends in high places. Super-powerful Louisiana Senator Hale Boggs attached the NFL-AFL antitrust exeption rider onto a bill in fellow Louisiana Senator Russel Long's Senate Finance Committee (of which he was...the Chairman).  This kept the anti-merger bill out of the hands of voracious anti-trust Senator Emanuel Cellar of New York, chaiman of the Congressional Subcommittee of Anti-trust, where the matter deserved to be heard.

The NFL was suddenly blessed with a monopoly.

Only eleven days later, the state of Louisiana was granted an NFL franchise.  Suprise!  That's the way the universe works.

And in doing so helped to create an all powerful football Pope to which they would be subject.  Sometimes very much to their benefit (2006) sometimes to their apparant destruction (2012).

Remember in 2006 when Saints owner Tom Benson confused his actual liberties of private ownership of an NFL team with someone who actully owned something real -- something you had a say so in -- confused the New Orleans Saints with someone like Terrell Owens, who just moves around whenever he wants to?  When post-Katrina he wanted to high tail it to San Antonio, TX?  The San Antonio Saints?  Well he was told by the NFL that, no, the New Orleans Saints were not a "free agent" to move about as they wished.  They were staying put.  Case closed.  I'm sure Benson was seated down and explained the situation. 

"Look, Tom, we can't lose viewership in the entire Gulf Coast region.  That's a lot of money.  we've already gotten a black eye with that whole Art Modell moving the Browns to Baltimore overnight stunt, and we can't have that again...Look, we're running an illegal monopoly, and we're trying to APPEAR ethical and full of all the American virtues they teach in school...But since we're all friends here, let's work something out.  So how about if the NFL kicks in $15 million, and help with having our friends at FEMA kick in $115 million to repair your stadium at a record pace.  So you take this money, STFU, stay put, and we'll get you back in business, maybe even with a good team.  How about we whisper to the Houston Texans to pass on Reggie Bush with the first pick as a personal favor?  He's the kind of guy that sells tickets. We did give Houston the Superbowl just a few years ago and they owe us a favor or two.

For those of you who think Dallas is "America's Team," think again.  FEMA paid the Superdome and the Saints huge amounts of money to stay put.  I'll let those of you who are Atlanta Falcons fans take a little time to absorb that factoid.  All of you Falcoholics have paid taxes to the New Orleans Saints so the NFL could retain the Gulf Coast market.  From the view of taxation, their your team too.  How's that ruffle your feathers?

But something happened after 2006.  The Saints didn't just get a new spit-shined multi-million dollar Superdome and become competitve.  They became really, really good.  Conspiracy theorists might argue that the NFL referees even helped the Saints beat the Vikings in the NFC championship to create a feel-good story.  And by conspiracy theorists, I guess that means ESPN analysists.  Result:  a Superbowl that had the greatest viewership worldwide out of any event -- ever.


View from :45.

If Brett Favre did take some illegal hits in that game, did the NFL turn a blind eye to it?  Looks pretty clear to me.  If the Saints were guilty in that game is there any doubt the NFL were co-conspirators?

So what's the problem?  The Saints became too good, and wouldn't go away.  And like the Patriots, they were becomming a nuisance.  With free agency, the best players gravitate towards the best teams with the best coaches and quarterbacks and avoid playing for the ugly stepsisters of the league.  Let's call this the Free Agent Law of Gravity.  Do you think this causes a problem for the NFL?  What if on top of that, your organization has mastered the art of cherry picking pure nuggets of gold from the draft seemingly year after year after year?

Back to the bounties.  If they really wanted to take someone out of the game, these gigantic monsters would have done it.  I'm 40 years old and 172 lbs soaking wet, and I bet if I were so inclined, I could run into Bret Favre's knees at my own personal full speed at the proper angle after a whistle had blown and cripple the guy.  I guarantee I could do it.  Just hit his knees directly from the side.  Did Kurt Warner get the ever living snot licked out of him?  Yep!  Were all these hits legal?  Very.

The NFL apparantly has the means and the motive in the prosecution, but they're missing something crucial.

BFF!  OMG!  LOL!  XOXOXO!

There's no body.

No one went out on a stretcher -- on a hit that was illegal in this game.  In these three inquisitioned years.

Again, give me $10.000, Jonathan Vilma, and I will show you how to destroy Bret Favre's knees when he's not looking.  

Do you remember the Tonya Harding --Nancy Kerrigan tragedy from way back in 1994?  The infamously homely and ill-proportioned Tonya Harding couldn't compete with the much more talented and relatively cute Nancy Kerrigan on the ice and had her boyfriend break her kneecap with a lead pipe.  Now THERE'S an ACTUAL COMPLETE CASE with means/motive/illegal hit/broken kneecap/body on a stretcher complete case easy to prosecute!  

The way any good bounty is SUPPOSED to work.
Nancy Kerrigan, 1994.

You mean to tell me 27 absolute physical beasts of men under the direction of a supposedly bloodthirsty defensive coach couldn't do IN THREE YEARS, IN FIFTY-FOUR GAMES, to one kneecap/ trachea/ neck/ spine what Tonya Harding's boyfriend did properly in one afternoon?  Take somebody out in a stretcher with an illegal hit?  The Saints clearly had the twenty-seven WORST HIT MEN EVER in the history of the world. 

If "300" was an action film about how three hundred Spartans slaughtered and defeated 100,000 Persians, maybe Hollywood could make a comedy called "27."

If anything, the NFL should grant the Saints an additional first round pick as their "punishment."  Maybe they can draft someone who knows how to properly send someone out in a stretcher.  Or they can hire Roger Goodell as a consultant for the other teams as to how to continually send players with concussions back into games.  Roger Goodell handing down sentences for someone violating player saftey is akin to a ku klux klansman representing someone in a Civil Rights dispute.

At it's very worst, the NFL has a case against the Saints of a conspiracy of poor behavior and locker room bravado with unwilling conspirators who really knew better and refused to actually do the truly unthinkable.  Money got passed around, tough guys talked tough, the culture inside the locker room behaved like a culture inside a locker room...but it looks like at the end of the day, the culture on the field stayed pretty damn much within the fair lines of play!  For three years!  Yes, some people took a few really hard hits.  Occasionally they looked Baltimore Ravens scary.  Your point?

Mr. Goodell, your culture of nasty, legal, viscious hits was already well grandfathered in. It would take someone with a concussion not to remember this. You can't go back and punish what you've instituted.  But I understand...you found the technicality...the money that exchanged hands as a reward. Percentage wise, for what these the world's most physically imposing helmeted millionaires on the planet make, it would be tantamount to my employer offering me a $2 Best Buy gift card to beat the crap out of one of our competitors.  I too would talk smack, and take the gift card, but I wouldn't really do it.

The commissioner of the NFL has the power to make or break a franchise.  With the New Orleans Saints, he will be the first commissioner of any sport, ever, to do both.  And all within six years.

Remember when the NFL stepped in a couple of years ago ordering T-shirt shops to stop selling "Who Dat?" shirts because they felt they "owned" the phrase "Who Dat?"  I wonder if they'll have the huevos to issue the same cease-and-desist order to local t-shirt makers who are now profitting selling "Free Sean Payton" t-shirts, with the much more honest plea that they OWN Sean Payton.  They do.  They actually own him.

And "Free beer tomorrow!"

So let's say the NFL's side of the story is true and their auto-de-fe' of Sean Payton is 100% accurate.  Is it not self-implicating enough that the NFL quietly asked the Saints after 2009 to stop it?  No penalties then.  Then quietly again after 2010?  No penalties then either.  Then finally after 2011 they step in.  Why?

Do you really think the Saints were the only ones rewarding players for "big hits" or fumble recoveries?

Do you really think Bill Belichick of the Patriots dynasty was the only one spying on another team in the NFL?

Let's put it this way.  Nobody cares if the Browns spied on the Bengals anytime in the last three decades.  Not even the Bengals.

This whole punishment is all about TWO THINGS.  The one thing Roger Goodell can control -- money, and the one thing he absolutley cannot -- lack of parity in the NFL.  I'll guarantee you the phrase "Free agency ruined the game" originated in the NFL headquarters in New York.  Free agency and the desire for winners to play on winning teams with winning coaches create superteams; eventual dynasties that generally turn off the rest of the public and their hard earned money.  Everyone wants to play pitch and catch with Brees or Brady.  And Belichick and Peyton.  The homely, ill-proportioned Tonya Hardings of the league?  Not so much...

The way the rules are written now, your Jacksonvilles and St. Louises have no chance in this league.  And it's a league that yearns ideally to fill all thirty-two markets as close to full stadium capacity as possible.  In Roger Goodells ideal make-believe universe, he has thirty-two teams all going in to the final game of the season with records right around 7-9, 8-8, and 9-7.  Maximum viewership.  Maximum ticket sales.  Maximum profit.

There's also the rumor that the NFL does not want the Saints to be in the Superbowl (hosted in New Orleans this year) because it would stand to lose a lot of money.  A lot.

If the Saints were guilty of anything they were GUILTY of not following advice from cult hero, former Louisiana governor from the 1950's Earl Long.  Earl's advice on staying out of trouble?

"Don't write down anything you can phone.  Don't phone anything you can talk.  Don't talk anything you can whisper.  Don't whisper anything you can smile.  Don't smile anything you can nod.  Don't nod anything you can wink."

Brothers Huey and Earl survived all their inquisitions.

Apparently, the NFL has enough people talking and enough information that was written down.  They don't need an actual body to prosecute, apparantly.  And it only took 50,000 documents.

And as I'm writing this...I'm thinking...surely...surely someone in the NFL front office must have heard an internal affairs report that was whispered in their own headquarters.  About how to maximize profit.

Or maybe enen talked about.

Hopefully phoned and recorded.

Ideally a clandestine financial report that was written and you have copies of on why the best bottom line for the league would be to cripple the Saints (or earlier on, the Pats).  To artificially induce some parity by sanctioning from time to time your two best teams.  One in the AFC, one in the NFC.

Did your employers in the league headquarters specifically target the Saints and Patriots, the obvious perennial juggernauts in each division to assist with creating parity in the league -- a goal which cannot be attained under the current legal system of free agency -- with it's Free Agent Law of Gravity?  Was there a goal to equilize the records of all teams as much as possible by only investigating possible dynasties...with the goal of maximizing profit for the league?

Did the NFL try to keep the Saints out of this year's Superbowl held in New Orleans because research showed the NFL would lose a boatload of money if this were to happen?

If you work in the NFL head office...let me know!  Snitch!  Give us these documents.  I want Goodell hit hard.  If your documents lead to a winning investigation against Roger Goodell should a lawsuit come about that Saints season ticket holders win, I'll kick in $1,500 to the pot.

40

It's one of those trite, played out cliches from the movies.  The coach going into the locker room of the downtrodden team at halftime, telling the team that "Nothing matters less than the score at halftime!  Nothing!"

I guess that's got some merit to it...but it's human nature for us all to measure everything isn't it?  Maybe more so for guys.  The competitive streak.  All the measuring.

     

To take stock of where we've been, what we've learned...and -- well, the "score" at halftime.

To compare ourselves to others, to measure our wallets, our friends, the richness of all our experiences?  The number of  friends, the distances of our travels, the things we've acomplished... Am I where I wanted to be by this point in my life? 

So I hit a milestone birthday a few days ago (lie: this is another late blog) in a very DELIBERATE, non-descript, quiet ceremony.  Good way to hit middle age.

Thanks again to everyone out there for not throwing me a surprise birthday party for the 40th year in a row.  A**holes.  Could I have dropped any more hints?

So...um...yeah...    middle age.

And you know what?  It's not so bad!  I don't feel forty, and on a maturity level I'm not a day past twenty-five!



Dork-boy at 40.
Photo cred: the Nororious BNC



Which is pretty nice considering I can recall how very depressed I was about turning thirty a decade ago.  That odd insufferable rut of depression that lasted a month.

So while I'm in a measuring mood, the past few years has given me more volitile peaks and valleys than I ever thought possible in my otherwise ordinary life.  Had lots of amazing things happen.  Had a lot of truly awful things happen.  Lost a lot of people in my life.  Crucial people.  The ones you can't replace. 

Really big highs and really big lows leading up to this halfway point. 

Lessons learned?  Lots.  Hope I'm the wiser for all my mistakes.  I really do.

But come to think of it, this might not be my halftime pep-talk at all. 

I've had a sister that died at 50.  Another amazing sister died just recently at 52.   My dad died at 60 and my mom just over a year ago at 63. 

So I've got a good idea on what Vegas's "line" on my own personal over/under is for my personal return to quiet-time inside the Earth.  Mississippi has the lowest life expectancy of all the states, and it looks like if I were a betting man, I'd STILL have to take the "under" on that number when it comes to myself.  It just looks like things are lined up that way genetically.

So instead of a halftime speech, this may be my own third quarter commentary leading into...well, let's hope its a hell of an exciting fourth quarter!  Hey, I'm not too thrilled about it, but on the flip side, I don't feel compelled to save for retirement.  You gotta play the odds you know.  Besides, if I do accidentally live to a ripe old age, social security will always be there to take care of me, right?!*

I did think about marking the occasion with my first tattoo. There's an activity that screams mid-life crisis, huh?!  I've always shied away from tattoos because I could never think of any one design I'd never get tired of.  But I did consider getting that recycle symbol put on my butt with "Organ Donor" written underneath it.  Pretty responsible, and it would have been a good giggle for the undertaker; not to mention a good cause which I'm very fond of.  We're all just made of parts and we should be willing to give these parts to whomever needs them once we're done with them. 

The local place I considered here in South Mississippi has a picture of a young Brett Favre getting a tattoo on his butt.  Ever wanted to know what's tattooed on Brett Favre's bottom by the way?  The correct answer: a leprechan chugging a beer.  It's true.  Bet you could have gone without knowing that.  Try removing that thought.  How's that workin' out for you?



There he is!  Right next to the bounty on his ass!  Get him!!!



Now the reason I decided not to get my first tattoo to mark the halfway point occasion is because, as some of you know, I have daughters.  And at some point, many years down the line, they're going to want to get a tattoo.  So when they approach me with this very impassioned everybody-else-is-doing-it plea, I'll tell them that that's actually great idea and that I'll go along with them to get my first one too!  This idea of their wrinkly old bastard father getting a tattoo should mortify them just as much as the idea of my daughters getting a tattoo horrifies me.  I call this reverse-psychological trick "tattoo leverage," and look forward to springing that mind game on them in another decade or so. 

The Patrick Swayze Chippendale/ Minotaur/ Rainbow calf tattoo.  A popular choice as well.  Daddy's gonna get this on his calf!  C'mon!  Let's go!!  Wait...why aren't you coming?  You changed your mind?  Really?  Awwwww!  That's a shame!

So, back to my actual birthday.  Here's how it went down on the actual MINUTE I turned forty that morning.

I'm driving three miles an hour outside of my kids' school.  I drive slower than any other parent because I have a fear of not being able to see a kid and hitting him/her.  That's about the speed at which I crept through the stop sign everyone ignores, because there is really never any imminent danger or traffic anywhere.

Captain Safety (pictured below), and I don't think I'm prone to hyperbole, was zooming into the adjacent police station at about 735 mph and attempts to cross over my lane on two wheels, Dukes of Hazard style.  In a flash he ignites his super high strength police lights at me and blares his siren.  Great.



"F...................e...................b...............r..............u....................a.............................
45 minutes later, I'd get my ticket. 

"

...at birth?



Separated...



I was still just waking up so I'm sure my total lack of early morning smooth talking got me nowhere.  Up until now in the new vehicle, I've gone 6-0 against the po-po, having diplomatically dodged six tickets by getting a personalized license plate from the NRA.  Cost?  $35/year. Why did I choose an NRA license plate?  Well, it's no secret that every police officer is a gun freak and has a 90% chance of being a member of the NRA.  When they see the plate, they associate with you immediately, and assume you're a pretty good guy.  Also, when they ask you if there are any guns in the vehicle, it gives you a chance to talk a bit with them and divert the subject of your infraction you've just been pulled over for.  Result:  no ticket.  I've blown more stop signs, red lights and speeding ordinances in several states and gotten away with it because of my special plate.   The way I see it, if it were prorated, I'm probably really paying only $0.02 for every time I've blatently broken the law in so many states since getting this one ticket.  Not to mention the plate in your driveway sends out a clear message to potential burglars:  You might prefer trying to rob my neighbor instead. 

But apparantly with Captain Saftey here, my Jedi mind trick was an epic fail.  He burst out of the car, lept into the air and over his truck's hood, sliding down it dramatically with a pen in one hand and ticket pad in the other.  For a second, I thought I heard theme music.  The NRA license had no effect.  My birthday on my driver's license had no effect.  My polite explanation fell on deaf ears.  Maybe, just maybe the only thing on my car that would have changed his mind would be a bumper sticker that said, "I F*CKING LOVE SKOAL CHEWING TOBACCO.  IT IS AWESOME!!!"

Seriously, if I can tell from twenty-five yards away that you're chewing tobacco, you have a serious problem.  Officer, that wad in your mouth (see picture #2) looks about as thick as a 16 oz. sirloin steak, but, hey, it's your preriodontal concern, not mine.  And, yeah, I realize I'm appearing now to be a "tough guy hiding behind a computer screen writing this."  But just let me say there's something ironic about getting a $185 ticket from a cop who's obviously more buzzed than a space monkey. Why doesn't he just crack open a Pabst Blue Ribbon while he's in his comfort zone?  Lawnchair?  I mean how many government employees get to chew tobacco on the clock? 

What would your reaction be if you went to your surgical appointment and your doctor was spitting a wad into a plastic cup?  How about your chef?  Or your insurance agent?  Would you take them seriously?  Can you think of any profession where chewing tobacco should be considered ok?  Ok, baseball.  So...he should wear cleats next time he writes a ticket I guess.

He slaps the ticket in my hand and tells me to have a good morning.  It really felt like, "welcome to the age of defeat."  But that feeling...went away.  And out of pure stubbornness, enjoyed the hell out of the rest of my day.

So how am I doing?  What's the measuring stick say? 

Well I'm nowhere close to retired yet, but I'm not quite a drooling ward of the state. 

I'm not quite satisfied with where I've been, but excited about where I'm headed.

I'm not doing as good as the guy with the greener grass on the other side of the hill, but I'm not concerned at all with him either!

Just somewhere in the middle. No need to measure; just happy to be here.  So what else matters?  :)

And finally ready to start playing a full series of tournaments again.  As the ignominious Chad Burns would say...IOWAnt to play Texas Hold 'em!!!

See ya soon in Cedar Rapids, tough guy!

Being thrity-nine isn't so bad after all!!!

And when you turn 89, you get to make out with Paris Hilton!  Can't wait!!!

*Research shows that by 2037, the Social Security trust fund will be entirely depleted.  If you're forty or younger and reading this today, you are 100% screwed.  Also, your entire country will be insolvent.  But thank you for contributing payments all your life to the world's greatest pyramid scheme!  The US government kinda makes Bernie Madoff look like an insignifigant Bourbon Street Three Card Monte hustler, doesn't it?

HOT TUB TIME MACHINE (2012)

FALSE MAYAN APOCALYPSE COUNTDOWN  44 SUNDAYS LEFT.  Sun Jan 22, 2012  

Fear doesn't hit you all at once.  

Fear.  Welcome to Denver.  Read on.

You don't just wake up one morning in fetal position sobbing and twisting the sheets into little knots  as you pull the covers over your precious little head and hide from the world.

Fear creeps up on you...incrementally.  You'll never notice it.  You get caught up doing and saying the same things everyone else says and does.  Conforming to your surroundings.  Using words like "concerned about," "bothered by," "stressed out," or "worried."  

And it's hard -- not speaking in the same weak language everyone else does.  There aren't even too many surroundings out there worth confirming to and behaving like everyone else.  Ever walk into a poker room and say to yourself, "My God, I want to be just like these people.  And think like they think.  And have the same goals and lives these people have." 

The players in the room you go into are not exactly the players in the advertisements.  

Welcome to the land of Make Believe.

Now in the poker room, like in any other petri dish, there's the few who go in with goals, totally immune from the negative fog inhaled and exhaled by the rabble.  And for a little while, although I haven't been playing much at all lately , whenever I did, I felt like I was conforming to the surroundings.  Using the same language, making the same standard plays, being result-oriented instead of correct-play oriented.  Playing "concerned" or "worried."  Fear creeps into your life slowly and unnoticed...little concerns...

So sometime a few months back, my friend John O'Connor pitched out one of his favorite activities to me.  Late January.  Early February.  Skiing.  Colorado.

The first thing that came to my mind:  Oh, hell no.  

I hate the cold.  I have an unnatural fear of it.  Some people are afraid of snakes, drowning, rabid cockroaches...whatever.  I hate the cold and have a fear of dying in it.  Normal?  Nope.

Go skiing?  No way.  Skiing is an idiotic activity for x-treme sports suicidal twenty-somethings who go at it hard and elitist white collar country club snobs who slide around gingerly and delicately on the powder, trying not to break a sweat.  There's no middle ground, it's socially lame, and playing slip-and-slide in 10 degree weather sounds like an activity for penguins in an episode that would make anyone switch off Animal Planet and turn to quilting documentaries on PBS.  Skiing -- bah!  Not to mention flying.  I hate flying.

But his pitch for the trip was uniqie.  O'Connor, also known around these parts as "Mr. Intensity," explained his little annual quest this way to me.  (Intense stare) "You see, skiing is all about controlling your fear!  You get on those slopes and you start going so fast you think to yourself, there's no way I can control this.  But when you learn how to come to a stop, and control your speed, you conquer your fear.  It's all about not being scared to death of losing control."

Hmmm.  Interesting.  I think one of the reasons I HATE flying and am so uncomfortable is because I'm not in the pilot's seat.  Totally irrational.  I think we all know who should be flying the plane, and it's not me.  Totally irrational.

Drinks heavily; founded "Loogle."  Says he's not O'Connor

So I thought it through a few times.  Why not spend money you can't really afford to be spending right now on something you'd really hate doing?  Sounds perfect!  Actually, I think the real selling point was that O'Connor is a dead ringer for Rob Corddry (Lou) in Hot Tub Time Machine -- the skiing comedy about transporting back to the 80s, and I assumed I'd get some favored treatment as everyone in Colorado was sure to mistake O'Connor for "Lou." And who wouldn't want to live out that movie?

Drinks heavily, founded intensity, says he's not Rob Corddry

Unfortunately, after training hard for two months (lots of squats and cardio), Jan 28 would be met with one of the most horrible throat/ear infections I'd ever have.  Takeoff from New Orleans in a few hours.  I can barely move anything

On the airplane I noticed something:  I was so miserable with my awful cold, my flying-nerves didn't exist at all?  Why?  I was so miserable I didn't have time to imagine the plane was going to fall out of the sky every fifteen seconds.  Everything's mental; it's all in your head...and it's funny how misery made me mentally more comfortable on the flight.  If your focus is on your pain, you can't focus on irrational fears.

So we arrive in Denver and are greeted in baggage claim by the most disturbing of all murals ( see the first picture in this blog -- yes -- it actually exists there close to the baggage claim/ ticketing area).  The Denver International Airport New World Order spooky ass artwork.  For more reading about the worlds creepiest airport/ possible internment camp/ underground death camp/ survival bunker Google "Denver Airport New World Order Conspiracy."  Enjoy the show.  ***THE MORE YOU KNOW RAINBOW***

I shoulda had a V-8!

The most noticibly irritating of all the Masonic warnings is the sculpture of a gargoyle popping out of a suitcase.  The "official" explanation is that gargoyles are for "good luck" in getting your luggage.  I wonder how the TSA officers would react if I had built a Jack-In-the-Box style ten-foot tall gargoyle that would pop out of my suitcase with rapid-spring action as they inspected it?  While I'm wearing a gas mask?  I'd say that would put us all at around Terror Alert Orange.  Don't conform to your surroundings...

Every 'goyle needs a nice bag.

So we leave the airport and I can't even speak anymore...my voice is totally gone, and as far as colds go, this is one of the worst one's I've ever had.  Now lets add to that cold --  freezing temperatures, very low oxygen at that altitude, and a lack of appetite that comes from that altitude.  Pretty good ways to deal with being sick, huh?!  Oh, and no health insurance.  I rule.

We get to the room, which I don't even remember, thanks to fistfulls of Nyquil.  Then, true to Hot Tub Time Machine form, while I slept, O'Connor must have gone in the hot tub and produced a version of himself -- a miniature duplication. 

Even does that same weird finger thing...

So even though I felt like absolute death, I went to my first lesson for all the first day.  After O'Connor would tutor me on the slopes for the next couple of hours, we felt I might be able to take a "green level" (non-beginner) slope all the way down from the top of Beaver Creek Mountain.  And although I felt absolutely horrible, like my muscles couldn't even move at all with that cold, something told me to keep going.  I actually came to accept the fact that I may overexert myself into pneumonia, but just to do it anyway.  I was kind of hellbent not to give up on this trip of pain, which I had planned and worked out for for two months!

 From the top of the mountain (11,440 ft.) down to the base camp (8,100 ft.)  The entire ski trip down would take over an hour and I'd wind up with about seventeen "yard sales" -- crashes so bad the trail of your clothes and equipment behind you look like you've thrown a yard sale.

"Skriinnnnntt" goes something in my neck.  Then I hurt some weird spot in my thumb in a crash later.  Then my hamstring felt plucked apart and torn in the next unwanted high speed stop.


About this time Coach O'Connor is getting on my nerves.  He's yelling at someone who's crashed a healthy seventeen times (me) about how I'm doing things wrong.  Imagine Yoda if he were really, really pissed off at Luke Skywalker...and kind of a dick.  Looking back on it, I can't blame him.  I'm sure it was annoying as hell do deal with my insufferable, sick ass.  Plus the fact that he had to play nurse and teacher, when he should have been having fun.  As I'm stuck in the ground with skis crossed over my trachea, the rest of me bent like a pretzel.  Sick as all hell.  In the freezing cold snow.  Sore and in pain everywhere.  And he's yelling at me.

I clear my sinuses for whatever I can find.  Mmmm.  There's something about the size of a small fetus...

I take my best shot at him in pure anger and miss.  Now he's laughing hysterically like a jackal.

I am not amused.  Out of spite I make it down to the bottom without another crash.  There's a  sense of determination that comes from being really, really pissed off.  Release your anger!

The next day I'd accidentally take the wrong ski lift all by myself.  The one that went to the very top of Copper Mountain.  Only one way down.  Proud to say I made it down sicker than hell with only three crashes and with only two days of "training."

The next day, however, at Winter Mountain Park, I'd finally abused my body past the point of even being able to breathe without completely hunching over in pain coughing uncontrollably.  That was the end of skiing for me.  The twins would finish out the last day skiing really difficult runs without the rookie holding them back. And I'd finish up eating our leftover steaks in our condo having to drink our Shiraz out of water glasses.  NOT wine glasses -- water glasses!  Absolutely barbaric living conditions.

Copper Mountain.  Dork at 12,313 foot summit.  Helmet by Devo.

So in hindsight, I was wrong about skiing being an unpleasant activity.  Ok...I can't wait to go back.  Healthy!  The only thing that really annoyed me was the omnipresent folk music at every resort.  A little Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, and Bob Denver goes a really wrong way.  I suppose it makes the wealthy elitists who can afford to ski feel better about themselves when they listen to folk music.

And as I knew, it would be wonderful to come home out of the freezing temperatures I despise so much.  Glad I overcame that trip and conquered a new little challenge.  There was something much more horrible, unstoppable coming next week...just around the corner...


This week I'm finishing the above book by Eric Lynch, Jon "Apestyles" Van Fleet, and Jon "Pearljammer" Turner. Very in depth poker stuff. Great book given to me by my friend Eric that I'm just getting around to reading. But you will have to buy it. From this link. Apparently comes in three volumes. Ahhh...another trilogy!