It should be the happ- happ- happiest time of the year. It is, after all, pre-season for Real, Proper American football. It’s time to make my list and check those depth charts twice and get ready for the marathon battle that is draft day for my Fantasy League. Not that I would have drafted McNabb anyway. Rivers will get snatched in the first round, I’m sure and I don’t get to select ‘til Round 3. I kinda have my eye on Eli Manning. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! A 56% completion ratio? Jeez, I crack me up. And then I could draft Plaxico too… Oh yeah, I can’t. I forgot. He’s in jail. I think I hear Jimmy Hoffa chuckling from under 6 tons of concrete in the south end zone at Giants Stadium. Okay. Those were my G-men insults– for today at least. Back at ya on the Garden State.
But the controversy continues to swirl around the goalposts at the Linc like a David Akers muff from 52 yards with two ticks left on the clock. I think Santa Claus would actually be more popular in Philly right now and we all know what Eagles fans think of him. Michael Vick? Wearing #7. It’s a shandeh. Und un kharpe, too. Positively everyone keeps sending me links and jokes about it. It is an insult to Jaws. Jaws is a legend and almost a hero. Okay. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was ours. And we loved him, when we weren’t throwing beer bottles at him or booing. Vick could have got assigned #11. That was King Hill’s number; we all hated that asshole.
I read an article in the Inquirer that Dick’s Sporting Goods is declining to even stock Vick merchandise. Not that the fans who bleed green and silver would have lined up to buy any of it. And I saw McNabb interviewed on Fox Sports. He said all the right shit like he didn’t mind, but you have to wonder. If Donovan goes into one of those patented ‘Andy doesn’t understand me’ slumps or he gets injured, can they actually put Vick in a game? It is going to be a very stressful season for us fans. I already had my Sky Sports switched on. “You can keep the boring soccer telecasts” I instructed the Scottish person at Sky who spoke no English, “Just beam me the Real Football and maybe the MLB Playoffs if the Phillies don’t choke.”
I had a second date with Scooter Man on Monday, and another date with Piano Man on Tuesday. Scooter Man went shopping at Waitrose and turned up with food that he barbecued on the cooking apparatus in my garden. And a dozen roses. Which made the barbecuing part tolerable… just. The rest of the date was, amazingly, absolutely brilliant. He finally left about 11:00 on Tuesday morning. Oh, close your bloody mouths.
And I will get this shocking confession over quickly. I cooked dinner for Piano Man.
When Pinkie rang for her daily catch-up on her way to work Wednesday night, the conversation went like “Where did he take you for dinner last night?” “We stayed in; I cooked.” “TeeHeeTeeHeeTeeHeeTeeHee! Good one, Jeano!” “No. Really. I cooked.” Dead Air. “Pinkie? Ya there?” “I’m trying to picture it… you cooking.” Honestly. I have no idea where people get all these misconceptions about me.
“You heated up a Ready Meal.” “No, I made chicken cacciatore and baked stuffed rigatoni from scratch.” That’s when she crashed the car into the medial strip on the M25. I made that up; she pulled over and turned on the emergency flashers and hyperventilated in my ear for about ten minutes gasping ‘Jesus Wept’.
But it’s really true. I cooked. Maybe I’m spending too much time imputing stuff like ‘we define your capability to produce value from IT based on parameters previously identified’ in JDavid’s website and my brain has turned to cornmeal mush. Maybe I’m not getting enough quality shopping time. This week we’re eating dinner out, prepared and served by somebody other than me. I wouldn’t want anyone, especially Piano Man, to get the idea that I will ‘cook’ on a regular basis. At least as it relates to food.
And don’t email to even ask. Yes, I’ve spoken to him since Tuesday. Yes, he’s still alive and well and living in Newcastle. He said I can really cook; he might not have been talking about my chicken cacciatore.
On Wednesday I went to Brighton. I escorted the group from the Senior Centre. Obviously this is a talent that I employed for years, although it was nice not to have to be polite and/or helpful since they weren’t getting tour surveys at the end. I just had to check them off my list, get them on the bus and tell them what to do in Brighton in case of emergencies. (Hint: Do not ring me.) I cranked up my mp3 player and caught some much needed zzz’s on the way down. Tuesday was a late, and energetic, night. After off-loading them near the Pier and warning them “Remember where we parked the bus; we leave at 4:15 with or without you. Entirely up to you” Hester, who came along, and I spent the glorious day far from the ocean shopping in the Lanes. I’ve seen the ocean- from both sides. I’d been to the Lanes, too, but it was years ago. It was a picture perfect day and I even caught some rays between shops and got sunburned. We had a leisurely lunch and even managed a quick stroll along the Promenade before we loaded them back on the bus for the trip home. Fortunately, I didn’t lose any of them.
On Thursday I had a shift at Sam and a meeting with JDavid in the evening so I missed the Quiz. Cheese Boy played with the Scary Fairies, but they lost. And switching to ‘serious mode’, I woke up to a message on my Facebook Wall: ‘Grandma came downstairs and found Grandpop dead in the kitchen. Love, Roy.’ You know, I think there might have been a slightly more tactful way of sharing that, Sweetie. I hate fucking Facebook. My friend Georgia’s husband, Ron, just gave it up while brewing the Chock Full Of Nuts in their McMansion in Cleveland. I was freaked, but waited until 7:00 am their time to ring. I figured they wouldn’t appreciate hearing even from me at 3:30 in the morning. Shit. I don’t know what to say. He was a super guy and I’m really sorry for their loss. Georgia was on auto-pilot and calm, but Roy was in tears on the phone. Obviously, I can’t be there, but I will somehow arrange to get to Cleveland, even for a day, when I go home in October.
Sadly, on Friday I had my second session with Dr. Pain, the mad dentist. As the problem is much improved by now, I casually asked through the eighteen fingers and pneumatic drill in my mouth “Wha ur vue frumpf?” “Norway” he answered. Oh Thank Yahweh! That’s a Norwegian person squeezing my lip in a death grip and not, like, you know… an Arab. I felt ever so much better about things. Except his bill. One more visit to go.
I had lunch with Carol after the dentist, which was fun, except I couldn’t feel my lips as they were still numb and wine spritzer kept squirting everywhere. There are secret plans afoot. I can’t talk about them yet. But Pinkie, Carol and I might be going into a business venture together.
Carol dropped me off in time for my next engagement, which was a Wine & Nibblies Do at Sam Brics in the pretty back garden.
Anyway, I’m sorry there was only one blog this week. Where does the time go? I have narrowed down my wish list to Chad Pennington, Drew Brees or Ben Roethlisberger. Big Ben is soo hot. But if Jake Delhomme doesn’t get snatched in Round One… Draft Day is tomorrow.