And then there's this whole Tebow business ...

The Jets and the Patriots have had an interesting relationship over the years.  That whole Parcells/Curtis Martin business; that whole Belichick/HC of the NYJ business; the general Ryan/Belichick tension; etc.

Layered on top of this is the comparative excellence of the franchises.  Meaning that the Pats, even though I don't really care for them, actually are an excellent franchise.  The Jets, on the other hand, serve as an excellent opportunity to understand excellence by experiencing the complete and utter opposite.  Which is a very Zen take on the miracle of Football.

And now, if for no other reason than to rub the Jets' faces in one of their latest fuck-ups, the Pats have signed Tim Tebow.  I can barely type as I type this.

Prediction:  Tebow will fit in perfectly with the Pats and they'll handily beat the Jets twice next year, including at least one eye-opening play by Tebow, and then win the Super Bowl.  Tebow will kneel in prayer at mid-field after stepping in for an injured Brady (hey -- a man can dream) and throwing the winning touchdown pass.

Should this occur, please God, give me the strength to not shoot myself in the head and, should You be unwilling to grant me that, give me the firmness of hand to make my one bullet count.

As therapy I'm listening to Albion by Babyshambles ...

Down in Albion
They're black and blue
But we don't talk about that
Are you from 'round here?
How do you do?
I'd like to talk about that
Talk over
Gin in teacups
And leaves on the lawn
Violence in bus stops
And the pale thin girl with eyes forlorn

Gin in teacups
And leaves on the lawn
Violence in dole queues
And the pale thin girl behind the checkout

If you're looking for a cheap sort
Set in false anticipation
Ill be waiting in the photo booth
At the underground station
Now come away, won't you come away
We can go to
Deptford, Digbeth, Tuebrook
Anywhere in Albion

Yellowing classics
And canons at dawn
coffee wallows and pith helmets
and an English sun

Reebok classics
And canons at dawn
Terrible warlords, good warlords
and an English song

But if you're looking for a cheap sort
Glint with perspiration
There's a four-mile queue
Outside the disused power station

Ah come away, won't you come away
We're going to...
Watford, Enfields
Anywhere oh

If you're looking for a cheap tart
Glint with perspiration
Theres a five mile queue
Outside the disused power station

Oh come away, won't you come away
We're going to...
Anywhere in Albion

... which is one of the great rock and roll songs about England.  Waterloo Sunset also rings a bell.  Likewise London Calling.  Likewise Well-Respected Man.

Hey -- there are a ton of good songs about England.  This is one of them.  Although I don't like the lyrics I got off the internet.  They're missing the names of all the towns.

What does that mean, missing the names of all the towns?
Listen to the song and you'll see.

A couple of notes:  If you listen to it you can really feel the Kinks talking to you, and that's always important.  Plus, there's that whole Sandy, 4th of July (Asbury Park)/Springsteen/the-aurora's-rising-behind-us-so-get-in-the-car-and-lets-get-the-hell-out-of-here poignancy.  Also worth noting: the line that reads "four mile queue outside the disused power station" is a reference to the Tate Modern, and we should all have more art in our lives, even if only in the songs we choose to listen to.

And finally, there's the gentle repetition of words and phrases, often with slight variations, designed to create a prose style that's half poetry and half not that I, Geoffrey Raymond, have raised to the status of what one might call a lesser artform.

Like bar-b-que?
Exactly.
Nothing to write home about?
No.  But often times lovely in its own way.