Things Fall Apart
I refer, of course, not to the famous novel by Chinua Achebe but rather to the New York Jets Football Team. Up by 18 in the first half, lose by seven. The line was, I believe, six and a half. Gaaaah! I am particularly cross with Muhammad Wilkerson, some might argue the Jets best defensive player, for getting ejected from the game for fighting. Stupid, annoying and counterproductive.
I am certainly not referring to the New York Giants Football Team. Because for things to fall apart they must first be together in some sense of the word. And although there were glimmers of togetherness in the Giants game, to call them together would be an overestimation of the team.
I like Tom Coughlin, and I am deeply grateful for two Super Bowl wins (over, no less, the Patriots), but slowly and steadily I'll be working on the obituary of his coaching tenure with the Giants so that it's ready when I need it. Given the nature of Blue Management it seems unlikely it will come in the middle of the season, so I have time.
The Giants, at 0-2, have less time if they're going to make themselves relevant this year. Which, of course, they are not. So really they have all the time in the world.
Which is a luxury. I'm going to be 61 soon, and I figure I've got fifteen or, at most, twenty solid years left in me, then some degree of sitting around waiting for Godot, possibly drooling while doing so.
But let's think positive thoughts, friends. Twenty years is a lot of paintings and a ton of beer. So with that in mind I decided to open up my canned pickles and eat one or more of them, depending on taste and texture, before they develop botulism. Or before I develop botulism -- I don't think the pickles get the disease; I think they breed the bacteria.
Anyway, the pickle I ate was terrible. So yesterday I purged my refrigerator of any pickles not named Vlasic. In my zeal I almost threw Mr. Pickles out but then thought better of it.
This is the summer's cache of pickles, cat free, on the way to the garbage. Very sad ...
I am certainly not referring to the New York Giants Football Team. Because for things to fall apart they must first be together in some sense of the word. And although there were glimmers of togetherness in the Giants game, to call them together would be an overestimation of the team.
I like Tom Coughlin, and I am deeply grateful for two Super Bowl wins (over, no less, the Patriots), but slowly and steadily I'll be working on the obituary of his coaching tenure with the Giants so that it's ready when I need it. Given the nature of Blue Management it seems unlikely it will come in the middle of the season, so I have time.
The Giants, at 0-2, have less time if they're going to make themselves relevant this year. Which, of course, they are not. So really they have all the time in the world.
Which is a luxury. I'm going to be 61 soon, and I figure I've got fifteen or, at most, twenty solid years left in me, then some degree of sitting around waiting for Godot, possibly drooling while doing so.
But let's think positive thoughts, friends. Twenty years is a lot of paintings and a ton of beer. So with that in mind I decided to open up my canned pickles and eat one or more of them, depending on taste and texture, before they develop botulism. Or before I develop botulism -- I don't think the pickles get the disease; I think they breed the bacteria.
This is the summer's cache of pickles, cat free, on the way to the garbage. Very sad ...
posted by Geoffrey at 6:42 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home