Boring, Boring Internetz

Seems to me that the Internet—the once-proud savior-to-be of all humanity—has fallen into a rut.

Used to be that you could count on something thrilling coming out of the Interwebby-thing almost every day: a fast-breaking story of government corruption and scandal, an hilarious video featuring a cat and a vacuum cleaner, a powerful database that allowed you to get the names and addresses of anyone who’s ever voted in a state election anywhere in the US during the last two decades. And, of course, Simpsonize Me!

Nowadays though, it’s pretty much the same old thing over and over: fashion news about washed-up celebrities, little Flash-based games that keep 10 year-olds from getting dressed and ready for school when they should, and more Youtube videos featuring cats and vacuum cleaners. And, of course, Craigslist.org.

Me, I visit that same half-dozen or so sites and that’s about it: check the New York Times, read three or four blogs by people I know, occasionally, if half-heartedly, look at some random bike parts on Ebay, and visit the .83 forum to read posts from a few folks while studiously avoiding those from others.

I remember thinking, a couple years ago, that it was only a matter of time before the Internet was nothing more than a great big huge J. Crew catalogue; it’s clear to me know that I underestimated the web’s awesome power somewhat, for it’s way more than just that: it’s also a great big Yellow Pages, a massive stack of old videotapes, and the game arcade of a divey bar circa 1983. And, of course, my diary.

One thing that’s become painfully obvious: even though the Internet may be a force for social change and expanded freedom in repressive totalitarian states around the world, here in the industrialized West, it’s mainly a distraction—on the order of People Magazine, WWF Wrestling, American Idol—from stuff that really matters.

And, of course, 327 Words.

The Power of the Vacuum

The Steelers were down 21-6 to the hated Brownies in the second quarter of today’s game and having done zilch on offense while letting Cleveland convert something like 5 third down plays in a row, looked like they were going to fall to a divisional rival they surely should have been able to beat; at that point, drastic measures were called for.

So, I fired up the Sanitaire and began vacuuming furiously, doing corners with the edger attachment and even running the carpet beater over furniture and mattresses. Within moments, (well, more like thirty minutes and quarter and a half of football) Pittsburgh was up by four and Cleveland was reverting to form as the team my boys in Black and Gold have owned fifteen out of the last sixteen times they’ve played.

So, I began folding the machine to put it away; it was right then, though, that Cleveland return specialist Joshua Gibbs, who had already had a 90 yard kickoff runback, scooped up his muffed ball and ran it back 100 yards to put the Mistakes by the Lake ahead again.

Dutifully, I then dragged the vacuum cleaner down to the basement and worked over the carpets in my office area; in short order, the Steelers had scored again to go up by three with about two minutes left.

Feeling confident, I folded the machine up again at which point Gibbs returned a punt on the Browns final possession to the Pittsburgh 39, making a game-tying field goal immanent. Fortunately, all it took was to unwrap and plug in its power cord in preparation for use to have the Browns called for a holding penalty, setting them back to their own 33.

Just to be sure, I left the plug in the outlet for the last few seconds of the game, which ensured the Brown’s desperation field goal would fail, which it did, spilling sighs of relief all over our home’s nice clean floors.

Overtime

Obviously, I should have stayed home doing chores, for no sooner did I put the vacuum cleaner away and head to a bar for the second half of today’s Steelers’ game than the Buffalo fucking Bills ran off 13 unanswered points to tie the score and then, after the teams traded field goals, send the way more exciting than it needed to be contest into overtime where the Black n’ Gold would have lost were it not for a dropped pass in the endzone by one of the opposing team’s wide receivers.

Clearly, it was one of those “pride goeth before the fall” lessons; I was set to celebrate a blowout victory, but instead had to sweat out a nailbiter against a team that Pittsburgh ought to have handled with ease. What this meant in practice was that instead of just a couple of Guinesses, I had to drink three, and as a consequence thereof, I’m sitting here on the couch playing kitten on the keys when I probably ought to be grading papers or at least prepping for the week ahead.

I wonder what the historical analogue is to my experience today; maybe if I were in ancient Rome, I would have left my home vomitorium to catch the end of the tilt between the Christians and the Lions; surprisingly, the former would have mounted a desperate comeback against their meat-eating opponents and I would have been forced to consume an additional few goblets of wine before the kings of the beasts finally prevailed.

Or, if we were to travel back in time even further, maybe I’d have left the kin group’s cave to join my fellow hunter-gatherers at the local watering hole for the wrestling competition between Og and Gog; fortunately, for fans of the favored former, his mighty bearded adversary trips over a mastodon bone and hands the contest to his adversary.

I pound one last ceramic bowl of mead and cheer like mad.

Didn't Really Care

The Steelers got clobbered 31-13 by the Cheatriots up in Beantown yesterday; but I’m not really all that bothered by it. In spite of my bold pronouncement of a Black and Gold victory, I really didn’t expect Pittsburgh to win. What with Polalamu out and the offensive line still a bit banged-up, a victory seemed like a longshot, and so no big deal, anyway; the Steelers still lead their division and you can be sure they’ve learned a few things that will enable them to prevail when they come back to Foxboro for the AFC championship in January.

As evidence of my lackadaisical attitude about the contest, witness that I didn’t even listen to yesterday’s broadcast from Pittsburgh on the internet. Instead, I packed up Mimi and her friend, Ani, and took them downtown to Gameworks, where they could waste money on videogames and skee-ball while I could sit in the attached World Sports Grille and drink Guinness as the NFL Network-only broadcast of the big game spooled overhead on half a dozen flat-screen monitors.

It’s a pretty good set-up, custom made for my situation yesterday: Dad forks over the equivalent cost of a ticket to the live game so the kids can get plastic cards embedded with enough game credits to last at least until halftime, gives them a hug and tells them to go have fun; he then bellies up to the bar for the next ninety minutes or so, assured that the youngsters know where to find him when their game plays run out.

Sure enough, it works pretty much exactly as planned and fortunately, with another small infusion of cash, the videogaming can last all the way through the third quarter, at which time the game is all but out of reach and Dad is ready to call it a day.

So, I gather up my young charges and head home, no big deal; in January, though, the vacuum cleaner comes out.

This Week's Picks

This is the week, I’m wagering, that the Dolphins finally get off the schnied; they’re +3.5 at home against the Ravens, which I take to be pretty much of a lock; here are two teams without an offense between them, but I think the Fins will have a more to play for and my sense is that Baltimore has essentially packed it away for the season—as long as they keep playing Kyle Boller at quarterback, it’s hard to argue that there’s any fight left in them dogs.

I’m also banking on the Seahawks having a letdown against the Panthers; Seattle clinched their division last weekend; they never play well away from home, especially on the East coast; and Carolina is clinging to slim playoff hopes. So, even with Testaverde at quarterback, I’m taking the home team, +7.5.

Finally, I like the Saints -3.5 at home against the Cardinals. Arizona is reeling from last week’s trouncing at the hands of Seattle, and New Orleans has the added incentive of being on the wild-card playoff bubble. I think, therefore, that they’re good for victory by at least a touchdown; Drew Brees is due for a monster game and this could be it.

I’m sorely tempted to take the Steelers -3.5 at home against the Jaguars, but my superstitious nature prevents me from doing so. I’d hate to be dissatisfied with a three point victory on a last second field goal; I believe if I don’t just root for a win however it comes, it might undermine Pittsburgh’s chances of prevailing. And this game, perhaps more than any other one so far this season, is THE one. The Steelers need a victory—to clinch a playoff spot, but even more, to prove again to themselves (and their fans, me included), that they really are a good football team. After last week’s debacle against New England, there are some doubts.

But the vacuum cleaner is at ready and I’ll be listening online.

Not My Fault

It’s not on me that the Steelers lost; while I didn’t bring out the vacuum, I did mop the kitchen floor and clean all the water spots on the glass shower door with Windex. And while I did make a few wagers—both of which won, a two-team and a three-team parlay—none of them were on Pittsburgh. So the only explanation for yesterday’s defeat has to be a porous defense, an anemic running game, and lackluster special teams play. It’s time for the Black and Gold to get it together fast unless they want to already be vacationing during the first weekend in January, which would be especially disillusioning since that’s right when my holiday break comes to an end.

So, I’m not going to talk about how the fucking defense gave up like 200 yards rushing to the Jaguars or how the offense puttered around until way too late in the game; instead, I’m going to mention an entertainment I actually found entertaining this weekend, a re-viewing of an old favorite film of mine, My Dinner With Andre.

I have a friend who teaches at an alternative high school in town and his students invited me to come visit their class today on the condition that I watch the movie (as they did last week) and come prepared to talk about it. So, on Friday night, after the kid went to sleep, I got wickedly vaped and settled down to enjoy the conversation of Andre Gregory and Wallace Shawn. I had forgotten how funny the movie was, especially the opening especially when Wally recalls how he as gone from being a 10 year-old aristocrat who thought only of art to a 37 year-old proletarian who thinks only of money.

The discussion in class today was mostly about boredom—what it feels like, whether it’s avoidable, what its purpose might be. I found the students’ comments mostly fascinating; certainly more engaging and even thrilling than yesterday’s fucking Steelers game.

Over

Three days later, I’m no longer mourning the Steelers’ stunning overtime loss to the Denver Broncos at the hands of the despicably holier-than-thou Tim Tebow in Sunday’s NFL Wild Card game.

In fact, looking back on it now, I scoff at why anyone would care at all about the outcome of a mass-produced “sporting event” featuring overpaid specimens of testosterone-poisoned human beings running around in spandex for a couple hours chasing an inflated pigskin up and down a field made of plastic.

With some distance on the thing, I sure don’t.

But damn, right afterwards, it sure felt like a punch in the gut.

Of course, it was all my fault.

Although I did pick up all the dog-poo in the backyard, I never took out the vacuum cleaner, preferring instead to tidy up the rugs and hardwood using my brand-new carpet cleaner. Lacking the use of electricity, it apparently doesn’t produce the same salubrious effect upon the gridiron play of the Black n’ Gold; now I know.

And even though I did lay out my dearly-departed mom and dad’s rings atop their watches on the Terrible Towel (in the second half, mind you, thereby precipitating Pittsburgh’s furious comeback from two touchdowns behind), I made a critical error at the start of overtime, when I stepped away momentarily from the game to grab one final wee dram of rye whiskey to calm the shattered nerves. Returning to the television screen, I was just in time to see Demaryius Thomas streaking for the end zone, much to my disbelief and horror.

Now, Cousin Seth tells me that championship teams will overcome missteps like mine and I wish I could fully buy that. Unfortunately, I can’t shake the feeling that if only I had waited to turn my attention away from the game that the outcome would have been different—or at least not so stunningly quick and agonizingly terrible.

Not that I care about it or anything, anyway.

Reliever

I wish I had a bullpen for my life.

It would be extremely cool if, when I find myself out of energy or ideas, that the lifestyle equivalent of a flame-throwing youngster could step in and finish things up for me.

So, for instance, on those last few miles of my ride home, when the hills are getting especially steep, some kid with fresh legs would pedal up the slope while I retired early to the showers.

Or, in my teaching, for those times I’ve only an hour’s worth of material for two hour’s worth of class, some bright-eyed enthusiast could fill in while I retired to my office to read and prepare for another day.

I could have the short reliever, the “closer” to fill in during the final few minutes of meetings when I want to get out and on my way home quickly.

And I could have the long reliever, the “mop up” guy to do all the dishes and vacuum the floor after parties. He’d also be ideal for half-day “strategic planning” meetings, too.

Sandy Koufax used to call the Dodgers closer at the time, Phil Regan, “the vulture,” because Regan would pick up all these wins in short relief that Koufax and others had done the heavy lifting for; I wouldn’t begrudge my relievers their glory, though, especially if they were willing to erase the boards and bring my books and materials back to my office after class.

Of course, it would be a drag if I turned things over to them and it all went to hell; I’d be upset if I had ridden all the way from, say, Bothell, to the U, and my reliever bonked on the bike in Montlake, but I guess that’s the occasional price to pay for comfort.

Ultimately, the benefits would likely outweigh the downside; best of all, I could count on a much better finish to a piece like this that just peters out.

Knew It

I had a premonition last night that the Steelers would tank against the Jets today and I was right.

Walking the dog around the block about 11:00, it occurred to me that the boys in Black and Gold were going to psyched out by the bright lights of the big city and would end up falling this afternoon to what seemed, at least on paper, a far inferior team.

Probably they all stayed out too late—especially the offensive line—and didn’t show up as ready to play at they should have. Let this be a wake-up call; if Pittsburgh hopes to win their division and go anywhere in the playoffs, they’d better get serious throughout the rest of the season. Just because they started seven and two doesn’t mean they’ll keep up that pace through their final seven games. (Even George Bush had a few moments early in his presidency when it seemed like he might not be so awful, but look how that’s played out.)

I don’t think I can take the blame for today’s failure; I did all my chores and even pulled out the vacuum cleaner after Pittsburgh fell behind 10-0 in the second quarter. Maybe I should have mopped the floor at that point, but generally, I save those big guns for more important games; so maybe I’m guilty, too, of not taking the Jets as seriously as I should have.

In any case, it’s no time to panic; the Steelers are still in the driver’s seat as far as winning their division; and I would have given my eye tooth (whatever that is) to have them be 7-3 after 10 games last year. Still, it’s disconcerting to play so poorly—especially at the end of the game—against a team that’s best known for folding in the fourth quarter.

I take solace in predicting this, but I sorta wish the Steelers were in NHL; then, at least they’d get a point for losing in overtime.

Bailing

I was totally looking forward to Sunday afternoon and evening at Smoke Farm for the Philosophy Camp reunion, but I had to bail.

Literally.

Saturday night’s Pineapple Express roared into town dropping something like two and a half inches of rain, which was about how much standing water we had in our basement Sunday morning at 5:30AM when I went down to check on how things were.

I spent a couple hours in my pajamas scooping water with a pitcher usually reserved for margueritas and then much of the rest of the day vacuuming up pools of wet with our brand-new Shop-Vac that Jen bought after waiting outside for Lowes’ hardware store to open with a bunch of other folks who apparently had similar early-morning needs to ours.

It sucked—the experience figuratively and the vacuum literally—but after seeing pictures in the paper this morning of people’s houses that were flooded above ground by overflowing creeks filled with raw sewage, I’d have to agree it wasn’t so bad.

And all the vacuuming seemed to help the Steelers, who crushed the Cincinnati Bengals 23-7, even though the offense never quite seemed to get in gear.

So, all in all, it wasn’t so awful, just another of the glamorous aspects of home ownership that makes paying a mortgage so worthwhile and which ensures that one will keep doing one’s part to keep the economy thriving—at least at big-box hardware stores.

I had been looking forward to reading and talking a out Nietzsche, Plato, and Emmanuel Levinas with Philosophy Camp alumni, but this was a different sort of lesson in the practical application of ideas. Or perhaps, more appropriately, it was applied Heraclitus, the pre-Socratic philosopher for whom everything, essentially, was water, and who famously claimed, “You cannot step twice into the same river.”

With all due respect, I think he might be wrong about that: I stood in pretty much the same river for six hours yesterday.

Clean Floor

To me, the house isn’t clean until the floor is clean. (On the other hand, all you have to do when company is coming is vacuum and you’re ready to entertain.)

I have long been the one who mops and scrubs the hardwood and tile in our house; I don’t mind doing it and often, I take great satisfaction because the results are so apparent. Few things are more satisfying to me than surveying a glistening floor that beforehand, was riddled with footprints and blotches.

Over the years, I’ve tried a number of different techniques and methods; I’ve invested in a variety of alleged labor-saving devices, including, recently, the renowned “Sh-Mop,” whose inventor claims that it’s the absolute last word in floor cleaning, a claim that’s true only if that word is “sucks.”

Ultimately, it’s been my experience that the only way to truly get the floor clean is the old way: bucket and sponge, on your knees. While this is far from the most efficient method, it’s clearly the most effective. Plus, it has the added benefit of making you feel particularly worthy, like some sort of Scandinavian fraulein in pigtails and a burlap jumper doing the bidding of the evil giant who has imprisoned you far from the fjords and wheat fields of your youth.

But I say too much, far too much.

Having a dog makes it difficult to be truly particular about the cleanliness beneath one’s feet. Our dog, Becca, rejoices in imprinting paw prints all over the kitchen and living room. I’ve learned not to chase her around with a wet sponge in hand; it’s too confusing for her and too disillusioning for me.

Last week, we had two dogs in the house and the yard outside was a virtual mud bog. I ended up pretending I was living in a log cabin with a dirt floor. Not quite as thrilling as a Scandinavian fraulein, but at least it got me through.

Chores to Win

After the Steelers dropped another game they should have won last Sunday, I started feeling sorta relieved, like “Well, at least now I don’t have to worry so much about them and can get on with my life Sundays and the occasional Monday evening.”

But that was just sour grapes and by Tuesday, I was deep into calculations of mathematical possibilities, assured that if the Black n’ Gold run the table—or even if they lose just once more—they ought to be assured of a playoff spot.

So, come Sunday morning, I’m doing what it takes to ensure they win: I got up early and did all the week’s shopping, including a couple of unusual items I had to make an extra stop for; I took out all the garbage and recycling; I did the dishes and put them away; I paid outstanding bills, folded the laundry, vacuumed and mopped the floor, shook out the bathroom rug, and even cleaned up my downstairs office.

The only thing I haven’t done is grade some student papers; I figure if I do a couple that should be enough; I’m not asking for a blowout, just a simple win.

Now, reason tells me that there’s no correlation between my taking care of domestic duties and the Steelers prevailing on the football field. However, experience tells me different. Before last year’s Superbowl, not only did I mow the lawn, but I also washed the windows and scrubbed down the upstairs shower. It’s no wonder that Pittsburgh both crushed Seattle and turned the referees in their favor.

Of course, there have been times I’ve done all my chores and still seen the Steelers lose; the 1997 AFC Championship game, for instance. That can be explained though, by the fact that I failed to vacuum under the couch and that instead of recycling the empty yogurt containers, I just through them in the garbage.

Today, I’m taking no chances; I even dusted.