Happy Super Groundhog Bowl

And so another football season comes to a close in this great nation, and once again, it’s sparked enormous amounts of rage.

Yes. Rage. And it’s about nothing. Where can we start? Well, fortunately, it’s not about pneumatic pressure in footballs. Here’s my partial list:

February 2 seems late for a Super Bowl. It’s also the date of another very unimportant national observance known as “Groundhog Day.” It’s easy for me to confuse holidays, now that I’m an old geezer and all the second hand mushroom spores I was exposed to in college have now kicked in. On Super Groundhog Bowl Sunday, I kept waiting for the Ghost of Howard Cosell to emerge from his grave and announce two more weeks of playoffs.

The Halftime Show. Well, I missed it. Sort of. Instead of watching the Super Bowl, we went to the movies. Max and I saw “Gretel & Hansel,” while Margaret saw “Little Women.” Max was all excited about “Gretel & Hansel” because of the connection between the director, Ogden Perkins and the film “Psycho.” So Max said, “You know, the director Ogden Perkins is Anthony Perkins’ son….” So I kept my mouth shut until after the film. That’s when I said, “Well, the only thing that ruins this for me is that you said the director was Tony Perkins’ son, but everybody knows Tony Perkins was gay, so how did that work.”

I guess I could Google that, but I really don’t care.

Stuff like this is usually what’s I see on Twitter. Not Shakira.

But back to the halftime show. While riding home from the Regalplex 16 with reclining seats (which are wretchedly uncomfortable unless you recline them fully) I checked my Twitter feed. It’s mostly about Vespas and cars, but in five seconds, I’d figured out the halftime show controversy had reared it’s ugly head. Well, more like it’s ugly crotch. (remember Bruce Springsteen?)

So, let me pause for a moment and be sincere. Would you want to produce the Super Bowl Halftime Show? Not me. Somehow, you’ve got to put together a show that appeals to all ages and demographics. How does that work when today’s musical genres are as almost as segmented as Democrat Party identity politics? Let’s be honest here. You do remember when Bruce Springsteen was the star right? Have you heard anything about him since? Probably not, unless you’re a fan. Post Tom Petty Super Bowl show, I didn’t hear anything about Tom Petty until he died. Starring in the Super Bowl Halftime Show is the musician’s last chance to resonate with a national TV audience. If it works, so be it. If it doesn’t, then it’s off to produce a channel on Sirius XM and another digitally remastered version of the “greatest hits” album.

But it’s 2020, so all I had to do to see the halftime show was go to YouTube and there it was in all it’s glorious boredom. And here’s the conundrum of the aging musical talent. The choreography has to seem like it’s a stretch for the star performers. “Wow, did she really do that at her age!?” is the effect they want. But at the same time, none of the dancers can appear to dance better or be in better physical shape than the star. So the costumes are supposed to make the support team look less than sleek when the star, by comparison, looks aerodynamic. It’s kind of like the camera lens on your phone.

Then there’s the “news” about what the president tweeted to the twits on twitter. Well, what happens on twitter isn’t news. You might have noticed the only thing that gets “reported” is when the “reporter” reports something that he or she doesn’t like. Then it’s “news” and every news organ repeats it. But it’s not news. It’s noise. As for the noise, you may find it amusing that the population of Kansas City, MO is three times larger than the population of Kansas City, KS. Now, if you’re like many of my former neighbors in New Jersey who didn’t know the difference between Iowa and Ohio, the president’s tweet is yet another outrage. But then again, I knew that if I owed any of those people $10, there was a less than 50 percent chance they’d find me when I moved to Ohio.

Bye Columbus. Hello St. Petersburg!

The first time my family moved to Tampa, you could buy a license plate for the front of your car that read, “Tampa: Where the Good Life Gets Better.” I was in high school.

About 20 years later, my wife and I loaded up the car and moved to Atlanta, where the slogan was “We just had the Olympics. What did your city have? An expo for telemarketers?” This was a welcome break for us as this slogan was more difficult for my four-year-old to read than “L-i-v-e Noo-oood-eee guh-urrl-s,” which had unofficially replaced the “Good Life” slogan.

So what’s different? Well, it’s a helluva lot easier to drive around here if you avoid rush hour. It seems like the bridges get backed up in both directions now, which means jobs grew in Pinellas. It seems like rush hour is shorter, and when it’s not rush hour, I can get from St. Petersburg to Lutz in about 30 minutes. Nice job FDOT! I remember seeing these I-275 and Veterans Expressway expansion plans 25 years ago and thinking I’d be in my grave before they happened. There are other positive changes as well, and I’ll go into those another time.

But there is one thing that’s the same. That’s the Publix Parking Lot Creepers (PPLC). They’ve expanded their territories into Target, Walmart and The Home Depot, but it’s like this. You’re walking to your car. They think you’ve got a better parking space than what’s available. So they creep up behind you in their Pontiacs and Mercurys and wait to see where you’ve parked.

“Sorry. My parking space isn’t that interesting,” is what I’m saying to them. I’d forgotten about the PPLC during my absence, but I really find this annoying. Anyway, now you’ll find me parked out in the hinterlands. Stop by and say “Hello!” and I might even give you a resume.

Weeding out my urges

I saw a dandelion today. The problem is that I’ve been waging war on lawn weeds since 1988, and now, as an apartment renter, I no longer have a lawn. The urge to kill weeds remains though. Maybe I should just run them over with my car, or tear off their heads while making savage noises.

High steaks grocery shopping

So there I was, again, at the Trader Joe’s in Dublin, OH. Somewhere near the pre-made salads, I saw the horseradish. But as I eyed my prey, a woman stared vacantly at the array of boxes of salads. Some had meat. Some did not.

“Excuse me, please,” I said as I reached for the horseradish. She obliged my request, and looked me in the eye, and said, “Have you heard about the health benefits of horseradish?”

“Me? Uh, no. I don’t follow that kind of news.” She looked puzzled, so I asked “Why?”

“Well, I’ve heard it has health benefits, and I wondered what people do with it. I’m trying to eat healthier,” she said.

I wanted to say, “Lady, you don’t need to eat healthier. You need to eat less and get more active.” To describe her body shape as amorphous would have been accurate. But who am I to judge?

So I said, “Well, I’m getting it because my son is coming home from college for a week and we use it on sandwiches and we’re almost out.”

She continued to look puzzled. “I’ve heard of using it with roast beef, but…”
“Oh, you can put it on anything. It goes on ham, turkey, obviously beef. You name it. You can make seafood cocktail sauce with it for shrimp, fried fish…”

What it came down to was she was afraid of trying a $1.99 jar of horseradish. And given that she was dressed up, wearing jewelry and had spent some time on her appearance, it seemed like she could afford $1.99. The worst that could happen is she’d buy the horseradish, try it, and not like it.

I believe some people are put on this Earth to be examples of what we’re not supposed to do. Sure, we know people who act like jerks or are wasting their lives in horrific ways. But this? Being afraid of $1.99 jar of horseradish? That’s a hell of an example.

Make it official. Add “donchya” to America’s lexicon

If you live in the part of the United States where the word “y’all” is used, there’s another word that I’m reasonably certain you use as well. In fact, you use it in it’s proper English form and it’s vernacular. That word is “donchya.” Here’s how I use it.

“Donchya want another beer? It’s frickin’ 92 degrees.”

It’s used as an offer. It’s also used as an expression of gratitude. As I write this, my friends Bill and Meda, and are visiting Yellowstone National Park. Meda has been sharing her road trip pictures on Facebook. So, my statement to Bill & Meda this morning would be, “Donchya want to come back and see all this in the Winter?” I know Margaret and I want to see Yellowstone in Winter, but I digress.

Let’s compare that to “Don’t you.” If you’re in the part of the country where we use “Donchya,” you know you also use “Don’t you.” Let me give you an example.

“Don’t you drive my car and leave my gas tank empty!” Or, “Don’t you let your dog out. We just saw a gator down in the river.”

Same words, but there’s a huge difference in tone, donchya think?

Time to run. I need you as VP!

So here you are, scratching your head, and wondering why we’ve got two front runners who, in the US history of political polling, have never been so disliked. It’s as if we all woke up and every day is now “Wear your pajamas upside down backwards and inside out while walking your llama to work on stilts day.” What happened to the good old days when the idea was to find honest, competent and likable people for these positions? Can’t we find someone who hasn’t used the White House as a fund-raising B&B and then tried to run off with the furnishings? Can’t we find someone couth without mob ties who has a reputation for paying his contractors?

I’m fishing for a running mate. Could it be you?

I’ll tell you what. I’ve been kicking myself in the ass these past two days for not running yet. You could have been my running mate, yes, YOU, and we could have a great time making this happen. And we could win because we are truly likable people. You might be unsure about your likability factor based on what people wrote in your high school yearbook, but compared to these two? Yes, you are likable. People love you. Think of it. Us. Together. FOR AMERICA!

So I’ve got a platform. Actually, it’s not so much of a platform as it is an extremely wide plank that pretty much fixes everything. I’m calling it the “Top Predator” policy. Now, I hesitate to call it “Top Predator” because anything “top” smacks of Trumpiness, and “predator” is totally Hillary, but this is really a biological term, and since this is kind of a biological thing that predates Trump, like “America First,” it’s still appropriate. Here’s how it works. We reintroduce top predators, like the ones that used to roam North America, back into the ecosystems. If we do this, we’ll fix all of America’s problems. Lower your Eyebrow of Disbelief and please hear me out.

– Obesity costs more than $147 billion annually, according to the Centers for Disease Control. We all know people can’t outrun panthers. However, you don’t have to outrun it, you only have to outrun the guy behind you and the panther will eat him. Many folks will figure out that it’s “slim down or die” and we’ll have about a $1 bazillion over 10 years for bridges and roads.

– Drug abuse costs more than $193 billion annually, according to the National Drug Intelligence Center. Given that place, wherever it is, sounds like a redundant oxymoron, I’m cutting that into about half, at $100 billion. Once again, dope dealers are not going to be standing around vacant lots selling drugs if they’re going to get devoured. Junkies will think twice about psychotripping to Tralfamador if they’re going to be the equivalent of Purina Wolf Chow. Smugglers are going to think twice about moving square groupers from a submarine to a speedboat if they see snarling sharks frothing the water just over the gunwales. “Top Predator” reduces both supply and demand. Over 10 years, that’s another $1 gazillion for free tampons. 

– Climate change. What causes “climate change?” Why that’s simple. We’re told it’s people. So why do we allow more people on the planet? Once again, “Top Predator” reduces climate change by reducing the number of people. Kyoto Protocol my foot!

My “Top Predator” plank remains a strategic initiative that fixes everything. It even gets tactical and eliminates many specific threats. Consider this one.

– Plane crashes. It’s been awhile since Captain Sully performed a “water landing,” as the flight attendants say during their in-flight safety presentations. That was caused by geese, and since we can’t let hunters bring shotguns to the airport during goose season, we need to do something. These airport geese remain a threat right here on precious American soil and Obama hasn’t done a damn thing about them. “Top Predator” fixes that.

– Who is stupid enough to cross the border illegally to take your job or blow up a stadium if he’s going to wind up in the jaws of a puma? That’s two birds with one predator, and that reduces government spending. Take that INS and Homeland Security!

As you can see, there’s nothing that my “Top Predator” program can’t fix. Nothing. If you want to challenge me on that, feel free to use the space below. I eagerly await your questions, but even more important, maybe it’s not too late to run for office and I need volunteers who are willing to be my running mate. Just remember, you have to be at least 35-years-old, and born in the U.S.A. You don’t have to be a fast runner either, just fast enough. Please submit your birth certificate with your application so we can avoid that nasty after-birther mess again, along with a fifth of Gosling’s rum, a six-pack of Goya ginger beer and two limes.

Yes, I’m still celebrating National Frozen Food Month

There’s still another week of National Frozen Food Month, and plenty of interesting things in the freezer at the grocery store. However, there are some things you can pass as well.

The Pizza Greco Roman from Trader Joe’s looks pretty good in the box. It has the right ingredients with fire roasted peppers, kalamata olives and cheese. However, the crust was a little too cardboardy for my preferences. My trusted sidekick, a college freshman, agreed. This is one you can skip.

The upside is that if you skip dinner, you should be able to double-down on the dessert, right? Here’s a suggestion, get the Coconut ice cream from Friendly’s. Rich creamy taste, perfect texture. I think that If I had to choose only one ice cream to eat for the rest of 2016, it would be this one.

Now if I were to pair it with another dessert, I’d go with the Chocolate Raspberry tamales from Trader Joe’s. These are wrapped in corn husks like real tamales. You steam them like real tamales. And unfortunately, this is the worst looking dessert I’ve ever seen. It is, however, one of the tastiest.

One appetizer that’s always puzzled me is fried mozzarella cheese sticks. It’s not as if this variety of cheese has a lot of flavor. So you have to dip it in marinara, which I keep handy. But even my marinara couldn’t save the cheese’s bacon. Both Max and I rate this a “pass.”

When you’re a kid, the idea of having a pet spider monkey sounds pretty good. When you’re an adult, a low-fat frozen vanilla Greek yogurt sounds pretty good, especially after eating fried mozzarella sticks. You’d be surprised how much frozen Greek yogurt has in common with a spider monkey. Trying to scoop this incorrigible dessert can fling yogurt around your kitchen. Something about it just doesn’t seem satisfying, the slightly sour bite of yogurt seems incongruous with vanilla. Both Max and I rate this a “pass.”

As March continues to morph from lion to lamb, and is replaced by April showers, I’ll continue to offer up all there is to check out in the freezer.

 

Join Me in Celebrating National Frozen Food Month!

When I was growing up, you could tell March was coming, even if you didn’t have a calendar. How? The grocery stores sold kites in the check-out lane. Sometime in the late 1980s, I remember seeing a logo in the front windows of Publix. It featured a penguin, and it heralded “National Frozen Food Month.” Oh, the irony. For those of us who live Up North, we’re just shaking the February snow from our boots. And here they want us to get excited about something frozen? Maybe they should move this observation to July.

Anyway, how does the Most Important Man! celebrate National Frozen Food month? Well obviously, he hops on the bandwagon. Here’s what’s gone from freezer to table at 54 Yale Street, during the month of March.

I don’t usually shop down there at the Food Hole. However, if I’m going to make meatballs or meatloaf, I’ll usually start there for the ground beef.

But since March is so special, I thought it would be a good idea to peruse the freezer case. This was $3.99, which is a damn good value for a frozen pizza. It features a generous amount of feta cheese, but not enough to make you reach for the Lipitor. As far as feta varieties go, it’s not particularly salty, and neither are the kalamata olives. I might even go as far to say it’s worth it to go back to the Food Hole for this, and overlook the frequent sightings of tattoo’d freaks using their WIC cards and wads of cash to shop there.

 

Fortunately, Trader Joe’s is expanding into enough cities that many people are familiar with their stores and products. What’s more fun to say than “Bibimbap Bowl?” Well, “Irish Wristwatch” is but you can’t eat an Irish Wristwatch. This was pretty good as well, and I’d get it again. I think I ate a small salad with it, which is not very Korean, but I didn’t get hungry 22 minutes after eating it, either.

 

 

If you’ve gotten this far, you’ve probably realized that I’m not really a “meat & potatoes” kind of eater. When Margaret and I go to a Thai restaurant for the first time, one of us will always order the pad thai. It’s sort of a measuring stick for us. This pad thai is pretty good. It’s better than some pad thai dishes I’ve eaten in restaurants. But they were restaurants I never went back to. I’d get this again as well. It’s less than $4, but you’ll want to eat something else with it. It’s “vegetable” so you’ll be hungry later.

 

 

I’m going to go out on a limb and state that this is the best frozen dinner available in the United States of America. However, if you don’t like curry, you might want to revisit the Swanson’s Salisbury Steak, mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables.

 

I’ve filled and emptied my fridge freezer twice this month. And for one week, I even had an assistant, my son the college freshman. He was home on spring break, and gladly lent his expertise. More later.

Sometimes a lousy plane ride gets worse

I knew i t was going to be a crap plane ride when I saw one of the three boys of the family in front of me mumble something to his mom. She then handed him a paper bag, the kind you sometimes find in the seat pocket in front of you.

Although this time there was no seat pocket. We were standing in line, in Houston’s airport. And our line, which was for people who had tickets, was shorter than the line for people who’d received that cryptic message, “Please see gate agent.” That means “We’re overbooked and you’re outta luck! Please enjoy the walk back to your car.”

Me with President George H.W. Bush, Terminal C, Houston.

The boy opened the bag and he puked. Ugh. Poor kid. A family vacation and he’s sick in a busy airport.

As it turned out 20 minutes later, I would have rather sat near this family with three boys for three hours than the self-absorbed git who sat two rows behind me. But first, we interrupt this program because of a fighting middle-aged couple from New Jersey.

No. It wasn’t Margaret and me. Do you know how you can spot potential problematic relationships on planes? His carry-on bag doesn’t match her carry-on bag. “His & Hers” has become “Mine and Up Yours.”

Sure enough. The middle-aged guy grabbed his wife’s carry-on bag and shoved it into the overhead space about three rows behind their seats, while his went above his seat. I was then expecting to see them fight as they flew over nine states after he offered up the verbal recap of the stowing of her “stupid bag.” She didn’t take the bait. She opened up her laptop to watch a movie.

And somewhere, out of the blue, I heard a stentorian voice announce,

“Well, I acquired my degree in English literature at…”

No. God. Please. No.

He had one of those voices that just carried. So I had to look back and who this extraordinarily special man was. He was taller than most, so it’s not as if his voice could be blocked by the seatback of the poor bastard in front of him. Unfortunately for the rest of us, the guy seated next to Mr. Let-me-tell-you-something was hanging on every word. Apparently, he’d been born yesterday on the turnip truck, fell off outside Houston’s airport, and the wetness behind his ears did not alarm the airport security folks.

“Oh, you want to be a copywriter?,” Mr. Talk-a-lot said to the young woman two seats over.”Well, we’ll have to exchange information, because I have a marketing company that…”

This is the big difference between blue collar guys from Dixie and bloviated Big City folk. When you live down South, you call a guy who can paint and caulk your house, install new screens on your porch, reglaze the window in your garage door with the baseball sized hole in it, and tuck point the planter. If you a want a patio, he’ll say, “I gotta buddy-a-mine who can do that,” and both of them will show up.

That’s five different tasks. One guy does it for you, and when he’s out of his league, he knows a guy who can “git ‘er done.” No mention of “companies.”

Up North in the Big City, here’s this guy, as overheard, and not by my choice, on the plane. Five minutes into boarding procedure, he says he has five companies.

“Well, my social media company is experiencing tremendous growth. Right now, we rent space for meetings as needed, but my partners and I have realized we’ll need to obtain office space in Manhattan. it’s going to take at least four more meetings before we can sort that out.”

Translation: I’m still living at home, and so are my friends. When parents are gone, we play Stratego.

At this point, I looked out my window and gazed down at the tarmac, soon to be replaced by a view of Houston’s sprawl. Long ago, I learned that on flights, it’s best for me to get the window seat so I can stare silently out the window, engrossed in America’s majestic landscapes when I’m not reading. Other than “Hi,” and “Pardon me,” and “Diet coke please,” there’s really nothing for me to say on a plane. Nothing. I’ll just fixate on one my precious magazines about obscure cars and peculiar motorcycles.

I was seated ahead of the wing. Not behind it. Not downstream of those delicate whisssshhhhing airfoils with the enormous engine hanging precariously below. Sitting upstream of the wing and engine intake means it’s relatively quiet. I had hoped, just hoped that the roar of the CFM56-7B24 High Bypass Ratio turbofan engine, rated at 24,200 pounds thrust, would drown out this guy. I patiently waited for take-off. Finally, the plane moved onto the taxi-way position, and the pilot pushed the throttles forward. Bliss could not be far, could it?

The engines revved. The plane surged forward and then I could feel it tip back, just like it’s supposed to. The view of Houston’s sprawl unfurled below me.

“Oh, now let me tell you about this strategy we just used to acquire one of our social media clients. I can’t tell you his name though…”

Translation: My buddy put up a Facebook page for the muffler shop around the corner, in exchanged for four used tires for his mom’s old Camry.

No joy. The engineers at Boeing and General Electric had done their work, and done it well, and at this time, he was still coming through loud and clear. Why didn’t I think to bring earplugs like I used to when I flew in steerage class on the MD-80s?

“Well, there was this customer service job that I held on to for about three years too many…”

So, have you ever experimented with the best way to plug your ears using your fingers and palms? There are all these different ways you can apply pressure and each different way seems to drown out different frequencies. The next time you’re on a plane with a constant source of homogenized sound, you should try it. However, none seems to drown out all frequencies, and so there was no refuge.

“I figured it out with a bit of trial and error, but it seems to work pretty well for my promotions company.”

I looked to the teen seated on my left, and the middle-aged woman to his left. It appeared that she was grading papers when I said, “Pardon me, I’m in seat F” (as in Frank) and got my window seat. Now she had earplugs. And the kid next to me? Noise canceling Koss earphones, obviously set to “stifle the idiot in 12d.”

I then remembered I had two magazines in my carry-on that I could pass back as a polite way of saying, “Please be quiet.” However, handing a copy of “Guns & Ammo: Handguns Special Edition Walther .44!” was probably not a good idea, on a plane.

“Did you see he was on the cover of ‘Black Entrepreneur’ magazine?” 

Nothing like tossing out the diversity bone to the young woman two seats over from Nigeria, where, Blatherman says he read in the New York Times that the economy is starting to pick up over there, finally. “Hooray for Africa!” Yeah. He said that. Really. She did not strangle him with a seatbelt. 

This is why they don’t allow anything on planes that can be used as a weapon, even indirectly. And that’s why I’d mailed home my ½” drive wrench with a 24mm socket, and my ⅜’ wrench with a T40 Torx socket, after a quick oil change at my son’s apartment in Baton Rouge. Had these been in my carry-on, and allowed on the plane, I might have used them to open the door of the Boeing 737-800 and shoved Mr. Windbag out the door at 12,000 feet, aiming for one of Houston’s snake infested drainage canals. But my wrench had fallen into the used motor oil after the road trip. I figured that the smell of gasoline would trigger the TSA haz-mat sniffer, and I’d have been thrown in irons. So I sent my tools home in a cardboard box.

I envied those wrenches. Nobody talks in the cargo hold.

I decided it was time to muster up some self-control, and see if I could put myself to sleep. Fortunately, that actually worked until I was awakened by the announcement of “Ladies and gentlemen (so United Airlines still believes in that binary gender thing…where’s the outrage?) we are on final approach to Newark…”

That’s the airport where handlers are always surprised when a 117-foot-long aluminum tube is about to squeeze out 29,136 pounds of humans like cavity fighting, plaque removing Crest gel. And we waited.

But once the plane pulled up to the jet way, there was auditory bliss. Nobody said a word. The lesser half of the bitter couple from New Jersey painfully eyed the overhead bin where he crammed his wife’s bag. It was three rows back, well into the horde of departees and he couldn’t reach it. Motormouth had finally shut up while he struggled to gain access to his swag. And me? I wondered if it was possible to crawl out “Great Escape” style, through the tunnels under the seats. I wanted off this plane, and I want off immediately.

During my plane ride, they thanked us for flying the friendly skies of United at least three times. Frankly, they were just a little too friendly. Now you can see why I prefer to stick my head into a plastic bucket and travel by motorcycle.

I really don’t know bupkiss about football, yet, I’m a playa!

Now that the college football season is well into it’s scandal roiled sixth week, I’d like to take a moment and explain the game to those of you who might be just getting interested in it. As proof that I know what I”m talking about, I submit to you my current results for the college football pick ‘em pool where I have made an entry.

Behold. I am tied for sixth place with Drunk Aubie, a Twitterati who likes Auburn University.

I’m “YoPaulie973” and I placed in the Top 10 percent of this football pool and one other that’s much smaller.

With grade inflation, that makes me a high achiever. So here’s what I  know about football.

1. The star player is called the “quarterback.” He throws the ball to some guys, or sometimes he runs with the ball. It’s sort of his choice.
2. The guy who hands him the ball from a rude position is the “center.”
3. The center is part of the “offensive line,” whose job is really to defend the quarterback.
4. The other team has a “defensive line,” whose members jobs are to attack the guy on the opposing team who has the ball and anybody he might give the ball to.
5. Some guys who play on the defensive line are called linebackers. Not all players on the defensive line are linebackers.
6. Sometimes they have to kick the ball. So they have guys to do that too. It’s a “division of labor” thing. They don’t always kick the ball for three points. Sometimes they kick the ball for one point. It still requires the same amount of effort for the kicker, so I think he’s getting ripped off.
7. I do not know what a “t-formation,” or “I-formation” or wide-out or what the difference is between a half-back or tailback or a “wide-out receiver” except that sounds like surfboard anatomy if it has a detachable fin.
8. I do know that when the sports announcers can’t keep up with what’s on the field, they say, “Oh, and there’s the play action!” That Verne Lundquist guy on CBS says “play action” a lot.
9. It took me a long time to get over the fact that the home team’s radio commentators are supposed to be biased. Then I heard Larry Munson’s “hob nailed boot” commentary, one of the greatest moments in sports radio. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPRqaAbdzZ4 Notice, I did not use the word “journalism” in that paragraph.  

I do understand something about the organizational structure of the teams. The athletic director is the boss of the head coach. The head coach has two main assistants, a defensive coach and and offensive coach. They are in charge of coaches who deal with each player’s specialty, be it catching, throwing, kicking, mowing over some dudes, or avoiding the dudes who try to mow you over. Then there’s the equipment manager, team doctors, and an assortment of sports-injury and performance focused physical therapists. Let’s not forget about the coaches’ wives. I’ve read two books about this, and in both books, it’s these ladies who are teaching these young men some manners and other life skills. The athletic director and his staff make team schedules, negotiate sponsorships, TV deals, bowl game deals, and stuff. In the smart schools, the athletic association is a separate entity from the academic institution, although it is fundamentally controlled by the academic institution. This helps prevent the egg-on-the-face moment when voters realize that a football coach is the highest paid government employee on their state’s payroll.

That’s it. That really is all I know about football.