Random post on Steeler loss, women's march & sleeping with Madonna

So many topics to tackle on this day: Do I blog about Steeler loss? Madonna being outrageous? The marches? Yes! Yes! Yes!

Time for the ever-popular random item post:

• I can’t believe I’ll be 54 in less than a month and I still haven’t slept with Madonna. She was very boastful of her promiscuity when we were both younger, and promiscuous was something I aspired to be. I figured it would just be a matter of time before we hooked up. Really, I thought it would happen before I was 40. It could still happen. The week has just begun.

• My friend John’s a football coach. He texted me toward the end of the Steelers 36-17 loss that the result meant I had to admit the brilliance of Patriot coach Bill Belichick. He’s a great coach, sure, but will be forever tainted by episodic cheating. We know anytime the Patriots win, the Patriots cheat. We just don’t yet know how.

• I really hate the Patriots. How much? When I saw “Manchester by the Sea” with Val, she thought the movie was a tragedy because so many bad things were happening to people. I said it was a comedy because all the bad things were happening to Patriot fans.

• Politics aside, the transition is fascinating. I know if I moved into the White House, one of the first things I’d do wouldn’t involve comprehending nuclear codes or state secrets. One of the first things I’d do would be to have someone explain to me how to use the new TV remote. It’s the first thing I do any time I check into a hotel.

• A buddy of mine texted me last night that I should challenge the legitimacy of the Patriots win and organize a march on Washington. I’m thinking about it.

• I was unprepared for the size and planetary participation of the women’s march. It was truly monumental. But Trump’s right. I didn’t see that kind of passion during the election. But he’s a fool if he thinks he can be dismissive of what happened Saturday. 

• Saw “La La Land” with our 16-year-old last week. Loved it. Very entertaining. I’m really liking Emma Stone. She was also great in “The Birdman” and “Zombieland.”

• The funniest show on TV right now is “black-ish” (ABC, Wednesday, 9:30 p.m.) It’s a hilarious take on what black people think about white people and vice versa. The episode that combined elements of MLK Day with white and black reactions to Trump election was truly brilliant.

• I caught some of the Atlanta game with some buddies and while we were admiring their firepower, we struggled to name five people who’d ever played for the Falcons. I came up with Deion Saunders, Bill Fralic, Steve Bartkowski and Michael Vick. Atlanta in general, a city best known for its airport, doesn’t seem to have much personality. It’s the Jan Brady of major American cities.

• Still, I prefer Jan to Tom Brady so there’s no doubt about for whom I’ll be rooting. 

• My conservative friends say me writing about Trump infuriates them; my liberal friends implore me to write about him all the time. Me, I’m going to resist writing about him because I find myself being too careful, too thoughtful. If I say anything inflammatory I want to be sure I’m both factual and concise. That’s a lot to ask from a deadbeat blog I do for free.

• Having said that, I relish reading every other word avid Trump-bashers compose.

• And having said that, I was appalled by jokes about Barron Trump. 

• A lot of people were gleeful to see a protester sucker punch neo-Nazi Richard Spencer. I was not among them. I disdain seeing anything that justifies an escalation of violent incivility. Him getting punched just standing there is not funny. Having a piano accidentally fall on his head would have been.

• SNL, a show which I can go for decades without watching is in a golden era, a rare epoch when cast talent meets newsworthy hilarity. This, to me, is the most appealing and reliably hilarious cast since the heydays of Carvey, Hartman, Myers and crew. Aziz Ansari, with whom I’d not been familiar, was hilarious this week.

• My daughter attended a high school dance Saturday. She had a great time. One complaint: she said the music sucked. “It was nearly all rap,” she said. I had to be careful about how I said what I said next. “Honey,” I said, “this might put you in an awkward position, but I want to propose to the student council that your Daddy be in charge of the music at the next dance.” She reacted with angry scorn, but in her heart she knows I’d be a great DJ for kids of any age.

• For me, the biggest WTF moment of this weekend’s inaugural WTF gala was Trump entering his lame-o concert to the tune of the Rolling Stones, “Heart of Stone.” What’s the message behind that? Certainly not compassionate conservatism. If I was producing the show I’d have suggested the Stones ’94 rarity “Sparks Will Fly.” One way or another, it’s bound to be prescient. 

• I hope the White House TV remote isn’t carelessly connected to the nuclear launch codes.

• My Super Bowl prediction: Atlanta 56, New England 32. Those aren’t scores. Those are my predictions for the high temperatures in each city the day of the game.

• If I ever had the opportunity to sleep with Madonna, I'd follow the advice I give to young men as they leave for college: "Put condoms on everything. Put three condoms on some things."

Related …

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I suffer from a glibness deficit

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A-Rod & Madonna: say it isn’t so!

Getting real angry about fake news

Earth Day? World needs a Mirth Day

I think MLK would have become a Steeler fan

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I’m guaranteeing the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to beat the hated New England Patriots on Sunday and go on to win the Super Bowl.

Take it to the bank!

And the last time I felt this arrogant about a prediction was Nov. 8 when I assured everyone that on Jan. 20 Americans would be unified in celebration of the landslide election of President Hilary Rodham Clinton.

For what it’s worth.

But I have a good feeling about the Steelers. They haven’t lost since Nov. 13 (it was a bad week for liberal Steeler fans) and are riding a 9-game win streak into Foxboro. They are 5 1/2 point underdogs against the Patriots.

The Steeler dominance upends my custom of artificially rooting for teams based on on cities where I’ve enjoyed getting drunk or ones populated by women who were easy when I was single.

By that standard I used to think I’d one day write a glorious ode about why I was rooting for the Cleveland Browns to win the Super Bowl but it doesn’t look like that’s ever going to happen.

Rooting for Pittsburgh is in my blood. I absolutely love everything about the city. Oddly, it only meets one of my essential criteria for fandom.

Sure, it’s my go-to for drunken revels, something I’ve been doing with reckless abandon (is there any other kind of abandon?) since, oh, the fifth grade.

But all the Pittsburgh debutants I knew when I was single were way too proper and refined for my ambitions. Man, it took me years to find a girl loose enough to even consider letting me kiss her.

Know what I did next?

I married her!

I was 33.

I never kissed a girl from Boston, which is ironic because I feel like I’ve been screwed by people from Boston more than any city on the planet.

The Patriots cheat.

I’m not being rash. My source on this is the Patriots. 

In 2007, coach Bill Belichick agreed to pay a $500,000 fine for Spygate, and Tom Brady dropped his appeals and served a four-game suspension for playing with under-inflated footballs, a phrase bound to induce snickers among those of us with juvenile bents.

Coincidentally, I was recently watching football with my cousin and he predicted pretty boy Brady would be the next celebrity athlete to undergo a sex change operation, ala Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner.

It’s an interesting hypothesis, one that at the very least would silence sports talk radio critics who contend Brady’s been female all along.

As for the NFC, I’m hoping Green Bay wins. I had a splendid time in Wisconsin on a 2009 travel story. I like the people and know they’ll be having fun in Sobelman’s in Milwaukee, a saloon where I’ve never felt more at home for an out-of-stater.

I’ve driven through Atlanta, which given its historic traffic problems is like winning a Super Bowl. But I’ve never socialized there for even a moment — and airports don’t count.

I wrote about Atlanta in ‘14 and how two measly inches of snow turned the entire city into the snowbound Donner Party.

I revere native son Martin Luther King Jr., and he may have become a Falcons fan. Or maybe not. He died young, just 39, in 1968 and was blessed with wisdom and foresight.

Had he lived, I could see him becoming enthralled with the leadership principles of a young Chuck Noll as he led the Steelers to four Super Bowl championships in the ‘70s.

Had King not been murdered, he’d be 88 years old. I like to think he’d have eventually moved to Pittsburgh. I imagine him at a Steeler pep rally smiling and waving a Terrible Towel.

So I’m hoping for all these reasons the Steelers kick the Patriots butts this weekend and go on to win their 7th Super Bowl.

Because the Patriots cheat and the arc of the moral universe is long and bends toward Pittsburgh.

Steelers 35, Patriots 13.

I have a dream.

Related …

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How recollections of good bourbon & horny farm girls influence my NFL picks

Pittsburgh, City of Champions, will win

Flakey thoughts on Atlanta’s snow traffic nightmare

Jump hugs with dangerous drunks

A day of light & darkness; Pens win & mourning Orlando

Global warming making it cool to be cold

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This weekend I’m feeling like the hysterical woman in the 1961 “Midnight Sun” episode of “The Twilight Zone.” The classic stars Lois Nettleton as a distraught New Yorker imprisoned in her apartment as the mercury soars.

Earth is edging closer to the sun and we’re all about to be incinerated.

But the show has a happy ending, albeit “happy” is relative in a Rod Serling way.

It was all a dream!

The earth is not moving closer to the sun. 

It is instead moving further away and we’re all destined to in days turn into human popsicles. The doomed woman revives enough to — ahh! — smile at her frigid fate. Sure beats the heat!

It’s a coin toss, but in these days of mounting global warming I’m suddenly finding sub-freezing weather charming.

It’s cool to be cold.

Understand, it’s only cool as long as I’m insulated from it.

The forecast high for the next three days is 19. That’s 72 hours of the kind of bitterness that would have had the hardy men (and token pregnant Indian woman) of the Lewis & Clark expedition looking for a Motel 6. 

I’ll only be out doors for a total of about 45 minutes this weekend — 44 if parking spaces nearest the bar door are available. Bar time is an essential remedy to those of us prone to cabin fever.

Ensconced in our home right near the warm hearth, I’ll stir the fire, watch TV, read and smell the simmering soups.

Cold weather induces in inert relaxation; warm weather, frenzy.

A typical spring/summer/fall weekend involves yard work, house maintenance, garden weeding, mulch spreading, hyper recreation, etc. Oh, and it all involves lots of things that sting. It’s all in the pursuit of happiness, as misleading a phrase as there’s ever been.

Pursuit’s unnecessary. Find a comfy enough chair and happiness will find you.

I can list three reasons for my growing affinity for winter. One is brevity. This is a nasty stretch, but it’s only three days. It’ll be 50 again by Wednesday and in winter 50 is the new 70.

Two is ingenuity. I enjoy finding ways to outsmart winter, as I’ve done in the above picture. It’s my pullover hoodie splayed out in front of the furnace register. It infuses every fiber of the garment with a warmth that armors the body for the cold to come. 

Happily, the girls have inherited the wisdom of this trick and on days like this parts of the house resemble the warehouses where they ready the big floats for the Macy’s parade. Sadly, this will likely be the only thing the girls will inherit from me.

Third, I’ve outgrown the foolish need to behave stupidly outdoors.

I’m talking about attending the Steelers playoff game Sunday. Windchill temperature at 1 p.m. kickoff is forecast to be minus-4.

Ten or so years ago and I’d have been there. Heck, 10 or so years ago I was there.

It was the 2004 AFC Championship game versus the New England Patriots. Kickoff was 6 p.m. The high that day was 11 degrees. It was the second coldest game in Steeler history and maybe the coldest I’ve ever been in my life.

I’m a bitter-ender so I stayed till the final whistle, praying the whole time my car would start. We lost 41-27. I remember thinking, “Well, it was a tough loss, but hats off to New England. They won fair and square.”

Wrong.

Pats coach Bill Belichick later confessed in the NFL Spygate investigation he’d cheated and agreed to pay a $500,000 fine.

So on Sunday I’ll be cheering the Steelers from my recliner and hoping both teams play a fair game.

Because that’s the way of the six-time Super Bowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers.

And when the game is over, I’ll drop another log onto the fire, enjoy a hot meal and await the girls’ decision as to that evening’s filmed entertainment.

I’m hoping it’s “Frozen.”

Related …

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Winter’s over; Keith heads south

Winter forecasts all folked up

Future town halls to determine weather

Roll Tide: The last winter day

Re-run Sunday: NFL needs armless linemen

Are you ready for some football? Me, neither. Steelers are off today and the Pirates are in the thick of a pennant race. I still maintain the biggest problem with the NFL is over-officiating. They dominate, slow and ruin the game. This ’11 post offers one solution (others linked below): armless linemen! Yes, armless linemen would cut down on holding.

Have a great Sunday, my friends!

Tune in tomorrow when, barring any unforeseen adventures, I intend to write about our ugliest presidents. Yes, Donald Trump continues to inspire.

It was another weekend of the ruling elite infuriating the 99 percent of Americans who feel helpless about doing anything in the face of tyrannical oppression.

I’m talking about the officiating in the NFL.

We can disagree about income disparity, presidential politics and whether God’s playing favorites with the Denver Broncos because Tim Tebow’s such a Savior suck up (my take, “Jesus, Tebow’s a winner”).

But I think we can all agree NFL over-officiating is ruining the game. Calls are excessive and confusing and now every scoring play is under review. That makes sense until you realize the next logical step is reviewing goal line plays that don’t involve scoring but, upon further review, might have.

Some fans say this is good because getting it right is essential.

Well, no, it isn’t. If it was, we’d have cameras isolating every single player to ensure they weren’t committing an infraction.

What’s essential is getting it as close to right as possible without making the games last even longer than they already do.

You may not have noticed amidst all the beer and truck commercials, but the typical 3:15 minute football broadcast has just 11 minutes of action.

That’s right. This January 2010 Wall Street Journal report found the ball is in play for just 11 minutes. That means for every 60-minute game we’re getting 49 minutes of foreplay.

That’s a lot of teasing anticipation for a game that considers itself manly.

Speaking of foreplay, let me get to the point and -- fear not -- this won’t take long. I’m one to talk when it comes to delivering a full 11 minutes of satisfying action.

I have several radical solutions to over-officiating.

First, get rid of instant replay and all but two officials -- one for the offense, one for the defense -- and ask the players to agree to play under the honor system.

That means if a player commits a foul, he needs to raise his hand and confess his sins. Then he needs to apologize to the player he’s victimized while one of the two referees steps off the penalty yardage.

Introducing a player honor system would flip the culture of showboating and finger pointing on its head and provide exemplary role models for an America starving for them.

My friend Ron at the bar has a good suggestion. He usually does. In fact, he’s the inspiration for many of these posts. If Ron ever decides to give full sobriety a shot I might have to spend half my time blogging about something like gardening.

He suggests changing the rules so the only time a penalty is called is when a player uses both hands. This would eliminate many questionable calls.

But this has about as much chance of succeeding as does players conforming to the honor system -- although it would be hilarious to see the reaction to insufferable goody-goody Roger Goodell announcing the change.

Using just one hand goes against a lineman’s nature. We need something to ensure a player can’t use either hand in blocking.

We need armless linemen.

Every 11 man squad should have five lineman who for the good of the game have either lost or had team-approve doctors sever the limbs above the elbow.

I haven’t looked into, but I imagine there is a deep pool of armless and otherwise able-bodied men who have fought and sacrificed in our recent wars.

The flag wavers at the NFL should jump on this. This would be giving our disabled vets a place to excel where we can honor their service and allow them to be shining examples that nothing can stop men so motivated.

And think of what it would do to our fighting forces. Imagine the heroic risks they’d take on the battlefield if just the right injury might lead to a spot on an NFL roster.

I offer this idea knowing full well it is controversial and will be picked apart by critics who fail to realize NFL over-officiating is killing the game.

I’m going to spend the rest of the day trying to resolve some of the more obvious questions.

And I promise to get right back to you as soon as I figure out how an armless center can snap a football.

Seeing red over NFL pink

NFL sacks itself

NFL not rich enough: needs throw-forward jerseys

Dick Cheney should replace Simon on “Idol”

Am I ready for some football? Nope

Black men can’t kick

When rabid beavers attack

(742 words)

When I read the story of the relentless rabid beaver I thought, man, the Steelers could have used a couple of them against Peyton Manning and the Broncos last night.

In fact, I urge the Steelers to consider changing the name of the team from The Pittsburgh Steelers to The Pittsburgh Rabid Beavers.

“Here we go, Beavers! Here we go!”

I’ve never heard of a creature so fierce. Allow me to summarize.

Lillian Peterson, a Falls Church, Va., granny, was finishing a recreational lake swim when she felt a sharp pain gnawing at her ankle.

According to Justin Jouvenal’s lively Washington Post story, “The 83-year-old woman twisted around to see what attacked her and noticed one thing: large, orange teeth.”

It’s gripping in every sense of the word.

It was the beginning of an ordeal that would last 20 minutes and leave Peterson seriously injured. It was beaver vs. Peterson, a friend and a nearby fisherman named Mike Korin who arrived with heroic intentions.

The story reads like the humans were the underdogs.

“I heard horrible yelling and knew it was the real deal,” Korin said. “She was saying, ‘I can’t get out of its grip! It’s got me! It’s got me!’”

I’ve seen movies where innocents were besieged by mindless zombies and horrific creatures like Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction.” This one rabid beaver makes them all seem like pussycats.

Peterson and her friend were beating on the beaver with sticks, gouging its eyes and screaming for help. Then to their relief, I'm sure, Korin motors up.

What does the beaver do?

It attacks the boat!

If I’m Korin, this is where I flee, my pants full of crap. There’s just nothing in my experience that’s prepared me for dealing with a boat-attacking beaver.

But Korin’s made of sterner stuff. He began beating the beaver with a canoe paddle so savagely the paddle shattered.

The counter-attack seemed to stun the beaver enough for Korin to turn his attention to Peterson. It was a tactical error because the beaver regrouped and came at them again.

Again, Korin is waling away with the stump of his shattered canoe paddle. I imagine by now he realizes he is in a battle for his own life.

With a beaver!

An emergency medical crew arrived with a stretcher and a medical kit.

The should have brought a bazooka.

Both Peterson and Korin are raining blows on the enraged creature. In my mind, I imagine them timing their swings the way the old railroad men -- gandydancers -- did so that three strong men could strike a single spike with timed ferocity.

Finally, the beaver roles belly-up in the water and ceases all movement. For a relieved moment, a stunned hush falls over the crowd.

Care to guess what happened next?

“All of a sudden, the beaver flips over and comes back to life,” Korin said.

Yes, the beaver was playing possum.

Finally, five men and women use a strong net and subdue the 45-pound beaver. They lashed it to a light pole. The story said animal control officers arrived and euthanized it.

That seems insufficient. I’d have severed its head, its limbs and its paddle and incinerated them in furnaces in five different states. Anything short of that and I expect any day now we’re going to read about a rabid beaver on a bank robbing spree.

Always looking for a competitive edge, it won’t surprise me if some of our professional athletes start undergoing rabies shots.

Not to prevent rabies.

To acquire it. Having rabies sounds like steroids on steroids.

I worry that this isn’t isolated, but is a another drastic harbinger of climate change that has animals acting funny.

That’s usually a base plot line for many of the instant camp classics SyFy channel is producing.

They take two fearsome creatures and mingle their DNA and have the resulting monster terrorize some beach community where artificially enhanced blonds romp near naked amidst the dunes.

For instance, recent titles include “DinoShark!” “Sharktopus!” and “Piranhaconda!”

This Virginia beaver sounds part pit bull.

I think part of why the attack is so jarring is we’re conditioned to thinking of beavers in such cheerful terms. They’re industrious, they’re resolute, they’re listed in the Oxford English Dictionary since 1927 as acceptable slang for female genitalia.

Leave it to beavers. These powerful furry little creatures are ever-eager to find new and unusual ways to command our attention.

Related . . .

• Chimps gone wild in tabloid world

• Rabid raccoons: Gunnin’ for good neighbors