| | | So today, my friends, I come to you off one of the great tactical weekends of my TV-watching life.
I take a long pull off the Sparkletts at The Cooler, sated in my accomplishment.
What, pray tell, deserves such lauding?
|  | | The Murph captured the TV in time to watch Ahman Green throttle the Lions ... |
I answer you: My Total Domination of the In-Laws over Thanksgiving weekend.
See, I married into an intellectual family. Multiple Ivy League degrees, advanced library science diplomas, wall-to-wall NPR and classical music -- and bird-watching.
Yes, bird-watching.
So Thanksgiving arrives. My girl and I saddle up the rig and motor up 14 hours on I-5 to pay respects to her Pacific Northwest parental units in
slate-grey Seattle. All I can think the whole way up is:
(1) How can I maneuver Total Control of the TV?
(2) How can I follow the big Football Weekend while feigning interest in the New York Times Sunday magazine piece on Al-Jazeera?
(3) When in the name of Kurt Cobain will it EVER STOP RAINING?
Anyway, we get there. I spend Wednesday night laying groundwork -- talking Afghanistan, economy and the subtleties of J.K. Rowling literature. I awake
Thursday morning, and make my move.
"Hey, kid," I say to my best girl, "what say I fire up the Lions game?"
She's the ultimate gamer.
"Go for it," she says. "My dad's reading The Atlantic, and if you keep it low on the volume, he'll never notice."
I click on the remote, and begin a three-day orgy of football from their padded couch in their plush Bainbridge Island condo, just steps away from
their fully-loaded fridge and the father-in-law's one concession to hedonism -- a completely-stocked cooler full of brew.
|  | | ... and kept it long enough to watch Colorado stun Nebraska on Friday afternoon. |
Oh, my.
Lions-Packers. Cowboys-Broncos. Ole Miss-Mississippi State. Texas-Texas A&M. Colorado-Nebraska. Arizona-ASU. Ohio State-Michigan. The Skins Game,
just to push my luck. And, for dessert, UW-Miami.
How did I do it, my friends?
In one all-encompassing phrase: Go straight-up Eddie Haskell.
Utter charm is your first requirement. To distract her, you must praise the mother-in-law at all times for her cooking skills. "Why," you say on
Thanksgiving night, "you should go on 'Iron Chef' and win international acclaim for this turkey!"
Occasionally attempt to include them in your TV-fest, is your second requirement. "Why," you say to your father-in-law, when he wanders too close
to the screen, "didn't the Huskies have some good teams when you were a brilliant UW student back in the '50s?" Sit back and half-listen to the tales
of life as a UW student in 1958, all the while keeping one eye on Ken Dorsey's footwork.
Give in occasionally, to show you are not a one-dimensional caveman. In other words, fake it. "Why," you say, "of course I'd like to see the 6:40
p.m. showing of the Harry Potter movie! Please. Let me buy the Red Vines." This, my friends, actually happened -- and was planned to perfection, as the
day's run of games had met its end on the big-screen that Friday.
|  | | Ken Dorsey and the 'Canes ate dawg for dessert. |
And, when you feel the patience running thin for your tyrannical run on the remote, when you feel the in-laws start to get suspicious, you go for the jugular: You feign interest in the bird-watching. Let me set the scene. A fabulous flying creature landed in a nearby tree. The father-in-law got the books and binocs out. Meanwhile, I kept a steady eye on the TV and, just when he felt alone, piped up: "Well, is he still there? What species is he? Do you have a good read on him?"
As if divine intervention guided my weekend, the bird kept the old man rapt for four full hours, people! And I swear to you, just as the goalposts in Boulder were being torn down, just as I had finished absorbing the sights and (low-volume) sounds of the year's most stunning game, the father-in-law piped up: "Well! He's gone! Flew away, just like that!"
Holy mother of God. You know how every televangelist has that ridiculous miracle story on Sunday morning, the one they think merits a financial
contribution? Cooler denizens, I do firmly believe now. I believe that fabulous bird was sent by a Higher Power, to keep the Father-in-Law busy
while the Buffaloes hung 62 on Nebraska.
I humbly submit to you, then, a Thanksgiving Weekend List of Five:
1. Creed: Stick a fork in 'em
Let the record show, I've never been into Creed. Blowhard longhairs plying pretentious, forgettable metal was how my book wrote them off. But being a
student of popular culture, I was aware of the boys. Plus, covering the 2000 Oakland A's, I heard my share of being taken "Higggh-er, to a place where
blind men see!" every time Jason Giambi went deep at the Coliseum.
(And where, perchance, is this place? I've got relatives with astigmatisms, and they'd like the road map.)
So anyway, Creed shows up in Texas Stadium at halftime. This is, of course, one of the Sure Signs of a Band's Death. I saw it happen with Big Bad Voodoo
Daddy in Miami. I was covering the Falcons-Broncos Super Bowl. I knew these guys as the paragon of West Coast Cool, having been featured in "Swingers" in
the final scene at the Derby. Next thing I knew, they were doing a mid-week presser with Gloria Estefan at the Miami Sheraton: D.O.A.
Saw it happen with San Francisco's own Third Eye Blind, Thanksgiving '99. Their one radio hit, "Semi-Charmed Life," managed to bring them a dollop of fame. Then pompous front man Stephan Jenkins -- and I don't spew this venom only because he was shagging Charlize Theron, an almost inconceivable concept -- shows up at the Silverdome halftime, pimping some new forgettable tune: Finished.
Now, Creed has met its inevitable demise. The whole bit, too: NFL-choreographed dance routines, intro by Greg Gumbel ... just a total train wreck for a band with any designs on integrity.
|  | | Is there a more pompous man in the NFL than Brian Billick? |
2. Brian Billick: Put a sock in it, chief
This is all I ask of pro sports coaches in this little pas de deux we dance as sportswriters: Cut us a damn break. We have earned life sentences in five-figure prison, but we love the games. We love the stories, we love the unscripted drama, and we love the personalities.
So how does Billick repay our deadline sweat? With his pithy defense of Elvis Grbac after The Stiff One did the blind-pig-and-acorn thing in the comeback
win at Jacksonville: "That's why owners own, coaches coach, players play and writers write."
Hey, Mr. Offensive-Genius-Whose-Only-Glory-Came-Because-Marvin-
Lewis-Coordinated-an-Historic-Defense: I've got news for you. You wrote a book on football. It was
an incredibly tedious tome written for an audience of about 10 of your most patient friends. I'm gonna go George C. Scott in "Patton" on you: "Billick,
you magnificent bastard, I read your book!" And let me tell you, pal: It sucked.
Which is why, my man, writers write. 'Cause we can, bucko. Those who can, do. Those who can't? Guess they coach football.
3. Skins Game, 21st century-style
We could argue all day about the "validation" rule in the Skins Game, but I'm more disturbed by a darker development: The rock 'n' roll intro to golf events.
|  | | We don't need a rock-'n'-roll montage to get us ready for Monty. |
Golf is what it is, people. It's a gorgeous sport, a beautiful art, and a game to be appreciated in measurements -- one of the rare pieces of American sport that demands patience. It's not Monday Night Football. It's not worthy of crashing helmets. Hank Williams, Jr. need not apply for any golf telecasts, OK?
So why do I have to tune in to the intro of The Skins Game and see a montage to U2's "Elevation"? And why, in one sickening development, does the Bono
line "the orbit of your hips" have to be juxtaposed with Colin Montgomerie getting through a tee shot, swiveling those Doubtfire haunches in slow
motion? I swear, I'd rather get a lap dance from Bea Arthur. I appreciate the hard work of today's TV producers. Lord knows, they make twice the cash I do.
But is it so wrong to lean on the old standby -- Barry White and the Love Unlimited Orchestra's "Love's Theme," the sweeping orchestral tune that augmented helicopter intro shots of Pebble Beach for the Bing Crosby Clambake in the early '80s -- when in doubt? Just a thought.
4. Redskin revival
I guess I owe my Redskin fan readers an apology. (Are there any out there? Readers, I mean?) At 0-5, I pondered mocking new lyrics to the old Redskin
fight song. Now, born again hard at 5-5, we must reconsider. How about this for the old RFK crowd to sing:
Hail to the Redskins!
Hail Coach Mar-ty!
T. Banks is Winning!
An ex-cuse! For Dan to party!
Hey, it's late. It was a long drive back from Seattle. Send me something better. I know you can.
5. BCS mess: My solution
|  | | Here's a novel idea: How 'bout letting Joey Harrington and Pac-10 champ Oregon play Big Ten champ Illinois in the Rose Bowl? |
This is revolutionary, man, so you'd better sit down. Put down the bong.
Think about this, in its profound beauty: Bring back the four New Year's Day games!
Dude, it's so simple, it's profound. If John Lennon were around, he might pen: Imagine a Rose Bowl between Oregon and Illinois -- it's easy if you try.
An Orange Bowl between Miami and the Big 12 champ, say, Colorado. A Cotton Bowl between Big 12 South champ Texas and, say, Tennessee. A Sugar Bowl
between SEC champ Florida and, say, Oklahoma.
No computer rankings. No quality losses. No need to desecrate the sacred turf in Pasadena with -- bleccch! -- Miami and Florida. Just Old School stuff, man. It solved nearly every problem in the past -- why abandon it? Plus, it gave us Keith Jackson in the Arroyo Seco, Verne Lundquist in Texas, and the Jan. 1 nightcap of Don Criqui in Little Havana.
Now that's a four-game New Year's Day I'd like to sneak past the in-laws.
Brian Murphy of the San Francisco Chronicle writes the "Weekend Water Cooler" every week for Page 2.
|
|
|
