Monday Night Football

My sister's husband is from Buffalo. Well, really from Baltimore, but the Bills are his team for sure. He cried when I bought him a Buffalo Bills grill set for Christmas. It was embossed metal, meant for the permanence of his love for the Bills, and therefore, yes, Josh Allen. The love of men is of a kind that is not often seen among our species, especially the love of men that we've not ever seen. But there it is. Monday Night Football. 

Josh Allen ran for 121 yards on 10 carries, and threw for over 200 connecting on 12 of 19 passes. He scored a touchdown running and passing. The Bills won in overtime for Josh Allen's first ever overtime victory in eight tries. He continues to amaze. 

But what is it with men and real love for men they've never met? I'm guessing there's some analogue for women, but I have to figure out the men first. I can honestly say, TONIGHT, I love Josh Allen. Here's a dude, scruffy and hard-nosed, lives up in West New York, ogres on a daily basis and eats the livers of men on the football field. What is not to love?

He makes me want to be a better man.

And that's just it. 

My Cup Runneth Over

The thing about gambling is that it is more or less so. That spread makes all the difference. 

I showed up at Southland Casino in West Memphis with no expectations and a wad of cash. It was my anniversary and my wife was treating me. They upgraded our room to the corner suite. From the 12th floor we could see Rt 55 and the now defunct greyhound track. Grass grew through everything and paint was there, to an extent. You feel like the version of a million bucks that costs ten. It still does the trick. 

But everyone looks like shit. There's not a baller in the house. We're all there to pretend we're ballers. But in houses of money, there will always be a reward for skill. The reward begins by alluring the prey. 

My wife and I go over to a table, just looking to have some fun. But that 3 letter word has such a variety of shades of meaning. One man's fun is another's fuel, and ones fuel is another's conflagatory proposition. We sit at the table, get dealt a hand to have a woman gnawing on our ear for a side bet. Lady, we obviously don't know what we're doing. Obviously, we're not giving you a side bet. 

But I get to thinking, we do it all the time. I have no idea, or maybe to be more fair, little idea, most of the time, I'm generally winging it. That doesn't stop me. But I got to thinking. Some people are not winging it. They know exactly what they're doing. There is still some speculation, and some risk, but they mostly have their win / win mapped out. That is, until the rules change, or some other conceit that arises as miscalculation. Greed. Power. Influence. 

So we pony up on a bet, for posterity, and lose immediately, not even knowing what happened. Seriously, I can't even tell you what game they were playing... some improvised game of blackjack. More power to you if you can get someone to play by your rules.

We had fun. Bought lots of drinks, did some dancing. The live band was intoxicating. There was a smoking section which was basically like Pinocchio's hell. It was cool to have a smoke in there, but the self-destructive debauchery was just a touch too literal. 

You're Sixteen, penned by the Sherman Brothers, reached number one with Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney. Now it seems predatory. The Redskins and The Indians had to be redubbed The Commanders and The Generals. The attractions of yesterday are today's snubs. It's trickle down economics. Can't you just feel the rain falling from the toilet of the penthouse? 

It's not so much that we're fooled by it, as it is drinking from the cup handed to you. 

hubris

And there they stood, mouths agape. The whole world. There were no chinks of metal from his wheelchair, which was stone frozen in place. He looked down the barrel of a gun. There were many but he looked down just one, in front of the setting sun, which looked like rage coming down. Bang. Brain tissue everywhere. When the mouths shut, some were dry and dispeptic, and others were licking lips of quiet satiation. We have split one mind in two. 

At night I go back to my Adirondack chair by a fire burning, my wife in the other chair, and we talked about everything and nothing. Some things she share disturb me, but I let it go. We can't bicker on everything. But do we bicker on anything anymore? Not much. This acceptance is how it happens. 

I have a friend. He has several guns and if the shit hits the fan, I am going to his place with my gun so that we can make a plan. Or maybe it's better he comes by my place since I have a basement and an attic for defense. He thinks it's less a big deal that the wheelchair man's head was exploded on National TV; we've gotten soft, and out of touch. Could I watch a cow brain exploded?, and yet I eat it's shredded meat from a styrofoam tray. This kind of disconnect is artificializing us, he explains. 

There is no joy in killing. It is the end. Perhaps there is joy in the storyline. But for the dead, in the case of cows and people, they are dead. The joy is in the agony. When it is lunch, quick and painless. When an enemy, 30 years contemplating the end, a dramatic ceremony to the extinguishing of a soul, rotten and deserving of extinction. We make it clear, we will kill you, today, and you will not exist. 

It is procedure that is the most penetrating form of artificializing us. Procedure is law, gospel. It is higher than our word. Violate procedure and violate God. It is written, this is how we do things. But we still have reactions. 

Is it Super or Artificial?