Brutal odyssey of non-movement

We shed tears for Marty Schottenheimer today. We also spend most of this morning reading weird shit about some sort of boring chef’s personal life and then about tectonic plates underneath New Jersey. I was working on some sort of high-flown theory on why the New Yorker is ultimately, double-reverse a wart on the eyeball of culture and needs to be firebombed back into non-existence with vast amounts of prejudice. As with most high-flown theories propagated, or alluded to, from this pulpit, you’re not ever going to see word one of that. Also compounding the problem is that I don’t think I actually agree with my own theory. More importantly, I’m going to stop writing now. My sister got me a membership to the Art Institute. Now I can go figure out who painted the weird colonial-era crazy giant-head tiny-bodies portraits of well-to-do Pennsylvania merchants. I’ve been trying to remember that for a while. I think the Colts just scored. No, “fucking amazing catch [unclear] ” acc to M. d.S. Pereira. “Dallas Clark”

I spent all of yesterday watching the playoffs. Actually I spent all of yesterday playing MarioKart and switching back to the playoffs in between races. I get angry at the MarioKart computer sometimes.

Ah, now I remember: I was going to sermonize against Joe Theismann/Paul Maguire and Phil Simms. I don’t understand how these three men (we might also indict Mike Patrick and Jim Nantz on lesser but still very serious charges) are allowed, and in fact specifically preferred, to serve as professional commentators. Never mind. God needs me on the floor

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