“I’d rather be lucky than good?”


Quoth Raiden: I don’t think so. … Man, that movie
is terrible. Will someone please remake it?

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy it. Christopher
Lambert is great, but seriously… Way back

when I was 17 John Elway was still
tossing touchdowns, but never winning a

Super Bowl. Then came the day number 30
showed up at Mile High and said, “Hey … John-boy.

If you give me the ball, I will run with it.
Maybe we’ll win. Maybe not. What’cha think?”

“Seriously?” was probably the Q.B.’s
reply. “Who does this asshole think he is, the

son of God or something? Should I just call him
Jesus?” Pfft. No. His name was Terrell Davis.

He was just a dude who played football for a
few years of his life. How many? I wonder,

but I’m too lazy to look it up and my
roommate-slash-research partner Megh is out for

a run in a hoodie with the phrase “Fuck off,”
emblazoned across it, 50 times in small,

black print and one time in big pink letters. The
weight of the world seems to be on her shoulders.

I bet she feels like Kordell Stewart when he
went under center for the Pittsburgh Steelers.

When he first began his career, he was a
utility player – a slash. An athlete.

He played quarterback for Colorado in
the nineties. He’s best known for a Hail Mary

pass he threw in Ann Arbor in the Big House.
Michigan Stadium. It holds something like

one hundred, ten thousand of the quietest
assholes you’ve barely heard in your life. “O … H…”

Somewhere, someone just hollered back, “I … O.” – It’s
an Ohio thing. It’s not quite as lame as

the damnable Jeep wave, but it’s close. So? It’s
something kindred spirits do for a moment

of “Home” no matter where they are in the world.
Some people take it too far, of course. They wear

their fandom on their sleeve like religion or
a three-piece, gray flannel suit. It’s all about

how it makes them look to others. “Ohio
State is good? Cool. I like them now.” Confession:

I did that … well, sort of. In 8th grade I was
a wearer of Michigan merchandise. Swag.

Stuff we all get? The need to fit in. My friends
all liked the Wolverines, so I wore their hat

and t-shirt like the rest of them. But deep down?
I was a Buckeye through and through. Those silver

metallic helmets and the scarlet jerseys
with the massive Woody stripes around the sleeves

were enough to catch my interest at first.
It’s like Seinfeld said, “We just cheer for laundry.”

But the Buckeyes had something no one else had:
Tom Tupa. He was the only other Tom

I knew existed. I think I was six or
seven and there he was: Tom Tupa. My world

got a little bigger that day, knowing there
was another Tom out there somewhere, besides

my absentee, cop father, whom I only
saw on holidays and my birthday in Feb–

-tober. Why is my birth month the hardest to
spell and pronounce? Look at this:  FEBRUARY.

Say it out loud and think of Ben Stiller as
Simple Jack from Tropic Thunder. “The dumbest

motherfucker alive,” is how he’s described
by Robert Downey Junior’s character – the

dude, playing a dude, playing another dude.
My ex complained about Downey when Iron

Man came out and I never understood why.
I do now. I wish I could apologize

to her. Robert Downey’s a likeable guy.
She was talking about me. She was finished.

I don’t blame her one bit. I was an asshole.
Am I one now? Who knows? It doesn’t matter.

“The person who broke you can’t be one two
fix you.” I read that somewhere and I agree.

For some reason Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet
just popped into my head. Joel and Clementine.

“Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’.” … Oh my … well.
I’ll just throw on Blonde on Blonde and listen to

Track One: “Rainy Day Women #12 &
35.” How does that one go? Oh yeah, right…

“Everybody must get stoned.” There’s a tuba…
or a sousaphone. One of those is right, right?

I read somewhere that Dylan wouldn’t let his
friends play the instrument they knew how to play

and everyone was inebriated in
some way. That’s why it sounds the way it sounds. It’s

wild. Carefree. It’s just friends playing music.
The song isn’t about drugs, though. It’s about

the book of Acts and what happened to uh…
49ers? 666. Joe Montana.

John Taylor. Back of the end zone. I was 8
when my Dad’s accident occurred. Or maybe

I was seven. I don’t know. It’s too far back
and I blocked most of it out. Bad times indeed.

How does a dump truck flip and burst into flames,
trapping the unconscious occupant inside

his own personal crematorium? Hmmm.
Strange things are afoot at the Circle K, eh?


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