"Put the odds at 95 percent" that Joe Gibbs will serve out the final year of his contract as coach of the Washington Redskins, says WaPo sports writer (and self-proclaimed "Gibbsologist") Thomas Boswell. It's not the fact that he got it wrong that's embarrassing; it's the fact that he calls himself a Gibbsologist the same day he misses the mark.
I do approve the comparison between Joe Gibbs and the Kremlin, however. Gibbs's new "special advisor" role even has a Putinesque ring to it. More broadly, every right-thinking, America-loving American knows that Washington is the Evil Empire.
It's too embarrassing to talk about the complete meltdown that is Michigan's season only two games in, so let's all just look away and leave it at that. Except, it has to be said: This talk about firing Lloyd Carr is premature. Things are going so badly for Michigan that it wouldn't even help. The offense is executing poorly, the defense is playing without a playbook, and the whole team is operating under some wicked magical hex. But two games ago, they were ranked 5, and they didn't lose twice because they were outcoached. Otherwise, it's a calm week in the NCAA, especially if you don't particularly care about the outcome of the Notre Dame–Penn State matchup.
But tonight! It's the first Longhorns game this Texpatriate will get to watch on the big screen. And after talking with people who saw last week's game, my expectations about our chances against Texas Christian are appropriately diminished. Colt McCoy will really have to step up early with some plays that inspire the defense to keep #21 TCU from converting. (Every Texas fan knows the curious truth that it's the offense that has to provide the defense with opportunities to shine.) If he doesn't, TCU is without a doubt a team that can walk away with a win. I'm with the Star Telegram: TCU should be playing in the Big 12. (I'd love to switch out Baylor for a team that has a hope of playing competitively from time to time.)
Over in College Station, the Aggies are playing this week minus Reveille; the Aggie mascot was grounded after she bit her handlers. (Bitch.) It's frankly a bad sign for the Aggs that the team didn't have those handlers executed on the spot—they're showing a lack of resolve. And why isn't the Bryan–College Station Eagle reporting this story? Apparently, they have more pressing news to cover.
Even after spending a c-note on the cable college game-day package, this Texpatriate still couldn't watch the Horns play their season opener. Not from the comfort of my own home, not from any of the local bars. Every fall, I'm reminded that I'm a stranger in a strange land.
I'm also reminded that it's fall and college football is back. Right. On. Now, would that I'd actually seen the Texas game, I'd've kept my eye on the defense. I'm anxious to see how how defensive co-coordinator Duane Akina manages the new blitz-centric defense while also debuting three new starters in the secondary. The defenese needed more than a tune-up—they needed a test drive. By the numbers, it was a bumpy ride; Arkansas State led Texas in passing, rushing, and total yards—basically, everything but the final score. Numbers don't always tell the whole story, but today's story sure sounds sounds familiar: A shaky secondary allowed an undeserving offense to establish the passing game and maintain possession of the ball.
Still a win, though. Hook 'em!
Elsewhere: Michigan lost! To Appalachian State! Picture that horde of hill folk, all crazed eyes and recessive traits, run amok in Ann Arbor, the tune from Deliverance hanging on the air. Squeal like a pig, Chad Henne! I love this game.
Tennessee Titans coach Jeff Fisher benched Vince Young for the team's debut exhibition matchup, apparently after Young broke a team rule. But which team rule? Let's say the penalty fits the crime: Young must have been caught hosting professional bumfights, or sponsoring a startup Colombian drug cartel. There just can't be any truth to the rumor that Tennessee handed the Washington Redskins this easy victory because he broke curfew. Vince Young is a monster. He simply cannot be expected to be home by lights-out or to abide by any other law of man. Vince Young eats this baby? Fine, ground him. Never ever ever ever ever eat a baby, Vince Young.*
But if he did miss curfew, or devour a toddler, Fisher ought to cut him some slack. Looking back on last season—and that calls for a long, longing backward glance past the summer, which has dragged on for an agonizing 8 or 9 months now, without even a World Cup or Olympics to fill in the televised sports vacuum—Young exceeded every expectation. Back at Texas, he was the best there was at what he did, even if what he did wasn't very complicated. People always say that Young was only ever expected to give the field one read, and if that option didn't look good, he would tuck n' run. True, Texas's playbook was thin, but critics tend to overlook his phenomenal passing stats, as if the numbers don't count because he didn't arrive at them by less efficient second or third option plays. Turns out, in the NFL Young is playing all his options and the sidearm isn't any career-threatening handicap.
Here's one to watch on Dallas: Isaiah Stanback. Once he's healthy he's going to be the kind of wide receiver that people talked about when they thought about moving Vince Young away from QB. Six-foot-two, speedy, knows how to read the defense—Stanback has a shot at becoming the next Randel El. At the time I thought it was weird that Dallas drafted a QB with a messed-up foot in the fourth round, but now I get it.
* Kim Thayil is also known to eat babies.
Jen Graves in the Stranger mentions that a television spot featuring a psychotically animated version of the 2012 Olympics logo is causing seizures across the UK. Christ almighty, I hope it didn't take epilepsy on an epic scale for Britons to reconsider this one:
Graves calls it a "swastika or two Simpsons characters sexing it". Christ, is that ever ugly. I'm anxious just looking at that. I'm going to have to push that down the screen, aren't I? Totally: a Nazi standard by way of Hasbro.
Washington Watchman Mike Licht passes on an item in the Examiner on the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities. The article reports that the Commission botched a deal to put art—craft, sculpture, site-specific yadda yadda—in the new baseball stadium. Here's the long and short of it: The Commission couldn't fit $850,000 under the stadium construction cap, so the item for the 2008 city budget was billed to general obligation bonds—the idea being that the Commission would then own the art and lend it to the Nationals at no cost. Councilor Kwame Brown, who has "oversight of the arts commission as chairman of the economic development committee", oversaw right through this clever ruse. Now, the stadium has no art and the Commission is out $850,000. Whoops!
Licht is quoted in the article as saying that the Commission's play was an "absurd attempt to get around the spending cap." Or, in site-specific terms, an error. In brighter news, the 2007 Nationals may not turn out to be "historically bad" in the final analysis. I'm sure Charles is thrilled.
Art Fag City on the opening of Michael Gondry's The Science of Sleep at Deitch Projects:
AFC had the good fortune of sharing the line with most of last years rejects from the failed Deitch sponsored reality show Art Star* a fate only marginally removed from hell. Flanked by an artist with clown red hair and a tattoo that read “I am living art”, it didn’t take long before the words “this is for suckers” passed through my lips. And you know, thank God that thought occurred to me, because when I walked to the entrance to try and get a better look at how the line was moving, I saw that the gallery was only letting five to seven people at time into a sparsely populated gallery. Needless to say, I did not make it into the show and no Gondry spottings were made. I did however manage to take these crappy ass photographs of the cardboard car in the window display, and document the four gallery goers inside the space. Oh yes, it was an evening of great tidings to be sure.Such lines (and, well, bullshit) aren't to be found at the many District openings taking place this weekend. But I won't be having any of it, anyway—not because I'm finally saying no to lukewarm white wine or have exhausted all my excuses for why I'm still out of business cards. No, art nerds, on Saturday night I'll be attending a much more exclusive and critical engagement—my home screening of the Texas–Ohio State game, the most critical game of the regular season along the Longhorns' path to repeat national titles. More on that later.* The gallery notably insists on labeling this piece of shit a documentary.
Though I won't be in attendance, I did want to especially recommend that people with the will and the way stop by G Fine Art on Saturday night to support a fundraiser for Street Scenes: Projects for DC. The first wave of this yearlong series of art interventions is a project called "Art Not Ads," which promises "mobile billboards that will drive around the Washington area displaying poetry, paintings and video." Price of gas being what it is, no doubt they could use the boost.
To be certain, there are some question marks over this series. Several artists have complained about sudden and seemingly arbitrary deadlines, organizational confusion, and lapses in communication. The Web site redirects to last year's "Found Sound" exhibit. But I also know that the work is well on its way, if not mostly completed. And anyway, the list of participating artists is excelsior—Sherman Alexie, Colby Caldwell, Lucille Clifton, Kathryn Cornelius, Joy Harjo, June Jordan, Maggie Michael, E. Ethelbert Miller, Brandon Morse, Jose Ruiz, Kim Schoenstadt, Reetika Vazirani, and Ian Whitmore. The curators (Nora Halpern, Ehtelbert Miller, and Welmoed Laanstra) and organizers (Lisa Kolker and Derya Samadi) should be commended for putting together a street team that doesn't rely on artists typically associated with public art. I'll buy it—this could be interesting.
So here's the deal: I'm going to save the money I intended to gamble on Texas and put it toward Street Scenes (and no, damnit, that's not for lack of faith in the 'Horns!). I'm pledging $50. If someone pledges money in comments, I'll match it (up to, say, another $50). With the cheerleader-in-chief taking up residence elsewhere, someone has to step up with the rah-rah. Therefore: Rah-rah. Give them your money, and I will as well. And hook 'em!
While Mike Grass is away for a couple of weeks, I'm picking up some of his Express-ive duties. Need to catch up on the haps in the District as of 6 a.m. this morning? I'm your man. In case you don't click over, I'll take the opportunity to especially plug Lynn Berenbaum's tennis blogging. She's covering the Legg Mason Tennis Classic here in the District, and while I couldn't tell you Legg Mason from Foghorn Leghorn, I can absolutely recommend Berenbaum's easy, locally focused, just-gossipy-enough writing style. If you, in fact, actually enjoy tennis, you'll love her stuff.
Zidane proves that even soccer can be made exciting with a dash of UFC—and now you can relive the excitement on your personal computer. The French televised commentary of the game (via these hooligans) is the saddest stuff ever. Mais pourquoi, mais pourquoi, mais pourquoi?
(Meanwhile, I'm writing something about a French artist and I'm trying my best to include the word "headbutt" in a noninterruptive way, but I'm fairly certain I'm looking forward to a red card from my editor if I do.) Pretty busy today and tonight—see you internets tomorrow.
So much for United States soccer. Incidentally, it's strange that there's still a city called Nuremberg where things like soccer games take place. In any event I don't really care all that much either way about today's outcome and only hope to beat Yglesias to the tackiest sports-pun post title in recent memory. (Though Yglesias points out that had we come back from our 2-1 deficit, we'd've had ourselves a Nuremberg rally. Pass me a beer, MY! Did I mention that I don't have a job?)
I usually leave the basketblogging to my capable roommate, but there's room for more observation at the crucial junction of roundball and literature. Courtesy of newest New Critter Nick Desai, here's Dwyane Wade on the classics:
I've read Pride and Prejudice a couple of times. It's one of my favorite books, which usually surprises people. I guess they wonder how a love story from Regency England could be relevant to a 21st century basketball player from the Southside of Chicago. Class struggle, overcoming stereotypes and humble beginnings, getting out of your own way and letting love take over: these are things I can relate to, definitely. Reading the Classics is like opening a door to a world that at first looks so different from mine, but when I look closer, is filled with people who struggle with the same things I do. And the great thing is, they may be a little farther along in their struggle than I am, so I can actually learn something.Providing that Wade does not describe himself to others as "a 21st century basketball player," it seems that his press agent—whoever wrote this boilerplate—has done him some disservice, no? Namedropping Prince Regent's England, only to recognize that basketball players—black kids from Chicago, really—don't talk like that? It could be that I'm just touchy and cynical after Vince Young was judged too dumb for football.*
Nevertheless young Wade should share his library with his teammates. Is Shaq not the very picture of Lord Byron's Childe Harold?
Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful moodAnd so Shaq won't rest until he gets his ring without Kobe Bryant. Maybe it's a stretch to say that moving to Miami to play for the Heat parallels CH's restless travels across wide lands. And in certain respects Kobe makes the better Byronic hero—his vices are more notorious, anyway. The real question here is to what extent Wade's reading preferences illuminate the differences between Pat Riley and Phil Jackson's approaches to coaching.
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,
As if the memory of some deadly feud
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below:
But this none knew, nor haply car'd to know;
For his was not that open, artless soul
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not control. (from Canto I)
* And by that I mean that the Wonderlic is incapable of quantifying Young. Design a test that measures clutch Rose Bowl performance, then come talk to him. I haven't forgotten, I ♥ VY.
I feel like an ass for not having made it out to any of the "Who Do You Love?" panels hosted by Ian Jehle; the two previous discussions covered interesting topics, and I'd believe that Jehle is a competent moderator (so crucial for these things), but the last two Sundays just haven't been good for me. Now, this week's panel sounds fantasticLisa Bertnick, Allison Miner, Michael O'Sullivan, and Erik Sandberg talking about the human figurebut really, I don't feel even the slightest compunction about missing it. It's been scheduled to start during the Super Bowl! Christ, come on! I'll never understand what drives some people. (But by next Sunday, when Mary Coble, Jayme McLellan, and Ira Tattelman talk about site-specific and installation art, I'll have forgiven the enterprise.)
Bill Cowher isn't someone I love, not by any reading of the word. But I'm waving a Terrible Towel in solidarity (and to make the divide at the house more interesting), largely in the hopes that the victory party in Pittsburgh will make for good television news over the next few days as the city consumes itself. (And I don't really believe that there are football fans in Seattle.)
Hey, can we laught at Leinart for saying that USC is the better team? If only the football teams had agreed to settle the question by some way other than playing football. Seriously, I'm laughing at that jerk.
To the draft, or not to the draft? One thing my friend Brendan and I were talking about last night with regard to Young's throwing motion and its potential to impede his success in the NFL that I think I think is right: Vince Young is 6'5" and some change. That makes him taller than plenty of quarterbacksnot all, but manyso I'd like to see what his motion actually amounts to in terms of height and arc at release. It certainly looks worrisome, but Young's passing style has not amounted to cringeworthy performances this year. The scouts may be wrong about his NFL prospects, but it's hard to say without taking his height into consideration.
No doubt his passing accuracy still needs development, even if his style is acceptable, but that's something he's going to get through an NFL team whether he takes another college year or not. The same is true for Matt Leinart and every other quarterback who makes the pro-ball transition.
So, draft? I'm completely happy to see Vince Young stick around and rack up trophies for my alma mater, but he ought to go in, especially if he thinks that Houston is now reconsidering their options. And Houston should reconsider their options. They have a great prospect in Reggie Bush, but they have a great prospect and homegrown hero in Vince Young. Houston must not only develop its loser team but also could use to invest in its relationship with its fans. The day after the Rose Bowl, calls poured into local sports radio affiliates from Houston fans voicing their support for a Young-helmed offense. It's a win-win decision with the first pick, sure, but Young brings intangibles to the team that Bush doesn't offer.
The first Texas game I ever watched, I watched in relative luxury: By happenstance I'd come into two skybox tickets (courtesy of the dean of the liberal arts college) for the season opener my freshman year. College football is great, if comparatively sloppy! I thought, and then a hostess brought me a complimentary Shiner. Revelation. It was like a burnt-orange blood transfusion.
That's not a process that's complete until you've met and thoroughly reviled the Aggies at the rivalry game, and, in those days at least, daytripped to Dallas to watch the Sooners beat up on the 'Horns. Exciting, exciting games, but I don't think I've ever been so excited about a sports game as I am about the Rose Bowl. Texas is going to the big dance and we are not playing around.
So if anyone wants to buy me a ticket, I'm totally buying drinks. But in the event that no one wants to pony up $1,500 to entertain me, I'll be buying drinks here. Where are we going, people?
Stupid Redskins. I woke up having forgotten about the game, and it hit me like a dead weight on the Metro. I can't believe I watched one of the worst televized athletic competitions in history to that conclusion.
Tom, before you even say anything, you're banned. And you're frankly looking a little squirrelly, Nabob.
