Much ado about nothing
All who missed me, raise your hands.
Thank you, sir.
Gosh, and I had to miss all the action around here, like that Spitzer stuff ... I thought they were talking about one of Santa's reindeer. But, gosh, black socks at $4300 an hour. Wow! They never taught us that at HM.
At what? Says which?
Horace Mann. The high school from which both the ex-Gov and your faithful narrator graduated. That's right, we're both alum of the same school, although not at the same time, obviously. Both Hilltoppers. But please keep it under your sock, uh, your hat.
Good God, will the bloke ever get on with this Mailbag column or is this the Halfwits' Comedy Hour? Sorry folks. Just getting warmed up for upcoming skirmish.
Let's start with
Hey, wait just one minute. Length of hair is in the Bill of Rights. It's God given. Besides, in some cases it interferes with ethnic persuasion, such as hermaphroditic.
"It doesn't mean players have to cut their hair," said Atlanta's
And if all this tells you merely that it's been a deadly dull offseason, listen to what's coming:
"Hey, Z," he writes. "How do you feel about the money-grabbing NFL shamelessly marketing products like Viagra and Cialis without regard for children in the audience. When watching a game, my four-year-old daughter asked me what an erection is. Should kids not watch football?
Advice from Doctor Z -- Keep an alert monitoring position on the remote control, and mute out all commercials, which probably is a good idea anyway. How times have changed. When I was a kid we had erector sets, you know, those metal things you'd build an Eiffel Tower with. And that's as far as we'll take the analogy.
"I never saw you out there handling 300-pounders (you didn't look at my first marriage). Get off of Warren's ass. Show some love to a real player who'll never be forgotten."
The interesting point is one that we hear every 20 minutes. Only an ex-player has the right to criticism same. It means that only a 300-pounder can take a rip at Warren, right? You can only wince when a singer hits an operatic wrong note if you can sing grand opera yourself, correct? You can't call an egg rotten unless you can lay one. Ball's in your court, Josh. Your serve.
This is getting too heavy, so I'm going to lighten it up with a loose, frivolous E-mailer of the Week Award to
"Was there ever a time that you were not brutally honest with your opinions? What happens when the Redhead spends all day cooking and it tastes bad?"
You know something, I'm going to let La Flamboyante answer this one herself.
"We'd been going together about six months. I brought him, as a gift, a lasagna I had cooked. Frozen ... a 20-pound block of it ... it was hell, shlepping it on the plane. I'd gotten the recipe from an Italian chef. It had a touch of cinnamon in it. It's a trick they do in Italy. We thawed the thing out, and as soon as he tasted it he started making fun of it.
"Cinnamon in the lasagna, ha ha ha, cinnamon in the lasagna. How long did I hear that? I'm still hearing it. Now I don't take a chance with anything. I make him things I'm sure he likes. Like meat loaf."
Years later I was one of the founders of the Old Blue RFC at Columbia in New York. We played a lot of international matches, which included a month-long tour of the UK, Ireland and Wales. I never felt that ruggers would be able to play pro football, but I did feel that a good American college football team, with about a month's training, would do very well in the British sport. But I had never really seen rugby at the very top level.
Until Red and I went to New Zealand two times and watched some Super Twelve matches, which featured many internationals. I saw a lot of guys in the 235-250 range who were serious hitters -- and faaast! With a little training I think they could convert to effective linebackers or pass rushers. And many thanks, Tom, for the nice things you wrote.
Whoops, I overlooked further mention from an earlier e-mailer,
In the old, and I really mean old, Metropolitan Opera days in New York, kids could do something called Suping an opera. You went down there early, lined up for possible selection as a "Super," short for supernumerary, and if you were one of the lucky few who was picked, you got to be on stage in the crowd scenes. That's right, you were actually in the thing. Seems incredible, doesn't it, that they would take a chance on some loony kid acting crazy and messing up a performance, but I never remember it happening. Which opera do I remember best? The last one I successfully Suped, Lucia di Lamermoor with
To end this piece, before we part
Scottsdale's Jeff enjoyed one wine
But from the Doc it got a "Fooey,"
No care now, just scoffing. In 1991
We visited the place around five years after you did, Armand. It was like the Mad Hatter's tea party. Everything was cuckoo, from the costumes they were wearing to the food they were serving. Which tasted odd. Strangest innovation of all was the redhots they put in the salad, those little cinnamon candies that gave your palate a zzzzap! with each bite. Actually the evening was so goofy it was funny. A few months later we told someone about the redhots.
"You're lucky," she said. "When we were there, we got popcorn in the salad."
Ding dong and let's hear it for Bedlam by the Sea.