I have decided that the Patriots -the Superbowl Champion New England Football Patriots- will definitely not make it to the Super Bowl this year. No way. You guys are dreaming. And why? One simple reason: our kicker is doing product testimonials.
This is a crime against nature. Commercial appearances should only be awarded to players that actually handle the ball. Handle; as in, they touch it with their hands. Athletes who make their money with their feet, but not by running, are like children -they should be seen and not heard. More accurately, they’re like really ugly children -they should neither be seen, nor heard. They should make their little kicks and go back to their rooms.
Field goal kickers and punters are embarrassing anyway, as they always signal failure -teams only kick as a last resort, when they’ve tried everything else and they’re stuck. When the field goal guy comes on, the rest of the team is mortified.
Now, I know, Adam Vinatieri, the Pats kicker, is one of the best. He rarely misses, and he’s made a lot of clutch kicks and won some games and so forth. Still, the fact that he is appearing on ads for such outfits as Papa Gino’s and Tweeter can only be a harbinger of evil. Until they get one of the real players to do these ads, one of the actual football players who gets to touch the ball with his hands, they are doomed. Just thought you should know.
And that about wraps it up for sports; let’s see what’s happening in the world of business and high finance!
Like many people, I have margarine brand names I prefer and ones I don’t. For instance, one margarine brand I never buy is “Lard-O”; to me, it sends the wrong message. On the other hand, my favorite product name of all time is still “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter”, and recently I was reflecting on how the world might have changed had it become really popular. For one thing, I believe it might have spawned imitators, cheap knock-offs with names like “I Can’t Believe It’s Not “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter””, “Why, That’s Damn Near Margarine!” and “Phew! At Least It Doesn’t Seem To Be Lard-O!” For another thing… well, I can’t really remember the other thing, but I’ll bet it would’ve had quite an effect on the economy.
Now let’s bid a fond adieu to the hustle and bustle of Wall St. and return to some follow-up reports on some of the people we got to know in recent issues. Michael Jackson, whose last album was panned here in the Codder, was recently seen dangling an infant from the balcony of his German hotel room by its ankles; though this was no doubt meant as some sort of appeal to the review, I must say that I think it’s a little pathetic that he’d take it that seriously, and I still stand by my original opinion that the songwriting lacked direction.
I also finally hooked up with that crafty Bill Staines, the well-known folksinger and contemporary of Michael Jackson whom you may remember eluded me for a couple of weeks there. He said he got my calls and emails, and that he thought he did remember me from the old days, and that he hoped he could continue to avoid me throughout the new millennium. We laughed, or at least one of us did, and then I looked away for an instant and he was gone.
I did catch part of his show at the First Encounter (actually, the part that you could see through the crack in the door, as the place was sold out), and it was state-of-the-art folksinger stuff, friendly, unassuming, and pretty much baloney-free. He did a nice rap about the onset of senility, and ended all his songs a little quicker and with a bit less fuss than expected, which is rare and delightful.
I’ve always associated that sort of thing with Randy Newman, who often seems to catch his songs up short -before you can object, he’s gone. It’s a very necessary antidote to the Bruce Springsteen ending, which is grand, thunderous, and frequently infinite; really, an ending is the last thing you want to go on forever. In my opinion, the rare musician that actually ends things faster than you expect he will deserves some sort of special dispensation from the chancellery or 20% discount or something.
Report from Tinseltown: I finally saw “Punch Drunk Love”, and it’s pretty good, though not as good as Paul Thomas Michael What’s-is-name’s previous masterpieces, “Boogie Nights” and “Magnolia”, and I’m disgusted to admit that Adam Sandler actually has some very fine moments in it, and hardly does any of that dreadful baby-talk thing he does so often; still, I wish it had been someone else, and I’ll bet What’s-is-name will make a better movie next time and that it won’t have Adam Sandler.
NEXT WEEK -Frisky New Socks You Can Wear To The Doctor!