Steve Blevins's Open Salon Blog

Super Bowl Preview

Wed, 3 Feb 2010 07:02:02 -0500

On Sunday, February 7, I will be live-blogging the Super Bowl. Although I'm not an expert in American football (cricket is my passion), I am conversant in the subject. Last night, I forwent a dalliance with Salome to immerse myself in the intricacies of the sport. Today, as a preview, I am sharing my insight with those who may be joining me on Sunday. I hope this introduction will enhance your appreciation of the match.

Unlike European ball games, American football is played with an ovoid ball, which is easier to carry and toss than its spherical counterpart. This "football" must be moved by various methods to a predetermined area known as an end zone (a region beyond the finish line). Like cricket, football is a team sport. (If you are unfamiliar with cricket, imagine a Brahms sextet with six instrumen-talists playing harmoniously. Football is similar, except that each team has eleven performers.)

Each performer is charged with transporting the ball in a designated direction toward a finish line. This is not an easy task because the opposing team (there are two teams in a match, though there are many teams in a "league"-- but we are getting ahead of ourselves) – is charged with thwarting his efforts. Should the opposing team be so fortunate as to claim the ball, it will attempt to trans-port it in the opposite direction toward a different, albeit complementary, finish line.

You may be inclined to ask, how may a ball may be transported against such opposing force? Here lies the challenge! Each team has four "chances" to trans-port the ball a specified distance: 9.1 meters (roughly ten yards). Each chance is called a "down." Should the team succeed, it is awarded four additional chances; should it fail, it must relinquish the ball to the opponent. If a member of a given team crosses the finish line, the team is awarded "points." ("Points" are awarded to teams, not individuals -- a rare example of socialism in America.) The team with the most points wins the match.

How is the ball transported? Generally, there are two methods. The ball may be carried by hand or transferred from one individual to another. Transfer is often achieved by tossing the ball in the air. If a performer chooses to carry the ball, he must be prepared to withstand the brute force of a rival who seeks to restrain him and bring him forcibly to the ground. (Think: Mercutio and Tybalt without swords.) (Incidentally, this event, known as a "tackle," has no equivalent in cricket.) If he tosses the ball, he risks having it seized by a rival. Such an event is called an "interception." (Note: four-syllable words are rare in football.)

How is a team organized to achieve its goals? The answer is complex and beyond the scope of this introduction. Just as an opera utilizes sopranos, tenors, baritones, and basses, so a football team employs performers with unique talents. Each performer has a "position," which specifies his role on the team. I will not intimidate you with terminology; suffice it that there are throwers, catchers, runners, pushers, pullers, and kickers. Before each "down," members of a team converse with their leader (the so-called "quarterback"; think: maestro) to discuss a plan of execution. The conversation is brief and occurs in a "huddle," a circular arrangement of team performers.

As in most operas, each football match is comprised of two acts separated by an intermission. The acts are further divided into scenes. The acts are called "halves"; the scenes are called "quarters." (Unlike opera, football intermissions feature music from the contemporary repertoire.) Because football is popular, professional matches are held in "stadiums," theatres larger than La Scala and the Metropolitan combined. Aficionados, called “fans,” may observe the match in a stadium or with a television machine.

During the football season (the term "season" applies equally to opera and football), many teams compete with each other. The two with the best perfor-mance are invited to participate in the most august tournament of all -- the Super Bowl.

This Sunday, Americans everywhere will be celebrating Super Bowl XLIV. (Roman numerals indicate continuity with the games of the Roman Colos-seum.) The two featured teams will be the “Colts” and the "Saints." (Each team is linked with an American city to nurture civic pride. None of the performers actually hail from these cities). The victor will receive thunderous applause and accolades beyond measure. (Think: Radames’s return to Egypt in Aida.)

Please join me on Sunday for this extraordinary event. Whether you’re an aficionado or sociologist, the tournament is guaranteed to delight.

*Update (Feb. 6, 2010): Tomorrow's live-blog has been canceled. I need to go grocery shopping.

Massachusetts is for Pussies

Mon, 25 Jan 2010 08:01:05 -0500

Scott Brown Martha Coakley

Well, well, well. Lookie what happened: Scottie Brown beat Martha Coakley in Massachusetts and now the whole country has its panties in a wad. Jesus, what a bunch of cry-babies.

I'm a Glenn Beck conservative, so you probably think I'm happy about the election, right? Wrong. Scottie's no conservative; he's a baby killer with a porn fetish. And the Democrats? Shit, they think Armageddon's here. Scottie wins by five measly points and everyone screams "landslide!" Here's my idea of a landslide: Scottie running uncontested and Martha cooking me hash browns for breakfast.

People in Massachusetts wouldn't recognize a conservative if he fondled their nipples. You want a real conservative? Jim Inhofe of Oklahoma.

Senator James Inhofe

Jim can down a six-pack, fire a rifle, and scratch his balls without even blinking. But is the media interested? No, cuz Jim's a real American. They'd rather get off on Massachusetts. Why? Because Massachusetts has health care. Massachusetts has schools. Massachusetts has paved roads.

Well, I'm gonna let you in on a secret: Massachusetts is for pussies.

You haven't been there? Trust me, it's a shithole. If Obama had half a brain, he'd move the troops from Iraq to Boston, where some real ass-kicking is needed. Of course, it wouldn't help; the people up there like being taxed up the wazoo. And where does the money go? Gay marriage, of course.

The media loves Massachusetts because of healthcare, and the Dems want to see it go national. Well, good luck. You'll have to sell all the oil in Alaska just to cover the crack babies in Tulsa. And besides, why should I pay for some guy's ulcer when I didn't pour the Jim Beam down him in the first place?

Now, don't get me started on schools. Everyone worships Massachusetts because of Hahvaard.

Harvard College

Let me tell you something about Harvard: It's for asswipes. I knew a guy who went there and started reading Jane Austen. He still can't change an oil filter. And speaking of oil filters, everyone's impressed that Scottie drives a pickup. A Suzuki pickup.

The only thing Suzuki's good for is making shade for my rottweiler. Around here, the only people in a Suzuki are two cerebral palsy kids glued to the seat by the Johnson boys.

If Scottie wants to discover real America, he needs to drive his gay little pickup to Oklahoma.

We'll teach him the first law of economics: cut taxes. When taxes go down, meth production goes up. That's how you fix the economy. But don't count on it happening in Massachusetts. Their legislature has better ideas, like funding "art." And when I say "art," I don't mean the tattoo of Dolly Parton in my groin. I'm talking weird shit -- stuff made by French people (whose asses we should have kicked after we buried the Germans.)

Madame Cézanne in a red armchair

The fact is, America's going down the crapper because of places like Massachusetts. I wouldn't be surprised if Scottie confiscated all the guns in Boston, which is fine with me. Anyone with a blood alcohol level of 0.1 who can't shoot a dead horse shouldn't be messin' with firearms anyway. And why does Massachusetts need guns? You can't shoot global warming!

Has anyone stepped outside lately? I almost froze my nuts buying a box of Marlboros the other day. As far as I can tell, the only people "warming" are the gays getting it on in Boston. Oh, and if that offends you, don't bother to say, "Oklahoma is retarded." I've heard it a thousand times. Sure, we have the worst schools in America, but someone's gotta push the Mexicans back while the rest of you sip champagne and jerk off to Jane Austen.

Jane Austen

It wouldn't hurt you to show a little gratitude for the goods and services we provide, but I won't hold my breath. I'm a proud Oklahoman: I may be poor, drunk, and stupid, but there's something I'll never be -- a pussy like you.

My Real Identity

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 08:01:12 -0500

OS has been astir since Cartouche came out as O'Really. Now all OSers are divulging their true names, posting their true pictures, and identifying their alter egos. At first I was inclined to stay out of the fracas, but after some consideration, I've decided to come clean.

When I joined OS, I created a fictional character, Steve Blevins -- an affable, if somewhat eccentric, internist in Oklahoma City. I've enjoyed inhabiting that role, but it's time to come out of the shadows.

My real name is Michael Worthington. I'm a 22-year old college senior majoring in biophysics at Stanford.

Stanford University

After graduation, I'm taking a position as chief scientific investigator with a small but promising robotics firm in San Francisco. I hope to move into my new apartment by September.

Apartment in San Francisco

I grew up with my parents and two younger siblings in Manchester-by-the-Sea, just twenty miles north of Boston. My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps at Harvard, but I insisted on going to the West Coast.

Home in Manchester-by-the-Sea

Last year, I was elected captain of the lacrosse team, but I turned it down so I could spend more time teaching disadvantaged children how to read.

Susie, my pupil

Music is my life. As a high school student, I spent summers in the Berkshires studying violin at the Tanglewood Music Festival. Now I'm assistant concert-master of the Stanford Symphony Orchestra.

Stanford Symphony Orchestra

Thanks to a classmate, I've discovered the joys of rock-climbing. Last summer, my friends and I traveled to Provence to scale Les Gorges du Verdon. We had a blast!

Gorges du Verdon

Rock-climbing in Provence

It was there that I fell in love with French cuisine. Despite my parents' protests, I took a few cooking classes and immersed myself in Jacques Pépin's The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen.

But life hasn't been all that kind. I was devastated when Amy broke up with me last month. I sought the comfort of family and friends. My siblings, Mary and Luke, were wonderful. They've been interested in learning to ski since they saw me compete in the Chamonix Downhill.

The Downhill

So during Winter Break, I took them to Gstaad and gave them ski lessons. They caught on quickly and had a great time.

Our hotel in Gstaad

Still, I am lonely. Sometimes I fear I'll never fall in love again. But who knows? Maybe the right person will come along -- someone who enjoys Vivaldi and pinot gris on warm summer nights, who won't laugh when I overcook the lobster thermidor, who won't be ashamed to hold my hand as we glide down the moonlit slopes of Gstaad, who will humor me when I read Keats aloud or recite my favorite lines of Mallarmé.

Stephane Mallarmé

Anyway, I apologize for not having always been so candid. My heart was in the right place. I wish to continue writing under my nom de plume, though each of you deserves to know the real man behind the writing. Thank you for your kindness and forbearance.

Open Salon: Top 8 Kvetchers of 2009

Mon, 28 Dec 2009 08:12:03 -0500

Question: What do you like most about OS?

No need to answer. I know what you're going to say: The great writing. The spirit of community. Making new friends.

Bullshit.

You're here for the same reason I'm here: the bitching. No, I don't mean minor, petty bitching. I mean rich, eloquent, sophisticated bitching. You know, the kind you can't get at home.

Think about it: What was your favorite moment at OS? Was it that beautiful poem that touched your heart? Was it the political essay that changed your thinking? Was it a recipe?

Nope.

It was the Wimmen Pirate Rebellion. It was the Great Puddin' Rasslin' Match of '09. It was the Ramesh Incident.

Why?

Because each of these events involved conflict. The Pirate Rebellion put men against women. The Great Rasslin' Match put Cindy Ross against O'Really. The Ramesh Incident put the entire OS community against some Indian guy.

Was it civilized? No. Was it inspiring? No. Was it fun? Hell, yes!

While artificial conflicts (like the ones cited above) are enjoyable, real conflicts are essential. They alert us to our surroundings and summon us to action. They create the inertia that yanks us from our complacency. They advance the world.

So let's end this insufferable habit of celebrating writers and artists, and celebrate the real heroes of OS: the people who create conflict -- those who raise their fists with their voices, who stir up trouble and revel in it, who won't let the sun set without having the final word: the strident, the forceful, the indomitable -- the kvetchers.

Here is my list of top 8 kvetchers of 2009. If you don't like my choices, glaze a donut and post it on Tuesday.

Floyd Elliot

Look up "scoundrel" in Wikipedia and you'll find Floyd. Floyd's blog is an endless tantrum -- a superbly written, devilishly clever, grammatically flawless, stunningly inventive, jaw-droppingly brilliant tantrum. Floyd bitches about everything from bad grammar to the GOP. If you haven't been vilified by him, you're either an amoeba or one of his daughters. That he hasn't been nabbed by the Chicago police is a wonder.

O'Really?

O'Really? slithered into OS last June and she's been bitching about men ever since. The only thing that keeps her from strangling John Blumenthal is post-coital fatigue. Don't mistake her for a misandrist; she loves men -- intelligent, loving, handsome, sophisticated, debonair, (i.e. imaginary) men. Her affair with Mr. Wonderful would make you puke if she weren't so talented at describing it. I hope Blumenthal has his camera when she implodes.

John Blumenthal

John's been bitching about Hollywood ever since he stumbled into OS last August. His previous job? Writing for Playboy. But don't hold it against him: He kvetches even without porn. Midwesterners, beware. John's marvelously witty prose is a vehicle of discovery. In a series of delicately crafted exposés, he reveals that (you should sit down for this) Hollywood sucks! Gee, thanks, John. I guess I'll have to go to Paris to see the Mona Lisa.

Sally Swift

Don't get me started. Sally's been at OS since Noah. If you're afraid she's going to attack you, don't worry: You're not important enough. Sally saves her ammunition for presidents and popes. You want to debate her? Go ahead. She had Jimmy Carter for breakfast; she'll have you for lunch. I'm not saying she's mean; she's one of the loveliest people at OS. Just don't get on her bad side unless you want to see your bloodied face on her blog with an EP dangling from it.

Lea Lane

Lea never bitches. I've included her because she's smart and pretty. Hi, Lea! Hope you're having a nice vacation! Travel safely!

Sheldon

Sheldon is the most bizarre fantasy/nightmare here at OS. If you think he won't trample on you, check out the archives. He befriends chainsaw-wielding monkeys and dreams of punching Robert Frost in the face. His less endearing traits border on the psychotic. When his barbed wit isn't dipped in pickle juice, it's applying aloe vera to his toes. That's right: his toes. Handle with care. Sheldon is best consumed with aspirin and a heating pad.

1 Irritated Mother

1IMom is a woman of sundry moods. She'll make you pancakes for breakfast, then crack your nuts with the frying pan. Don't believe me? Check out her diatribe against Michelle Bernard. Who's Michelle Bernard? It doesn't matter anymore: Madré had her incinerated. And don't look for the evidence: It's been sprinkled into her chocolate soufflé. Enjoy Madré's lush poetry and exquisite humor, but don't get on her dark side unless you want to be a condiment in her next creation.

Shaggylocks

Shaggylocks is an expert on Coronet Films, instructional films from the '50s that teach teenagers about dating, courtesy, and citizenship. In fact, he's the world's only expert. Why? Because no one else gives a shit. Shags has been bitching about the '50s since I got here. Earth to Shags: the 50s are over. Life's now in technicolor! It's time to join Pedro, my gardener, and come out of the shadows. Shags is one of the funniest people at OS. He'll make you laugh 'til your sides hurt. But be gentle with him. Rapid movements cause vertigo for which there is no instructional video.

Okay, that's my list. If you're on it and want off, stop bitching. If you're off and want on, start bitching. And if you have plans for some major bitching in 2010, send me a PM, because I sooooo want to be part of it!

Happy New Year!

Red: The Color of the Tomato I'm Gonna Throw...

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 14:12:28 -0500

...at the next person who puts up a colo(u)r post.

I love Cat. Her idea is brilliant! It elicited some marvelous poems, essays, and pictures. I've had a blast reading them. Plus, it's great to see so many writers participating in a wonderfully creative project. The first two hundred posts were especially riveting. Then I began to notice some duplication in colo(u)r. At four hundred posts, I began to crave numbers. Now at six hundred, I'm ready to gouge my eyes out.

So here's an idea for an Open Call: I want to challenge everyone to delete a post with colo(u)r in the title. It's simple. All you have to do is press the delete key -- and poof -- the post will disappear. I'll set an example by deleting this post in an hour.

Good luck! And thanks in advance.

P.S. (6:00 pm): After reading the comments below, I've decided to leave this post up. It's no worse than my other crap. Have a joyous and colorful Christmas!