Last night, driving the roads of Upstate New York, you were alone.
Nobody at the stoplight. Nobody in the rearview. No cop behind the billboard. No ghostly hitchhikers. Highways empty. Homes lit by TVs.
Bills game.
For four hours, the face of humanity belonged to Josh Allen. He saved all sinners, spake all truths, offered salvation and - in the end - with the flying monkeys from Hell draped over him, made one mighty heave that shoulda been caught - damn, it was sooo catchable - sorta like a certain CF who shoulda snagged an easy pop fly, but let's no go there... And suddenly, to the hearty tribes of upstate, the season ended, and maybe the world.
Bills game over.
Technically, there's still the Super Bowl. As a Giants fan, I can revel in our perfect ignominy, having gifted the city of Philadelphia their best player. But from Jamestown to Plattsburgh, from Watertown to Binghamton, across the ghostly boat paths of the Erie Canal, across the shadows of the Haudenosaunee Confederation, time stopped last night.
For cynics, it was predictable. Everyone knew Godot wouldn't show, the cavalry wouldn't arrive, Lucy would pull the football, Quinn the Eskimo wouldn't get here, and once again, the end would be filled with Taylor Swift's manic smile.
This year, along with crashing into tables and wearing ketsup suits, Bills fans took to spontaneously singing "Mr. Brightside," a surprisingly triumphant ode to infidelity, and - true fact: The most popular recorded song in England's history. Next year, they should add Gilbert O' Sullivan's "Alone Again, Naturally," about a guy left at the altar.
Another year, another loss. Another cold winter night around Syracuse. Someday, I do believe it will work out. The city of Buffalo will prevail. The Bills just need to stop playing Pat Mahomes. They need to play the Jets and Giants. There shall be a Great Transcendence. Just not sure we'll live long enough to be there. In the meantime, there is Mr. Brightside.
Gotta, gotta be down because I want it all
It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this?
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
While he's having a smoke, and she's taking a drag
Now they're going to bed, and my stomach is sick
And it's all in my head, but she's touching his chest now
He takes off her dress now, let me go
And taking control
Swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis
But it's just the price I pay, destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes, 'cause I'm Mr. Brightside
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13 comments:
From my daughter's favorite group,The Killers.
I don’t like a game where you can have two minutes left and know that there’s no way one team can still come back and win. Football has become an exercise in performative bullshit, but not athleticism.
It's not just 2 minutes. If you're down by 14-17 points entering the last quarter, it's virtually impossible to rally and win. The other team knows you will pass on almost every play. That's what makes baseball so great. While innings are set, time is not. You can always rally from behind, no matter what the score is.
Those two review calls were maybe the absolutely worst I've ever seen. The Bills were screwed royally. Just incredible.
Yeah, "the performative bullshit" has me down, in all sports. It's just stupid already, coming on virtually every play. Like so many things in American life, when you have to constantly tell everyone how great you are, it's less than convincing.
I could not watch the game yesterday as I was deeply immersed in other activities that prohibited me from watching or listening to the game.
That said - I give you this and, a beverage is on me if anyone of you fine chaps know of the Jazz Butcher:
https://youtu.be/rmsiYH1--EU?si=GyE5VVOSaHkF2DnK
Yes, the guy sells high-quality meat in New Orleans.
https://www.lafrieda.com/
https://www.lafrieda.com/
https://www.lafrieda.com/ (I don't know why I wrote that, it just seemed like everybody else was doing it.)
Them guys got the meats. Good stuff.
I have lived within, then on the edges of, then just wear the meat market used to exist. I am still here, but they all left. Pat Lafrieda used to have his main depot about eight blocks south of me. Written on the side of the building, and I have photos to prove it, as well as the trucks, what the slogan, “Pat LaFrieda Says you can’t beat my meat.“ there is another variation on it that I don’t remember. He eventually sold it and moved operations to Jersey I believe. The place became an art gallery and then it just became another high-rise super luxury condo.
Again, please excuse the bad spelling. It’s not me. It’s fucking Siri
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