Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Send in the Clowns (and other NY Jets metaphors)!

I enter the second week of the football season feeling a bit like the Coyote who has looked around and noticed that while the barrel didn't fall his head, a falling piano is right behind. He hears the Doppler effect, he feels the sunlight blocked out be the rapidly descending object, and he manages to respond with only a feeble parasol that he raises, mournfully, above his head.

I'm not sure what a piano is doing in the middle of the desert. It's probably an anvil that I'm thinking of, but for Jets fans, the improbably bad is always possible, even likely. If a Jets fan wants to believe that the very best is bound to happen - like the likelihood of repeating the offensive mastery they should for three quarters against Buffalo in their opener on Sunday - then he ought to also remember that a priceless Steinway may indeed be somehow teetering on the arid precipice just above his head. You know, just to be on the safe side. If he manages to elude that, I'm sure there's the anvil waiting for him somewhere. An anvil's a lot heavier, and it comes in the colors of the AFC's usual suspects, the predictable, clinical uninspiring Patriots and the dull, pounding Steelers - gray and black, respectively.

Whereas apparently, the Jets are a clown car. Much has been made of it, and Jets fans have voiced various levels of offense to this. I happen to love the fact that I root for a clown car. The whole concept of a clown car is completely opposite to the River Rouge plant of identical Model T's produced out of Foxboro, which seeks to render everything its bandwagon jumping fans see into total similarity. Through the bleak eyes of Bill Belichick, football remains a slickly imagined, grimly produced corporate product. I know I was complaining the same of our Romney campaign donor-owner, Woody Johnson just weeks ago; as Emerson metaphorically asks, "Do I contradict myself?" You damn right I do.

At least now I have the clown car as a humanizing metaphor. I root for the clown car. Get that clown car in here. I like to think that, like something out of the Gumball Rally, the clown car manages to elude Roscoe and the police. By the sheer luck of its unwieldy design, it manages to make the maneuvers needed to get off the highway, onto a stretch of local road, through somebody's backyard, and back onto the highway again, all the while offering a bunch of carnival sounds and musical notes through its horn that make kids think that the ice cream man is drunkenly pouring through the neighborhood. It's not ice cream, kids. It's a bunch of clowns. Send in the clowns. Ah, don't bother. They're here.

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