Showing posts with label Miscellany/Pop Culture/Whatever. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Miscellany/Pop Culture/Whatever. Show all posts
Sunday, November 16, 2008
On Reggie Williams
It's extraordinary that former Cincinnati linebacker Reggie Williams' story is offered so openly on NFL.com when it testifies to the kind of crippling life an NFL player should expect after the game is done. His recent surgical ordeals and the subsequent infections are horrific. It could be that his courage in the face of his knee replacements make his story poignant and inspiring, especially when Williams says he would play all over again if he had the chance. But nowhere does the NFL mention the fact that players can expect no help from a game whose punishment will require that they will someday move around with a walker while still clinging to middle age. That's the real story.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
It's All True
I've always had an odd smattering of knowledge. I recall one instance when I was about nine where I first used this knowledge and simultaneously experienced the doubt of the general public. Mom, Charlie and I were at a department store together. She was buying a rug or something, putting a salesman through what my brother and I like to call "The Treatment." She would have sales personnel eating out of her hand by the end of a trip to A&S. No question. And she wouldn't buy anything in the end.
While watching another salesman fall to pieces around her, I noted a flurry of activity. A man was walking through the rug department and setting off excitement as he passed. "It's Richard Dreyfuss!" someone exclaimed. Another person took up the cry, while the man in question, realizing the fuss he was causing, started to make for the escalator. People pointed and exclaimed. They had seen a movie star, one whose prime was the period of which I speak, the late 70's.
He could have passed as Richard Dreyfuss, but it wasn't him. For whatever reason, at nine I could recognize Richard Dreyfuss in the rug department if I saw him, and the man running like a spotted celebrity for the exit was not Richard Dreyfuss. I said this aloud enough for the adults around me to hear.
"What's that?" a woman said, looking at me with surprise.
I thought I was being helpful. This way they wouldn't be mistaken. "That wasn't Richard Dreyfuss," I said. "That's a guy who looks like him, but he's not."
The woman looked at me with the mild annoyance of one who has been asked to buy the Brooklyn Bridge. She addressed me with a wave of her hand.
"What did that kid say?" her husband asked after seeing the Richard Dreyfuss imposter finally vanish.
She looked at him with a dismissive gesture. "'Thinks I don't know what I'm talking about. Like I'm crazy or something. That was Richard Dreyfuss!"
*****
Like I said, it's been a strange week. Take for example my conversation around the lunch table. Our two English Department faculty lounges are two classroom-sized rooms, each with a long table for teachers to sit and talk over lunch. For reasons that our community could offer, one lounge is often populated with young men between the ages of 25-30 and the other with women just a little bit older. Almost all are younger than myself. The men speak of sports, politics and media outrages. The women discuss clothes, food, light television fare and children.
At the men's table, the issues can be occasionally sublime and often ridiculous. "Which is the greatest beer commercial of all time?" "Who is the shortest shortstop ever?" "Who is less talented - Mariah Carey or Madonna?" "Who is your favorite Russian psychic?" The other day, a question I could field came to the table: "Who is responsible for the longest punt in football history?"
I allowed a few names - good ones - to pass through. "Ray Guy?" "Reggie Roby?" "Randall Cunningham?" That last one isn't ridiculous. Randall could basically do anything, including punt.
"I'll take this one," I said. "Steve O'Neal, New York Jets. Ninety-eight yards."
To be honest with you, I know it sounds a little silly, too. He was a rookie when he did it, and he's almost unknown to history otherwise. But it's true, all true. They look at me like I'm making it up. Sure, they seem to say. Spoken like a Jets fan. Right. "I doubt the Jets even have any records, Marty," one says. Actually for a while Richard Todd held a NFL record he set in 1980 for passing attempts in a game. They look at me as if I fell off a truck and wouldn't know the slightest piece of football miscellany. This is how Dad felt when he told me the Giants used have a quarterback named Y.A. Tittle. I didn't believe him at first, either. That was a ridiculous name.
But at Mile High Stadium in 1969, #20 Steve O'Neal punted the ball some seventy plus yards, where it then took a Jets roll another fifteen or so to the Bronco two.
This is a general problem as I'm getting older. (And how old am I really? I turn 40 in March, for God's sake, but in public school, that can seem like 50, which isn't even that old.) The more I age, the more unreliable my information seems to people younger than myself. This is what used to make my parents mad. Why is it so impossible that I'm actually right about something? Mom would ask. Because you're old, I would think. Now I know why the woman in A&S was pissed at me. Why would some snot-nosed kid know about the star of The Goodbye Girl? Except I was right about Steve O'Neal, and the woman in the rug department was wrong.
It was worse this past Wednesday when, after the Obama win, the only thing my all-white Advanced Placement class had to say about it was that Black Panthers intimidated voters throughout the United States on election day. Really? I asked.
Their evidence consisted of two guys standing somewhat ominously in front of a polling place on Fairmount Avenue in Philadelphia. When I speculated that these "Black Panthers" of which they spoke were actually representative of one local instance, the kids didn't believe me. The Black Panthers, they insisted, changed the flow of the election.
That's insane, I told them. There really is no Black Panther movement anymore. The real Black Panthers eventually graduated to become Crips, convicts, worm food, professors, business owners, drug addicts or Republicans. There is Black rage in America, yes, but no Black Panthers. Here were two guys menacing people in front of a door, dressed in all black clothes and berets they probably bought at I. Goldberg's, looking angrily into the camera, having the thrill of their lives, but it didn't mean that the spirit of Huey and Cleaver was alive and well across the United States, or even in Philly for that matter. In fact, I'm convinced that the little guy "Panther" in the video is a local crackpot King Samir Shabazz, a guy so ridiculous he actually got thrown out of Louis Farrakhan's Nation of Islam. Only the Philadelphia Weekly takes him seriously, and that's as an eccentric character.
But, the kids almost suggested, if I didn't know that for sure that it wasn't a nationwide ploy to scare white people, then how could I deny the viral web evidence of Black Panthers intimidating voters - even if the evidence shows it was the same lame Philly story, originally told by Fox, repeated over and over?
Whether young or old, this has been my problem. I don't know everything, but what's the point of having my eclectic and nearly useless knowledge of history, sports and popular culture if no one believes me? It's not like I understand science or math. As Uncle Morty asks in My Favorite Year, "Do I look I come from Minsk? I know what I'm talking about."
While watching another salesman fall to pieces around her, I noted a flurry of activity. A man was walking through the rug department and setting off excitement as he passed. "It's Richard Dreyfuss!" someone exclaimed. Another person took up the cry, while the man in question, realizing the fuss he was causing, started to make for the escalator. People pointed and exclaimed. They had seen a movie star, one whose prime was the period of which I speak, the late 70's.
He could have passed as Richard Dreyfuss, but it wasn't him. For whatever reason, at nine I could recognize Richard Dreyfuss in the rug department if I saw him, and the man running like a spotted celebrity for the exit was not Richard Dreyfuss. I said this aloud enough for the adults around me to hear.
"What's that?" a woman said, looking at me with surprise.
I thought I was being helpful. This way they wouldn't be mistaken. "That wasn't Richard Dreyfuss," I said. "That's a guy who looks like him, but he's not."
The woman looked at me with the mild annoyance of one who has been asked to buy the Brooklyn Bridge. She addressed me with a wave of her hand.
"What did that kid say?" her husband asked after seeing the Richard Dreyfuss imposter finally vanish.
She looked at him with a dismissive gesture. "'Thinks I don't know what I'm talking about. Like I'm crazy or something. That was Richard Dreyfuss!"
*****
Like I said, it's been a strange week. Take for example my conversation around the lunch table. Our two English Department faculty lounges are two classroom-sized rooms, each with a long table for teachers to sit and talk over lunch. For reasons that our community could offer, one lounge is often populated with young men between the ages of 25-30 and the other with women just a little bit older. Almost all are younger than myself. The men speak of sports, politics and media outrages. The women discuss clothes, food, light television fare and children.
At the men's table, the issues can be occasionally sublime and often ridiculous. "Which is the greatest beer commercial of all time?" "Who is the shortest shortstop ever?" "Who is less talented - Mariah Carey or Madonna?" "Who is your favorite Russian psychic?" The other day, a question I could field came to the table: "Who is responsible for the longest punt in football history?"
I allowed a few names - good ones - to pass through. "Ray Guy?" "Reggie Roby?" "Randall Cunningham?" That last one isn't ridiculous. Randall could basically do anything, including punt.
"I'll take this one," I said. "Steve O'Neal, New York Jets. Ninety-eight yards."
To be honest with you, I know it sounds a little silly, too. He was a rookie when he did it, and he's almost unknown to history otherwise. But it's true, all true. They look at me like I'm making it up. Sure, they seem to say. Spoken like a Jets fan. Right. "I doubt the Jets even have any records, Marty," one says. Actually for a while Richard Todd held a NFL record he set in 1980 for passing attempts in a game. They look at me as if I fell off a truck and wouldn't know the slightest piece of football miscellany. This is how Dad felt when he told me the Giants used have a quarterback named Y.A. Tittle. I didn't believe him at first, either. That was a ridiculous name. But at Mile High Stadium in 1969, #20 Steve O'Neal punted the ball some seventy plus yards, where it then took a Jets roll another fifteen or so to the Bronco two.
This is a general problem as I'm getting older. (And how old am I really? I turn 40 in March, for God's sake, but in public school, that can seem like 50, which isn't even that old.) The more I age, the more unreliable my information seems to people younger than myself. This is what used to make my parents mad. Why is it so impossible that I'm actually right about something? Mom would ask. Because you're old, I would think. Now I know why the woman in A&S was pissed at me. Why would some snot-nosed kid know about the star of The Goodbye Girl? Except I was right about Steve O'Neal, and the woman in the rug department was wrong.
It was worse this past Wednesday when, after the Obama win, the only thing my all-white Advanced Placement class had to say about it was that Black Panthers intimidated voters throughout the United States on election day. Really? I asked.
Their evidence consisted of two guys standing somewhat ominously in front of a polling place on Fairmount Avenue in Philadelphia. When I speculated that these "Black Panthers" of which they spoke were actually representative of one local instance, the kids didn't believe me. The Black Panthers, they insisted, changed the flow of the election.
That's insane, I told them. There really is no Black Panther movement anymore. The real Black Panthers eventually graduated to become Crips, convicts, worm food, professors, business owners, drug addicts or Republicans. There is Black rage in America, yes, but no Black Panthers. Here were two guys menacing people in front of a door, dressed in all black clothes and berets they probably bought at I. Goldberg's, looking angrily into the camera, having the thrill of their lives, but it didn't mean that the spirit of Huey and Cleaver was alive and well across the United States, or even in Philly for that matter. In fact, I'm convinced that the little guy "Panther" in the video is a local crackpot King Samir Shabazz, a guy so ridiculous he actually got thrown out of Louis Farrakhan's Nation of Islam. Only the Philadelphia Weekly takes him seriously, and that's as an eccentric character.
But, the kids almost suggested, if I didn't know that for sure that it wasn't a nationwide ploy to scare white people, then how could I deny the viral web evidence of Black Panthers intimidating voters - even if the evidence shows it was the same lame Philly story, originally told by Fox, repeated over and over?
Whether young or old, this has been my problem. I don't know everything, but what's the point of having my eclectic and nearly useless knowledge of history, sports and popular culture if no one believes me? It's not like I understand science or math. As Uncle Morty asks in My Favorite Year, "Do I look I come from Minsk? I know what I'm talking about."
Saturday, October 11, 2008
On Football and Literature
After the first few weeks of wondering, fear, loathing, denial, anger and acceptance, I'm fully acclimated to the purgatorial condition of this year's team. I welcome what's to come. I think part of my struggle came from the newness of things in my life. New boss at work, new curriculum to teach, new persons on the Presidential election tickets, new quarterback. But really, once you've gotten past the range of emotions with which you greet all this newness, it's actually just the same old story. At best, we'll finish at 10-6, at worst 6-10. Sounds familiar. And that's also what I thought even before Brett Favre showed up.
The Bye week is funny. I'm actually relieved to not care about anyone winning or losing. I notice how violent the game is. Much as I would like to throw the ball on every down, I take the time to notice that defenses and ground games actually win championships. Still, what am I to do? The game is what it is, both terrible and beautiful in the one.
Which brings me to the topic that's been on my mind all week. The Nobel Prize jurist Horace Engdahl insisted this week that American literature is limited by American sensibilities. "The US is too isolated, too insular," he insists. "That ignorance is restraining."
At work, someone suggested to me that American football, with its hugeness, its ironic padding, its pajama-like uniforms and collisions is an apt representation of this supposed American ignorance. But I guess I just don't care. I love the game. It has its beauty, its subtleties and heroic narratives beneath the surface of brute force. The game personifies the country that produced it.
You might wonder why I'm talking about sports when we were talking about literature. I guess football haters see football the way that America-haters recreationally hate the US, and they choose to see only the horrible. And thankfully, they're going to have a lot less over which to sneer when January 20th rolls around. But Updike, Oates, Pynchon and (yeesh) Roth are all American writers who transcend the ugliness and stupidity of our leaders the way Tomlinson, Favre, Jones-Drew, and (yeesh) Moss transcend football's brutality. And publishing is still a game; when Engdahl insists that Europe, not the US, is still the center of Western civilization, he's sounding like a sports fan blinded by his team loyalties - a Red Sox fan unwilling to put a Yankee in the Hall of Fame, or an Eagles fan unwilling to see a Dallas Cowboy enshrined in Canton. He's full of shit.
The Bye week is funny. I'm actually relieved to not care about anyone winning or losing. I notice how violent the game is. Much as I would like to throw the ball on every down, I take the time to notice that defenses and ground games actually win championships. Still, what am I to do? The game is what it is, both terrible and beautiful in the one.
Which brings me to the topic that's been on my mind all week. The Nobel Prize jurist Horace Engdahl insisted this week that American literature is limited by American sensibilities. "The US is too isolated, too insular," he insists. "That ignorance is restraining."
At work, someone suggested to me that American football, with its hugeness, its ironic padding, its pajama-like uniforms and collisions is an apt representation of this supposed American ignorance. But I guess I just don't care. I love the game. It has its beauty, its subtleties and heroic narratives beneath the surface of brute force. The game personifies the country that produced it.
You might wonder why I'm talking about sports when we were talking about literature. I guess football haters see football the way that America-haters recreationally hate the US, and they choose to see only the horrible. And thankfully, they're going to have a lot less over which to sneer when January 20th rolls around. But Updike, Oates, Pynchon and (yeesh) Roth are all American writers who transcend the ugliness and stupidity of our leaders the way Tomlinson, Favre, Jones-Drew, and (yeesh) Moss transcend football's brutality. And publishing is still a game; when Engdahl insists that Europe, not the US, is still the center of Western civilization, he's sounding like a sports fan blinded by his team loyalties - a Red Sox fan unwilling to put a Yankee in the Hall of Fame, or an Eagles fan unwilling to see a Dallas Cowboy enshrined in Canton. He's full of shit.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Commemoratives
This is what fans of other teams with bigger stars go through. No sooner did the second week of preseason come to a close than offers for expensive merchandise came knocking at our door. Yesterday my wife received an offer from the Danbury Mint - a lesser version of the Franklin Mint, I would gather - to purchase a commemorative plaque depicting Brett Favre in his debut for the New York Jets. We see a picture of Favre throwing one of his six passing attempts in his first Jets game, the preseason match against Washington. "Two 24kt gold-plated medallions and a replica ticket to the Jets' 2008 home opener" accompany the photograph. One medallion depicts Favre without eyeballs, making him look a little like he's been commemorated upon his death. No word on whether these medallions can be traded for food or whether they possess any particular healing qualities. 
Also not available for bartering is a "replica ticket" that depicts a decidedly grumpy, almost disconsolate Eric Mangini. He looks as if he has been asked to look at the camera for a picture specifically to be used on a replica ticket. Total for this commemoration is $129, plus $10 shipping and handling, payable in three easy installments of $46.30. My satisfaction is as completely guaranteed as Super Bowl III, but I will pass.
I can't be too critical of a bad purchase when I have personally contemplated the purchase of plenty of Jets crap. But when I buy crap, it is done so to commemorate things that are only important to great moments in The Martin Roche Experience. This is the essence of the fan's life. If the game did not actually have an impact on our daily lives, then we wouldn't spend our time so morbidly fascinated by it all year. For example, the 1975 Welch's jelly glasses I bought on Ebay commemorate all of the orange juice and milk (orange juice in the NFC glass, milk in the AFC glass) I consumed while staring at the conference helmets, twirling them round and round and round, memorizing every nuance, finding coherence in the disordered universe of a neurotic childhood. Gently hand wash, please.
And I don't even know what the New York Jets light switch cover commemorates, other than a wish I did not even know existed.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Brett Favre's Jets Debut and Whatnot
A friend advised me the other day to write entries that are more about my life and less about the statistical and historical content of the New York Jets By the Numbers. Nevertheless, the NYJBTN is a pet project, a hobby, a model ship in a giant bottle whose ongoing construction will be renewed when the 2008 season is done. In the meantime, the parallels between art and life come easy, for to be a lifetime fan is to experience new things that are, in many ways, simply repetitions of the old. Like love, we say. Seasons come and go, and with them come the perennial sense of disappointment and grief. Before the late 1990's, grief is all the fans of the New England Patriots felt (minus 1985, under Raymond Berry). How will a current seven year-old react when his beloved Pats start careening downwards somewhere over the next five years? It will happen. Like death, we say. That child has no schema for it. Enough. Never mind.
When I first started following games as a kid, the home games that I couldn't go and see at Shea with Dad I had to follow on the radio. No TV. The Jets didn't sell out games back then, and NFL rules prohibited locally televised presentation of home games for non-sellouts. You got used to the idea that you were responsible for your own misery by rooting for a team that wasn't even good enough to sell out a home game. With only the radio broadcast, you were left to the devices of your own obsessive imagination, and with one loss after another, it was a little like leaving a kid unattended with an aerosol can. There was a 43-0 loss to Miami or a 37-6 loss to the Cardinals of St. Louis, both in 1975. You became accustomed to picturing the awe-striking ineptitude of your newfound team solely within your mind.
Well, you had a little help. Each game, announced by Marty Glickman on WOR, was its own psychological saga. Dad couldn't stand Glickman's penchant for drama, but I loved it. As I've said before, Glickman's broadcasts were like listening to a salad bar's offerings being described while the entire restaurant was on fire. Glickman's original claim to fame was as a championship track star who was excluded from running alongside Jesse Owens with the US team in the 1936 Berlin Olympics out of respect for the racial sensibilities of Germany's Fuhrer. 
The only reason for this exclusion was that Glickman was Jewish. Let's just take a moment to remember that this decision came from then USOC (and later IOC) leader Avery Brundage whose own legacy of racism throughout his entire career speaks for itself. Glickman's harried voice carried all the qualities of a man traumatized by the experience of being betrayed by his own country. His was my first football voice, and it gave me a better feeling for experiencing the Jets than Curt Gowdy, John Brodie, Charlie Jones or Len Dawson ever could.
Back to imagining games. This is relevant to last night's second preseason game against the Redskins, aka "Brett Favre's Preseason Debut," which I was not able to watch anywhere because it was an exclusive to the NFL Network. Since we've recently been reminded that keeping your tires properly inflated will improve your gas mileage, I've noticed that you now have to pay for air at most gas stations. But though air is no longer a privilege to which I am entitled, I still steadfastly refuse to subscribe to the Network, and I don't know anyone who has done so. The sheer amount of money it costs to be a fervent fan is depressing. The latest strategy of having vaguely funny Jimmy Kimmel advertise the network's advantages is not compelling enough. It's extortion. I can't give in, especially when I recall how satisfying it was to see Roger Goodell having to reverse course and show the regular season Sunday night game between the Giants and the Patriots last December. I would rather follow the example I set as a little boy on Long Island - or as an overgrown child in Philadelphia - and use my imagination.
So I followed the Jets game online, which is nowhere near as informative or loyal to the ongoing action as is Major League Baseball's online coverage of their live games. That's by design, no doubt. Brett Favre threw a short touchdown to Dustin Keller, which was the only story people were interested in. From there, the game was handed to Kellen Clemens at QB, with little else to speak of. Mike Nugent hit a field goal from 40-plus, and then he errantly hit the upright from 23 to tie. Welcome to Gang Greenland, Mr. Favre.
By the time it was over, I was myself well into the Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theatres the experience of which, I propose, is not unlike the experience of watching a full NFL exhibition game. Having long loved Aqua Teen, I know that it is, ultimately, a program best suited to its intended time frame of 15 minutes - which by the way, is also the amount of time that Brett Favre was on the football field last night. Of course, the makers of the Aqua Teen are aware of the absurdity of trying to work their creations into a 90 minute storyline, so they only heighten its stupidity to create a movie that intentionally defies narration. Let's see NFL Network even try to tackle the same issues. An entire exhibition game is a mind-numbing experience (unintended). "What the fuck am I still watching this for?" asks the NFL Network subscriber. "I paid good money for this?!?"
And how would the NFL Network's coverage have been able to do justice to the strange appearance of Tom Cruise at last night's game at the Meadowlands? It's me, Tom Cruise. I'm a guy like you, wanting to see Brett Favre play. I cannot ignore the odd coincidence of his offering signatures at a Jets game the same weekend Shawn Andrews is returning to Philadelphia Eagles' camp after struggling this summer with serious issues of depression, an ailment no doubt that everybody's favorite Scientologist would want to diagnose with an E-Meter. I'm glad to see Shawn Andrews back and unafraid to speak openly about depression as an illness treatable with something other than vitamins. Who would have believed that an athlete has a better grasp of reality than a movie star?
Provided the weather holds, I will be attending training camp on Wednesday. The promise of seeing one of the ten greatest quarterbacks practicing from noon to 5 is a remarkable thing well worth worth the price of a car rental. There are some absurd expenditures I'm willing to make. Next year I'm certain the Jets will charge for watching practices at their new Garden State facility. But I'll jump off that bridge when I get to it.
When I first started following games as a kid, the home games that I couldn't go and see at Shea with Dad I had to follow on the radio. No TV. The Jets didn't sell out games back then, and NFL rules prohibited locally televised presentation of home games for non-sellouts. You got used to the idea that you were responsible for your own misery by rooting for a team that wasn't even good enough to sell out a home game. With only the radio broadcast, you were left to the devices of your own obsessive imagination, and with one loss after another, it was a little like leaving a kid unattended with an aerosol can. There was a 43-0 loss to Miami or a 37-6 loss to the Cardinals of St. Louis, both in 1975. You became accustomed to picturing the awe-striking ineptitude of your newfound team solely within your mind.
Well, you had a little help. Each game, announced by Marty Glickman on WOR, was its own psychological saga. Dad couldn't stand Glickman's penchant for drama, but I loved it. As I've said before, Glickman's broadcasts were like listening to a salad bar's offerings being described while the entire restaurant was on fire. Glickman's original claim to fame was as a championship track star who was excluded from running alongside Jesse Owens with the US team in the 1936 Berlin Olympics out of respect for the racial sensibilities of Germany's Fuhrer. 
The only reason for this exclusion was that Glickman was Jewish. Let's just take a moment to remember that this decision came from then USOC (and later IOC) leader Avery Brundage whose own legacy of racism throughout his entire career speaks for itself. Glickman's harried voice carried all the qualities of a man traumatized by the experience of being betrayed by his own country. His was my first football voice, and it gave me a better feeling for experiencing the Jets than Curt Gowdy, John Brodie, Charlie Jones or Len Dawson ever could. 
Back to imagining games. This is relevant to last night's second preseason game against the Redskins, aka "Brett Favre's Preseason Debut," which I was not able to watch anywhere because it was an exclusive to the NFL Network. Since we've recently been reminded that keeping your tires properly inflated will improve your gas mileage, I've noticed that you now have to pay for air at most gas stations. But though air is no longer a privilege to which I am entitled, I still steadfastly refuse to subscribe to the Network, and I don't know anyone who has done so. The sheer amount of money it costs to be a fervent fan is depressing. The latest strategy of having vaguely funny Jimmy Kimmel advertise the network's advantages is not compelling enough. It's extortion. I can't give in, especially when I recall how satisfying it was to see Roger Goodell having to reverse course and show the regular season Sunday night game between the Giants and the Patriots last December. I would rather follow the example I set as a little boy on Long Island - or as an overgrown child in Philadelphia - and use my imagination.So I followed the Jets game online, which is nowhere near as informative or loyal to the ongoing action as is Major League Baseball's online coverage of their live games. That's by design, no doubt. Brett Favre threw a short touchdown to Dustin Keller, which was the only story people were interested in. From there, the game was handed to Kellen Clemens at QB, with little else to speak of. Mike Nugent hit a field goal from 40-plus, and then he errantly hit the upright from 23 to tie. Welcome to Gang Greenland, Mr. Favre.
By the time it was over, I was myself well into the Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theatres the experience of which, I propose, is not unlike the experience of watching a full NFL exhibition game. Having long loved Aqua Teen, I know that it is, ultimately, a program best suited to its intended time frame of 15 minutes - which by the way, is also the amount of time that Brett Favre was on the football field last night. Of course, the makers of the Aqua Teen are aware of the absurdity of trying to work their creations into a 90 minute storyline, so they only heighten its stupidity to create a movie that intentionally defies narration. Let's see NFL Network even try to tackle the same issues. An entire exhibition game is a mind-numbing experience (unintended). "What the fuck am I still watching this for?" asks the NFL Network subscriber. "I paid good money for this?!?" 
And how would the NFL Network's coverage have been able to do justice to the strange appearance of Tom Cruise at last night's game at the Meadowlands? It's me, Tom Cruise. I'm a guy like you, wanting to see Brett Favre play. I cannot ignore the odd coincidence of his offering signatures at a Jets game the same weekend Shawn Andrews is returning to Philadelphia Eagles' camp after struggling this summer with serious issues of depression, an ailment no doubt that everybody's favorite Scientologist would want to diagnose with an E-Meter. I'm glad to see Shawn Andrews back and unafraid to speak openly about depression as an illness treatable with something other than vitamins. Who would have believed that an athlete has a better grasp of reality than a movie star?Provided the weather holds, I will be attending training camp on Wednesday. The promise of seeing one of the ten greatest quarterbacks practicing from noon to 5 is a remarkable thing well worth worth the price of a car rental. There are some absurd expenditures I'm willing to make. Next year I'm certain the Jets will charge for watching practices at their new Garden State facility. But I'll jump off that bridge when I get to it.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Other Jets
In his latest book, God Save the Fan, rabid Arizona Cardinals fan (you are reading correctly) Will Leitch, formerly of Deadspin, recounts a conversation with a dog-faced Cleveland Browns fan who claims that being a modern Browns fan is the worst lot there is. No, Leitch counters, not by many miles. The current Browns are worth grieving over to be sure, but Leitch asserts that the Dogpounder's actual team exists over in Baltimore; they are called the Ravens, and, good news for the pounder, they won a Super Bowl over the Giants. So technically (he wanted to say it but didn't) the lost Cleveland fans should consider themselves Ravens fans. You have a team, he says, and you should follow them even after they move.
To further clarify this challenging point, he presents a drastic example from his own experience growing up in Illinois, between Chicago and St. Louis, a divided identity that creates quandaries over sports teams. In Illinois, Leitch picked the Cardinals over the Cubs just to be a contrarian, much the way some Philadelphians love to up the ante of the city's native grouchiness by embracing the Cowboys. The feelings run that deep. But Leitch also gave his loyalty to the St. Louis football Cardinals, Bill Bidwell's team, especially when Terry Metcalf, OJ Anderson and Stump Mitchell ran the concrete carpet floor at Busch Stadium.
But then Bidwell moved the team to Phoenix - a place, as far as I know, uninhabited by actual avian cardinals. No matter. Though he has never set foot in Arizona, Will Leitch says he remains to this day a devout football Cardinals fan, and even if you know a lot about football, you probably still don't know as much about the Arizona Cardinals as does Leitch. But then who could blame you? It is a team that only its mother could love.
I mention all of this as a stunning prelude to discussing a film that I'm glad I saw this evening, My Winnipeg, which, unintentionally, presents a compelling counter to Leitch's argument. The movie is described by its writer and director Guy Maddin as a "docu-fantasia," and I think its trailer gives insight into Maddin's interpretation of memory's subjective and surreal nature.
To Maddin, Winnipeg is a tragic and mythological place, laced with a sense of missed opportunity and loss. Among other things, this relates to his discussion of the departure of the Jets - the Winnipeg WHA hockey team that got incorporated into the NHL in 1979. In 1996, the Jets moved to yes, Phoenix, home of the Cardinals. (image taken from the Canadian Design Resource webpage) Maddin apparently did not stay loyal to the team when they moved to the southern desert. To him, his city and its original team are forever linked. He makes the point that the Jets were merely the latest manifestation of all the big and small hockey clubs that tied together the Winnipeg community over time. To strip away the contemporary incarnation of that hockey tradition just for the sake of the NHL's short-sighted profits and its desire for luxury boxes was a soulless, inhuman thing.
Maddin talks about the importance of Winnipeg Arena to his family's life (photo from the Manitoban Historical Society website), and he imagines the ghosts of Manitoban hockey legends playing their spectral ice hockey games in the shell of the empty Arena even as it is being demolished. Most especially poignant are his thoughts on the arena's final implosion day (depicted here in a local news report), which did not go as planned. The film's amusing interpretation of this moment is appropriate to Maddin's belief in Winnipeg as a city of ghosts and sleepwalkers.
To further clarify this challenging point, he presents a drastic example from his own experience growing up in Illinois, between Chicago and St. Louis, a divided identity that creates quandaries over sports teams. In Illinois, Leitch picked the Cardinals over the Cubs just to be a contrarian, much the way some Philadelphians love to up the ante of the city's native grouchiness by embracing the Cowboys. The feelings run that deep. But Leitch also gave his loyalty to the St. Louis football Cardinals, Bill Bidwell's team, especially when Terry Metcalf, OJ Anderson and Stump Mitchell ran the concrete carpet floor at Busch Stadium.
But then Bidwell moved the team to Phoenix - a place, as far as I know, uninhabited by actual avian cardinals. No matter. Though he has never set foot in Arizona, Will Leitch says he remains to this day a devout football Cardinals fan, and even if you know a lot about football, you probably still don't know as much about the Arizona Cardinals as does Leitch. But then who could blame you? It is a team that only its mother could love.
I mention all of this as a stunning prelude to discussing a film that I'm glad I saw this evening, My Winnipeg, which, unintentionally, presents a compelling counter to Leitch's argument. The movie is described by its writer and director Guy Maddin as a "docu-fantasia," and I think its trailer gives insight into Maddin's interpretation of memory's subjective and surreal nature.
To Maddin, Winnipeg is a tragic and mythological place, laced with a sense of missed opportunity and loss. Among other things, this relates to his discussion of the departure of the Jets - the Winnipeg WHA hockey team that got incorporated into the NHL in 1979. In 1996, the Jets moved to yes, Phoenix, home of the Cardinals. (image taken from the Canadian Design Resource webpage) Maddin apparently did not stay loyal to the team when they moved to the southern desert. To him, his city and its original team are forever linked. He makes the point that the Jets were merely the latest manifestation of all the big and small hockey clubs that tied together the Winnipeg community over time. To strip away the contemporary incarnation of that hockey tradition just for the sake of the NHL's short-sighted profits and its desire for luxury boxes was a soulless, inhuman thing. 
Maddin talks about the importance of Winnipeg Arena to his family's life (photo from the Manitoban Historical Society website), and he imagines the ghosts of Manitoban hockey legends playing their spectral ice hockey games in the shell of the empty Arena even as it is being demolished. Most especially poignant are his thoughts on the arena's final implosion day (depicted here in a local news report), which did not go as planned. The film's amusing interpretation of this moment is appropriate to Maddin's belief in Winnipeg as a city of ghosts and sleepwalkers.
Monday, June 23, 2008
RIP George Carlin
My love of the Jets and of football in general has endured losing seasons, misunderstanding girlfriends, intellectual assaults from huffy colleagues in graduate school, indifferent, hostile cities, and my own neuroses. I know that baseball is the thinking man's sport and that football is the thinking man's whipping post. But screw it. I love football. It's too late to change that now.
However George Carlin offered the most convincing depiction of baseball's superiority to football. Baseball represents the idyllic myth of the small town and the empty field. Football, on the other hand, is a conflict of attrition, an industrial battle for primacy. He was correct, of course. Football is war. How American.
RIP, Mr. Carlin. You were the first person I remember as a child being described as an "iconoclast."
However George Carlin offered the most convincing depiction of baseball's superiority to football. Baseball represents the idyllic myth of the small town and the empty field. Football, on the other hand, is a conflict of attrition, an industrial battle for primacy. He was correct, of course. Football is war. How American.
RIP, Mr. Carlin. You were the first person I remember as a child being described as an "iconoclast."
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Gets
What did I get for Christmas? Thanks for asking! Yes, I did get the vintage Joe Namath jersey. I am very happy about that. There are so many things for which I might have asked on the festive holiday. And a good thing, too. Every year's end - often to settle my mind over a particularly sad, dull season - I find myself shopping for some kind of Holy Grail on Ebay that will make me feel better. Often these things are vintage NFL or New York Jets items whose value could only be real to the real fan - and even then, there is nothing about being a real fan that can justify purchasing any of this stuff.
Here's a sample, not in any order:
Someday, someday, baby, I'll buy the NFL Thermos circa 1976 with the newly enfranchised Seattle and Tampa Bay teams in the wrong conferences. I saw this thing at a church sale in the middle of Lancaster, Pennsylvania about ten years ago, and I've never forgiven myself since for not picking it up. I was too afraid of what the people traveling with me would think. Can you imagine? How stupid.
First of all, it needs to be said that when Shell Oil did their NFL smoked drinking glass giveaways between 1971 and '73, they did it just before OPEC starting biting America in the ass. It seems that when every red meat-eating American filled up at the pump, he got a drinking glass with his favorite team (or whichever team was playing locally) printed on the side in white. This is not to be mistaken with Sunoco's 1972 NFL sticker book giveaway, which was cooler. The smoked drinking glasses were given away when people promiscuously drank hard alcohol (which was advertised promiscuously, too). Out of rounded smoked drinking glasses, apparently. It was an era I just missed by a generation when drinking and driving could still be associated. Americans have been trying to sell these at garage sales ever since. Go on Ebay right now and you'll see people practically giving them away. As for me, no thank you. I could find some at a flea market.
Then there's gems. These were also gas station giveaways. I drank milk - whole milk, of course - out of these suckers. In the 80's, my brother had a Giants one and I had the Jets. They're actually quite brittle. Too many washings and it's back to the Mobil station for another pair.
I had this baby in the 70's - a Welch's Jelly glass with the 1976 AFC Central Division logos on them. I think we owned the AFC East as well. That would make sense. But we didn't eat that much jelly, and frankly the Welch's people sold us short on these given the year's previous ones, with all of the conference helmets on them. Now those I unashamedly bought off Ebay eight years ago. I offer no excuses or explanations.
Do I need a used 1970's rubber plastic rain parka? I cannot imagine that it would stand up to another lousy, rain-drenched game. Which one did this last endure? The 43-0 home drubbing to the Dolphins in 1975? Hmmm.
Tempting, but no. What are they? These are early 70's commemorative lids to bottles of Gatorade. "Ah, I remember that particular bottle of Gatorade. I drank it while waxing my Torino." Indeed, sir. That's why the smell of Turtle Wax always makes you think of the St. Louis Cardinals football team. And cars that get 12 miles to the gallon. Interesting item, but what would you do with these, except keep them in drawer where they will clang together with that jar lid sound. Do you put them on display?
I owned a hat like this one. But don't be fooled. This is a new wool hat fused with an old logo taken off an old hat. However, I recognize the sewed-on circular "Jets" emblem. It's not even accompanied by the actual Jets logo. Can you imagine such a time when such little care was given to NFL merchandising? Ah, innocence.
Who buys the pre-season prospectus for the 1975 season? What's the point? I can tell you how the '75 season went without consulting the prospectus. 3-1l. They went 5-0 in the '75 preseason, and everybody thought they'd compete for the division title. Then they tanked, like so many seasons before and after. Is this supposed to be some veiled joke at the crushed expectation of the Jets fan? We cannot give that much credit to the seller. That would be too inside a joke. It's just something an old season tickets holder had lying around in his basement. How sad.
Look, there are just some things I'm never going to experience. Buying the prospectus is not going to create a different outcome for the 1975 season. Nor am I going to be able to recapture the pure, childlike wonder that I felt upon entering into the world of being a Jets being a fan in the mid-1970's - as terrible a time to enter into Gangreendom as any.
I will also never persuade the New York City Parks Commission to reinstall the hard plastic colored ceiling to the Tent of Tomorrow at the old Fairgrounds at Flushing Meadow Corona Park. The Jets are not moving back to to Queens, either. These things are gone forever, over a long time ago.
Still, in those dark moments at night when I cannot sleep, maybe - just maybe - having the 1977 New York Jets Media Guide will be like having a security blanket nearby. Don't you agree?
Here's a sample, not in any order:
Someday, someday, baby, I'll buy the NFL Thermos circa 1976 with the newly enfranchised Seattle and Tampa Bay teams in the wrong conferences. I saw this thing at a church sale in the middle of Lancaster, Pennsylvania about ten years ago, and I've never forgiven myself since for not picking it up. I was too afraid of what the people traveling with me would think. Can you imagine? How stupid. 
First of all, it needs to be said that when Shell Oil did their NFL smoked drinking glass giveaways between 1971 and '73, they did it just before OPEC starting biting America in the ass. It seems that when every red meat-eating American filled up at the pump, he got a drinking glass with his favorite team (or whichever team was playing locally) printed on the side in white. This is not to be mistaken with Sunoco's 1972 NFL sticker book giveaway, which was cooler. The smoked drinking glasses were given away when people promiscuously drank hard alcohol (which was advertised promiscuously, too). Out of rounded smoked drinking glasses, apparently. It was an era I just missed by a generation when drinking and driving could still be associated. Americans have been trying to sell these at garage sales ever since. Go on Ebay right now and you'll see people practically giving them away. As for me, no thank you. I could find some at a flea market.
Then there's gems. These were also gas station giveaways. I drank milk - whole milk, of course - out of these suckers. In the 80's, my brother had a Giants one and I had the Jets. They're actually quite brittle. Too many washings and it's back to the Mobil station for another pair.
I had this baby in the 70's - a Welch's Jelly glass with the 1976 AFC Central Division logos on them. I think we owned the AFC East as well. That would make sense. But we didn't eat that much jelly, and frankly the Welch's people sold us short on these given the year's previous ones, with all of the conference helmets on them. Now those I unashamedly bought off Ebay eight years ago. I offer no excuses or explanations.
Do I need a used 1970's rubber plastic rain parka? I cannot imagine that it would stand up to another lousy, rain-drenched game. Which one did this last endure? The 43-0 home drubbing to the Dolphins in 1975? Hmmm. 
Tempting, but no. What are they? These are early 70's commemorative lids to bottles of Gatorade. "Ah, I remember that particular bottle of Gatorade. I drank it while waxing my Torino." Indeed, sir. That's why the smell of Turtle Wax always makes you think of the St. Louis Cardinals football team. And cars that get 12 miles to the gallon. Interesting item, but what would you do with these, except keep them in drawer where they will clang together with that jar lid sound. Do you put them on display? 
I owned a hat like this one. But don't be fooled. This is a new wool hat fused with an old logo taken off an old hat. However, I recognize the sewed-on circular "Jets" emblem. It's not even accompanied by the actual Jets logo. Can you imagine such a time when such little care was given to NFL merchandising? Ah, innocence. 
Who buys the pre-season prospectus for the 1975 season? What's the point? I can tell you how the '75 season went without consulting the prospectus. 3-1l. They went 5-0 in the '75 preseason, and everybody thought they'd compete for the division title. Then they tanked, like so many seasons before and after. Is this supposed to be some veiled joke at the crushed expectation of the Jets fan? We cannot give that much credit to the seller. That would be too inside a joke. It's just something an old season tickets holder had lying around in his basement. How sad. 
Look, there are just some things I'm never going to experience. Buying the prospectus is not going to create a different outcome for the 1975 season. Nor am I going to be able to recapture the pure, childlike wonder that I felt upon entering into the world of being a Jets being a fan in the mid-1970's - as terrible a time to enter into Gangreendom as any.
I will also never persuade the New York City Parks Commission to reinstall the hard plastic colored ceiling to the Tent of Tomorrow at the old Fairgrounds at Flushing Meadow Corona Park. The Jets are not moving back to to Queens, either. These things are gone forever, over a long time ago. 
Still, in those dark moments at night when I cannot sleep, maybe - just maybe - having the 1977 New York Jets Media Guide will be like having a security blanket nearby. Don't you agree?
Friday, October 5, 2007
Recurrent Ads: Berserk-Making
During the NFL season, a football fan is subject to one of the great tests to his loyalty - the numbingly recurrent advertisement for either automobiles and beer during breaks from the game. These drive me berserk.
First, the jingle. Well, actually there is no such thing as a jingle any longer - just a signature song that is pulled from the catalog of an artist whose best work is way behind him. Back in the 80's, Chevrolet took whatever tolerance listeners had for Bob Seger and reduced it down to a few bars of his song "Like a Rock" - a mullet-wearing yabo's fantasy anthem if ever I heard one. It remained in place for a good ten years.
John Mellencamp traded in his credibility by offering up his song "Our Country" to the gods at General Motors. The advertisements commemorate a past where Chevrolet trucks were always there at the important moments in American history - the end of World War II, the moon landing, the election of Ronald Reagan. Good times. I like the way car companies always portray the past as if all races of people in America celebrated these things together all along, and they all bought Chevy trucks. How many times do I have to hear it? It is maddening.
Honda, on the other hand, is suggesting that you "Hold on Tight to Your Dreams" by way of ELO. Volkswagen used ELO's "Mr. Blue Sky" to good effect. MasterCard uses three schoolboys dancing like neurological patients to Funkadelic's "We Want the Funk." But auto ads are the last bastion of the non-ironic advertisement, and I suspect it is no small measure related to how ad people see football fans as the only remaining people who actually buy any kind of schlock, especially the feel-good nonsense kind about dreams coming true through purchasing an expensive car whose fuel consumption keeps us nicely imprisoned by the insane politics of the Middle East. Football fans just ain't that interested in what all that shit means, man. So, you know...fuck that.
Let's not forget Budweiser's ever-present ads for "Budweiser Select," which is as likely undrinkable as Budwesier itself. Using The Chemical Brothers' song "Galvanize," I suppose the advertiser is trying to nab the clubber who goes out after the game to galvanize the action. Blech. Enough. It's torture. I hear those reconfigured strings, and I want to take my own life.
Add to all of this the fact that the Jets lost to the Jints, giving away the early lead and turning he ball over on a potential game-winning drive, and I may never watch football ever again.
First, the jingle. Well, actually there is no such thing as a jingle any longer - just a signature song that is pulled from the catalog of an artist whose best work is way behind him. Back in the 80's, Chevrolet took whatever tolerance listeners had for Bob Seger and reduced it down to a few bars of his song "Like a Rock" - a mullet-wearing yabo's fantasy anthem if ever I heard one. It remained in place for a good ten years.
John Mellencamp traded in his credibility by offering up his song "Our Country" to the gods at General Motors. The advertisements commemorate a past where Chevrolet trucks were always there at the important moments in American history - the end of World War II, the moon landing, the election of Ronald Reagan. Good times. I like the way car companies always portray the past as if all races of people in America celebrated these things together all along, and they all bought Chevy trucks. How many times do I have to hear it? It is maddening. 
Honda, on the other hand, is suggesting that you "Hold on Tight to Your Dreams" by way of ELO. Volkswagen used ELO's "Mr. Blue Sky" to good effect. MasterCard uses three schoolboys dancing like neurological patients to Funkadelic's "We Want the Funk." But auto ads are the last bastion of the non-ironic advertisement, and I suspect it is no small measure related to how ad people see football fans as the only remaining people who actually buy any kind of schlock, especially the feel-good nonsense kind about dreams coming true through purchasing an expensive car whose fuel consumption keeps us nicely imprisoned by the insane politics of the Middle East. Football fans just ain't that interested in what all that shit means, man. So, you know...fuck that. 
Let's not forget Budweiser's ever-present ads for "Budweiser Select," which is as likely undrinkable as Budwesier itself. Using The Chemical Brothers' song "Galvanize," I suppose the advertiser is trying to nab the clubber who goes out after the game to galvanize the action. Blech. Enough. It's torture. I hear those reconfigured strings, and I want to take my own life. Add to all of this the fact that the Jets lost to the Jints, giving away the early lead and turning he ball over on a potential game-winning drive, and I may never watch football ever again.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Ah, Jets Crap
When I was a young man in college, my friends and I would put off studying until very late in the evening and then go over to 7-Eleven, and buy something sugary to keep us awake. Coffee was a must, but so too were things like Hawaiian Punch and coffee cakes. I remember once making myself laugh one night walking in and asking aloud, "Hmmm, what do I need?"What indeed? The whole point was that there was nothing there that I actually needed. What I "needed" should have happened hours before: turn off that TV, eat a decent dinner, study, go to bed. "But I was one and twenty," A.E. Housman writes, "No use to talk to me." What would have been the point? Where was the fun in that?
It occurs to me that although married and with a responsible job, I have avoided parenthood, in large measure so that I can still buy myself toys that I won't have to share with an urchin. Thus, I was like a big child wandering around the shop of Jets Fest the other day, wondering for what I would shell out my good American dollars in order to show team pride. What do I need? The obvious answer is nothing.
My father was content with one of those great wool hats they used to wear without any logo when he went to the games in the 60's. Me? A Darrell Revis jersey? When he wasn't even signed yet? But I was eight and thirty. No use to talk to me.Let's peruse a few items at the Jets Shop, and just see how crazy we really are, shall we?
How about the $290 Authentic Riddell Throwback helmet? Under the Jets Fest tent, I saw this in its box, and my first reaction was little giddy. I look for the tilted logo, the little football inside the logo with the strings pointed upward. And then I looked at the price and exclaimed to my wife, "Three hundred bucks? Are you kidding?" Some guy overhears me and says, "Yeah, but it's a savings if you can get Namath to sign it." Really? I guess I'm just not an autograph hound. When I was 10, my Uncle Mike got me the late great Matt Snell's autograph when he chanced to run into #41 at a bar in New York. The signature is on a bill receipt. Now that has value - not just because Matt Snell scored the only Jets touchdown in Super Bowl III, but because Uncle Mike chanced to run into Snell and also remembered how much I loved the Jets. Three hundred dollars for that, though? I'm glad it's not an issue. I'm just cheap.
The $19 Jets Rubiks Cube is fascinating to me. Who came up with this? Who still plays with a Rubiks Cube? Children, right, but the only reason not to get the original Rubiks is if your kid's color-blind. Maybe I'm just old-fashioned. I know that the NFL also merchandises a cube with a Bengals' logo, or a Rams logo, but is there marketing data to go along with this concept? Would I be met with a straight face if I pitched something as silly as marketing a velvet portrait of Marlene Dietrich in a Curtis Martin jersey if there were data to support it?
I don't own a gym sack, and since I'm not as savvy a consumer as I should be, I didn't really know that gym sacks existed. But like a typical American consumer, my previous lack of general knowledge about this product is now making me all the more certain that I need it. Sure, sure, I could put my sunglasses in there, and my keys and then hang that on the coat rack at the gym! The only trouble is that using NFL stuff of any kind at the gym conjures the image in people's minds that you think you're working out like a football player. If I walked in with a Jets gym sack, I think I might be posing just a little. I can assure you that if you saw me on the treadmill, you'd say to yourself that it was nice to belong to the kind of gym where sweaty, heavy-set, middle-aged straight men didn't feel self-conscious working out. So I'll pass.
This is a no-brainer. It's the $6 "Jets Can Cooler Can-In-Ball." I don't drink alcohol anymore, and this item is certainly not to keep your soft drink cold, so I don't need it. For your tailgate, it's compulsory, though. I grasp the pun-in-name, but the English language affords even more delight in being able to say the words "can," "in," and "ball" together. Probably the only reason why is because it ends in "ball."
So, hats. I have a size 7 7/8 head, so I can't really order a hat online, but for you, I suggest that each of these hats makes a mark. First, there is the $22 New York Jets Straw Hat, complete with logo on the trim. 
Then there is the $35 New York Jets Collage Flexfit Cap, complete with logo, like, everywhere. Seriously now, do the men sporting these respective hats have anything in common? If they had a chance to sit down together, might they not develop a constructive cultural and economic conversation that would help bridge some chasms in American society? Straw hat man: "I enjoy playing golf. I watch the Jets while surreptitiously sipping beer out of my Can-In-Ball. I also sell insurance." Collage hat: "Well, I frequently kick it by leaning with my homeslices and, when not watching the Gang Green, I remain, overall, a baller." Fandom - bringing people together. That's what it's all about.
But a treasured tool? Wouldn't you feel a little foolish if your next door neighbor asked to borrow your hammer, and you gave him your New York Jets hammer? "Yeah, well, I love the Jets." Maybe you wouldn't feel foolish. Maybe your neighbor has a Giants Swiss Army knife. Here's where the NFL has mastered the art of marketing to the hidden world of men. 
Grill covers, desk clocks, checkbooks - all have the capacity to be embroidered with the logo of our beloved team. And you thought the lady who collected things with nothing but schnauzers on them was weird. 
However, I know where to draw the line. The "Lil Pro" Collection freaks me out beyond belief. I guess I wouldn't even get it for a child because, for some reason, it depicts the pro as a child, and some of those depictions are downright creepy. I think some wear diapers. I realize it's supposed to make kids understand that even their favorite stars were once children themselves, but I think as a kid I wanted to imagine myself as one of the stars - not as one of the stars depicted as a child imagining himself as a star. Any adult who orders this kind of thing for his own Jets'ed out basement is a person who needs to reassess his priorities. But, of course, he can certainly keep the Jets drapes and valance.
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