Week 6: Open Season

Last Saturday, Shannon took me to the opera. (We’d been on something of a live music kick lately—two weeks ago, I took her to a Tool concert). Not an opera, per se, more like a “Now That’s What I Call Music” sampler of some of opera’s most recognizable arias, a greatest hits, if you will, performed by some of the genre’s rising stars. Naturally, I had a number of penetrating questions.

“What do I wear to this?” I asked.

“Wear whatever you’d wear to a matinee opera.”

???

Oh, well naturally. Presumably more formal than when I go lawn bowling at Bob Woodward’s, but less formal than what I wear to Condoleeza Rice’s “Eyes Wide Shut” parties.

I decided to entertain myself. I went with a white sweater, white shirt, a red cotton Polo tie (remember those?) and red velvet pants. I was hoping I’d meet a lot of her friends. She tried to drop me off in front.

(I have discovered one of women’s best-kept secrets: velvet pants. Guys, you have no idea how comfortable these things are. This is bigger than when they let us in on shaving in the shower.)

The show was designed to draw more than the usual opera crowd. It was intended to be accessible to people like me, explained the review that would come out days later. “[A] roster of gifted young singers presented arias, duets and full ensembles. . . .The Kennedy Center opera house was filled. . .and the atmosphere was appropriately festive,” ran the Post.

During an impassioned rendition of “O mio babbino caro,” Shannon turned to me, eyes a-glow. “Do you recognize this?”

I nodded excitedly. “This is from the pasta primavera commercial for Olive Garden,” I whispered back.

I found the concert very enjoyable. In fact, it reminded me a lot of the Tool concert.

Demographics, Tool: 95% white

Demographics, Kennedy Center: 95% white

“. . .I’ve never seen [Placido] Domingo so exultantly happy, so visibly charged with paternal pride. . .”

Medical equipment on standby, Tool: ambulances

Medical equipment on standby, Kennedy Center: wheelchairs

“. . .[Scott Hendricks] has a flexible, dark-hued voice, dapper and expressive, that he employs with sure dramatic intelligence. . .”

Set list, Kennedy Center: select Puccini and Mozart arrangements from Cosi Fan Tutte, Marriage of Figaro, Gianni Schicchi, Magic Flute, etc.

Set list, Tool: Stinkfist, Eulogy, AEnema, Prison Sex, Hooker With a Penis, etc.

“. . .[Arturo Chacon-Cruz]’s ‘Che gelida manina’ was a little rough and ready—there is still some seasoning to be done—but the voice is a beautiful one, shot through with sun and poetry. . .”

Behind us, Tool: the fan who celebrated the end of every song by spraying beer onto the rows in front of him; the headbanger who lost his balance and fell face forward five rows slamming to a stop in the backs of our seats

Behind us, Kennedy Center: the guy who hummed along to the arias; the woman who decided to open the world’s most intricately wrapped mint; the guy who thought Korean soprano JiYoung Lee looked “like Kristi Yamaguchi”

“. . .[Tatiana Borodina] seemed somewhat miscast in the roles of Mimi and Madame Butterfly, which she sang with a fierce, tight Russian intensity that is not naturally suited to this expansively lyrical music. . .”

Number of nuns behind us, Tool: none

Number of nuns behind us, Kennedy Center: one. (Interestingly, she did not say ‘God bless you!’ when I sneezed. Someone else did. Wtf? I mean, what else is she supposed to do all day? Is she afraid she’ll run out? Is she only allotted a fixed number, like friends and family tickets?)

“. . .[Benjamin Makino] needs to watch his singers a little more carefully, observing and responding to them instead of just leading the orchestra. . .”

Hey, We’re Twins Moment, Tool: Me: “I think the singer and I are wearing the same jeans.”

Hey, We’re Twins Moment, Kennedy Center: Shannon: “Look, the soprano’s wearing a velvet dress too.”

The “too” was unnecessary.

After it ended, I stood outside the restrooms as the exiting crowd swirled around me, awash with tweeds and corduroys and a collective memory of regattas in Annapolis and vineyards in Napa, their days of lattes and consultant-speak bookended by NPR and Bill O’Reilly.

“Well,” asked Shannon as she rejoined me, “what did you think?”

“I liked it. But let’s get out of here,” I said, looking guardedly over my shoulder.

“This crowd weirds me out.”

Onto the game. . .

The Ravens. Coming into this past Sunday, they had one of the league’s top-five defenses and a newfound swagger with QB Steve McNair behind the center’s ass. In front of some 70,000 screaming fans, with approximately 3,000 jobs unrelated to drugs or prostitution among them, any team coming into America’s Crack Den would fear for its life.

Unless it had nine of them.

Riding a three-game winning streak, the Tar Heel Terror Squad, America’s Team, your CAROLINA PANTHERS stormed into Baltimore as underdogs, and left as the most dominant team in the NFC! Inexplicably, the Ravens went with single-coverage by their cornerbacks against the Panthers, pairing the faster Chris McAlister with WR Keyshawn Johnson and the slower Samari Rolle on WR Steve Smith. Result? Smith goes 8 for 189 and a TD, and third option Drew Carter was freed up to score the Panther’s go-ahead touchdown in the first quarter. Panthers, 10-7!

Scary moment late in the first as a sack by the Big Cat D resulted in McNair leaving the game with a sprained neck. (Not that causing injuries is ever a source of pride, but consider the fact that he’s the third quarterback in two seasons (Culpepper, Simms) that the Panthers have taken out. And we’re only 1/3 of the way through this one.)

Back-up Ravens QB Kyle Boller, the offensive equivalent of a dry hump, took over for the Ravens, which is usually the point when the opposing team’s defensive staff leaves early and watches the rest of the game from a bar. The Ravens were sputtering. One-time murder suspect LB Ray Lewis couldn’t stop QB Jake Delhomme from going 24-for-39 for 365 yards (2 TDs/2 Ints), and convicted cocaine trafficker RB Jamal Lewis was held to 9 carries for 41 yards.

But the Ravens stayed in it, thanks to not one, but two impossible tipped-then-caught passes by WR Mark Clayton which were run in for touchdowns! (Which makes sense—if Boller can’t get the ball to his own guys, just have him throw it directly at the defense. There’s no way he’ll be able to get it to them.)

Until the Nureyev of the Slant Route, Steve Smith, took a Delhomme pass 72 yards for a touchdown! Panthers up 23-14 with less than five minutes to play! A final TD drive by the Ravens made it close, but a first down by a wide-open Drew Carter sealed the deal. Panthers win! Panthers win!

Next week: Panthers at Cincinnati. Prediction:

Panthers 88, Cincinnati 27

Until next time.

RROWRRRRRRRR!

Week 5: Nihon Chinbotsu!

The problem with cause-oriented jeans day is the inherent value judgment cast upon those who don’t wear jeans that day.

Friday morning I stopped in the doorframe of the office next to mine, leaning over like a wilted lily until I could see underneath Deb’s desk. She was wearing black slacks and heels.

Her typing came to an abrupt stop. “What are you doing?”

“Well,” I said, my tone dripping with disapproval, “looks like someone is pro breast cancer.”

“I don’t think that’s what—”

“No, the title of the email was very clear. ‘Wear Jeans on Friday to Support the Fight Against Breast Cancer.’ I think the negative implications are self-evident.”

She sighed and tilted back in her Aeron. “I know. I just didn’t feel like paying that much.”

That’s the other rip about jeans day—to wear them, you’re obligated to make a donation to the charity being feted. You have to pay someone for the privilege of wearing jeans on a day you probably would have worn them anyway. What’s next? In the middle of winter, hey, support the fight against lupus by paying for heat in your office?

“What do you mean? Isn’t it just five bucks?”

“It’s ten bucks,” she said quietly, the way one whispers the purchase price of a new home.

“TEN BUCKS?” I exclaimed.

Exactly, said her facial expression.

“Why so much?”
“I don’t know. This one came out of the New York office.”

“Why does it cost more to wear jeans in New York?”

“Cost of living maybe?”

“F@#$,” I griped. I mean, I wasn’t even _that_ opposed to breast cancer. I didn’t want to end it, just slow it down a bit. I had wondered why fewer than usual were wearing jeans this particular jeans day, and had attributed it to people simply forgetting about it. But today, wearing jeans wasn’t just a sign of support—it was conspicuous consumption, the landed elite flaunting the marginal irrelevance of ten dollars to their net wealth. The act of wearing jeans was just another bauble to be bandied about lightly by the middle class, like the latest Tod’s handbag or a Jackson Hole vacation. It was have-denims versus have-not-denims, in a race to the bottom of mutually coutured destruction.

“F@#$,” I swore again, not for lack of anything better to say, but because it was still relevant.

Deb shrugged. “Are you going to the Myers-Brigg thing today? At least we’ll get a free lunch.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” I turned to walk back to my office when a thought struck me. “If they don’t actually cure breast cancer by COB, we don’t get some sort of prorated refund. . .”

Deb narrowed her eyes at me.

“No, right? I was just—right.” I started walking back to my office.

“What are you doing now?”

“Oh, I have to buy some opera tickets for this weekend.”

Onto the game…

Who are these mystery men from Cleveland, this alleged NFL franchise with funny orange hats and morbidly obese fans? Last Sunday, they traveled to Bank of America stadium for a traditional Southern brunch of grits, biscuits, and Astroturf. Courtesy of the Growling Wall, America’s Team, your CAROLINA PANTHERS!

The most dominant defense in the league held the Cleveland mystery franchise to field goals all day. In a show of sportsmanship, they graciously allowed their guests to score the first three points of the game, but then rookie CB Richard Marshall ran back an interception for a touchdown and the route was on! Panthers up, 7-3!

(Cleveland’s coach is Romeo Crennel. The only things I know about Romeo Crennel is that he’s a former Belichick assistant and could feasibly get stuck in a hula hoop. I don’t understand all the attention paid to former Belichick assistants. To wit, Bill Belichick is 4-1 (0.800) this season, and Romeo Crennel, Eric Mangini, and Nick Saban are a combined 4-11 (0.363). The lone exception is Charlie Weis, whose team is still in the hunt for a bowl game. Which shows that the Belichick system is only successful when you have a quarterback named Brady.)

A touchdown by WR Keyshawn Johnson and a field goal by “Leg of God” K John Kasay put the Panthers up 17-3 in the third! The Cleveland mystery franchise never threatened, due largely to the dominance of MVP-front runner DE Julius Peppers. Another monster game: 1 sack, 4 solo tackles, 1 assist, 1 forced fumble and recovery! Impossible is Nothing for Peppers!

(I just looked this up: the names of Cleveland’s three professional sports teams are the Indians, the Cavaliers, and the Browns. I’ve never heard of a city running out of team names after two.)

The Big Cat D played flawlessly; the offense still had a wrinkle or two. Carolina showed horrendous third down efficiency, going 0-11, roughly the same completion rate after three attempts as Lopez on a Saturday night. But their wideout threats kept Cleveland soft in the middle, opening it up for RB Deshaun Foster to pick up 106 yards on 24 carries. Panthers defeat Cleveland mystery franchise, 20-12!

Next week:

Your Carolina Panthers travels to the Birthplace of Drivebys, Baltimore, to take on the scattershot Steve McNair and the overhyped Raven defense. Prediction:

Carolina 44, Baltimore 11

Until next time.

RROWRRRRRRRR!

Week 4: Open Season

If I were to ever fall into the hands of the enemy, they needn’t bother breaking out the torture tactics to get me to talk. All they’d have to do is put me in a socially uncomfortable situation.

My ex-secretary was leaning against my doorframe, her posture begging me to inquire further. I tried ignoring her. I lasted less than twenty seconds.

“What’s new?”

“We found your replacement,” she said smugly.

“He sounds handsome,” I said without looking away from my monitor.

“He’s our new tax associate. He’s Indian.”

“Mm hmm,” I responded. “Don’t you have a deadline to miss?”

She was already walking back down the hall. “Oh, and one other thing,” she said, pausing for one last dramatic look over the shoulder. “His name is Anand.”

I assured her that this wasn’t of the slightest interest to me.

***
“Have you heard of this guy?” I was asking my friend Cleveland an hour later. I was pawing through his candy bowl, setting aside the pedestrian Laffy Taffys and Bit-o-Honeys for something more interesting.

“Anand? Yeah. Didn’t you read that email that went around at the end of summer?”

I focused on picking a Jolly Rancher lollipop. Cherry.

“He’s kind of weird,” said Jen, another first-year associate who had started with my doppelganger. “I was trying to make small talk with him, so I asked him where he lived, and he said Virginia. I told him I’d considered living in Virginia, but ended up in an apartment in the city. And he leaned into my face and said, ‘And paying four percent more in taxes, I see!’”

“Actually,” said Cleveland, “he sounds a lot like you.”

I left his office to go catch up on email.

***

I was busy doing research in our intranet personnel directory when my colleague Alex, of the perpetually sunny disposition, popped into my office.

“Hey!” she said. “What’s new?”

I swiveled around and took the lollipop out of my mouth. “I have a doppelganger.”

“How exciting!” she said gaily. “What flavor is it?”

Onto the game…

They appeared unbeatable coming in. The NFL hype machine had spent a full three weeks talking about how much a rejuvenated Saints franchise meant to the city of New Orleans, how much it meant for a city still trying to get its stoplights working to see a team of millionaires giving it their all for approximately three hours every week. They were unbeaten, yes. But they were also marching into Charlotte, North Carolina, home of America’s Team, the Blue Ridge Mountain Express, your CAROLINA PANTHERS!

As it turned out, New Orleans was about as prepared as FEMA for Air Carolina. After WR Keyshawn Johnson bobbled a pass, the General, QB Jake Delhomme, had the presence of mind to get his team to the line of scrimmage and throw a quick TD pass to WR Steve Smith before the refs could even react! Panthers up 7-0!

But the Panthers’ O-line, already dicey after losing OG Travelle Wharton for the season in the first game, took another hit in the second quarter, as OG Mike Wahle left with an illness. ??? An “illness”? Did he eat bad Chinese during the first quarter? Was he making out with a NO DT with laryngitis?

The Saints capitalized on the Panthers’ emotional fragility to bring it back to 10-7. But this offense has nine lives, and in the fourth, with the Saints hung up covering Smith and Johnson, Delhomme throws a four-yard TD pass to WR Drew Carter! Panthers up 14-10!

The overrated NO RB Reggie Bush came into this game with high expectations, but the Big Cat D was all over him like Mark Foley on a Senate page. Bush was held to 22 yards on 11 carries or just 2 yards per carry, about what you’d get if you handed the ball to Gheorge Muresan at the line of scrimmage and tripped him.

The Panthers’ plan was to get first downs and run out the clock. But someone didn’t tell RB Deshaun Foster! With his coaches screaming for him to go down, Foster broke away and went down—downtown, 43 yards to put the panthers up 21-10 with 1:45 left to play!

But the Saints rallied back. A long bomb from Drew Brees to rookie Marques Colston and a two-point conversion pulled them to within a field goal with 1:15 left to play! An onside kick recovery, and the Saints could tie if not win the game outright.

Enter third-string RB Nick Goings. He of the concussive hit during the conference title game that left him about as lucid as Radio. Sure, he may not be much help with sudokus these days, but one thing he can do better than anyone else is hold onto the ball.

An onside kick by the saints…recovered by the Panthers! Panthers run out the clock! Panthers win! Panthers win!!!!!

And now, for our reader mail feature:

From Reenah K, in Southeast DC:
“Yet again - oddly enough, Anant's account of the evening is entirely accurate. I'd just like to note for the record, though, that I'm wearing the infamous ‘moccasin’ shoes today (which are heels, btw) and have gotten two compliments on them already. ha HA!”

Next week: Did anyone else realize that the NFL has a franchise in Cleveland? And that it plays sixteen games? Against other NFL teams? Seriously. Apparently, the Panthers play them next week.

Prediction: Panthers 44, Cleveland mystery franchise 3

Until next time.

RROWRRRRRRRR!

Week 3: Fearless

“You know,” said Reenah as we drove across Memorial Bridge, “I have this fear that anything I say or do is going to end up in one of your emails.” It was Saturday night, and we were driving to a reception at the Saudi Arabian embassy for the Kingdom’s ambassador to the U.S.. Shannon couldn’t get out of singing at a wedding, I needed a date, and Reenah’s plans had fallen through.

“Well, this sounds fun!” she’d said when I’d invited her. “Will there be singing and dancing?” In Reenah’s mind, gatherings of Middle Easterners resulted either in detonation or Aladdin On Ice.

“It’s a reception,” I said, “so I doubt it.”

“Will there at least be alcohol?”

“No.”

“No?!”

“It’s an Islamic country, Reenah.”

“Have I said ‘yes’ yet?”

“It’s cocktail attire,” I continued, skipping smoothly over her question. “I’m wearing a suit.” Tonight was not the night to bring sexy back.

She had a black cocktail dress ready to go. “But I have to warn you,” she said. “I banged my shins with a car door a few weeks ago, and they’re still black and blue.” We argued about wearing a longer dress for a while until we reached a compromise; she could wear the dress, but if anyone asked why her shins were bruised, she had to look quickly to the ground and stammer, “because whites should be separated from colors.”

“Hey!” she said, kissing me on the cheek as she bounded out of her house into my waiting car. I couldn’t say anything. I was staring at her feet.

“What? Look, these are the only pair of shoes I had in the house.” They looked like black moccasins, with white stitching. “They’re comfortable, okay? If you want me to wear heels, then swing by the office.”

“No, they’re fine,” I said, throwing the car into drive and continuing on. I’m sure Chippewa casual fell under the rubric of cocktail attire.

“Now remember,” I instructed. We were walking through the Kennedy Center garage, de facto garage for embassy receptions. “Once we’re inside, and I’m talking to someone, you should stand a little ways behind me, and not make direct eye contact.”

She stopped. “You’re kidding me.”

I turned back to where she stood. “Oh, it’s not an Islamic culture thing,” I quickly assured her. “More of a personal preference.”

Outside the embassy, the line for admission stretched down the sidewalk. For Persian mothers, a reception at the Saudi embassy is apparently the perfect opportunity to spruce up one’s daughter and troll her about in the hopes of landing someone connected to oil wealth. One look at Pocahontas and they knew I was a taken man.

We had our names checked off and then promptly joined the tail end of a larger line to greet the ambassador. Reenah was wearing a bright magenta shoulder wrap. It was pretty and unusual, no one else was wearing anything like it, and I passed the time convincing her it was a culturally offensive color. “Are you serious,” she whispered nervously. “Should I take this off?”

“And walk around here with bare shoulders?” I asked in mock disbelief. “Why don’t you just dribble urine on a Koran while you’re at it?”

Finally, we were one person removed from me greeting the ambassador and introducing him to my Sioux war bride. “Do me one favor,” I whispered.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t drop an hors d’oeuvre on his foot.”

Onto the game…

This past weekend featured a titanic NFC South matchup, as perennial rivals Tampa Bay and America’s Team, the Growling Wall, your CAROLINA PANTHERS met in the Penis State to determine division supremacy!. What was expected to be a battle of two hard-hitting defenses turned out to be a story of redemption. And emergency surgery.

In the first quarter, CB Chris Gamble, who had botched the trick play against Minnesota last week, redeemed himself with an interception of marked man Tampa QB Chris Simms. Then, slipping into his offense like a favorite pair of shoes, the Hannibal of the Gridiron, QB Jake Delhomme connected with WR Keyshawn Johnson. The man whom John Gruden had run out of Tampa Bay three years ago ran into the end zone for a touchdown! Panthers up 7-0!

Next target on the rifle range? WR Steve Smith, the Pro Bowl receiver who’d been out the entire preseason and the first three regular games with tweaked hamstrings, the man that some were rumbling was holding out for more money. Cha-ching! Well, two more scoring drives by Carolina! Panthers up 17-0! There hasn’t been a battle this one-sided since Steve Irwin v. stingray!

But the Bucs would battle back. Simms took advantage of three costly turnovers by the Panthers to create scoring drives. Panther DE Al “Organ Donor” Wallace took advantage of the ground to drive Simms most of the way through it. Simms would leave, vomit a lung, and then return to lead the Bucs on a scoring drive. With five minutes left to play, Bucs were up 24-23.

For a lesser team, time to close up shop. For the Panthers? Time to shine.

Delhomme marched the Panthers down the field. With less than a minute left, the Panthers had broken into Tampa Bay territory, and the chanting began, softly at first. “leg of god. leg of god.” Then louder. “Leg of God. Leg of God.” Until it was deafening! “LEG OF GOD! LEG OF GOD! LEG OF GOD!” With only seven seconds left in the game, K John Kasay, the last of the original Panthers, 3-for-3 on the day, boots one from the 46. It’s up…it’s good! Panthers win! Panthers win!

And now, the return of our reader mail feature!

From Jess T. in NYC
“I get cards ‘signed’ by my parents’ cat.”

From Archana S., in Guatelama
“Last year they said I didn’t need a card. Two or three years ago, they forgot my birthday and sent me a belated card when I guilted them into it. On my 25th birthday, my dad called to wish me a ‘Happy 24th!’”

Next week: I’ve hated the Saints ever since Katrina because of the way the NFL and ESPN have tried to make some displaced millionaires an allegory for the destruction of the city as a whole. After spending millions to reopen the Superdome while much of New Orleans still doesn’t have working water or sewage services, the Saints travel to Carolina this weekend.

Prediction: Carolina 38, New Orleans 6

Until next time.

RROWRRRRRRRR!