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!
“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!
posted by Panther fan at 4:20 PM
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