Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category
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27
Mar
2011
Ben Roethlisberger Sunday Afternoon Interior Decorator Inquiry
Ben Roethlisberger's apartment was quite a challenge for Stanton and Menotti.
Nathaniel Stanton: Stanton and Menotti Contemporary Interiors, Nathaniel speaking.
Ben Roethlisberger: Hi, I’m calling to see if I could hire an interior decorator for my apartment.
NS: You have come to the right place! What is your name, sir?
BR: Ben Roethlisberger. My friends call me Big Ben.
NS: Outstanding!
BR: I play football for the Steelers.
NS: This is the game with all the men and the tight pants?
BR: Uh… yeah, I guess.
NS: What a delight! Do you have a particular look you would like for your apartment? Maybe something to design around? Art perhaps?
BR: Well, I have a Beers of the World poster and a collection of Fatheads.
NS: A Fat Head?
BR: These large, stick-on football players. You put them on your wall.
NS: So a Maximalists, perhaps. Do you have any furniture that you would like to keep? Just trying to get a sense… Would hate to give you English Chintz when you might really be looking for Neo-Bachelor Minimalism, if you know what I mean.
BR: I don’t think I have anything I need to keep. Oh that’s not true, I bought a replica of Dumbledore’s chair from the Harry Potter movies. I like to sit on that chair with a bucket of hot chicken on my lap and search for foreign nudie movies on Netflix streaming and make my way through a 12-pack.
NS: An heirloom piece… I see. We must keep it. Do you entertain?
BR: Well, sometimes Hines will come over and cook me dinner if we have had a tough practice. He likes to put on an a tiny apron and make a roast. We unwind together. He calls it, “us time.” I also will sometimes just call random numbers at the college and if a girl answers, invite her over.
Nathaniel creates an inviting, minimalist bedroom while still highlighting Big Ben's favorite Fathead from his extensive collection. (Photo: Nathaniel Stanton)
12
Mar
2011
LOCKOUT LETTER FROM AL DAVIS TO OAKLAND RAIDERS PLAYERS: MARCH 11, 2011
Al Davis projects lockout letter on the big screen from his underground lair (photo: AP)
OAKLAND RAIDERS
1220 Harbor Bay Parkway
Alameda, CA 94502
March 11, 2011
Dear [Player Name]:
This is to inform you that the Oakland Raiders (“Club”) will institute a lockout of its players (“Peasants”) as of 12:00 a.m. Eastern time on March 12, 2011.
During the lockout, the following will be in effect:
1. You will not be able to enter any Club facility or the stadium. Mr. Davis will be monitoring you via satellite from his secret underground lair. If you are even seen in the parking lot, you will be immediately incinerated with either a laser beam fired from space or a cannonball blast.
2. You will not receive any compensation from the Club. Contracts, however, will be honored for those bringing Mr. Davis the severed heads of either Lane Kiffin or Jon Gruden.
3. The Club will not pay for or provide health insurance. You will receive additional information about options to continue your current coverage through COBRA. Please note that COBRA is in a pitched battle with G.I. Joe and it might be some time before you hear from them. If you need assistance, please contact the plan administrators, Zartan or Serpentor, through the Hasbro Corp. via sealed diplomatic pouch.
4. You will not be able to perform any duties under your Player Contract or otherwise perform any duties for the Club. Those of you who made extra money digging up graves seeking fresh bodies for Mr. Davis’ cloning experiments may continue to do so, as that is considered an Outside Contract and essential for his plan of world domination.
5. Testing and treatment obligations under the Policy and Program for Substance of Abuse and Policy on Anabolic Steroids and Related Substances will cease. Gamma (Dr. Banner), Cosmic Ray (Dr. Richards) and Super Soldier (Dr. Erskine) treatments do not fall under this category, and will continue unabated.
6. The Club will not give you further instructions or guidance as to workout or trainings. This will not be any different from how we do things normally.
7. Club security and player development staff will not assist you with legal or any other problems. If such services are needed, Mr. Davis recommends any of the following: Matt Houston, Thomas Magnum, Simon and Simon, or the fictional comic book characters Luke Cage and Iron Fist.
8. During the lockout, the explosive tracking chips that Mr. Davis installed in your neck will be deactivated. Please be aware that extreme temperatures and moisture can result in chip malfunction and explosion. We apologize for any inconvenience or anxiety this may cause.
9. You are free to engage in any alternative employment during the lockout. Any services provided to Communist, Socialist, Mormon or Werewolf organizations, however, will not be tolerated and you will be hunted down and killed by Mr. Davis’ loyal band of ninja assassins (“The Autumn Wind”). Once a new labor agreement is reached between the NFL and the Union you may be expected to join the Club immediately. Therefore, you should structure any alternate employment so you can return to the Club promptly after a new labor agreement is reached.
If you have any questions, please contact the blood-sucking stooges that run the NFL Players Association.
Sincerely,
Al Davis
Owner/General Manager
Oakland Raiders
19th-Level Warlock
P.S. Please remember that if an agreement is reached, the first Thursday of each month is Hawaiian shirt day, and I expect 100 percent participation this year. Davis out!
5
Mar
2011
FRIDAY EVENING NFL OWNERS CONFERENCE CALL: ROGER GOODELL LABOR UPDATE
Goodell texts Ralph Wilson's typewriter from the Madden Cruiser (AP Photo/Rob Carr)
Roger Goodell: ….So essentially, that’s where it stands currently. Do any of you have any questions for me right now?
Ralph Wilson: I can’t see anyone?
Arthur Blank: It’s a phone call sir. So you shouldn’t see anyone.
Bob Kraft: What’s the hold up, Roger?
Goodell: They don’t want 18 games, they are worried about injury. I think if we can agree on the amount of games, the rest will fall into place.
Al Davis: Who’s worried?
Goodell: The players, sir. The people we are negotiating with.
Davis: Negotiate! I once rode the dragon with Howard Hughes, I only eat the beating hearts of unicorns, I sleep upside down in a belfry, I don’t negotiate with anyone!
Kraft: Al, good God, have you ever listened to yourself? You’re losing it.
Davis: Of course, I have only heard the sound of my voice since I had my face laminated in 1987.
Dan Snyder: Why don’t we just keep it at 16 and put this thing to bed.
Jerry Jones: Snyder, why don’t you shut up. You don’t know anything.
Snyder: Whatever, Jerry! Great job with the tickets!
Paul Allen: Hey, let’s work together, boys. I need more money for my mattress. I’m sleeping funny.
Randy Lerner: Have you tried putting some gold bars in there?
Zygi Wilf: Oh that works. Or sometimes I will have some of my servants get in there for the night. The odd shapes of their bodies provides a good night’s rest.
Blank: I find that if you shred the 100-dollar bills before you put them in the mattress, it’s more comfortable.
Goodell: Let’s keep on track. Do you all still want 18 games?
Wilson: Wait, this is a phone? Where is the dial? Is this magic!?
Blank: Sir, it isn’t magic, just a newer phone.
Wilson: Demons!
23
Jan
2011
Jay Cutler Journal Excerpts: NFC Championship Week
Cutler secretly journals in his helmet during practice (Photo: Chris Sweda, Chicago Tribune)
Monday January 17
Playing Packers on Sunday. Papers are calling this a big deal. I am the only one in the locker room that reads the paper. Tribune is a rag. The Packers uniforms look stupid. I might have pancakes for dinner.
Tuesday January 18
Eating a Chipotle burrito. Reading nutritional content. Wildly caloric. Not surprising how fat the women are in this town. Does not explain overall stupidity, however. Spent some time last night watching tape of Packers. One of their linemen looks like a G.L.O.W. wrestler. Possibly shaved armpits. The world is going down the crapper one shaved manpit at a time.
Wednesday January 19
Urlacher gave a speech at the end of practice. Wasn’t listening. Distracted by strange cracks in locker room ceiling. Poor paint job. Shoddy union work. Players seemed fired up when he was done. Slipped out the back door when no one was looking. Sat in car in the parking lot. Listened to an old mix tape from old Vandy girlfriend. Counting Crows. The players stream out into the lot. A lot of the guys on the team drive really stupid cars.
Thursday January 20
Parents forwarded me a column from espn.com about me by some hack Rick Reilly. Parents still have AOL account. Print out and read article while in the hot tub. I remember Elway, very equine-shaped head. Very successful owner of car dealerships. I did not realize he was a football player. Just another thing Shanahan could not explain succinctly. Martz comes by drinking tea. He nods at me. Have ignored him since week 6 and life has been better for it.
Friday January 21
Spend evening with girlfriend. When she falls asleep head downstairs to watch TV. NFL Films is showing old Packers/Bears games. Make turkey sandwich and drink a glass of sodium-packed Spicy V-8. Watch grainy film and read poorly written scouting reports until I get tired and then go to bed. Even scouting reports on the Packers are boring.
Saturday January 22
I can tell that some of the guys are getting nervous about game on Sunday. Have to tell one of the receivers what the route is on simple audible during walk through. Gather the offense around me before heading into locker room. I tell them tomorrow is just another game. I tell them the Packers are idiots with shaved armpits and have a bush-league coach that couldn’t solve a crossword puzzle in a Highlights magazine much less come up with a plan to stop our offense. I look them in the eye for the first time all season, every single one of them, I promise them that we will win the game. When we break I notice the turf, as usual, looks like it has been taken care of by a drunken cadre of moronic, blind groundskeepers.
Sunday January 23
Wake up early. Write check to children’s hospital. Read paper. Girlfriend makes me toast. Poorly. Drive car the long way to stadium. Bears flags fly from apartment windows and from car antennas. Whole city seems to be wearing our jerseys. I even see an attractive woman amongst the general flab. She is pushing her young son in a stroller. He is holding a stuffed bear and smiling. I smile too. It will be a pleasure to beat the Packers today. What a stupid team.
11
Jan
2011
WHITHER GOEST THOU, ERIC MANGINI, IN THY SHINY CAR IN THE NIGHT?
Eric Mangini on the road (photo: Allen Ginsberg)
Two years in Cleveland. The family trips to the Galleria mall downtown. The office where you met Mike Holmgren for a final time. He spoke to you about Al Haig, you were barely listening, the snow was falling outside his window. You were thinking of Brian Daboll, with whom a lifetime ago you once drank 12 beers in a Flats bar, hats on your heads, anonymous in the din. Later that night you found a bodega open. You bought a tin of chew and sat on the curb like teenagers, eating Andy Capp salsa fries, drinking canned High Life and speaking about the AFC North. The police officer writing the ticket recognized you and called a cab. Good luck coach, he said, and opened the yellow door for you, Cuban music blasting in the night.
You were thinking about Brady Quinn, who you knew at first sight had no business on an NFL field. Of Derek Anderson, who just couldn’t seem to get it, and the time when he admitted he had no idea what a zone cover was, that he just throws it to the open guy. Now you think of the drunken voicemail from Bill that you didn’t save and he doesn’t remember – he said you had some pair of balls, then sadly he said to never lose your way – that you can never, no matter how hard you try, find your way back, and he hung up. The next day you laid the groundwork to trade Kellen and Braylon, with no regrets.
The evening sky in Berea, late night and full of stars heading to your car, no one else awake. The sound of Rob snoring audibly from a basement window, sleeping on a blanket of crushed chips, and lined-notebook paper covered with pen drawings of strange defenses. The time you told your team at halftime against Pittsburgh that you were going to lock the door, and if they lost they were going to have to drive home in pads. How good it felt to beat Pittsburgh – you thought if this is it, then it was worth it. The locker room jubilant afterward.
Holmgren still talking, now about George Washington. You drop in a chew and try to grasp the tangent he is on, you wonder if the plowman has come to your house yet – maybe you will shovel yourself today. You think of the time in New York Brett had started a snowball fight in the parking lot; the season soon derailed by the same arm that nailed Penny from HR in the shoulder with a snowball. You think about the Patriots game, two weeks planning, no sleep, Bill stunned afterward, eyes staring though you and into the void. Then the Jets game – if only, that was the season you think. You shake Holmgren’s hand, it was good you say, I am glad to have set the table, and I will always be a Cleveland Brown. You pass a few players in the hallway – it’s business, but you can tell that this season meant something to them, they thank you – they all look you in the eye like men. You call your wife and let her know you’ll be home soon. Just enough time, you think, to hang out with the boys before supper.
The Cleveland Browns. You were a ball boy here once and then you came back as the head coach. You built something here. You built a team that a town could be proud of, the team you always imagined, a team that was almost there. As you pull out of the gates a man walking his dog yells to you, thanks coach. You smile and say thank you, you turn the radio up loud, then louder, roll the windows down letting in the cold. The Cleveland Browns, you think. You were the head coach of the Cleveland Browns. Foot down hard on the gas, you let out a joyful yell, and proudly thunder into the starry night.
Eric Mangini, coach of the Cleveland Browns 2009-10 (photo: John Kuntz/The Plain Dealer)
6
Oct
2010
An open letter from Gisele on the Moss trade
My letter to the American press at 6:12 a.m. on October 6, 2010 (tele-transcribed):
To admirers of fashion + revolution!
Randy Moss has been sent away and it’s for the best. Even my Tom knows that Moss will thrive, once again, in the purple and gold tones of the Minnesota Vikings.
When Tom and I threw a house party in our Beacon Hill flat during OTAs, it was Moss (downtrodden, alone on the porch overlooking the city) who told me: “GB… I am far from home.”
He was very forlorn that night, refusing to speak with anyone… telling people, “China will always be red.”
I will never forget a long string of text messages Randy sent me before the 2009 season opener against Buffalo, when the Pats wore their throwback uniforms:
“My dear Gisele: How it pains me to take to the playing fields tonight,” he texted. “This obnoxious attire, ill-fashion in its day, has been brought back to life as some cruel joke by ownership. Parading us around like circus animals — draining us of our will to perform by cladding us in overtly noisome throwback ensembles. GB, how I long for the hour of my youth, when I pranced on the field in dark purples, in royal golds — not hemmed in by the hyper-nationalistic reds/whites/blues of this night. Revolution is dead.”
He told me once that he had secretly completed a 480-page novel about Neo-Realism in a Revived Europe.
Randy’s condo, on the far-outskirts of the city, was littered with hundreds of first-edition rare books (an original copy of The Great Gatsby was the coaster for my mint julep when I visited with Tom). It was the home to poetry readings gathering Boston’s underground subculture, a vast array of anarchists, newspaper reporters on the lam, and visionaries. Tom and I attended one of these events, staying until well past dawn (leaving just as Randy was beginning to cook breakfast for at least 25 artists, suggesting they ride the Peter Pan busline north into Canada and stay for weeks in a youth hostel).
I left knowing that Moss was not the man described by a self-seeking media, but a “Wideout-Poet.”
Randy texted me again this morning, as news was breaking of the trade.
I was lounging on the balcony attached to my suite at the Chateaux Santa Teresa in Rio. Below me, early-morning swimmers on holiday were gathering poolside, sipping chilled white wine. I thought of my busy workweek ahead (with a fashion show Thursday evening in the city square, and three-plus galas to attend before flying to Aspen for a respite with Tom during his bye week).
It was during this flight of fancy that Randy’s text arrived, bringing me back to the present moment. I know, from his words, that he is relieved to be heading home:
“My dearest GB, Forgive me if I woke you from sleep with this text. I am packing up my belongings and waving farewell to Foxboro. It will take months to box up the apartment — BenJarvus Green-Ellis has offered to coordinate in my absence. I have invited all to a future poetry gathering in St. Paul, where I will stay for the remainder of the season. I located an unused warehouse in the meatpacking district — vast and sparse, and perfect for poetry readings. I will live there for only $425 per month.
“I have spoken with three local college students about creating a chapbook — a photo journal — of my return to the Vikings, to be self-published on paper, using a photocopier and staples. They will help assemble the pages. If we can find a small publisher to release a second printing, that would be ideal, but I don’t hold my breath. I will continue to ball, in order to save up funds for future publishings, with hope that the poetry students of Minnesota will call my warehouse a safe-haven.
“I hope that you and Tom will visit. I even sent coach Bill a hand-written note, on felt-paper, inviting him to join a late-season party I am titling ‘Winter of Anarchy and Spirit-Vision’ — G.B., please encourage him to make the trip, so that we can mend fences.”
All the best to you, my dearest Gisele. I will remember you often. Very fondly, R. Moss”
He will be missed.
With love,
Gisele B.
28
Sep
2010
4:30 Tuesday Afternoon Phone Call: Trent Edwards and Terrell Owens
Do they have Buffalo Wings in Jacksonville?
Trent Edwards: Hey, TO it’s me Trent – got a moment?
Terrell Owens: Losman! What is happening! Send me some wings? Where are my Buffalo wings? FedEx them… do it now!
TE: TO – the Bills let me go…I’m packing up right now. I can’t send you shit. Listen, I got a favor to ask.
TO: Why are they called Buffalo wings anyway? Like have you ever seen a Buffalo in Buffalo? They should call them something else… like Fat People Really Love These Yummy Things Wings- that makes some sense right there. I tell you Trent life sure can be funny!
TE: Right… this was a mistake, looks like my agent is on the other line – maybe the Jets will pick me up.
TO: The Jets! There is another one… what is that… they should be called the New Jersey Hobos.
TE: The Hobos…?
TO: The Bindle Sticks!
TE: What?
TO: The Wayne County Hoovervilles!
TE: Holy God did you watch PBS last night?
TO: Hell yeah buddy – my cat, Stevie Nicks and me!
TE: This conversation isn’t really working out
TO: Hang on I’m cinching up my pants! Oh nice and cinchy!
TE: Listen, TO, can you just please put in a good word for me with Marvin?
TO: Marvin…
TE: Marvin Lewis… your head coach.
TO: Wait… really?
TE: Well can you just let him know I’m available?
TO: Tell that to Stevie Nicks!
TE: Oh no… I really don’t want to talk to your cat.
TO: Meow?
TE: TO, It’s been a long week; I know that’s you.
TO: Meow… it’s me the greatest cat ever! Stevie Nicks.
TE: I really need to go.
TO: How can Stevie Nicks help you Yale man?
TE: It’s Stanford… I went to Stanford.
TO: My friend Socks went there too, meow!
TE: Bye Terrell – my agent is texting about the Jags…
TO: Meow!!
TE: (hangs up)
10
Nov
2009
A Browns Fan Dreaming: Holmgren Aloft
Marching Towards Cleveland: for Frodo!
Mike Holmgren floats above the sky. He sees taco carts, cans of Tecate, young men in Browns jerseys. He sees the ghost of Otto Graham and they shake hands in the borderlands. They make a promise to get gin and tonics, sidecars and gin fizzy’s, and they stare into the distance. They imagine a different future for the Browns. They are in an old bar in North Beach and the bartender is talking about a suicide pool. The radio clicks on to a college station and a girl with a thin voice is talking about the time she read “Big Sur” in high school and that’s when she decided to go to Berkeley. She now plays “California Zephyr.” A pretty waitress listens and doodles pictures of cats wearing capes on her notepad. Holmgren hears the song and smiles. He remembers the summer he spent working at a YMCA camp in Ely, Minnesota and suddenly he knows that the only place he will be taking the Browns is to the Super Bowl. He finishes his drink, heads out into the fog and diagrams new plays in his mind as he hails a cab to SFO.
Jay Farrar & Ben Gibbard \”California Zephyr\”
7
Nov
2009
Friday Afternoon: Coaches Office – Buffalo, NY
(Image: snacklish.com)
Trent Edwards: Coach, got a minute?
Dick Jauron: Come on in, JP! Getting ready for a three-day weekend, love the bye week! Going to work on my ice sculpture.
TE: It’s Trent… listen, the guys sent me here to talk about the offensive meeting we just had.
DJ: Chowfense!
TE: Yes… about the Chowfense… you see coach, it’s not really an offense, it’s a commercial for a candy bar.
DJ: What? No way… Chowfense! No one is going to be stopping the Chowfense, it’s going to be like the no-huddle, but way more chow, you know. “Watch out NFL… here comes the Chowfense!”
TE: Coach… please, you can’t expect us to…
DJ: Terrell liked it.
TE: Terrell dresses like a pirate and just asked HR to pay him in gold doubloons!
DJ: Oh, good thinking! I’m going to do that too. What’s their extension?
TE: Their extension? Coach… Maybe Ryan should start next week.
DJ: The Yale man? Skull and bones!
TE: Harvard, I think. He went to Harvard.
DJ: Doesn’t matter who starts with the Chowfense, JP! I mean, we could start an English major from Kenyon and the Chowfense would still destroy the other team. It’s airtight! It’s the Chowfense!
TE: Um, okay… listen, I think I’m just going to head home and work on my real estate license.
DJ: Gotta have options!
(Trent leaves)
(Knock knock)
DJ: Come on in.
Terrell Owens: Coach, you ready to ice sculpt?
DJ: Yes!
TO: Arrrrrrrrr!!!
DJ: CHOWFENSE!!!
18
Sep
2009
Friday Phone Call Between Tom Brady and Kyle Orton
Kyle Orton: Hey Tom, it’s me, Kyle. You mind if I ask a few questions?
Tom Brady: No problem, but I don’t have much time. Me and Gisele are headed out to Lake Como to hang out with Matt, Brad and George.
KO: You’re going to Lake Como? You have a game on Sunday!
TB: I’m Tom Brady, I can do anything.
KO: Um, well, I was wondering… Josh McDaniels, he keeps wanting me to hit the open man?
TB: Well…
KO: I mean what the hell, right?
TB: I, uh… that seems reasonable.
KO: You know how difficult that is?
TB: Well…
KO: That’s just crazy!
TB: I think maybe I have to go; the butler has informed me the limo is here.
Gisele [in the background]: Tommy, should I even bring underwear?
KO: Okay, but seriously, he also wants me to watch video! Of the other team! Can you imagine? What is that? I would understand if he wanted me to watch like “Replacements” or something, but game film? What? That’s crazy!
TB: Well… I really have to go.
KO: Okay, I am gonna go drink a TON of beer! You know what I mean? Get NFD, National Football Drunk. You know what I’m saying?
TB: I actually don’t.
KO: I got a 30-pack of Coors, my man. I mean screw McDaniels! I’m going to get HAMMERED!!!!
TB: Bye now.
KO: X-Box, chips and beer! Gonna get lit!! Let’s go Broncos!!!
