Some prognosticators like to use the cliched Power Rankings metric -- you slot teams based on whether or not they can defeat the team ahead of them. I think it's a safer bet than calling playoff berths and seeds on a week-to-week basis, akin to bowl predictions in the college ranks. I prefer to be gutsy, so what I plan on doing each week is to call the playoffs as I think they'll shake out based on the prior Sunday's action and, obviously, existing records. Iteration seven; asterisks equal byes:
NFC
Division Winners: (3)Dallas, (2)Minnesota*, (1)New Orleans*, (4)Arizona
Wild Cards: (5)Atlanta, (6)Philadelphia
AFC
Division Winners: (2)New England*, (4)Cincinnati, (1)Indianapolis*, (3)Denver
Wild Cards: (5)Pittsburgh, (6)San Diego
Last Teams Out
New York Giants, Houston
See You Next Year
Detroit, Tampa Bay, Carolina, Seattle, St. Louis, Buffalo, Cleveland, Tennessee, Kansas City, Oakland, Washington, Miami, New York Jets, Baltimore, Green Bay, San Francisco
Compared to where we were two weeks ago, this is less of a shake up than I'd have imagined myself making. The biggest change comes in the NFC East, naturally, as the Boys and Iggles leapfrog the Giants. Otherwise, ever ydivision winner has stayed consistent, and the only wild card changes were Philly and San Diego. The more things change...
I've also written off some new units. The Jets, Ravens, Packers and Niners all can make golfing plans. Each has an area that you could consider to be poor (quarterback play, offensive line, secondary, etc.) and that will prevent them from making a late push into playoff contention. Jacksonville escaped the axe for another week, pulling back to .500. They're a maddening bunch, but if they hit stride I don't see how they couldn't supplant an underachieving Chargers team.
As for actual seeds, the Broncos have lost my faith in their ability to fend off the Pats for the bye, but they'll still be a three seed and enjoy trashing the Chargers in a cold weather affair. But again, stasis has been the order of the day among the playoff pairings. A third Cincy/Pittsburgh tilt, in Cincinnati, would bring Kimo von Oelhoffen out of mothballs, while Dallas/Philly would be a gem.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
After the Play: That's a Lot of Liquid
I'm very particular about my eating and drinking habits Monday-Friday. The weekend, well, it's always shot to hell, which is why I could stake out a cot at the gym. If I had a scienter of self control, I'd be much better off. But I digress.
I grew curious about how many liquid ounces of fluid I take in each day, and how much that translated to in pounds. So I did a cursory Google search, and discovered that for each quart (32 ounces) of liquid I've imbibed, I am adding on two pounds of weight. (Aside: The actual numbers is something like 2.07 or thereabouts, but I went to law school -- not engineering school.) With that in mind, I jotted down every last beverage I down in a day, on average:
I grew curious about how many liquid ounces of fluid I take in each day, and how much that translated to in pounds. So I did a cursory Google search, and discovered that for each quart (32 ounces) of liquid I've imbibed, I am adding on two pounds of weight. (Aside: The actual numbers is something like 2.07 or thereabouts, but I went to law school -- not engineering school.) With that in mind, I jotted down every last beverage I down in a day, on average:
- Water: 112 ounces
- Coffee/tea: 18 ounces
- Orange juice: 12 ounces
- Diet soda: 12 ounces
Things I Hate: People with a Sense of Entitlement
Hate: To feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward. It's a word often misused by many to describe a feeling closer to dislike or loathing. To truly hate something is to reach a level of intolerance with someone or something so intense that it colors your otherwise rational judgment. This features documents those things that, as a curmudgeonly twenty-something, I can no longer tolerate.
You've undoubtedly come across this particular flavor of asshole in your own lives. The universe is made to bend to their will regardless of actual needs or events and you're left to sit there, mouth agape, wondering who made this person boss. The platitudes and verbal masturbation that eminate constantly from this kind of person are enough to make me throw up in my mouth a little. Yes, we all understand how great you perceive yourself to be, and how your needs are seemingly preemient over all others. We just don't care.
Sadly, this sense of entitlement has not abated one iota in this current generation of public figures. Thanks to participation ribbons and a culture where everyone is "special," more than ever these flaming pyres of jackassery run rampant. What's worse is that our media culture not only provides these people with the attention they so desperately want, but go one step further by condoning the very behavior that our forefathers would have smote down so virulently. (Aside: Our forefathers were markedly flawed in their own right. Many owned other people as property on the basis of skin pigmentation, and were mysoginistic hypocrites who felt that only white landowning men were entitled to full rights under law. While an argument exists that they perpetuated this behavior with their own insular laws and overt bigotry and racism, within their comfortably nestled group they'd have not entertained our current behavior. Just thought I'd throw that out there.) Not only does the behavior exist, but we've now rationalized it and certified it as acceptable. Bully for you, fine self-indulgent douchebag!
The two preceding paragraphs of metadiscourse have brought me to one person: Larry Johnson. As you've probably heard, he was released from the Kansas City Chiefs, two weeks after he was suspended for launching heat-seeking anti-gay slurs into the Twitterverse, and then repeating said slurs to the media. As an initial matter, if you or I did this, we'd have been fired on the spot. The fact that it took an NFL team two weeks to come to the same conclusion is mind-boggling. Were this the only incident in Johnson's record, I'd understand the reticence and pause. But he long ago used up any leash that we'd otherwise extend to a public figure playing a sport known to cause regular and repeated head trauma.
Larry Johnson is, allegedly, a woman-beating alcohol abuser who has no sense of right from wrong and little monitor between his brain and his mouth. And yet, in his small little self-centered existence, I'm sure that LJ not only thinks it's OK for his behavior to continue unchecked, but that he's the aggrieved party in this latest transgression. How could such an insular and errant construct exist?
Because we allow it to. We, culturally, have perpetuated the myth of self-importance to a place where those possessing special talents are elevated to demi-god status among us common folk. Naturally, the people we've installed upon these pedestals take this to mean that they have permission to think and act in ways that are otherwise unacceptable for the rank-and-file. Bernard Madoff is as good a non-sports analogy as we have available. He was anointed as gifted, and he subsequently took his status as license to defraud hundreds of the plebes. Eliot Spitzer also falls into the same category, lest it be discerned that I'm only identifying a young black athlete -- he was mere impetus for discussing a more pervasive trend.
Much like obesity and the divisive 24/7 news media, we are both root cause and lone solution. Personal accountability being low on our national traits list these days, I for one am skeptical that much can or will be done to right the ship anytime soon. I'd love to be proven wrong, but I'm not betting the house that it happens in my lifetime.
You've undoubtedly come across this particular flavor of asshole in your own lives. The universe is made to bend to their will regardless of actual needs or events and you're left to sit there, mouth agape, wondering who made this person boss. The platitudes and verbal masturbation that eminate constantly from this kind of person are enough to make me throw up in my mouth a little. Yes, we all understand how great you perceive yourself to be, and how your needs are seemingly preemient over all others. We just don't care.
Sadly, this sense of entitlement has not abated one iota in this current generation of public figures. Thanks to participation ribbons and a culture where everyone is "special," more than ever these flaming pyres of jackassery run rampant. What's worse is that our media culture not only provides these people with the attention they so desperately want, but go one step further by condoning the very behavior that our forefathers would have smote down so virulently. (Aside: Our forefathers were markedly flawed in their own right. Many owned other people as property on the basis of skin pigmentation, and were mysoginistic hypocrites who felt that only white landowning men were entitled to full rights under law. While an argument exists that they perpetuated this behavior with their own insular laws and overt bigotry and racism, within their comfortably nestled group they'd have not entertained our current behavior. Just thought I'd throw that out there.) Not only does the behavior exist, but we've now rationalized it and certified it as acceptable. Bully for you, fine self-indulgent douchebag!
The two preceding paragraphs of metadiscourse have brought me to one person: Larry Johnson. As you've probably heard, he was released from the Kansas City Chiefs, two weeks after he was suspended for launching heat-seeking anti-gay slurs into the Twitterverse, and then repeating said slurs to the media. As an initial matter, if you or I did this, we'd have been fired on the spot. The fact that it took an NFL team two weeks to come to the same conclusion is mind-boggling. Were this the only incident in Johnson's record, I'd understand the reticence and pause. But he long ago used up any leash that we'd otherwise extend to a public figure playing a sport known to cause regular and repeated head trauma.
Larry Johnson is, allegedly, a woman-beating alcohol abuser who has no sense of right from wrong and little monitor between his brain and his mouth. And yet, in his small little self-centered existence, I'm sure that LJ not only thinks it's OK for his behavior to continue unchecked, but that he's the aggrieved party in this latest transgression. How could such an insular and errant construct exist?
Because we allow it to. We, culturally, have perpetuated the myth of self-importance to a place where those possessing special talents are elevated to demi-god status among us common folk. Naturally, the people we've installed upon these pedestals take this to mean that they have permission to think and act in ways that are otherwise unacceptable for the rank-and-file. Bernard Madoff is as good a non-sports analogy as we have available. He was anointed as gifted, and he subsequently took his status as license to defraud hundreds of the plebes. Eliot Spitzer also falls into the same category, lest it be discerned that I'm only identifying a young black athlete -- he was mere impetus for discussing a more pervasive trend.
Much like obesity and the divisive 24/7 news media, we are both root cause and lone solution. Personal accountability being low on our national traits list these days, I for one am skeptical that much can or will be done to right the ship anytime soon. I'd love to be proven wrong, but I'm not betting the house that it happens in my lifetime.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Domestic Relations: The Art of Property Transactions
As any of my close friends would tell you, my entire life has centered around the notion that the mundane and commonplace can be made more enjoyable through hijinxs and alcohol. But mostly hijinxs. Taking Sunday morning breakfast and turning it into a renowned tradition, replete with the singing of the Canadian National Anthem, is one such example of the kinds of tomfoolery that pervades my very being. And it's the very reason why nothing I touch can simply go "as planned." Take, for example, my first dalliance into home ownership.
With both my fiancee and I accepting new jobs in the past six weeks, we've come to the conclusion that our primely situated one-bedroom apartment with egregiously high rent is both a commuting impracticality and only delaying our inevitable long-term space needs (read: kids). As such, we embarked on a quest to find a condo that would both improve our commuting stance and have at least one more bedroom and half bath. From the outset, we were fortunate to land a personable and tolerant agent who immediately recognized that we hadn't a clue what we were doing. His guidance ultimately led us to finding a nice three bed, 1.5 bath number that is perfectly perfect in almost every way. Simple, right?
Except that another potential buyer had also made an offer on this same condo, and both were being presented to the seller at the same time. We set our outer limits for price and held our breath, waiting to see what the outcome would be. Would it suck to lose out on this particular unit? Sure, but there's other fish in the sea. About 90 minutes after the seller's agent presented both offers, we get a call from our agent saying that the seller has countered to both buyers, and whoever responded first would get the deal. We had been sucked into a "beat the clock" proposition.
Fortunately, we were the first party back with a "yes," and we're now wading into that lovely no-man's land called settlement. The day after this transpired, we had to meet once again with our agent and sign some paperwork. (Note to the uninitiated: Real estate transaction involve a shit ton of paperwork. Make sure to develop strong writing muscles for the 1400 signatures and dated initials you'll have to provide.) Like a rube, I asked point blank if our agent had ever heard of or been involved with such a high stakes "Price is Right" game. His simple response?
"Never."
And that, that is karmic justice coming full circle for my past shenanigans, dragging me yet again from the sphere of any normal encounter and requiring that I be involved in some sort of first. But at least this time there's a prize: A thirty-year fixed mortgage. Wait, what? Shit.
With both my fiancee and I accepting new jobs in the past six weeks, we've come to the conclusion that our primely situated one-bedroom apartment with egregiously high rent is both a commuting impracticality and only delaying our inevitable long-term space needs (read: kids). As such, we embarked on a quest to find a condo that would both improve our commuting stance and have at least one more bedroom and half bath. From the outset, we were fortunate to land a personable and tolerant agent who immediately recognized that we hadn't a clue what we were doing. His guidance ultimately led us to finding a nice three bed, 1.5 bath number that is perfectly perfect in almost every way. Simple, right?
Except that another potential buyer had also made an offer on this same condo, and both were being presented to the seller at the same time. We set our outer limits for price and held our breath, waiting to see what the outcome would be. Would it suck to lose out on this particular unit? Sure, but there's other fish in the sea. About 90 minutes after the seller's agent presented both offers, we get a call from our agent saying that the seller has countered to both buyers, and whoever responded first would get the deal. We had been sucked into a "beat the clock" proposition.
Fortunately, we were the first party back with a "yes," and we're now wading into that lovely no-man's land called settlement. The day after this transpired, we had to meet once again with our agent and sign some paperwork. (Note to the uninitiated: Real estate transaction involve a shit ton of paperwork. Make sure to develop strong writing muscles for the 1400 signatures and dated initials you'll have to provide.) Like a rube, I asked point blank if our agent had ever heard of or been involved with such a high stakes "Price is Right" game. His simple response?
"Never."
And that, that is karmic justice coming full circle for my past shenanigans, dragging me yet again from the sphere of any normal encounter and requiring that I be involved in some sort of first. But at least this time there's a prize: A thirty-year fixed mortgage. Wait, what? Shit.
Postmortem: Chargers-Giants
I take a week off, and it's like I never left. Well, maybe not to that glib degree, but there's been a troubling consistency to the Giants woes over this month-long tailspin heading into the bye week. Really, it can all be wrapped up in the visual of a lost Corey Webster swinging his head around to see Vincent Jackson hauling in the game-tying touchdown before Nate Kaeding (yes, THAT Nate Kaeding -- also known as the other player the Chargers took with the picks we shipped off to them to land Eli) put the Chargers ahead for good with the extra point.
- Bill Sheridan is a layperson's gourmet in the kitchen of an executive chef. He is surrounded by all of the ingredients to make a five-star worthy meal, but he settles for grilling a hamburger. Remember when Osi Umenyiora stormed off after a confrontation with Sheridan way back in training camp? Now that's some high-test foreshadowing. While the defense was much better at containing the Chargers offense for much of the day, Sheridan erred by pulling his foot off of the throttle and not continuing to bring pressure on the final drive. It's symptomatic of what Sheridan has done -- or more aptly, failed to do -- since taking the reins of this unit. He seems at a loss for how to maximize his glut of talent, and defualts with vanilla coverage and pressure schemes that haven't fooled anyone this past month. If someone is primed to become the sacrificial lamb for this team's woes, it's Sheridan.
- Eli Manning, at least, seemed to come back around from his own struggles. A two-touchdown performance on a day where the running game again disappeared into the night kept the Giants in the game, but wasn't enough in the penultimate moments before notching a fourth straight "L". He's spreading the wealth while knowing to look for his best targets on third down, and is keeping plays alive (although he was sacked five times, an anomaly among his performances). It's getting late early for the Giants' playoff hopes, with both Atlanta and Philly ahead of them in the standings. Maybe it's time to let Eli start resembling his older brother and lean on a passing attack that's been the lone consistent bright spot offensively.
- The front four defensively isn't hungry anymore. They've all been paid, and they look the part of disinterested millionaires. Two years ago, the absence of a championship ring and long-term contracts had them flying all over the field. It takes a lot to come around to questioning the "want to" (the best Albert Haynesworth quote to date) of players, but that's the only answer I have for this precipitous drop-off in performance. Chris Canty's absence from the stat sheet is criminal -- his signing is fast looking like an albatross, especially as Rocky Bernard continues to see more snaps in the rotation.
- Don't blame the corners, however. I know it was a blown coverage by Corey Webster that sealed the Giants fate, but overall the cornerbacks have performed admirably while having to compensate for simply atrocious safety play. Terrell Thomas is a legitimate second corner, and Bruce Johnson has taken away Kevin Dockery's nickel role by repeatedly shutting down slot receivers. I still say that the smart move would be to roll Aaron Ross into the free safety role once he finally sees the field, if only to keep from taking snaps away from two rapidly developing players.
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