Wake Up The Echoes, Already!

Last season, I refused to wear a Notre Dame shirt on gameday. I figured I'd jinx the team (or Jenks them, as it were). This morning I woke up and said "Fuck that superstitious shit" and pulled the shirt my wife gave me shortly after we were married over my head. By the third quarter, just about the same time Jimmy Clausen was pulling off his redshirt, I was pulling off my Notre Dame shirt. That's it. I'm done. No more wearing of the green on Saturdays for me.

Here, before we go further, let me tell you my sad tale of woe for the day.

I had picked out my beers of choice for the day (Leinenkugel's Summer Wheat and Bell's Oberon). With giddy anticipation did I sit around and await the time for college football to start. During that time, apparently, something go into my nose, or something, and I clogged up and started sneezing and had clear, runny snot dripping out of my nose. I couldn't take it anymore, and so I dug around in the medicine cabinet and found...nothing. I had to settle on a bottle of children's Claritin that we bought in the spring for one of the kids. I took a shot of that (literally, I think that's how much it called for) and then sat there, distraught over the fact that I couldn't drink with antihistamines running through my system.

And, Lord, did I need to drink.

Here's a couple of things that you might want to go over with your team, if your name is Charlie Weis:

How to score.
How to stop the other team from scoring.
How to hold on to the fucking ball.
Defense.
Offense.
Special Teams.
Tackling.
Coming off your blocks.
Stopping the running back from gaining 30 yards on a play.
How to stop people running unabated at your quarterback.
How to stop your quarterback running unabated into a tackler's arms.

Did I miss anything? Oh yeah. Offense and defense. And special teams.

So, Charlie's third year (which I shall henceforth refer to as "Tyrone's Revenge") is panning out pretty much how everyone (except me...and perhaps the boys at BGS...and probably Crewcut himself) predicted. That was one of the shittiest performances I've ever seen, and that includes last year's Sugar Bowl. In fact, I thought I was watching a bowl game. It's almost like Tyrone was prowling the sidelines once more (oh yeah, and Domer fans (myself included), this is the last year we can blame Tyrone...after this it's all on Crewcut Charlie). Let's not practice tackling; let's practice clapping in rhythm so that we cut down on these false starts.

The offensive linemen got thrown around. The defensive linemen got thrown around. Pretty much the only thing that looked improved was the secondary...and probably because they weren't tested. David Bruton did look pretty good. I'll give him that. At least someone came to play.

So. There. It was a solid ass-whooping, sure. At least it wasn't a loss at home to a Division 1-AA school. I'm sorry. An FCS school.

But, at this rate, it could be worse. Duke shows up in November, and the way the Irish are playing, the Blue Devils could have their way with them.

What?

Nevermind.

Cheer, Cheer for Old Notre Dame! GT vs ND preview

Sorry for the lack of posts this week. I was dealing with a particularly immobile chlorine that I really wanted to get off my molecule. So, when it wasn't moving, I was just pissed and didn't feel like sharing my thoughts with the world, because they'd be evil...er, moreso than normal. I was going to do a whole preseason preview special, but, alas, I couldn't find my Magic 8 Ball (I was going to predict Notre Dame's season versus it and we could see who came out better). Alas, we'll have to do this week-by-week, I guess.

Anyway, today kicks off college football season, at least from my perspective, mostly because today is Notre Dame's first game (and I think St. Joe's, but since they don't have their own network, I won't get to see it). Unlike the rest of the world, Notre Dame is opening against a tough opponent, and the pundits are having a heyday. A summary of their comments is in italics, mine regular, unfancy, old unitalacized text. Whee! Let's go.

Notre Dame will lose because they only scored 14 points against Georgia Tech last year, and that was with Brady Quinn, Jeff Samardzija and Darius Walker! Now they have a new quarterback and new receivers and new backfield! They'll lose by three touchdowns!.

I'll remind you that Notre Dame opening AT George Tech last year, the GT crowd was excited, Notre Dame's ranking was overinflated (and thusly their egos). The ground game got it done last year, and they'll probably get it done this year. Walker is gone, but is replaced by a whole slew of really talented, really fast running backs. Samardzija is gone (as well Rhema "Dropped Pass" McKnight), but a whole slew of talented receivers are waiting their turn. Quinn is gone, but it's not like the quarterback situation is barren (i.e. no walk-ons playing backup *cough*Willingham-Davie*cough*). Even with Clausen sitting (hopefully), both Sharpley and Jones were talented, high-caliber recruits coming out of high school (Jones moreso than Sharpley) and both have had time in Weis' offense to be effective once the butterflies go away. Plus, Notre Dame still has John Carlson at Tight End, and we all know who he looks like.

Notre Dame's defense stinks! They'll lose for sure!

True, Notre Dame's defense isn't...good. Or wasn't. Corwin Brown is not Rick Minter, and Rick Minter's defense was enough to hold Georgia Tech to 10 points at home with stud receiver Calvin Johnson in the mix and Reggie Ball quarterbacking. Lest ye forget, Georgia Tech will likewise be breaking in a new quarterback (which is a step up, probably, from that shitstain Reggie Ball), but they lost Calvin Johnson, who basically WAS their offense last year. Notre Dame has a new look on defense, more players in the secondary, and a defensive set that could cause the new quarterback at GT to shit shamrocks.

Charlie Weis is a fat, arrogant prick! Notre Dame deserves to lose! Tell us who the quarterback will be, you smarmy body-double for Jabba the Hutt!

True, Charlie does have some extra pounds, but then, I'm a fat slob myself. The last coach was thin and rollerbladed everywhere on campus...when not hitting the links. And the coach before that wanted a hot dog, but couldn't get into the rotating hot dog vending machine at 7-11 (nor could he break out of a predictable ground game...option right, option left, run up the middle). As far as not telling the media who the starter would be, fuck 'em. Let Jon Tenuta stew over it a little bit. I actually hope that both Sharpley AND Jones come out on the first series and they pull a trick play out of their ass and score 6. And then Crewcut Charlie, Robot Genius, can smirk all the way through the game.

Sorry, but Chan Gailey's squad has been perrenial underachievers in an underachieving conference. Yeah, they went to the championship game in the ACC last year because the ACC had 12 teams with the ferocity of a litter of kittens. The coaching might rests heavily on Notre Dame's side, and not just because Charlie is equal to about three Chan Gaileys. Ever see Charlie's assorted collection of rings? Chan? Not so much.

Prediction: ND 27, GT 17.

Bite My Squishy, Green Ball

Apparently, the ab-lounge wasn't enough. Too bad that ugly bitch can't really fit into her fat jeans anymore. That shit's gone by the wayside, and now we're plagued with a new abdominal-working fad piece of shit exercise implement. Apparently the ab-roller didn't cut it either. The ab-slider? Slid out of vogue. As well the thing with the springs in it that you would hook your feet to and then sit back, using the spring to add extra oomph to your workout. What the hell ever happened to just doing sit-ups?

Now we have the Bender Ball. Like the ab-lounge, it lets you extend your range of motion and gets you up off the floor, adding all sorts of bonuses to your workout to flatten your tummy. Like all rip off fads exercise machines designed to help tighten your tummy and rid you of those unlovable love handles, the commercial trots out a panoply of wasp-waisted middle aged women who swear by the results of the Bender Ball. They, of course, leave out the fact that the ball guzzles booze, belches fire, watches them in the shower, steals their money, chain smokes cigars, and has a 0.04% nickel impurity.

It is time for me to cash in on this shit, man. I am so putting a magnetic, black triangle on a Bender Ball and marketing them as "Flexo Balls". I'll make millions.

Happy Birthday, Lil Sis

Today would have been my sister's 26th birthday. Sadly, she died two weeks after her 14th birthday while I was away at college. It was, pretty much, the worst day of my life.

My sister was born with a tiny piece of her brain ossified. This essentially screwed everything up so bad that she suffered from seizures her entire life that were, to be quite honest, horrific and traumatic for everyone around her. To hear her wail when she had one was...well, words can't describe the empty feeling surrounded by helplessness surrounded by fear. As time went on, we grew to expect them and to cope, but it was never something that we were completely at ease with. Also, due to this congenital defect, she could never walk or talk, and years of inactivity on the couch or her bed caused her joins to atrophy. She basically had to wear diapers and be spoon fed soft foods for her entire life.

One amazing thing was that, despite her inability to talk, she developed ways of communicating with us. She would shake her head no or do a sweeping up motion with her head for yes, would hold her left hand to her mouth for food or drink, and could smile when she was happy or let you know that she wanted to do something, like have a story read to her or whatever. Her favorite toy was her glowworm, because the face lit up and because it was about the only toy she could get to play. It had a little music box sewn inside its nightshirt and would play "Rock a-bye, Baby" when she'd hit it with her elbow, and to make it "sing" caused her such great joy. Despite all that, even to this day, I wonder what sort of person she was trapped inside her body.

To say I miss her would be an understatement. For months after she died, I had dreams about her every night. Some were disturbingly intense, like how I had stolen her body from the funeral home and was looking for her soul to put back in it. Great fantasy storylines and such, but horrible if you're a grieving brother. I vowed after she died that I would think about her every day. That's slipped a little in the past twelve years, but whenever August 24th rolls around (or September 7th, the day she died), I always think of my little sister. I wish she was back, but I wouldn't wish her to be back in that condition. After all, I'm Catholic (in case you have forgotten), and so I believe she's in a better place, where she is free to roam and talk and do everything that her poor little tortured body wasn't able to do while in this world. If you want to take that and say that my religion is just there as a comfort, that's fine, go ahead. I'll think you're an asshole, but that's your choice.

One of my biggest issues with my sister's death, however, is that I was home from college for Labor Day at the beginning of my sophomore year. Normally, I would go and say good-bye to her, but this time I kind of walked out the door and gave her a wave and a "'Bye, Steph" rather than saying good-bye like I wasn't some kind of ass. Everything was fine, I drove back to St. Joe and then a few days later, my aunt and uncle show up to give me the bad news. You can probably tell why my guilt has eaten at me these twelve years.

One fortunate thing was that one of our close, personal family friends was the local mortician in town. He took care of everything, and the way he helped all of us cope was amazing. Sure, we had cards pour in from all over the area (including ones from two separate ex-girlfriends of mine, which, you know, was really cool), but it was Master Bruce's tenderness that helped soothe everyone over the first couple of days before we buried her.

However, if I ever doubted that St. Joe was the right place for me, it was made boldly apparent by the outpouring of well-wishers and kindness from the entire campus. A couple dozen of my friends drove across the state of Indiana to come to my house and to be there for me, and for that I'll be eternally grateful. We got flowers and everything from all over the campus, from the President's office, from the science department, professors, dorms...the list could probably go on. I think we still have all of the cards and stuff tucked away some where. Not that we want to be reminded of losing a member of our family, but the kindness expressed was just overwhelmingly wonderful.

Not only that, but I had a couple of high school friends who drove up from Indiana and from Purdue to come to her funeral. If it wasn't for the combination of my St. Joe friends and my high school friends, I don't know how I would have made it through the weekend.

All of these things are bubbling up now, so if my little story sounds a touch disjointed, forgive me. It's not so much a story about the sadness of my sister's affliction or for everyone's pity; more, it's a testament to the strength of friends and healing of the human spirit. So, thanks for letting me deal with a little personal pain. I'll get back to the normal stupidity around here tomorrow. For today, though, I'm going to keep things somber.

So, here's to you, my little sister. I truly hope that your soul is free of all harm and affliction, and that it may wander wherever and whenever it chooses. God bless you.

Stephanie Marie Jenks, b. August 24th, 1981, d. September 7th, 1995.

I Bet You Didn't Know...

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I'm not sure if most of my close friends know this or not. I think my wife, the Comely and Buxom Boudica, might know...or not. I dunno. I might have told her about it once. I might have even mentioned this in college, probably during a long night of imbibing and Irish Drinking Tunes. It wasn't exactly seminal in the formation of the fat smartass you see read before you now, but it was a little something that happened to a younger, kinder me. As I've been reflecting on my high school days thanks in large part to the colossal upset of Homestead High School, I thought this might be apropos. Maybe it's not, but it's what you're getting, so deal with it.

Back when the losing streak to Homestead was not quite yet a decade old (i.e. 1997), I had a professional writing gig. Yep, I used to actually get paid to put words on a piece of paper and have people read it in a weekly column featured in the local newspaper, the Huntington Herald-Press (owned up until very recently by the Quayle family...yes that Quayle family). Yes, that's right, my friends, I used to be a part of the liberal media.

I got paid something outrageous like $0.50 a news item or something like that. I dunno. It was enough to keep me in comic books every two weeks (I know many of you are stunned to hear that this fat geek is into comics) and enough quarters to sneak up to Fort Wayne with my best friends Jason and Tyler to play the X-Men video game in the foyer at Wal-Mart. Anyway, it was a gig, and it got my feet wet, and it showed me, in the long run, that I really don't want to write for a newspaper. But back when I was doing it, damn, it was kind of fun. I think most of the fun came in the mail every two weeks, but it was fun nonetheless.

My job description was pretty simple: report on the news going on around your hometown. Each of the little burgs in Huntington County had a weekly appearance in the newspaper on a set day. I think my day was Friday and I reported on the news around Markle, IN. And let me tell you...there wasn't much to report.

Due to this lack of news, I would often find myself coming up with new and inventive ways of making an ass of myself in the paper. I would hold contests where people could call in and basically all they'd do is get their name in the paper. Which is really kind of sad, when you think about it. For some people, they looked forward to reading their name in my column. Life in small town America, I guess.

Some of these contests were tricky, though. I had a whole series of them that were related to signs of spring, like who saw the first robin, who had the first crocus blooming, who saw the first snake...blah blah blah. One of them was "who found the first mushrooms". Wow. Was that a fucking can of worms.

The mushrooms in question were morels, which are apparently quite tasty if fried up. I'm not a big fungus fan; mushrooms grow in dead stuff and are basically scavengers. It'd be like shooting a vulture and frying it up. I realize that pigs eat garbage, too, but the difference between pigs and mushrooms is that pigs are quite tasty. Mushrooms...not so much.

(Incidentally, my friend Jason, mentioned above, would argue this fact with me into the wee hours of the night, if needed, until I came around to his way of thinking...but it hasn't happened yet, sucker).

Those people who would tromp through the woods looking for a stand of morels--commonly known as "mushroom hunters"--would defend their territory to the end. It'd be like the fucking Battle of Azincourt where one group (usually a pair) would actually try to lead all other mushroom hunters astray if they were in the woods and they thought there were mushroom poachers around. If the poachers were persistant, then there'd be fights in the woods. There might even be shots fired. It'd usually just be a warning shot up in the air, but still. I think you get the picture.

This all seems like a lot of extra work to me. Especially for something that looks pretty much like a dick growing out of the ground. But, people loved themselves some mushroom hunting. I bring this up because it's the only time in my long career (approximately a year) that I would hold one of these contests that the "winner" (which was the first person to call in with the info I wanted) didn't want to be recognized. I remember the phone conversation well. You don't forget something of this nature. It went something like this:

Me: "Hello"
Mysterious Caller: "Mr. Jenks?"
Me: "Oh, I'll go get my dad."
MC: "Oh, no, Mr. Matthew Jenks?"
Me: "Speaking."
MC: "I'm calling about the contest. The mushroom hunting contest."
Me: "Ah, excellent. No one's called in yet. You're the first, sir."
MC: "Yes, well, I found a whole stand in my usual spot. Brought in about fifty or sixty."
Me: "That's quite a haul. Can I get a general idea where this is?"
MC: "No!"
Me: "Oh, well, then...can I get your name?"
MC: "NO!"
Me: "Well, um, I guess you're still a winner. I can't really give you any recognition if you don't give me your name, though."
MC: "That's just too damned bad, isn't it? I don't want anyone following me to my spot! Those are my mushrooms, and I'm not going to let some punk kid ruin my spot for me!"
Me: "I'm not really trying to ruin your spot..."
MC: "Well, that's fine. There, I called in. So there. And if you try to find out who this is or where my spot is, you'll find a very nasty surprise outside your door!"

I always regret not knowing who this was, because I wanted to follow him and "fertilize" his mushrooms, if you know what I'm saying.

It wasn't quite a death threat, but it was as close as I've ever gotten (aside from Aaron Brooks threatening to kill me in the seventh grade because I said his girlfriend had really nice legs (which she did), not knowing that she was going with Aaron at the time). I still to this day don't know who the caller was. I ended up writing something like this:

"We have a winner in the mushroom-hunting contest, but the caller wished to remain anonymous. And, please, people, for the love of God, don't follow him or figure out where his mushrooms are or else he's going to leave me a very ugly surprise on my doorstep." Surprisingly, the paper ran it like that, even with the reported threat in there. Most people thought I was trying to be funny, but my mom gave me this long lecture on how the pen is mightier than the sword and now how we're going to have to be on the lookout for this guy, blah blah blah.

I quit the job about six months later because, well, it kind of bored me, and I was getting ready to head off to college, and writing the column and submitting was going to be a pain. You might well imagine that Markle, Indiana (official town website) was not on the cutting edge of technology back in the late 90s, so I had no idea that people could email me news information from town and I could complete my column on the computer and email it in. Plus, that sounded too much like work and, really, I was in college, I didn't want to have to put much effort into anything.

I did kick around the idea of having a contest in the fall where people would call in with results on hunting puffballs, and I could make it a two-part contest...first to find one and the biggest. But, I really didn't need anyone threatening to leave anything on my doorstep again. Even though, come to find out, that would have been something to help prepare me for college.