I’ve been thinking about Pittsburgh Steelers’ quarterback Ben Roethlisberger. For those of you who might not follow sports, he’s the guy who was suspended at the beginning of last season over allegations that he sexually assaulted a female college student in Milledgeville, GA last winter, after, I believe, previously settling a law suit filed by another young woman.
What kind of disturbed creep is this guy? The short answer is, “not one that I would call that to his face,” but why is he sexually assaulting college girls in bathroom stalls?
I mean, he’s rich and famous and he’s won a Super Bowl ring. Haven’t seen his picture lately, but he’s probably handsome. The QB is usually one of the handsomest players on a team, and usually one of the most intelligent, intelligent enough in this case to learn a complicated offense, read defenses and make lightning speed decisions under pressure.
So why doesn’t he have a girlfriend who’s a Hollywood star or cover-girl model? And if he’s currently between supermodels and somehow finds himself in Milledgeville for the evening, why can’t he secure the hottest woman in Milledgeville?
He has to be such a demented asshole he can’t conceal that fact long enough to have consensual sex with admiring groupies. The man needs to attend the Keith Richards’ School of Social Grace.
A few weeks ago my friends T.J. and John played in the Newton County Recreation Department Church League Championship. Of the several hundred or so churches in the county, four fielded teams.
T.J. and John played for St. Augustine, the county’s only, I think, Catholic Church. I’m not saying St. Augustine recruited non-Catholics for its team, I’m just saying at least there were no overt Klansmen on the roster.
Their opponents were The Church at Covington, the oh-so-nineties name of which will someday look like a tattoo on some embarrassed child’s grandmother.
I attended the game and sat with the other three St. Augustine rooters, a turnout which doubled the team’s previous fan base. The Now had called for their fans--I’d estimate around a hundred--to wear all black. Covering my bets, I wore a black velvet sports coat lest a fight break out.
T.J. sent me a message before the game asking for ideas for an ESPN poster. That’s where fans at an ESPN televised game hold up a poster with a four word slogan exhorting their team, the capitals ESPN written in vertical descending order and their slogan horizontally, i.e., Entering SMU Power Node, hoping for their, in this case, three seconds of fame.
I sent back slogans exhorting St. A. (Every St. Augustinian Plays Nasty), self denigrating (Entire Squad Perceives Nothing) and provocative (Eradicate Some Pious Nerds), but my favorite was the theologically themed “Eat Sacrament. Pray Nightly.” Ideally (we were too lazy to actually make a placard anyway) it would be wired to subliminally flash “Embrace Superior Papist Notions.”
I’ve recently seen video clips of Ron Paul and his son Raul (and his name isn’t Raul, but wouldn’t it be cool if it were?) speaking before the Nothing To The Left of Limbaugh Convention. (One speaker, Pawlenty I think, was in fact attacked by Rush for suggesting Republicans might need somebody left of Limbaugh in their camp to win a national election.) Not having to address people centered in reality, they set out their vision of life in a Paul and son America.
I was immediately struck by the similarity to John Lennon’s “Imagine” in that they’re speaking of a place that never existed and never will, a utopia existing only in the mind.
Leaving aside that one utopia is based on ultimate giving and the other on ultimate greed, it’s easy for one to advocate either position when you know there’s no way in hell a sensible populace would adopt either form of (non?) government and the anarchic nightmare that would ensue.
NEW RULE: The Prince Avenue Baptist Church (of Athens, GA) is no longer on Prince Avenue and, as far as I can see, in Athens, GA. It has to change its name to a symbol meaning “The Church Formerly Known As Prince Avenue Baptist.”
Terrible song lyric: “The first cut is the deepest” (in fact the title and repeated refrain) Oh yeah, why? Who says? Butchers? Sword Swallowers? No, Cat Stevens actually, always my go-to-guy for conventional wisdom.
The fact that so many have covered this tripe astounds me. I mean no one I much respect (Rod Stewart, brain-dead since 1971, Sheryl Crow, wasn’t she married to a biker on steroids?), but still, lots.