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I keep on having this recurring dream where I smash neocons and their corporate paymasters under my thumb. Then I wake up and they're still in charge. Dammit.

Wherein a smarter dude than I articulates truth better than I ever could, so get reading!

Paul Krugman is a groovy cat.

Historical narratives matter. That’s why conservatives are still writing books denouncing F.D.R. and the New Deal; they understand that the way Americans perceive bygone eras, even eras from the seemingly distant past, affects politics today.

And it’s also why the furor over Barack Obama’s praise for Ronald Reagan is not, as some think, overblown. The fact is that how we talk about the Reagan era still matters immensely for American politics.

Exactement. Never, ever, ever tie Saint Ronnie's name with anything good. The majority of people paying attention to politics in any capacity are not to going to think in nuanced terms. No matter how well spoken and crystal clear a candidate speaks, the public is going to hear undeserved niceties tied to that fucking horrid mouthpiece of a diabolical movement that never had, and never will have, the best interests of all Americans at heart.

This is, in short, a time when progressives ought to be driving home the idea that the right’s ideas don’t work, and never have.

Can I get an 'amen?'

I said, CAN I GET A FUCKING 'AMEN?'

Careful with that bike, Eugene Ernest

Chausson giving a helping hand to Debussy.

Everyone has that handful of artists he or she feels is their own, that no one else knows about, that they alone possess. It used to be like that for me way back in the Dark Ages of the mid-1980s with Metallica. Then everyone started liking them. Then they started becoming musically mediocre. But I'm not here to rehash Metalli-bashing. I'm here to sing, well, type, the praises of French composer Ernest Chausson, whose works, at least in the United States, never seem to get played.

The dark, somber piano trio in G minor, the concert for piano, violin and string quartet in D, the thick, Wagner-esque symphony in B-flat, some of my all time favorite classical pieces were penned by this dude. In addition, Ernest has the distinction of having proved just how dangerous riding a bike can be. A shame he died with easily two or three decades of composing ahead of him.

Assuming he decided to walk everywhere.

So when you're pedaling through your illusion of sporting the yellow jersey of the Tour de France leader, don't be a, er, dope [I can almost hear the guffaws, thanks]. The next great American novel might never get written. Oh, and happy purposely-belated-by-one-day birthday, Ernie.



The brilliant David Oistrakh playing the first half of Chausson's Poème for violin and orchestra. Forget the fact that there's no hot string-on-string action to see. Close your eyes and dig the music, mes amis.

I'm hoping it'll soothe the savage beast that is my anger at the Packers for their loss to an inferior team. Blah.

Conference call

Bet you didn't see that clever post title coming.

I told you there would be some weird shit. Darren Sproles providing the second-most electrifying play of the day, he who was in danger of being cut in training camp? Billy Volek spearheading the eventual game-winning drive? And goddamn, the refs last Sunday levied a bushel of questionable calls against all four teams, including the godawful phantom hold that nullified the most electrifying play of the day. These are the ones who graded out the best? Poor Peyton Manning. Shot in the ass by his own teammates with their inexplicably erratic play for the second time in three years - o-line last time, defense now - though tossing a ball to Kenton Keith probably wasn't a good idea regardless of the subsequent turnover at the 2 yard line. The Colts are turning into the football equivalent of the Atlanta Braves.

I wish the Browns would turn into the football equivalent of the Baltimore Ravens. Thus, as I pour this libation of tea upon the holy ground of my front yard, I humbly proffer this meager hymn!

Ye glorious football gods!
One lousy title is all I ask of thee,
sandwiched gleefully
by the occasional island of decency
in a churning sea of fuckery,
as is your inscrutable and omnipotent want!

Huh? Oh, right. Thanks a lot, Art. Please live forever in mental and physical anguish. And gods? Fuck off.

San Diego (13-5) @ New England (17-0): I remember it well. The 1994 AFC title game, the Chargers a big underdog against the 'Blitzburgh' defense that was hitting its stride, having waxed my beloved Browns the previous week. I don't recall the spread, but it was easily double digits. There was no way in hell Junior Seau alone would take a bunch of nondescript never-would-bes and never-weres to face the winner of the Real Super Bowl®, the victor of the San Francisco-Dallas game. The Chargers were indeed outgained 415-266, had 13 first downs to Pittsburgh's 22, while holding onto the ball for a lousy 22 minutes and 47 seconds. Final score? San Diego 17, Pittsburgh 13. They decided to make Neil O'Donnell, Barry Foster and Bam Morris march methodically up and down the field, shutting off the potential for big plays, of which the Chargers themselves had a couple. Holding the vaunted Steeler ground game to a lousy 66 yards didn't hurt the proceedings. Sounds eerily similar to what Jacksonville attempted last week, doesn't it? Don't get too giddy, residents of the city with the most boring weather in North America. You guys will blitz more, and a fully healthy team could've kept it close - the Chargers really do have a nice collection of talent, probably second only to New England in the entire league - but that's about it. Being banged up? With Billy Beer possibly starting in place of The Motormouth? Good fucking luck. The Patriots have far too many weapons to deal with and a big edge at the most important position in the sport.
New England, 34-20.

N.Y. Giants (12-6) @ Green Bay (14-3): Wonder if Brett Favre is licking his chops at facing a injury-riddled Giants' secondary. The forecast, unfortunately, doesn't call for copious amounts of the white stuff, but it's supposed to be fucking cold, thus, Ryan Grant left, Ryan Grant right, funky Favre tosses to Driver and Co., then some Ryan Grant up the middle for good measure with head-to-toe soreness from sideline to sideline, everything lost in a Hound of the Baskervilles-esque fog of sixty thousand breaths. Hell of a run by Big Blue, especially the justly-maligned Eli who has decided to stop the insanity and make less mistakes than his brother - all with an injured no. 1 receiver, a bruiser with hands of stone and a 7th-round pick as his top complimentary pieces - but it ends on the frozen turf of Dairyland against the most complete team in the NFC, thereby setting up

1)a ratings bonanza that has corporates foaming at the jowls
2)479 quadrillion puff pieces about Favre's humble upbringing
3)a slightly less amount about Brady's hot babe horizontal shuffling
4)and one that tells the gripping origin story of Belichick's unsartorial hoodie.

Green Bay, 27-13! Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of hype! Save us, Jaws!

Nevermore? Never.

How many times I've sifted through your writings for ideas,
a spark of inspiration, I could never hope to count.

Happy birthday, Edgar Allan Poe. Ah, here we are -

I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, because, in truth, the character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I believe -

- huh? No, seriously, why are you still here? Go read his stuff. Now.
Don't make me post another one of my poems.

Virtue and Vice

I have very few of the former and a whole lot of the latter.


Why The Black Crowes again?

For starters, they're fucking great, you knuckleheads.

For endings, their first new album in seven years will soon arrive.

Look! Frankenstein Post! Run for the hills!

"If we strategerize the economizing, cutting taxes for corporatisms, then good docs won't leave and can practice their love of women folk and the mens can work two and three jobs, which is uniquely American."

"What a fucking idiot."

"I know someones who reads papers, and he says Bobby Fisherman is dead. I always liked fishing growing up. Checkers, too. King me - oh, wait, ya'll already did, heh, heh."

"What a fucking idiot."

"I predictioned there will be peace in the Middle East by the time my terms is done."

"What a fucking idiot."

"Now hang on a sec Paulie, I didn't say when I'd be leavin', heh, heh."

Loose lips

"Stretch, gimme a lemon. Makin' that face is hard work, heh, heh!"

Squeeze me tight, baby

No, tighter. Ooh, you know how I like it.

New data from the Labor Department confirm what most middle-class Americans already know: Inflation is squeezing them.

As consumer prices rose by 4.1 percent last year, the highest rate since 1990, the prices of basic essentials such as food, gasoline and health insurance climbed far more steeply, explaining why so many Americans are telling pollsters that the economy is their chief concern.

There has to be some good news in there, right?

The inflation news would be worse if not for China. Prices for the types of consumer goods that are coming almost exclusively from China were down last year as in earlier years, serving to hold back broader U.S. consumer inflation.

Apparel prices fell 0.4 percent in 2007, footwear prices fell 0.9 percent and the price of furniture and bedding — China- and Brazil-dominated products that once were the domain of the Carolinas — fell by 0.9 percent.

The price of toys, which now come mostly from China, fell 4.7 percent last year. It's fallen every year since 1997.

Ha! Told you so! Sure, it's all the stuff tainted with lead and chemicals, but as Wal-Mart truthfully proclaims with mucho gusto, 'save money, live better!'
Think how cheap the iodine, skin creams and bandages will be!

In case you were still harboring some doubts about these complex economic issues, fret not, mes amis. I'm sure if we just cut taxes, everything will be both hunky and dory.

Windowpane

I've got nothin' today, so sneak a peek through my window - not that way, you denizens of the gutter - and read some extra bad verse. If you're indeed brave enough to go on, you'll no doubt see that I certainly didn't drink from the same well of creativity as the mighty Swedes above - though it's a distinct possibility that I was listening to their CD as I wrote this - but given that it's one of my less lame pieces - I know, frightening thought, isn't it? - here you go. Suffer! Enjoy!


Reveries of the moon

The prominent solitude wakes and leaves the room,
past the massive darkness to dream like DeQuincey,
to ruminate over locked-away confessions;
for everything counts, says the midnight gardener.

Descending a thousand fathoms, always too deep
each hour, another step further than last evening.
Planets spin and rendezvous with the stars, fixed heavens
each second drop signs once corporeal, once cold.

The sparking ceiling, an old house deserted.
I see ghosts in glazed mouths, crying out nothing
but a warning of the deceit of reason;
I can never become lost while in Carceri.

They spoke and told me if I wanted to sleep, stop.
Whispered, if i wanted to suffer, remember.
But when aurora ascends, they’ll fall nevermore
and become to me memory, the storied dead.

Iconic bodies take flight from the filthy seas
on endless stairs that overhang the depths, that end
at the brink; I cannot move, and remain unfinished.

I cry and hide away from the sun, a haven
is this maelstrom; I wait, restless, for this hollow
to be drowned out by golden sounds returning.

A vast choir, voiceless, sings of a fiery angel
bearing necessities forsaken, and now I,
in a tearless meditation, I am alive.

Rumors of War

If I had a band, it'd be just like High on Fire: fucking ugly and fucking loud.

Oh, relax. They're only rumors.

It's not as if there exists a concerted, coordinated effort to:

1. Shamelessly promote mindless consumerism

2. Through enlisting the help of so-called allies

3. To divert attention from the greatest foreign policy fuck-up in American history

4. In order to vigorously prop up an even more scarifying cartoon supervillain

5. To maintain the numbing disinformation campaign of the status quo.

Jeez, you moonbats sure are gullible.

What lies beneath

Trying to explain how I feel during, after - and why the hell not, before - writing is nigh impossible, nearly as difficult as transforming a beautifully tormenting thought or emotion from its natural, excited state into the human construct of written language, which, no matter how successful the writer is, will always seem cold and placid in comparison to the unstable superheat that arouses our senses, our desires. In a recent post that was primarily concerned with the part of the writing process that's observable by the human eye, i.e. the words on the paper, there were indeed erratic flurries of not-so-subtle hints about the churning maelstrom underneath.

What lies below the surface is inextricably linked with the phenomena seen outside playing on the fields of white. Within and without, two sides, two as one; Apollo may be the lord of poetry, but would we not be remiss in forgetting about Janus? For what is a poem, any piece of writing, but a doorway permitting a glimpse of our interior life, a snapshot of a being looking both forward and back, to cherished memories held with the utmost care, ahead to ones yet to be fulfilled, perhaps never. So, thanks to the query of b, let's see if I can try and articulate the obscure goings-on of my terminally fucked up insides, one man's experience of something that anyone who writes - forget about poetry or fiction for a moment, every single person who has a blog does - deals with day after night.

To understand, we must first return to the provenance of all things.

Hear me, all ye hallowed beings/Both high and low of Heimdall's children/Thou wilt, Valfather, that I well set forth/The fates of the world which as first I recall.

Too far back, dumbass. But pass me some of that mead.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

Quoi ?

Hey, wacky cosmos, let's keep it in the here and now, shall we? And nothing about the blind idiot daemon-sultan, Azathoth? Your funeral. Anyway, the mind is always calculating, the heart is always beating, thus, there's always going to be a wisp or a thousand of an unwritten composition floating through the ether, even if unrecognizable or veiled to my conscious eye. On the wing of fancy flights is where I generally reside, even if rudely and consistently interrupted, pulled back down by life on this nondescript ball of molten rock.

A feeling, a sensation, a memory, one of these three abstractions is what jumpstarts the whole process. The possibility of overlap between one or more certainly exists: a memory of a feeling or of a sensation, whether from actual physical proximity or contact or gleaned from the words or look of another. The skin gets tingly, the blood rushes and I reach for my notebook. Yes, there are most definitely times when the biomechanics remain the same, but the stimulus is instead of a darker nature. Not everything is poetry underneath a breezy sky flush with clouds along the Seine while sipping a bottle of wine. I won't go into specifics, but of course, I've written things from a point of utter sadness or passing anger. Though, no, if I stop to think about it, sadness underwrites nearly everything I create, a deep strata hiding under the one you read. And if I manage to craft it with skill, perhaps a word or a line will impart its melancholy perfume, creating a piece more complex than mere ruminations on mundane love that you'd hear in any number of overproduced pop songs.

Whether you've seen someone once, never, will see them next month, next year, in a decade, in two hours, via the written letter, an email or a text message - ugh, forget that last affront to language, yikes - love is never purely sunshine and beds of strikingly red roses. Perhaps for others this isn't the case, but love hurts. Ooh, big revelation there, Randal. Yeah, I know. Thanks. Love is uncomfortable. It's certainly not the default state of humanity, at least no humanity that I'm familiar with. In each poem I try and capture a piece of that instability, whether stretching closer to physical lust, something platonic or a shiver that reverberates through your limbs to where your fingers and the toes on your feet feel it, the tip of your tongue, every last piece of you.

Skulking in the shadows of my mind as I write is the ever-lurking notion that when I am finished, whether completely or with a single stanza - though I'm never truly finished - there's still a load of laundry needs to be put in the dryer, that pile of dishes from lunch is waiting to be cleaned, the kids need help with their homework, my wife wants to discuss the evening's dinner and who's going to cook it.

I write a line, and often it will consist of ten or twelve syllables. There seems to be a natural ebb and flow to such lengths. If the second line conforms - and I try to not put too much thought into the structure at this point, as everything must submit to the lordship of emotion - I may decide to keep that pattern throughout, perhaps varying stanza size in a gentle nod to variety. Free verse is always an option as it's more malleable. As for time-honored prosody, it really is quite difficult. A simple guitar riff may be easier to write, but a well-written one can pack a thunderous, memorable punch. A complex passage requires more attention to compose, with all your diminished ninths and iambic pentameters and dactylic feet - I apologize for the mexed missages - yet both forms of beauty have validity, one the stately Parthenon built in antiquity and admired by Petrarch and his Renaissance disciples, the other a Led Zeppelin The Rain Song or a My Dying Bride Your River sculpted in the modern style. The classical and linear contre the more personal and mercurial. And in between we can find, for example, Beethoven's piano sonata no. 14 in C-sharp minor. Love can be plaintive, agitated, fiery. Whatever my mood is at any given moment - and Lucifer, how it can change despite its proclivity to stay set on 'brood' - dictates the distinct path of love that I will write about.

Then the agony truly begins, the fabrication of those perfect words in their correct places. I cannot help but think of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's oft-cited remark that "poetry" is "the best words in the best order." Oh, that's all?

So I write and write, crossing words out, moving them around, making a mess of sheet after sheet in between sips of wine - and yes, sometimes a beverage of the non-alcoholic variety such as tea - and the occasional pause to sit and listen to a few bars of rumbling piano, lilting strings or crushing chords. Perhaps I'll hear a word in a lyric that will make sense, or will provide just enough of a hint for my mind to grab and run with, searching the nooks and crannies in my head to find le mot juste. Measures of notes have proven time and again to inspire the wheels of creation to move faster and faster - until the next measure when they stop as I effortlessly slip into daydream, absentmindedly dropping the pen onto the pad, succumbing to gravity as it slowly rolls onto the floor, the soft clink of plastic on hardwood shattering my temporary catatonia.

Reaching down to pick it up, I often notice as I straighten out my back that all I've managed to do is write two, maybe three, lines. Which, yeah, can be deflating. In this case, however - the first stanza of which appeared in the 'prequel' to this post - the words, or more accurately, the rough structure, the skeletal frame, materialized without too much exertion. A rare occurrence indeed. It was the words themselves, balancing between whipsmart and clever and a maudlin market hawking so many kinds of cheese that your nostrils simply cannot take it anymore and you faint from the stifling air. Not literally of course. I like a slice of cheese. More scratchings and arrows and swearing and dejection and sweating and pointless thought interjecting such as why haven't I shaved in a week. A tidal wave of irrelevancy threatens to derail the whole process, so I stand up and with an erratic gait, pace around the table in front of the couch, flanked by the very computer that might have this interminably rambling post see the light of day at last.

Passing by my bookcase, I run a finger along the spines, hoping through some long-lost art of osmosis that I'll be inspired. Perhaps I'll pull a volume out, placing my discman - I'm the last mp3 player holdout between the ages of 18 and 49, methinks; even my kids have them - in the empty space that resides above the books, randomly opening upon a passage to see if anything contains the power to inspire me. Or will I go back to one of the wells I've drunk from so many times before to see if I can rework a line for the five hundredth time, each generation's copy weaker than the last? Finding nothing, I sigh.

I sit back down and scratch that itch.

Perhaps another cup of something, red, white or leafy.

The word found at last?

No, roars the thick, black stroke piercing the letters as if Vlad Tepes himself had run through an entire Ottoman squadron now perched above the earth, sliding down towards the blood-soaked dirt, agonizingly slow, jealously watching their insides reaching peace first.

Unexpectedly, a flurry of verse threatens to overwhelm as line after line effortlessly flows. A cursory glance reveals that they aren't half bad, obviously a product of my delirium. Oh, I'm sure the gentle reader has assumed too much drink. You might be right, so better let me read them again. I fear my subject may have tricked me, for

quick into view comes your beguiling mouth

and I know those words you speak - oh, how I know - are worse than the sirens' song. I raise the volume a bit higher, for I have no wax to protect me from your aural spell. Yet, the crash of cymbals, the rush of strings, the end of one measure breaking on the next, each distinct sound, so often lost in the alluring cacophony, becomes as clear as the nighttime Western sky in July, each note recalling nothing but your breath, the hypnotic warmth of your skin, your words that hold the world. The spell has woven its magic, has opened the gates for the whisper of the muse to come through and into me, inking the last script on the sheet, inscribing an unresolved ending.

Once the deed is done, I am left with naught but her unyielding presence in my thoughts, the world slowly flickering away, the impending bout of insomnia - the price I must pay.

If I were a rich man, and if you've had the strength to read this far, you would most certainly be rewarded with a cash bonus or its material equivalent. But since I'm not, thanks for using up a few minutes of your life that you'll never get back. Ha, I say, ha, as I bid you farewell, for now it is time to dig deep once more, it is time to write.

Hey, kids! Pop quiz!

Guess which quarterback is going to the NFC Championship game?
































Hint: it's the happy one.

Remedy

Oh, how this country needs one.

Divide and conquer

What a strange Wild Card weekend that was. Seattle was up 13-0 going into the fourth quarter. Then the two teams combined for 36 points. Jacksonville wastes an 18-point lead through David Garrard, he of the three picks the entire season, nearly doubling his turnover output within five minutes, while his counterpart tosses three of his own. In the first half. Eli Manning doesn't suck at all, but plays like his older brother. The Titans do a masterful job of shutting down the best running back in football, so, of course, Chris Chambers and Vincent Jackson catch a bushel of 20+ yarders. Expect at least one more odd occurrence this weekend. I'm not sure in what capacity, nor in what game, but there's gonna be some funky shit.

Anyway, on paper, these are all pretty decent matchups. Yes, including the New England-Jacksonville game. These Jags are even more physical than the 2005 squad that got waxed by the Patriots - which sounds like it shoots my argument all to hell more than I'd like - plus Garrard can make plays with his cleats, unlike human statue Byron Leftwich. Don't be surprised if at least one road team pulls the upset, as has happened in eleven seasons and fifteen times overall in the divisional round since the playoffs were last expanded in 1990. It could occur in the AFC, though it's more likely in the NFC, not because Dallas and Green Bay are relatively unexpected top seeds, and thus carry an aura of the postseason unknown about them, but simply because they're more flawed than their AFC counterparts. So watch Jacksonville win.

Seattle (11-6) @ Green Bay (13-3): The Packers want to score early and run run run young Ryan Grant, weakening the effectiveness of the blitzkrieg Seahawk D. Green Bay has a stout defense of their own and given that Seattle is a bit more one-dimensional these days, all the pressure will be on their Republican quarterback. Sure, Favre might try and toss a ball or five into coverage that he shouldn't, but for all of the talk surrounding Seattle's talented receiver corps, Driver, Jennings, Jones and Lee - sounds like a fucking law firm - ain't too shabby, either. Always heed the mantra of the Mighty Jaws: you've got to have balance. The Packers do, 27-20.

Jacksonville (12-5) @ New England (16-0): And so we enter end game. This matchup strikes me as a poor man's take on the greatest upset in Super Bowl history. A powerful, nearly unstoppable offensive machine versus a scrappy, overtly physical bunch. That ragtag group of unknowns hit the all-pro receivers in the mouth, constantly disrupted their routes, and pounded the hell out of the league MVP, defeating a team that, with a victory, would've joined the pantheon of all-time greats. Yes, they were that good. Better put your excitement away, Florida. Bill Belichick, not Mike 'why sure, I'll be glad to waste the best player in football to pass 50 times' Martz, is your opponents' coach. New England, 34-21.

San Diego (12-5) @ Indianapolis (13-3): Along with Tennessee, San Diego is one team that has in recent years played the Colts very tough no matter the location. Bob Sanders is healthy and one just needs to witness last year's Super Bowl run and the entire 2007 season to realize that he, not Dwight Freeney, is their most important defensive player. Ronnie Lott? Kenny Easley? This dude hits just as hard, and that's fucking saying something. LaDainian Tomlinson won't be held to 42 yards on the ground again, but real estate is going to be hard to buy, nevertheless. Though, if Philip Rivers finds a bunch of inexplicably wide open receivers like he did in the wild card game, the Chargers can win. He won't. Indianapolis, 27-17.

N.Y. Giants (11-6) @ Dallas (13-3): If you're a Cowboys fan - and nearly 99% of my 1.3 readers seem to be - you can't like how your team played down the stretch, though I personally found it hilarious. Yes, the World's Worst Teammate was out, and Washington had everything to play for and the jackasses didn't, but man, did the offense look bad. Ineffective. Preseason-y. For three games running now. And now they're going against a team that can really pressure the quarterback. Owens should play and I cannot imagine Dallas not being able to run the ball that poorly for a second straight game.

Before I continue with my not-in-depth preview I'm going to do something I can't believe I'd ever do, defend Tony Romo. The whole Jessica Simpson In Mexico garbage is the same bullshit that Vince Carter got in 2001 when he was at North Carolina in the afternoon for graduation then flew to Philly that evening for game 7 of a semifinal matchup. Carter's series-clinching three at the buzzer was no good, thus he was skewered with such righteous indignation that I half-expected Half-Man, Half-Amazing to go half postal. Yeah, he shot 6-18 from the floor. He also had 9 assists, 7 rebounds and zero turnovers while playing all 48 minutes. That season's darling, Allen Iverson, shot 8-27 (a lower percentage in case you were at all curious) with 16 assists, 4 rebounds and 4 turnovers. But that's never brought up. So if Tony Romo wants to hang out with his chick during a weekend off, whether the media approves of her or not - and if she was a nondescript babe from the suburbs, we'd be hearing nary a peep - Terry Bradshaw can go fuck the hell off. The 1980 Oakland Raiders were notorious nogoodniks and partiers. The Eagles were strait-laced and stoic. The Raiders crushed the Eagles in the Super Bowl. Ron Jaworski was my favorite non-Browns player at the time, so I remember that week quite well. Thus, talking hairpieces, shut the fuck up.
I don't give a fuck if you DID play the game. You don't have to have your nose buried in your playbook 24-7. Is number 9 suddenly going to forget how to play quarterback against a team he sees twice a year and beaten both times in 2007?
I almost want Romo to toss for 400 yards and 5 TDs just to shut you inane jackasses up. Almost.

Anway, if the other quarterback, Eli something-or-other, once more calls signals with élan, the Giants can win. Much to my chagrin, and the chagrin of those righteous souls not afflicted with Cowboy-itis, he won't. The image above will not have a sequel. This week. Dallas, 28-21.