“The earth is not a lair, neither is it a prison. The earth is a Paradise, the only one we’ll ever know. We will realize it the moment we open our eyes. We don’t have to make it a Paradise–it is one. We have only to make ourselves fit to inhabit it. The man with the gun, the man with murder in his heart, cannot possibly recognize Paradise even when he is shown it.” — Henry Miller’s “The Air-Conditioned Nightmare”
There’s something about big cities that make me uncomfortable. I grew up on a farm, fifty miles directly south of Chicago. On a clear night, you can see the soft glow of the breathing beast on the northern horizon. But most of the time, it sits there like a dying ember in the fire of some forgotten cowboy. My dad warned us of the apocalyptic behavior of its inhabitants. People from Chicago, as my father would say were “either a rude piece of shit or a thief, but not all of them are politicians.”
What we got on the news was nothing but teacher strikes and CTA shutdowns and stabbings and robberies and the weather. Holy shit, my father was obsessed with the weather. But, mostly, it seemed there was never any good news out of Chicago. Big cities, for me, were a place for the insane, the misfits, the crooks. My father never explicitly said not to go there, but he inferred it.
I remember reading Henry Miller’s “The Air-Conditioned Nightmare” shortly after reading his opus, “The Tropic of Cancer.” The latter, of course, took place in Paris, the city he had absconded to from New York, whose habits and inhabitants he berated in “The Air-Conditioned Nightmare.” The book rambles at times, written by a madman whose disdain for the United States had ballooned to the size of Visanthe Shiancoe’s dick over the years.
“To fight is to admit that one is confused; it is an act of desperation, not of strength. A rat can fight magnificently when it is cornered. Are we to emulate the rat?”
He took issue with the imperialistic nature of the U.S. government. But also the docility of the working man, of the illusion of progress, the idea that constructing taller buildings and filling them with men and women in gray suits was actually leading us toward an ultimate awakening, was, in fact, the greatest ruse in the history of mankind. The city and its excess will not award you salvation, he seemed to suggest. What do we need outside of a little art, some food, and the occasional fuck? If this sounds like the ramblings of an idealistic hippy with too much time on his hands to you, then you’d have a good start at the book review.
“We defend with our lives the petty principles which divide us. The common principle, which is the establishment of the empire of man on earth, we never lift a finger to defend. We are frightened of any urge which would lift us out of the muck. We fight only for the status quo, our particular status quo. We battle with heads down and eyes closed.”
Whenever I think of Paris, I think of Henry Miller. And rereading some of the quotes from “The Air-Conditioned Nightmare” I feel they are prudent now. If you get the chance, I think it’s worth reading. It’s a glimpse into a self-exiled American, at a time when most people were terrified of anti-governmental diatribes. Anyway, what the fuck does any of that matter now? Miller’s dead and so is Al Davis. These are pointless words that could be writ in water and have the same breadth.
Let’s just move on to fantasy football, shall we?
Mark Sanchez v TB: Sam Bradford has more ailments than Charlie Sheen’s cock. Wide receivers are open, but Bradford is too busy looking like someone just asked him why he looks like a retired math teacher who masturbates to cartoon porn to hit them. Probably watches “The Jetsons” and in the future, he still sucks. Go to the pen and bring on the Dirty Southpaw. Fresh off of banging USC coeds over the last ten weeks, Sanchez gets a soft match up at home.
Brock Osweiler @ CHI: It’s over. So long, you five-headed goof. Peyton Manning is headed back to the swamp. It’s been a good ride, but it’s time to retire, Peyton, so in 15 years we can read about how you use the carts at Wal-Mart because you can’t walk for extended periods of time. They can talk about how that oafy hillbilly doesn’t remember his name, instead always calling himself “Eli.” And then they can cut to him holding a box of Viagra, because you know that shill will still be peddling shit even when he’s drooling more than Bradford watching Jane Jetson and Betty Rubble in a threesome with Homer Simpson. It’s time for the Asswailer to slide into your DMs. Like Peyton after eating Papa John’s, this has all the makings of a shitshow. But I’ll take Osweiler with a cache of weapons over most streamers this week.
Latavius Murray @ DET: Just two games over 100 yards and only three TDs on the season. For his ADP, I guess his numbers aren’t terrible. But don’t we want guys who exceed their ADP? He hasn’t done that. But this week he gets Detroit. The thing about Henry Miller is he had no grand illusions about what mankind was becoming. He knew it was gonna get murky before it got better. You just got to keep the fucking faith. I guess the same goes for Latavius. We just have to hope for the best. “Hope in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first,” my father, the eternal optimist, always said.
Ameer Abdullah v OAK: They said they’re committed to getting him the ball. I’m not sure what to believe out of Detroit right now. Matt Stafford, Calvin Johnson, Golden Tate, Joique Bell have all been shit. Detroit hasn’t fucked this many people since they started closing GM plants.
Tavon Austin @ BAL: I don’t want much to do with this offense outside of “Hurdy Gurdy Man” (thanks, Sigmund Bloom), but Austin against a weak Baltimore D feels like a legit play. The last two outings were abysmal, but a new QB and a shitty defense has a way of helping a player. Donovan fell in love with Jenny Boyd, who had played “Lolita” in Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation, in 1965. He claims that a great many of his songs are inspired by her. Boyd is a true muse. The craziest shit is that her sister, Pattie, was married to George Harrison and then Eric Clapton. Wild times, man. Wild times.
Nate Washington v NYJ: Not in love with his QB, but after only two catches last week, I’d expect Washington to rebound. And let’s be honest, the other options at this position aren’t exactly titillating. The hope is they key on Nuk and Washington reaps the benefits. It’s sort of the same thing as when the NFL keys on the marijuana smokers and shitcakes like Greg Hardy reap the benefits.
Jacob Tamme v IND: This sneaky motherfucker always showing up nine or ten weeks into a season and flirting with you. Just enough to make you believe they like you. And who knows if you can trust him because this is like expecting Antonio Cromartie to bring the condoms to an orgy. Don’t count on it. There are no certainties. Not in Tamme. Not in life.
Defense / special teams
PHI v TB: I like betting on defenses at home against rookie QBs. I don’t have the stats in front of me and I’m not bothering with stupid ass Google searches. Do it yourself and hit me back.
TJ Yates @ NYJ: I think I read that “TJ Yates was stocking groceries two weeks ago.” Why is the player, before he was called up to the big leagues, always works at a grocery store? Is there some store in America that employs nothing but would-be football players? Good God, the tired narrative of an underdog made good. What a fucking tired and shameful American trope. Like America could ever understand a fucking underdog. Bunch of privileged ingrates with so much time on their hands they write about fake fucking football in order to be distracted by the mind-numbing ease of living here. Fuck me, I’m tired of the inaction and apathy. Tired of the entitlement and greedy fucking rats in this country. We wouldn’t understand gratitude if it ripped our dicks off and shoved it down Donald Trump’s throat. We don’t know diddly-squat poo about being mindful of others, because we are so self-congratulatory bolstering an arrogance only Tom Brady could understand. We don’t know fuckall about being an underdog. Fuck your underdog. And fuck you, supermarket football players.
Case Keenum @ BAL: This is going to be a tempting start. Shitty pass defense and one of the best WRs in the league. I suppose if you’re starting Keenum, you’re either desperate or stupid. I mean, I bet there’s not as much space between those two words as some people think.
Matt Jones @ CAR: Been serviceable lately, but this D is thrusting at you like it’s Cam Newton’s pelvis. Damnit, I can’t get it out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, Cam is thrusting his crotch right at me like a Chocolate Elvis. There are a fractal of Cam’s dancing in my mind, polluting it with these sinful acts. There he is with that bulging one on his chest gyrating in front of me. God, why must I be plagued by this? Please dance yourself out of my mind, Cam. Dance yourself into the tomb.
Karlos Williams @ NE: Considering what most people are dealing with at RB, you prolly have no choice. If you do, take advantage, because someone will go hungry on the Sunday. Williams or LeSean. I’d imagine this is how Sophie felt when she made her choice.
Allen Hurns v TEN: He’s having crotch problems. He should actually ask Blake Bortles how to hand it. Bortles knows all about crotches since he has his head in his ass. Amirite, guys?
Davante Adams @ MIN: Remember when Green Bay was good? I say bring back Brett Favre. He’d be a gun-slangin’ and fightin’ and a’clawin’ and I betcha those Vikequeens would be a runnin’. I don’t know why Wisconsiners would be talking like a southerner, but I’m really stoned.
Jordan Reed @ CAR: Fading all of Washington this week. But, then, I can’t be trusted because I fade Washington everyday, really.
Defense / special teams
ARI v CIN: I just have a feeling there will be points scored in this one. Carson Palmer turns out to be one bad motherfucker after struggling for several years. He’s like a gotdamm underdog. I wonder if he was ever employed at a supermarket?