YESSSSSSS

THIS IS THE MASSIVE JOHNSON ARCHIVE

The Earl Budd Band's blue 1979 Ford Econoline van wheels into the Eagles Club parking lot in downtown Marshfield, Wisconsin, following a two-hour trek down Highway 13 from the Stump Acres trailer park, on the outskirts of Stoga.

All of the musicians are dragging. The band had been out until after 2 a.m. the previous evening, playing a dance in Rib Lake. Lead singer/saxophonist Randy Budd was able to sleep about two hours before going to his job at a paper mill that morning at 5. "These double-header weekends take a lot out of you," he snorts over a can of Budweiser. Several empties fall out of the side door of the van as they pile out.

"It sure doesn't help that the fucking Redskins lost today either. I missed winning a work-pool by 3 points. 3 lousy, stinking, fucking points. I think in the old country, the last name Budd must have meant dumb, ignorant, cock-sucker who cannot get an even break, and who the world repeatedly relieves itself upon". He pulls an amp out of the van, punches a door closed, and sulks into the club.

The set-up, thankfully, is down to a routine. Earl Budd has been doing this since he got a wooden nickel for his first gig in the mid 1940's. His sons Randy and Jim have been doing it for roughly 20 years a piece. During most of the dance "season"-- a period running from roughly April to November-- virtually every weekend involves at least one performance by the band, so the van (as well as the band in most instances) stays loaded during the week. "I park it behind my utility shed, and my dogs look after it," Earl explains.

The dance hall is a large rectangular room-- a 10 inch high platform for a stage on one end, bar on the other, and tables arranged down the two side walls. There's saw dust on the floor, and a Seeburg jukebox with Minnie Pearl songs on it. "When will you guys bring in the casseroles for us?" Earl pleads with a bartender. His band is "fucking starving" he continues. He is peering over the bar, wearing a worn green suit and unbuckled galoshes. He looks a little like Penn State coach Joe Paterno.

The two bicker briefly as the bartender tries to explain that he is not in charge of catering. "Your excuses are your own, fella. The fact that we need hot grub should not be news at this point. You don't want to tango with an old Polish drunk like me, do ya?" Earl taunts, neck veins bulging. "I ain't a dentist, but I do bridgework for free, you little shit."

It should probably be stated at this point that Earl is an old Polish drunk. He is 68 years old and on heart and diabetes medication. He shouldn't be drinking but he says it goes with the territory. He pulls his accordion out of its case. "This is the only woman who don't cheat on me," he chuckles. "Sorry you had to see that. Marshfield is such an elitist town. That goofy son-of-a-buck probably thought he could skimp on our supper, because we're morons from up north. What he doesn't know is that I have packed this very club full of people before he ever swam one lap in his daddy's balls." The bartender is on a pay phone trying to get some cold cuts delivered.

Mickey, a 13 year-old, finishes setting up his drums and orders a screwdriver at the bar. He says it is for his dad, but when he gets it he takes it over to a pinball machine and slams it like he just finished a marathon. Earl doesn't bat an eye.

"I think Mickey's the youngest drummer on the Polka circuit," says Kasmir, the graying 60-something guitarist, and often the lone voice of reason in the band. "He's already been at it a year and a half, too. When his grandpa (Earl) first got him to join, I says, 'Let's not rush into anything, Earl. Those youngsters are into all that skull and crossbones crap.' You familiar with this Manson weirdo? Well, I learned a lot about it, I mean a shitload," he continues with great emphasis, "at church. They say that most young kids get hooked on this skullduggery business."

Mickey clearly is not one of those kids however. "Grandad's last drummer lost his kick drum leg 'cause the arteries hardened. Then I joined. Am I done talking to you yet?" He staggers out the side door.

Jim is busy cracking his knuckles over his tuba. It was Jim's love for the tuba, first kindled as a high school student in 1977, that got Earl interested in Polka again. Jim would bring the tuba home from school to practice, and Earl would get his accordion out for an occasional duet.

"I had packed the accordion away for a better part of the 70's," Earl says, as he begins a roundabout history of his life. "That Welk, from the Dakotas? His show may have been too popular. Every club I played at in 1974, someone came up to me and would tease me. They'd say, 'You should dress more like Lawrence Welk. You call yourself a band leader? Why you're nothing more than a Goddamn furnace jockey!' Well, that pissed me off good. I had what you would call a chip on my shoulder. I had been in Korea, you know, the big one. I had some unresolved issues," He nods after he says this, convincing himself that he has convinced me.

He looks around and then quitely leans in to talk more. "Hell, the truth is I was drinking Scotch like it was water, munching amphetamines, beating my wife, beating my kids, fucking women like a sailor. . .I was out of control. A real sourpuss, you might say. Our music suffered big time. I was more faithful to J&B than I was my accordion."

In 1975 Earl hung it up and tried to cool down. The term "Anger Management" may have really not even been uttered in Wisconsin at that point, but arson sure had. It was under the threat of a possible prison sentence that Earl decided to started seeing a counselor in his hometown of Stoga.

"A fella I know took a few classes that were offered by mail in the back of the TV Guide. I had been very much on the fringe of some trailer fires in Shawano. I don't think the case would have held water, but my friend convinced the court that a few sessions and some community service might do me more good than jail. Anyway, he had a degree in psychology, and we would sit down once a week and play cribbage, b.s., and have a good cry. I found out what a complete turkey I had been. I also found out he was shtupping my wife, but that's another can of worms. For better or worse, I am who I am--a good Goddamned accordion player who has a couple beers and lugs his fat, dumb sons around the midwest making pocket change by playing sweet Polka music," Earl winks. "I know we're not the brightest, not the best-looking, heck, not even the best-smelling SOB's to come down the pike, but when the floor gets hopping I think we're okay."

Jim is out in the van talking with young Mickey, who is already kind of sauced. The Eagles Club has started to fill up with older couples ready to polka, but Mickey won't come into the club because he says an old man was spying on him as he tried to take a dump a few minutes ago. He thinks the guy is "one of those, y'know, preeverts".

Earl catches wind of this and comes out to the van. "Listen up, Hotshot. Grampa wants to make his money. You aren't letting Grampa make his money." Earl then shoots Jim a confused look. Jim shrugs and explains what apparently happened. Earl shakes his head. Kasmir suggests that everybody cool down.

"That's turtle shit!" Earl shouts. "You get off your ass and get into that club, Mickey." Mickey reluctantly shuffles into the club. In his defense, there is an older gentleman wearing a pair of Schlitz suspenders and picking his nose loitering near the bathrooms.

The band starts in and delivers a scorching set. Some of the tunes are standards, and others are polkas and waltzes that they have written themselves. The set list (as far as I could gather, I didn't see the actual titles, this is just a guess):

The Migraine Polka
My Wife is For Rent Polka
The Otis Schultz For Mayor Polka
The Shopkeeper's a Midget Polka
The Raw Pork-Induced Trichnosis Polka
I Don't Understand the Hmong Polka
Leave Me Alone Polka
Don't Look at Me Polka
Breathalyzer Polka
Barron County Jail Polka
I Live in a Dirty Garage Polka
The Bifocals? These are Trifocals Polka

The couples enjoy themselves, and the band, for all their arguing and fighting before the set, are happy as larks during the intermission. Earl can't resist ribbing me.

"Hey, writer boy!" He shouts. I don't look up from the Ms. Pac Man game I am playing. "Hey asshole!" I am trying to supress a chuckle, and I still don't look. "You see the beauty that happens? All that family shit goes out the window and we can bring joy to these people." I finally look up and nod in agreement.

The band plays another set, and the crowd thins out. A few stragglers are left; they are regulars who talk to the band as they break down their gear. Earl and Kasmir briefly shuffle with some aging beauties on the empty dance floor. Jim and Randy are busy packing gear into traveling cases. Their faces are flushed. Mickey, the young drummer, is asleep behind the drum riser.

NBA NOTES: From the Lake Hallie Daily Pep Pill by Ned Novotny

RODMAN SETTLES NOSE-BASHING SUIT by Mike Mullet

NBA NOTES by Stkokij Bummrel

NBA NOTES by Wayne Whiskey

INSIDE THE BULLS by Kiko Garcia

NBA NOTES by Will Gerard

ARTEST TO GO PRO by Vickie Gilmer

NBA NOTES by H. Maile

NBA NOTES by Ast Rutherford

NBA NOTES by Sir Donald Peters

NBA NOTES by Ham Burger

LOSER ALERT by Agatha Vecsey

NBA NOTES by Gus Gomchek -Akron Tribune

ANATOMY OF A CAL-AMITY by Tal Tahir, Jr.

WOMAN WHO STALKED RODMAN CHARGED by Ralph Cook Jr.

LAKER RECIPE: JUST ADD RICE By Ralph Cook Jr.

NBA REPORT: MARBURY by shithead

NBA REPORT forwarded by Abe Scabies

RODMAN WINS THE WEST by the bearded whiner of NBC + the POST

OP-ED PIECE: THANK GOD THEY'RE BACK BY LARS BERGAN

COLUMN FORWARDED BY: AGATHA SCWHALM-BASCOMB

OP-ED PIECES ON THE LOSER LAKERS ATTITUDE AND THE TIMBERWOLVES SATURDAY NIGHT LOSS by Blaire Bundy & Raleigh Haugen, Hwy29

NBA REPORT By UNASSUMING KINGWHO GRUNT

MASTER P'S GOT GAME IN NBA By UNASSUMING KINGWHO GRUNT

PIPPEN OUT TO RIDE HERD ON BARKLEY By UNASSUMING KINGWHO GRUNT

NO WORM IN THE APPLE AS KNICKS NIX RODMAN By UNASSUMING KINGWHO GRUNT

Half-Assed Rock Review brought to you by the Johnson Page

DISCLAIMER ***this review offers no real insight,
and was written while I am at work, with no edits.
Tough crap.


There's Something About Mary (Timony)
Tonic - NYC

4/11/99




It was pouring rain on Sunday, and I had hauled 24 2x8 x 15 feet boards up three flights of stairs at my Bushwick loft. I thought I might have gotten scabies somewhere, but it turned out to be a bad reaction to some latex gloves. The L train was cancelled because some guy dove in front of it and killed himself so I had to take a car service (to the tune of 13 bucks) to the lower east side. The guy was fat, and boring and made me wait ten minutes while he ran into the car service office to talk to a co-worker about his dad, who was also driving and had apparently been bellyaching all day about wanting to switch cars.

I get into Manhattan, meet my friend Karrie, and off we go to see Mary Timony, in her first NYC performance sans Helium. She was supposed to open for Sleater-Kinney at Irving Plaza at the end of March, but then S-K's Carrie Brownstein (who Timony has a split single coming out with, check Matador Records, they know who's putting it out I think) hurt her back and the whole thing got ppd.

Upon walking into Tonic I see Mary who is holding a tuna fish sandwich and potato chips on a plate, she's also holding her stomach and she tells me that she thinks she might barf.

Nerves, I ask.

No, I think I have a fever, too, She says.

Not good, I say.

She goes out to her van to lie down. So Karrie and I sit down and the place fills up. The stage is tiny, then there are about ten rows of folding chairs with an aisle down the middle. There is a bar off to one side. There's a stalker, who looks like he always had his math homework done a day or two in advance, in the front row taking pictures. Later on he'll want a hug.

Anyway, finally Mary and her new drummer Christina, who does sound at Boston's Middle East, take the stage. Mary appears sort of nervous and doesn't say much between the new songs, except "ok" to Christina to begin the next song. She faces the wall on the far side of the stage the whole night.

The songs are darker and a touch more "metal" believe it or not, than on the Magic City. I'm sure this is just an initial template of what will probably sound completely different once the usual dozen instruments are added, and they are recorded. Christina's drumming is amazing, though the two occasionally struggle to stay in synch with one another. Timony, playing a Fender Jazzmaster (or some kind of angular Fender guitar) rages through at least one solo per song, it is pretty cool.

She even puts away the guitar and plays the viola on a number and it is exquisite. The best song, for my 8 bucks, is one where she sings about "looking up and down a street" or something. Lyrically there is still a dash of medieval stuff going on, but it is good that she is throwing a curveball at everybody and changing her band around.

Anyway, she'll be back in town with S-K at the end of May, doing those shows that were cancelled.

--Johnson









DON RICKLES AT MYSTIC LAKE CASINO
11/18/98


I went to see Don Rickles last night at Mystic Lake Casino. For those of you who don't live around here, Mystic Lake is a casino run by Indians (Native Americans) and populated by white losers from all walks of life, mainly the sweatpants and generic menthol 100 variety. The theater there, the "Celebrity Palace" has all the sterile charm of a Rockford, IL city council meeting. I can only imagine that a pap smear in the middle of JFK airport on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving could be less uncomfortable.

A Liza Minnelli look-alike named Trish Sasson opened. She was all full of glitz and gusto, and really liked to belt out the ol' standards. Too bad all her charisma didn't translate into real talent. She was like a skinnier Miss Piggy. All ham and no substance. The orchestra pumped away behind her as she swashed around in black dress pants and a snazzy bejeweled vest. If you had poor eyesight, you need only look at the giant video monitors on either side to see Trish's giant Lucinda Williamsesque teeth.

Towards the end of her set, she broke it down like Jan Hooks used to on SNL. She performed a song that she and her dad wrote about the holiday season called "Lend a Hand," or something. I can't believe that she was serious, after all the fun that has been poked at Vegas-type crooners over the past 20-odd years, but she really went for it. I enjoyed myself by pretending that her dad was some old schlemiel who wrote songs and gambled too much, and she was out singing off his debt so that they wouldn't take any more fingers.

Then Rickles came out. I figured I had to see him before he died. I think I'll probably die before he does. He just keeps gaining momentum. He's a tad heavier than I remember, but no less caustic. He did the fish-in-a-barrel stuff about if you make it in Minneapolis, then the next stop is Duluth, everybody is the crowd is farmers, the weather sucks, I worked my ass off for forty years so I could entertain you guys?. . . It all seemed old, especially his racial stuff, but he actually kept getting funnier. He stopped the show several times to yell at the band, sing a few songs, pretend he was firing people, etc. He called some scrubby looking guy out of the crowd and pretended that the guy was Jesus. He accused a senior citizen who was walking down an aisle of being a hooker. He called his old black assistant out on the stage and they did a whole bit about race relations in L.A., and it almost seemed like Rickles was going to get serious before he turned the whole thing on its ear. He asked the guy to get him a couch if there was another riot.

He berated the crowd at every turn also. He called some lady a witch and told her she was ugly, then paused for a second or two and told her again. He told one lady to get up and leave if she wasn't enjoying it. He kept on riding a German guy about being a Nazi. In the end it was probably worth the 37 bucks.









LLOYD DANIELS
from December 1996
can you believe this fucking story got killed??? it never ran.


With virtually a whole lifetime of basketball under his belt at age 29, Lloyd Daniels has played both the hare and the tortoise in his quest to become a legitimate force in the NBA. Last Tuesday night at the Target Center, as he lazily shot jumpers an hour and a half or so before his newest team, the Sacramento Kings, would meet the upstart Minnesota Timberwolves, he mostly resembled the latter.

With the house lights not even halfway on yet, Daniels gently pushed around and kidded his Kings teammates, then embraced and chatted up the Timberwolves newest teenage millionaire Stephon Marbury. Though Daniels saw no action on Tuesday night, there was a time when, like fellow New Yorker Marbury, he showed all the promise the world had to offer.
In his teens, Daniels was a playground legend in New York City, carving up defenders at the Rucker courts, and casting spells on scouts and tourists alike on the famed blacktop court at West 4th Street. His prowess in the mid 1980's gained him as much notoriety as any of the exploits of the New York Mets, or Mike Tyson's series of street scraps with the beleaguered Mitch Green.

His official high school and college basketball careers were even more infamous. Daniels, who referred to himself as "Walking Millions," played the hare-- going to four different high schools in four years, and usually when the season ended, he'd get a hall pass that lasted until June. Still, he was heavily recruited by UNLV and in the fall of 1987 he went west.

One sensed that Daniels was on a first class ride to the NBA. After all, his raw talent and chaotic stardom ran parallel with an NBA that at the time had an unsure and fledgling marketing plan at best. Air Jordans had not yet wavered into hundred dollar territory, team shorts were, well, frighteningly so, and sadly, a young man named Len Bias who had been drafted by the Boston Celtics high in the first round of 1986 overdosed on cocaine.

UNLV was supposed to be Daniels warm-up for the big show. He never played a game at UNLV, though, but did offer a human face to the long-documented and rumored problems of the university's athletic program. A month into the school year, he was arrested in a Las Vegas crackhouse and summarily dismissed from the university. When he got back to New York, Daniels was shot in a drug deal gone awry. Any dreams of making the NBA seemed lost.

To talk to Daniels today, as he dresses in an NBA locker room can be frustrating. Understandably, he won't talk about the past, but he also won't do much more than give you slogans about his future and being patient. He knows that you know where he's been. He throws on a shirt over a large scar under his right armpit. It doesn't look like a bullet wound as much as it looks like he had a wing amputated or something.

"One thing about me, you know I can adjust anywhere. You look at my resume, and I have been all over the country, all over the world. So I know how to adapt," Daniels says referring to playing for Italy's Scavolini Pesaro team last season.

His jaunt to Italy was just another stopover on a seemingly endless tour of almost every minor league Europe and the United States have to offer. Daniels has flirted with the NBA over the past four seasons. In 1992, when UNLV's Tarkanian went to coach the San Antonio Spurs, he brought in Daniels as a project. Daniels made it two seasons in San Antonio, roughly 140 games more than Tark lasted as an NBA coach.

It was Tarkanian's replacement, John Lucas, who had coached a freshly rehabbed Daniels on a USBL team, that stuck with him. Daniels eventually followed Lucas to the Philadelphia 76ers during the 1994-95 campaign but was relegated to the bench and then released. Daniels wound up getting some halfway decent playing time with the Los Angeles Lakers in the spring of 1995, his last NBA team before joining Sacramento on November 17th of this year.

He says he hasn't talked to Lucas at all lately, but he has kept in contact with Tarkanian, who is now at Fresno State.

"Yeah, I was just with Tark before I got signed. I was talking to Lamar Odom (another New York high school phenom) about going to play for Tark," Daniels explains.

He is polite, and shuns a reporter's theory that all he needs is more minutes.

"The NBA is all about timing, whether the coach believes in you or not. You just gotta sit there and have patience. I just got here, so it is all early. They didn't bring me here for nothing, you know. You just gotta keep working. It's tough because I haven't gotten that many practices with them," he says, then he smiles as he mulls something else over.

"One thing about the NBA is we got 65 games left. Anything can happen, so you gotta be ready. . .it is all about timing, my man. . .tomorrow is never promised," he continues with an air of cordial diplomacy that rivals only Don King when he's representing both fighters in a title bout.

When the subject of Marbury, the young rookie who is apparently reaping the rewards Daniels could have had a decade ago comes up, Daniels has nothing but praise for him.

"He used to come out and watch me when he was a little kid. I played against his older brothers. . .God blesses everyone with a talent. I love to see everybody go out and do what they gotta do," Daniels says, now on a roll.

As he talks he offers more and more soundbytes as evidence to the fact that he has transformed from a wily, flashy kid to a confident, stubborn adult with the same mission-- a permanent spot on an NBA roster.






DITKA
from August 1997


I am not sure if it's an indication of how bad the New Orleans Saints are, or how dumb the football fans in La Crosse might be (a wise bet says both) but as practice ended at their training camp on Monday afternoon, I was approached for my autograph about four times. That is puzzling because: a) I was in street clothes and b) I look about as much like a professional football player as I do Dominique Moceanu. But with the rapidly changing Saints there is always a chance that by showing up to watch them scrimmage, you could, at the very least, be in contention for a spot on special teams.

This is the last week the club will spend running wind sprints and littering up dorm rooms in the Cheese League before they go back home to New Orleans and try to stave off their fourth losing season in a row. However, this fall it might take the Saints a while to find out that they are woefully mediocre. Iron Mike Ditka, who has new hips, a deep Coulee region tan, and an apparent grasp on his anger management problem, has been making entries in the Captain's Log of football's Titanic. He has the Saints believing that they will, as the new motto goes, "find a way, or make a way," to win more than a handful of games. Oddly enough, he may be right.

Ditka has quickly dispensed of all whiners and sloths. Nobody is complaining about his tinkering with the formula of the Saints. Ditka is attempting to change the original recipe of eleven uniquely horrible herbs and spices on both offense and defense. "I am not going to get in any shouting contests on the sidelines this year. I am just going to pull the guy," Ditka calmly said from the safe haven of his golf cart after practice on Monday.

Both Heath Shuler and rookie Danny Wuerffel have looked sharp taking snaps. Pro Bowl linebacker Rickey Jackson has come out of retirement. Ditka managed to free offensive lineman Jerry Fontenot from his role as Sisyphus with the Bears. And the rest of the camp is packed with mostly unknown but hard working free agents. Ditka hopes to be more genius than Quixotic in this instance. If he can shake things up on the cheap, a la baseball's Pittsburgh Pirates, then we could be witnessing the beginning of an era where the only thing grabby player agents line up are jobs for themselves at the nearest discount taco stand.

But enough daydreaming. Ditka masterminded the Bears to a Super Bowl victory and more than a few NFC Central titles before the bubble burst in 1992. That season the luster and the cranky charm wore off and he looked as surprisingly inept as Forrest Gregg with a foul temper. He has to start from scratch if both he and the Saints are to gain anyone's respect in 1997.

Still, when you offer even the slightest promise of going the short distance from bad to as-yet-unproven, it is impossible to get any peace. The media descend on Ditka twice a day like flies on a ribroast. One reporter even had the audacity to squirm her way in and rest her tape recorder on his shoulder as another slob peppered him with questions about being a great motivator.

Ditka, who is at his best when he is confident enough to be self-effacing, shrugged him off. "There was a coach once who said that he wasn't a great motivator, but that he was smart enough to get rid of the people who don't want to be motivated," he said.

Another reporter then asked if Ditka had plans to bring in a Karate expert before every game. Ditka, like everybody else, was puzzled. "Well, George Allen used to bring in a karate expert to smash boards before each game to get his team fired up," the reporter explained. Ditka wryly replied that his Saints would "roast marshmallows."

The stampede continued. The maroon who kept begging Ditka to answer questions about motivation was shoved aside by a sports anchor from a New Orleans television station. A few minutes earlier, the anchor, an Andy Garcia clone, had almost given himself whiplash rushing to get his hair right for the press conference. I promptly handed him an application for a job at TV-13.

Everyone who has even heard of the New Orleans Saints are foaming at the mouth because of Ditka. Win or lose they can't wait to ride his coattails all the way to the promised land, or at least to a nearby exit marked 'playoff victory'. That's something that the Saints haven't attained in all their years of shabbiness. The worst thing would be for the Saints to finish .500 because then the local media couldn't call for his head if they stink up the NFL even more, or tell everybody else, "I told you so," if the Saints landed near the top of the heap.

Most of the fans that show up every day are good-natured folk with way too much free time. These people have previously had so little to cheer about that they make Cub fans look like braggarts. Only the Great Santini would encourage his kid to go watch the Saints eighty-man roster run drills.

There is a certain contingent of fans though, who are no less rabid than the reporters. Fifty to a hundred kids of all ages wielding Sharpies arrive early each morning. They hang on the chain link fences with runny noses, cleats, and binders full of football cards, howling at the players and making outrageous demands. The fans here, in a way, are like gold prospectors going after as many signatures as possible, "panning" for the one that might someday be good for a down payment on a used Ford Escort. They indiscriminately ask any shmo for his John Hancock without any idea who the player actually is. There is little to no difference in their zeal to collect the autographs of third-string rookie punters from Southwest Appalachia Banjo Repair School and veteran Pro-Bowlers alike. Even Zeke, the assistant to the equipment manager is treated with the same awe usually reserved for middle brother in the band Hanson. On the other hand, there are those fans who know exactly who the third string punter is, and, well, they are equally disturbed.

I would be foolish, however to say that I wasn't a little bit entertained by the Saints. While I can't forecast if Ditka's promise to make the NFC West the new "Black and Blue" division will hold true, there are certainly enough characters to make a pretty good soap opera out of his attempt:

Mike Ditka-- Head Coach. Like he needs any introduction. Let me describe him in Packer terminology. While Mike Holmgren is a shrewd coach, he resembles a jovial sort of guy who might share a brat with you at a cookout. Ditka, with his purely Chicago sense of fashion, might be inclined to do the same, but more than likely he'd drop kick a smoking grill through your bay window if you irked him. He gets bonus tyrant points for throwing gum at a fan in Minnesota and giving William Perry a touchdown opportunity at Mecca, err, Lambeau Field in the '80's. Ditka says that while he'll miss quibbling with Joe Gibbs and Greg Gumbel every week, he's got a "more important job to do." Hopefully he'll feel the same way around Halloween.

Danny Abramowicz-- Offensive Coordinator. You might remember Abramowicz from Bears games on television. He was a favorite of the Fox announcers and cameramen. He was in charge of special teams for Chicago and usually had to be restrained by a leash. No player on the Bears special teams wanted to make a good play for fear of being congratulated by him. He'll have to keep former Redskin complainer Heath Shuler happy without rattling Ditka. Good luck.

Sammy Knight-- Rookie free agent safety from USC. Undrafted because of his speed, but he is a ruthless tackler and has a keen sense for the ball. Praised by Ditka as "smart," he has been a favorite of the fans, the coaches and the media throughout camp.

"I'd be damn surprised if Sammy Knight doesn't make our fifty-three man roster," Ditka said. "The experts," he continued sarcastically, "say that he wasn't quick enough. Ran a 4.9 (forty yard dash) instead of a 4.5. Do you know the difference between a 4.9 and a 4.5? In the time it took to say, '4.9, 4.5' that's the difference."

Lee DeRamus-- wide receiver. DeRamus is in his third season with the Saints. He won the Rose Bowl with the Badgers, but with eleven receivers in training camp, he's on the bubble here. "It's different (from the Badgers) because I was in Alvarez's first recruiting class. With the Saints, I was part of the Mora era, and Ditka has brought in a bunch of his people. I'm just trying to make the squad right now. You've got a whole bunch of people fighting for positions," DeRamus said.

Rickey Jackson-- linebacker. Jackson must have been impressed by what Ditka is doing with the Saints, because at age thirty-nine he was retired from pro football and leisurely collecting a paycheck in an "advisory" position with the club. He unretired himself Monday, and answered most of the questions directed at him with the mantra-like, "I'm the type of guy who hustles, and just does his job."

******You may want to run the following as a sidebar*****:

As a receiver in the NFL, Danny Abramowicz was no slouch. He quickly rose from being a 17th round draft choice with the Saints in 1967, to becoming an All-Pro and the NFL leader in catches for them in 1969. Abramowicz, who is intensely Catholic, suffers fools about as well as Ditka does. If things don't go swimmingly for him as the Saints new offensive coordinator, expect to see more game highlights from his antics on sidelines rather than the action on playing field.

Leader-Telegram: Was it a difficult decision to leave the Bears and join Ditka?

Danny Abramowicz: No. I didn't think it was that difficult. I thought it was time for me to move on and take another position. I could have stayed with the Bears, but I moved with Coach Ditka. I didn't know he was gonna have the job, I just knew it was time to leave and it worked out perfectly.
L-T: It was a promotion (from special teams to offensive coordinator).

DA: Yeah. Well, some people call it a promotion. Special teams is pretty darn. . .well, they are equally important.

L-T: You were a favorite of the cameramen. They always showed you going ballistic on the sidelines with the Bears. Do you think you'll be as animated in your new job?

DA: I'm going to be as animated, but with special teams you've got a call and then you have some time before you make your next call. Here, it is call after call after call, so you've got to keep your composure.

L-T: Does landing an offensive coordinator job satisfy you for a while, or is the end goal a head coaching job someday?

DA: My main thing is to do what I gotta do right now and then later on worry about what happens. That's (head coach) a goal of mine, but it's not like I need to go do whatever I've gotta do and cut people's throats to become the head coach. That's God's will. If it's God's will for me to have it, I will have it. If not, no problem. I'm satisfied doing what I'm doing.

L-T: How do you like your offense so far?

DA: Good. We came in the first night (1st preseason game) and did some good things, and then, you know, some crappy things. But that's to be expected; the first game, plus a new system, new team, all that kind of business. But I liked our aggressiveness, I liked the things we did. They (Tennessee Oilers) ran some blitzes and things of that nature, and we picked up on it. And, we had no turnovers in the game which is always good.

L-T: There has been a ton of media here, and the fans in New Orleans are going nuts. Do you think the expectations on the team are too high? Is there too much pressure to succeed right away?

DA: It beats the hell out of what was there at first. When we first got there the apathy was setting in. I think now, you'd rather have the expectations high and take it from there.

L-T: Is Shuler set at quarterback? Or do you think Wuerffel will challenge him for the job?

DA: Right now he is. I think they're all challenging. That's why there is great competition. You always have to be on your toes. I'm pleased with all the quarterbacks and he's still number one. They all get along, they're not jealous of one another. They're competing, but there are no jealousies or animosity.

L-T: Well it's still early.

DA: Yeah. We're not going to allow that to happen, plus I don't think their nature lends them to be that way.

L-T: What about Lee DeRamus?

DA: Lee does some things. He's got some attributes of size and strength. He doesn't have the blazing speed, but how many guys do? He blocks. He needs to be more consistent. Sometimes, he makes the little mistakes. I like Lee. He determines whether he makes it or not, on his performance.






THE NFL AS THEATRE


Every week during the 1998 NFL season I made predictions on the outcome of each game. Sometimes I got a little carried away with the synopsis of a particular game. One way in which some games were over analyzed is with the handy use of the "One Act Play"

Here are some of the fine football inspired theatrics:


WEEK 6
DENVER @ SEATTLE—A short play:
Dumbass: Gee, Seattle looks fucking tough this year.
Moron: Yeah, no shit. Ricky Watters isn't taking any shit.
Dumbass: They could beat Denver.
Moron: Yeah. Denver's due for a loss. Hey are we gonna fuck those NASCAR chicks again tonite?
Dumbass: Ahhh. . .NO!
Moron: What?
Dumbass: Does the term "restraining order" mean anything to you?
Announcer: Denver sneaks by Seattle in a shootout.


WEEK 6 AGAIN
WASHINGTON @ PHILLY-- LOSERBOWL '98—A one-act play:
Who else but a weathered, hard-boiled drunken pile of shit who has more soot in his ears and under his arms than the whole state of New Mexico put together could enjoy this game? Some guy, 64 years old, a cross between Newman from Seinfeld, Vic Tayback, Ernest Borgnine, Jackie Gleason and Charlie Cheswick from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," who lives breathes and shits the NFC East, an empty 16 pack of Keystone Light under the drivers' seat of his car, pulls into Veteran's Stadium on an overcast Sunday (it's 42 degrees) with his wife and her sister who is visiting from Scranton:
GUY: I had to work like a fucking pig to get these Goddamn tickets.
WIFE: Ahh Jesus, Vincent, enough already. The Eagles are embarrassing this year. I don't even know why we bother. No one wanted the Goddamn tickets.
GUY: (pulling musty stocking cap over head, cracks knuckles) I'll tell you why we bother. We bother because we are Eagles fans, Joyce. A fan doesn't abandon his fucking team. We don't stick with them only when they're good. If that was the case with our marriage, I would have left after week two. Hear that Joyce? Two weeks of happiness and 42 years of misery. (looks over seat of car) Your sister is a cunt Mildred. (to nobody in particular) No one wanted the tickets? Tell that to Jimmy Castiglione. I finally got that SOB.
MILDRED: Who do they play?
GUY: Who do they play she asks? Who do they play? (disgustedly) They play the fricken' Redskins, Mildred. Only the Redskins. No big whoop. Jesus Horatio Christ.
WIFE: She was only asking a question.
GUY: (tears welling up in eyes) I have had some of the best times of my life at this stadium.
WIFE: The Eagles are 0-5, Dear.
GUY: So what? When they made it to the Super Bowl 18 years ago against the Raiders and they had that fucker Lester Hayes? That little cheating cocksucker with the Stickem all over his fucking hands? All over his fucking uniform? I could have cried for Dick Vermeil. Years were taken off my life. Ohh. . .shit!!! Where are my Goddamn heart pills, Joyce? Look in the glove box. See what you did? I'm in pain here.
WIFE: Maybe if you didn't smoke and drink like an asshole everyday.
GUY: (Angrily) Maybe what? Maybe what? That has nothing to do with it. I think the fact that you sucked my bestfriend's cock after that Jimmy Dorsey concert at Tynor's Ballroom over there on Frankfort ave. on August 15th, 1953, while I was in fucking Korea has something to do with it. It has a hell of a lot to do with it. I was fighting the Big One. You fucking betrayed me. It doesn't matter to you that all someone has to do is mention any Pacific Rim country, Joyce, any fucking one of them. . .shit, you could say, "Singapore," or "Guam," it doesn't have to even be Korea, and I nearly lose control of my bowels. Do you think I enjoy that?
WIFE: Will you let it die?
GUY: A fucking civilian's cock, Joyce. That's what I fought for democracy for? (Sighs, changes subject) Well, the seats are in the second deck. As usual. I ain't John D. Rockefeller. You gals had better root for these poor SOBs! ! It ain't gonna be easy!!! Am I happy they still have that colored guy coaching? No. Will we have to make the best of it? Yes. A thousand times, yes.

The end.


WEEK 8
PITTSBURGH @ KANSAS CITY-- Kansas City at home. Bill Cowher is about as adventurous with the Steelers this year as a tape of outtakes from "Everybody Loves Raymond". Incidentally, could ABC's Dan Dierdorf suck anymore than he already does? Is getting the last word in that fucking important? While I wanted to murder him for the last few seasons, I would now enjoy torturing and murdering him. Of course, I would never do it. I'd leave it to his son, who stalked and raped his ex-girlfriend a few years back. Memo to Dan: Good job as a dad. Maybe if you'd been there, but NOOOOOO, you were too busy being a fat, white, pituitary giant with a speech impediment. I can only imagine the sheer horror that the equipment manager of the Cardinals felt every time he had to launder your musty, filthy jock straps. That scent is no doubt indelibly etched into his brain pan. And everytime you blather away on Monday night, there is some poor, withering, retired old jock-washer in Tallahassee cursing until he can't even see. Anyway, unlike me, Dierdorf is a combative, belligerent fucking idiot. Example:
BOOMER ESAISON: I think that fan has a red coat on.
DAN: Well, actually the term is cherry red.
BOOMER: Okay.
DAN: Umm, no actually it isn't okay. Otherwise you would have indicated that the jacket's color was cherry red.
AL: Well, we just missed 2 plays, let's get back to the game.
DAN: Actually Al, the players are involved in the game, we're doing the telecast.
AL: Whatever.
DAN: Listen, you're the one making the big deal about calling the game. I am just trying to be professional.
BOOMER: Well, the Patriots have to kick.
DAN: The term is "punt".
BOOMER: That Tony Boselli, for the Jags is sure a good offensive lineman, but it looks like he got beat on that play.
DAN: I was an offensive lineman for years. There is no way I am going to sit here and listen to you bad mouth that fine athlete. Offensive linemen protected your butt for years.
BOOMER: I was just saying he got beat.
DAN: No, it was luck. He's never technically been beaten. Just like me. I am an omnipotent genius, an outstanding athlete, and, if you must know, a skilled cocksmith. Why, I'll bet I've satisfied 50 or 60 mentally-challnged women, men and juvenilles from the greater-Sacramento area alone! Top that! Anyone who has a differing opinion will be brow-beaten.
AL: But.
DAN: Shht.
AL: B. . .
DAN: Shht.
BOOMER: A. . .
DAN: Nope.
AL: B. . .
DAN: SILENCE!


WEEK 12
Philadelphia @ NY Giants: a one act play. . . (the sequel to an earlier play):
The grumpy drunk husband: Ahh, what a lovely day to take the train.
The wife: Both of these fucking teams are out of contention. This is a waste of our money.
Husband: What are we saving our money for? Our kids? They aren't going to college, dear. They are fucking losers.
The wife: Well, at least you have been sober since November 1st.
Husband: That might end today if you don't shut yr yap.
The wife: Your excuses are your own. You are a pathetic lush. I am taking down your autographed poster of Ron Jaworski when we get home.
Husband: You don't appreciate shit.
The wife: The only shit is the Eagles, honey. They are filth.
Husband: Listen, the Eagles, unlike your genitalia, are one of the few things that make me happy anymore. Win or lose I bleed green, Baby.
The wife: Win or lose, you are a damn fool.

Giants by 3.


WEEK 14
St.Louis @ Philadelphia-- The Colts visited their old stomping grounds in Baltimore last week, and this week Rams' coach Dick Vermeil will return to Philly. Of course the Eagles have entered the Koy Detmer-era now. Vermeil is the caucasian Mumia (also from Philly, stupid). No one will take up his cause now that the Mormon Rifle has taken the helm. Did anybody see last week's Packers/Eagles contest? What was with Koy Detmer's on-field antics? He looked like a 5 year-old at a birthday party, showing off his new "cowboy" pants. It was gross. The Detmer brothers are fucking lucky bastards point blank. They are the kind of kids whose dad had to supervise all their sports card trades w/ their buddies. They always gave up the Mike Schmidt rookie card for the David Whitehurst bread card. Here is what I think will happen on Christmas Eve at their parents' house on a Provo cul-de-sac:
Ty + Koy: We're going out to play catch with the Fitzgeralds.
Mom Detmer: Not looking like that you're not. Don't you want any cider? I'm going to be watching from the picture window. Here's a loud whistle in case there's trouble.
Ty + Koy: Awww, Ma.
[now outside]
Tony Fitzgerald: Hey Detmer, go long.
Ty (to Koy): Don't do it, Koy. He never throws it.
Tony Fitzgerald: You guys are fucking pussies.
Ty + Koy: But we're in the NFL !!
Gary Fitzgerald: Then can you give me like, I dunno, a million bucks?
Ty + Koy: Ahh, well, our mom and dad said that we aren't supposed to talk
about that kind of stuff.
Tony Fitzgerald: How many times have you guys been sacked this season? You know, you guys used to like to get sacked didn't you? Remember when I used to sack you? And your pants would "accidentally" fall down? That was weird.
Ty + Koy: Umm, we're going in now. It's getting dark.

----Philly by a TD----


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