PICKIN’ ON THE BIG TEN, WEEK 12

And so the regular season closes out, not with a bang, but with 60% unwatchable games. (I’m not countenancing Northwestern and Michigan State’s Hawaiian expeditions . . . it’s hard enough picking the preseason games during the preseason.) This is PotB10’s fifth season (believe it or not) so I’m getting kind of nostalgic. So grab your Zubaz and your Oakley sunglasses; crack open a Bud Dry and swtich the channel to Married . . . With Children, because we’re sending out 2004 hairmetal-style.

WISCONSIN @ IOWA
“Every Rose Bowl Has Its Thorn” (apologies to Poison)

We both lie silently still
in the shadow of the Wolverines
Although we both lie close together
We’re 178.1 miles apart, according to Yahoo! Maps

Was it something I said or something I did
Did our pass coverage not work out right
Though I tried not to get screwed
Though I tried
But I guess that’s why they say

Chorus:
Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every Hawkeye running back has a torn ACL
Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Yeah it does

I listen to the Buckeye game
playing on the radio
Hear the DJ say they lost the game
so to Florida we both go
But I wonder does he know
Has he ever felt like this
And Game Day’d be here right now
If we could have beaten those stinking, inconsistent, barely competent Spartans
I guess

Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every Hawkeye running back has a torn ACL
Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Yeah it does

Though it’s been a week now
I can still see those chin-projecting Michiganders moving the ball up and down the field like we weren’t even there, man
Like a knife that cuts you the wound heals
but the scar, that scar remains

I know I could have saved a BCS bowl that night
If I’d known what to say
Instead of makin’ tackles
We both made our separate ways
But now I hear you found somebody new
and that the winner of this game winds up #2
To hear that tears me up inside
And to see Wolverines cuts me like a knife
I guess

Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every Hawkeye running back has a torn ACL
Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Yeah it does

THE NEW “WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR” 20
CHICKEN GUM AND CHEWING WIRE 21

ILLINOIS @ NORTHWESTERN
“Ron’s Final Countdown” (apologies to Europe (the band, not the contintent . . . I’m still waiting for the continent’s apologies for the band))

Ron’s leaving forever
So this is farewell
According to Internet message boards, at least
But hey, who can tell?
I guess there is no one to blame
For us eating ground (what about Ron?)
Will things ever be the same again (we hope not)
It’s the final countdown…
The final countdown
Ooh oh

We’re heading for Norman (Norman)
Where OU stands tall
Cause they’ve got this one man
Who could throw a football (yeah)
With so many pass schemes to learn
And things to be found (like a running game)
I’m sure that they’ll all miss Chuck so
It’s the final countdown…
The final countdown
The final countdown (the final countdown)
Ooh ooh oh

(interlude)

The final countdown
Ooh oh
It’s the final countdown
The final countdown
The final countdown (the final countdown)
Ooh
It’s the final countdown
We are leaving together
The final countdown

IT’S A LONG, LONG WAY TO RON 10
EVANSTON CONFIDENTIAL 31

MICHIGAN @ OHIO STATE
(needs more cowbell)

Mo Clarett had come
Here but now he’s gone
Buckeyes don’t fear investigations
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain… we can be like they are
Come on Tressel… don’t fear the reaper
Baby take my hand… don’t fear the reaper
We’ll be able to fly… don’t fear the reaper
Geiger, he’s your man

SMU is done
Here but now they’re gone
Dickerson and James
Are together in eternity… Pony Express!
40,000 Chevy dealer test drives… Monte Carlos and Cavaliers
40,000 $100 handshakes… Redefine “cheatenous”
Another $40,000 coming everyday… We can be like they are
Come on Buckeye… don’t fear the reaper
Baby take my hand… don’t fear the reaper
We’ll be able to fly… don’t fear the reaper
Geiger he’s your man…

Oh, that school up north
Here but now they’re gone
Booked the last flight to Cali
And it’s clear we can’t go on
Then the door was open and Mike Hart appeared
Chad Henne threw then disappeared
Steve Breaston flew then he appeared… saying don’t be afraid
Come on Buckeye… and they had no fear
And Buck ran to him… then they started to fly
They looked backward and said good bye… Buck had become like IU
Buck had thrown down his hand… and had become like they are
Come on Buckeye… don’t fear the reaper

EVERYTHING’S COMING UP ROSES 24
ONLY OUR LUNCH IS COMING UP 13

MICHIGAN STATE @ PENN STATE
“Slump” (apologies to Van Halen Hagar Cherone Halen)

Owwww!
I get up, two and ten gets me down
You got it tough, I’ve seen the toughest around, since I’ve been here since 1966
And I know, baby, just how you feel
You got to roll with the losses and get to what’s real

Ah, can’t ya see me standin’ here
I got my back against the record of Eddie Robinson
This is the worst that you’ve seen
But do you have to be mean?

Ah, might as well slump. Slump!
A five-year long slump!
A deadly slump. Slump!
A back-breaking slump

“Retire! Hey, you!” Who said that? Bradley, how you been?
You say you don’t know, we won’t know until you begin

Ah, can’t ya see me standin’ here
I got my back against the record of Eddie Robinson
This is the worst that you’ve seen
But do you have to be mean?

Ah, might as well slump. Slump!
A five-year long slump!
A deadly slump. Slump!
A back-breaking slump

(Guitar Solo)

Might as well slump. Slump!
Go ahead and slump
Get it in, slump. Slump!
Go ahead and slump

THE DREAM IS STILL ALIVE 21
BUT WE’RE NOT, ESPECIALLY 13

INDIANA @ PURDUE
(Yes, this is not a hair-metal song . . . couldn’t help myself.)

“Indiana’s Watching” (apologies to R. Dean Taylor)

Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Suck it up, Purdue . . . you’ve lost a few

If a man ever should have won the Heisman
After five games of a flabby schedule, Kyle, it’s you
And it’s so cold and lonely here without you
Defensive end is coming
I’ve been so tired of running

Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Suck it up, Purdue . . . you’ve lost a few

It hurts to see the team Purdue’s become
To know they’ll never see a top-ten ranking anymore
They’ll never see Berwanger’s face or touch his hand
If just once more they could see
The Cuse, Ball State, Illini and Nit’ny

Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Suck it up, Purdue . . . you’ve lost a few

I hope Joe Tiller finds his way, Purdue
Forgive him, please, for the shame he’s put you through and all the tears
Hang on tight to the memories of the Griese years
Red jerseys flashing around me
Good Lord it looks like they found me

Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Suck it up, Purdue . . . you’ve lost a few

(sound of police siren)

“This is the Music City Bowl selection committee . . . we know you’re in there . . . come out with your big bass drum . . .”

TWENTY GRAND TO OPRYLAND 24
BACK TO THE DRAWING BOARD 21

PotB10 returns once the bowl slate is set to try (foolishly) to pick every single bowl game. Shouldn’t be too tough; there are only 28 of them.

Why do I do this to myself?

HAPPY CHEF

(Only an upper Midwesterner knows the joys of Happy Chef.)

So anyways, it’s been suggested to me by a person of my acquaintance that perhaps I ought to give a full accounting of my own culinary quirks which, while not exactly numerous, are not exactly non-existent, either. Forthwith, then, my full disclosure:

First of all, there’s only one food that I really will not eat under any circumstances: sun-dried tomatoes. I have tried to appreciate them, dear reader, and I simply cannot. While to some they call up images of sun-drenched Sicilian hillsides or quaint Tuscan villas, to me they’re like eating boogers from the nose of Satan. If I wanted something with the texture of raisins and the flavor of vomit, I’d knock back a half-dozen prune daiquiris before dinner every night.

My second food phobia is a little more serious: Egg yolks are always a tricky proposition for me. I’ve never in my life eaten an over-easy egg, much less sunny side up. But I find the grainy texture and acrid smell of hard-boiled egg yolks the most difficult to take of all–and don’t get me started on deviled eggs, since I’m not all that nuts about mayonnaise and yellow mustard, either. And if you’re the sort of person who adds sun-dried tomatoes to your egg salad, good for you; just don’t get any on me, please.

Likewise, I cannot abide canned vegetables of any sort, except for corn–and even then, I’d rather have frozen or fresh.

Oh, and here’s one for the record books: guess which two foods almost everybody loves, but I could take or leave? Chocolate and french fries. Nothing against them, but I almost never crave either. I also don’t like McDonalds, except for my once-a-year Quarter Pounder with Cheese (which I still have not had for 2004).

I also have to note that there is significant culinary common ground in this house. We all agree that fish fries are wonderful, Pizza Hut is not, and at the great heavenly feast, we’ll be standing in line for enchiladas, beans, and rice. That, and we celebrate every major milestone in our lives with some sort of smoked pork product. OK? Have I convinced you that dinnertime at the Hasty house is not the grim power struggle I may have accidently on purpose made it out to be?

Well, then let me continue. Because, you see, cooking for two fussy eaters is not an entirely negative thing. A person can learn a lot from the experience, as it turns out.

For instance, the first time Paula and I went out for fish fry, while we were still dating, I was appalled when she put ketchup–ketchup!–on her fish. Everybody knows that the only proper condiments for fish are lemon juice, malt vinegar, and tartar sauce. Ketchup is a notorious bottom-feeder condiment. Ketchup is what the French and other sophisticated food snots blame for our inability to taste our food. After all, ketchup is just a means of putting sweet and sour flavors on everything, thereby making everything taste like everything else.

If you dump the stuff on everything willy-nilly, that is. But in trace amounts on fried fish or in other non-traditional applications, it’s a tremendous flavor enhancer. In addition to being a major source of the powerful anti-oxidant lycopene, cooked tomato products are full of the natural flavor enhancer glutamic acid, which makes everything you put it on taste a little more like itself. Thus, a small amount of ketchup on your fried fish brings out the flavor. (As I discovered last night, a couple tablespoons of ketchup added to a pot of bean soup can also save it from terminal blandness without making the soup too salty–or too spicy for a six-year-old to eat.)

So you see what my blind insistence on the “proper” condiments for fish amounted to: pointless orthodoxy. Because, truthfully, all lemon juice or vinegar ever did for my fried fish was make the crust soggy, and tartar sauce is basically mayonnaise, so it’s never been a favorite of mine. Consequently, fried fish was never something I absolutely adored–just something I didn’t object to. All because I refused to believe that a little ketchup might make it taste better; instead, I thought the ketchup was just a trick for people who didn’t like fish. Like I said, pointless orthodoxy.

Why? Why do we cling to such established norms instead of letting our own palates be our standard? Why is our notion of “good food” in this country so beholden to what pleased a Frenchman’s taste buds in the 19th century? Is a really good chicken taco worse food than coq au vin? In these food-crazy times, do you surrender your claim to fresser-dom if you dare to admit that you’d rather have a really good burger than a sort-of-good steak? I don’t think you do–but then, despite all appearances to the contrary, I’m not actually a food snob.

And there’s the problem. Too often, we train ourselves to prefer that which pleases others instead of that which keeps us–and our “clientele”–happy. The end result is a bunch of pointless orthodoxy.

(Granted, not all orthodoxy is pointless; as Fran Lebowitz once put it, “People have been cooking and eating for thousands of years, so if you are the very first to have thought of adding fresh lime juice to scalloped potatoes try to understand that there must be a reason for this.”)

Now, you know there’s a ministry-related point coming in all of this, just like there was last time. But it’s not the point that you think. My call is not for preachers to preach that which “keeps the customer satisfied;” the Gospel is corrosive stuff and not everybody is going to like being splashed with acid. No, my call is for preachers to spend as much time learning how to listen as they do thinking about how they’re going to preach.

I return to my fried-fish point. Whom did I impoverish by my stubborn insistence that I already knew everything I needed to know about dressing fried fish? Certainly not my wife and stepdaughter–I never prevented them from putting ketchup on their fish, after all. But every time they did, I put myself above them mentally. I may not be perfect, but at least I don’t put ketchup on my fish like some barbarian, I thought. And in so thinking, I robbed myself not once, but twice: Firstly and most obviously, I robbed myself of a better fish-eating experience; secondly, I robbed myself of the chance to relate to them as a partner instead of as the Dinner Commandant. Only the latter of these was a loss to them as well. But it’s a pretty big loss.

Too often I see preachers pulling a “ketchup on fish” act with the people they serve. They retreat from true engagement with the cultures in which they live and immerse themselves instead in elitism of one sort or another. Whether it’s the sophisticated mainliner who can’t be bothered to listen to anything but NPR, or the culture-wary conservative who rails against shows which went off TV a decade ago, or the overworked Catholic priest who, of necessity, reduces every act of ministry to a mere process instead of a true engagement, somehow, someway, we all wind up impoverished for the experience–and, while it hurts the people we serve, it hurts us even more.

In my opinion, there’s never an appropriate circumstance for a preacher to consider him or herself superior to the people he or she serves. It’s absolutely fatal to ministry. If you want to reach people–and I mean really reach them–it means listening to that goshawful hick AM station that broadcasts nothing but farm reports and Johnny Paycheck songs. Or going to the tractor pull. Or putting down Christianity Today and picking up Reader’s Digest. Or somehow, someway, participating in the same culture as everybody you serve does. Even the most world-denying Christians have some engagement with the rest of the world, after all. And how are you going to meet the needs of sinners unless you have some sense of the sins they’re caught up in?

A good preacher should be able to talk intelligently about the things his or her people care about. If that’s social justice or apocalyptic literature, so be it, but any dope can figure that out. But if it’s the Green Bay Packers or local development planning or violence in the streets, well, that’s important too. Every good sermon is an admixture of topcality and timelessness. We hope, when we step in the pulpit, that we speak of eternal truth (or at least we’d better hope we hope that), but it’s far too easy to forget that our calling is to serve God’s people in this place and at this time. And if you want to do that, you’d better be here, now–not where you’d rather serve, or when you think people might be more receptive to your message. Snobbish orthodoxy makes little sense at the dinner table, but it makes even less sense in the pulpit. Just put out your best home cooking, and trust that God can make strong spiritual bodies out of your best efforts.

IT’S 68 MILES FROM MILWAUKEE TO MADISON

. . . but somehow, what’s transpired recently on talk radio in the former hasn’t had much impact on the latter:

A radio talk show host drew criticism Thursday after calling Condoleezza Rice an “Aunt Jemima” and saying she isn’t competent to be secretary of state.

John Sylvester, the program director and morning personality on WTDY-AM in Madison, said in a phone interview Thursday that he used the term on Wednesday’s show to describe Rice and other blacks as having only a subservient role in the Bush administration.

I think the phrase is Yeah, right. But hey, at least he’s doing something about it:

[Sylvester] said he was planning a giveaway on Friday’s show of Aunt Jemima pancake mix and syrup. “I will apologize to Aunt Jemima,” he said.

There’s nothing like apologizing to a fictional character whom you could not possibly have offended because, well, they’re fictional.