THE PLOT THICKENS, SORTA

Well, now, here’s a twist for you: Just hours after Iowa canned its wrestling coach Jim Zalesky, there’s a change in the wrestling program at Iowa State, too, as Bobby Douglas is out and 26-year-old Cael Sanderson is in as the new Cyclones head coach.

Sanderson, you may recall, was a career-and-0 wrestler. He didn’t lose at all in college, nor did he lose in the Olympics.

Why the sudden switch for Cy? You might recall that, the last time Iowa hired a Cyclone wrestling legend, it worked out pretty well for them . . . like “15 national championships in 21 years” well. Good luck, Bobby Douglas.

IOWA FIRES HEAD COACH, ENTIRE STAFF!

Okay, well, it was the wrestling staff. Not exactly the unemployment news many were expecting to hear.

However, given the downward trend in Zalesky’s performance (after winning national titles in his first three seasons, the Hawks didn’t even have a single national–or Big Ten–individual champ this season), you can hardly call it unexpected, either.

How would you like to have been Iowa AD Bob Bowlsby these last couple weeks? Cell-phone scandals, endless speculation about Steve Alford’s future, and having to fire Jim Zalesky? I’m guessing he could stand a couple days off right now.

AN EARLY BLOGPOLL ROUNDTABLE

Over at Schembechler Hall (any truth to the rumor that they keep losing all the bowls in the cafeteria over there?) they’ve posted an early BlogPoll roundtable in recognition of the the fact that Big Ten basketball is dead for the year. Since I’m trying to avoid commenting on the cell-phones for Outback Bowl tickets scandal that’s currently afflicting my team, I feel I’ve got nothing to lose by responding. Of course, I’ve felt that way before.

1) It’s early, but thus far, which offseason change or changes in college football are you most excited about?

Are you kidding me? I’m totally geeked about the fact that I’ll not have to hear about Matt Leinart and Reggie Bush any more. In fact, I’m giddy that somebody other than U$C enters the season as the national champion. It’s like Duke losing in the Sweet Sixteen. Actually, it’s like that in more ways than one. You can’t really hate Coach Kryzlwqvrdvszynski, and it’s hard not to be impressed by what Pete Carroll has done with the steaming carcass he inherited. But the incessant media hype for both programs has become such a public nuisance that it’s tainted any possible appreciation of their accomplishments.

I’m also interested in seeing if Ron Prince can continue what Bill Snyder started at K-State . . . and in seeing if he understands (in the way that Snyder never did) that competition creates competitors, and no real program schedules two I-AA teams in a single season.

2) With spring practice underway, what are the three concerns about your team that are causing you the most anxiety? (USC fans can’t just list the departures of Reggie Bush, Matt Leinart, and LenDale White.)

1. Obviously, for any Iowa fan, the first concern is how the defense will change with Hodge and Greenway gone. I almost typed “how the Hawks will replace Hodge and Greenway,” but let’s face it–that’s not possible. I’m going to assume that Norm Parker is smart enough to realize that the entire defensive scheme will have to change because almost any pair of college linebackers would represent a dropoff from what Iowa had last season.

2. The next question is whether Drew Tate can return to his 2004 form. 2005 wasn’t a horrible season for him by any means, but I don’t think he seemed like the difference-maker he was in ‘04. A lot of that reflects the quality of offensive line play in ‘04 versus ‘05, with the ‘04 line being a little more capable. Tate had more time to find a possibility back then.

3. Those flarpin’ Cyclones. I’m tired of losing to them. They’re sore winners.

3) Care to take a stab at a preseason top five?

Sure! As we’re fond of saying here at TBP, it’s never too early to be wrong.

1. Ohio State. Only great team coming into the season with momentum. Should pick up right where they left off.
2. Texas. Normally I say that the national champ stays #1 until proven otherwise, but let’s face it; they’re going to miss Vince Young a lot.
3. Florida. I still believe in Urban Meyer, but last year’s team fell a little short of what I was expecting from him. But, it was his first year.
4. Southern Cal. They’ve got a lot of talent, but I do expect a dropoff this season.
5. Penn State. Finished very strong last season; may have a little trouble staying at that level.

OH, LUDDITE THIS

Well, it only took ten days, but I finally got comments working properly. Sheesh.

Is anybody still reading this?

TBP CLASSIC: JUST WUD THIG ABTA ANUDDA

Note: In honor of my latest respiratory misadventures, I’m digging out an old essay I wrote about the joys of having a cold. This is from October of 1998.

The title of this latest installment refers to that wonderful experience of trying to work (and having the busiest week of your life) whilst you are doped out of your mind on Sudafed. There has been a vicious cold floating around here (one of my parishioners has had it for a month) and said demonic virus is currently making its home in . . . well, it was in my throat, then my sinuses, thence my lungs, and currently in my ears, where it is trying valiantly to return to my throat, using my right eardrum as a trampoline. I have been on the Fed since Wednesday night with little to no discernible effect, apart from giving me some very interesting sleeping patterns. Even with my Buck Rogers Space Cadet TV antenna, you can’t find anything good on at 3:30 on a Friday morning . . .

Definition of a pretty bad cold: You can’t smell vinegar. Definition of a very, very bad cold: You can’t taste vinegar. Or cayenne pepper. Or a Hall’s Extra-Strength cough drop. Or anything. I have had colds which were bad enough to make me think I couldn’t taste anything; this one takes the cake. Friday at noon I ate a bowl of vegetable soup. Nothing. No flavor at all. That night I ate a peanut butter sandwich. Peanut butter is very, very scary when you cannot taste it. Come to think of it, so are most foods. When it’s nothing but a texture, food is more an annoyance than a joy. Cabbage feels like the roof of your mouth just peeled off and landed on your tongue. Orange juice just hurts. Bread could be drywall for all you know.

You’re tired all the time until you lay down to try to go to sleep. Then you twitch and flip and destroy the covers in a pathetic attempt to find that magical cool spot. Then, once you find it, your nerves turn glacial and you bury yourself beneath the covers again. For about thirty seconds. Lather, rinse, repeat. And now I don’t even have Art Bell on the radio to keep me company and remind me that I don’t have the most pathetic excuse of a life on Earth.

Comes the morning and you’re not sure if you slept. You fumble your way through the sacrament of coffee. First cup gets poured. It’s like drinking a hot, oily glass of water. You take the lid off a garbage can. Big whiff. Zilch. You sit down at the computer to work on one of the three sermons you have to preach in the next four days (funeral, wedding, just-plain-Sunday). The worsd comm uot verry distreptic and not every weurlof. Crap. I still need Sudafed, but in two hours I’ll be a zombie. Off to the bathroom. Two little red pills. Two aspirin. Regis and Kathie Lee. The pillow conforms to your head as you finally find a position that doesn’t turn you into a giant muscle contraction. Sleep finally comes, fitfully. You dream of ordering office supplies, a dream more frightening than a vision of the apocalypse. Suddenly you realize you’re talking on the phone to a telemarketer. You quiver, afraid you may have just authorized the construction of a missile silo in your driveway. Either that, or you agreed to let somebody send you some crappy fundraising candy.

Ill-advisedly, you set out to visit a couple parishioners. You greet their friendly and reckless dog. They advise you that the dog had been in a tangle with a skunk the night before. You are greatly relieved that they allow you into the house anyway. You sit down to a meal with looks fantastic and feels pretty good, but for the love of God you can’t tell if you’re eating pork chops or beaver tails. Following dinner, well, you must have driven home, because you’re there and so is the car . . .

The next morning you can taste the coffee a little, even smell it a touch. You lift the lid on the garbage AND IT SMELLS THIS BAD. It’s a wonder you’re not dead. You look out the window just to make sure. No pillars of brimstone, so you’re either still alive or your parishioners are right about the exact location of heaven . . . you just thought heaven would be a little nearer Barnes & Noble, that’s all.

Assuming the right side of my head does not explode, I can look forward to a week filled with less excitement. It’s already off to a rotten start. I spent all afternoon at a meeting during which we transacted exactly one piece of business (we named the organization) and the chair believed that we had actually accomplished quite a bit. Gross. On the whole, I’d rather have six more sinuses to get infected than endure that again . . .

TRI(IN)FECTA

Still alive, but just barely. The doctor told me this afternoon I had the triple crown–a sinus infection, an ear infection, and pink eye. I’ve had this crap for about three weeks now, which explains why there’s been little blogging going on around here.

I still haven’t figured out what the deal is with the comments not dsiplaying any more. That’s the only problem I encountered in upgrading from WordPress 1.2 to 2.02. If any of you big brains can figure out what’s wrong from a peek at my template, please have at it. I’m lost.

Anyway, just typing three short paragraphs has all but worn me out. Just so you know, though, you can leave comments and I will see them . . . I just can’t figure out how to make them display on the page yet.

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

Comments are currently not working and I don’t have time to mess with them right now. I’ll fix it later.

I AM A STRONG PERSON

I just installed WordPress 2.0 all by myself.

Now, if I could just learn to feed myself and tie my own shoes, I’d be ready for kindergarten . . .

HIGH-OCTANE MEMORIES

Ten automotive-connected things that make me feel hopelessly nostalgic:

1. Matchbox cars. The first great indulgence of my obsessive streak. I had hundreds of these things and barely played with anything else. And please–no Hot Wheels. Those were for amped-up sugar junkies who loved to crash things into each other. My Matchbox cars obeyed the speed limit and always used their turn signals. My favorite was a white Ford pickup, ‘73 to ‘77 vintage.
2. Giant 2-door cars. Another 70s excess from which I cannot disassociate myself. I’d love to have a big ol’ 2-door hardtop from my youth. Preferably something avocado green or some other cringe-inducing color, and a vinyl top is not optional. I’ll live with 12 MPG and feeling like I’m driving while sitting in a bathtub. Just give me two doors, a hood the size of a king-size mattress, and eight cylinders driving the rear wheels.
3. The opening of ‘Newhart’. OK, so the car (an early-70s Olds Delta 88) is only peripheral to Newhart’s opening credits. What really matters is that they show this car (ostensibly, Dick Lowden’s) cruising gently along rural Vermont roads on what looks like the most perfect day ever, past a white clapboard church and up a village main street, while the last great TV theme Henry Mancini wrote lolls gently in the background. The opening credits may have had little to do with the inspired craziness which followed, but they were both perfectly unforgettable.
4. The smell of old magazines. It’s summer 1996 and I’m temporarily living in North Dakota. I discover a used-book store on the north side of downtown Fargo, a place that never should’ve passed fire inspection. Stuff was stacked from floor to ceiling, seemingly unsorted, but the owner somehow knew where everything was. I spent a good part of my meager intern’s salary buying up all the back issues of car magazines I could get my hands on. One sunny Saturday morning the owner told me, “You know, I’ve got all kinds of that stuff downstairs in the basement. You catch me on the right day, I might let you dig around and see if there’s anything you want.” I never did ask, though, but I’ve got to wonder: What sort of stuff was in that basement? Talk about a missed opportunity.
5. Hatchbacks. When I was a bite-size car enthusiast, I thought hatchbacks were so cool I could never imagine why anybody bought anything else. Why wouldn’t you want to be able to haul big things around in the back of your car? As it turns out, nobody did, because hatchbacks were cheap, and nobody wanted to be seen driving a Poverty Special. So, car companies stopped selling hatchbacks in America. Remember that next time you’re at the big-box store, trying to fit flat-packed furniture into the trunk of a Taurus.
6. 1979 Toyota Celicas. Some people grew up in Ford families, some in Chevy families; I grew up in a Toyota family. One day in first grade, Dad picked us up from school and drove us the six blocks to the Toyota dealer. He took us into the showroom and asked us which car we thought he should buy. My eyes immediately lit on a bittersweet-orange Celica liftback. I couldn’t wait for us to pull up at school in one of those. Turns out Dad had already signed for a leftover ‘78 Corolla four-door, which served us well over 180,000 miles of driving. But I still wish he would’ve gotten the Celica, even though I know now it only looked sporty.
7. Non-remote keyless entry. Some distant elderly relative of mine had this on a mid-70s Lincoln Mark Something-Or-Other. It was naught more than a keypad mounted above the door handle upon which you entered a secret code, thereby unlocking the door. Nobody would want this now, but back then, it was so James Bond.
8. ‘Euro’ cars. Perhaps the only automotive thing from the mid-1980s worth remembering is the brief fashion for flat-black trim and understated paint colors, qualities usually associated with BMWs and Audis. Such fashion trends eventually found their way onto seriously humble machinery like Ford Escorts, Chevy Celebrities, and Dodge 600s. You may not have been able to afford a yuppie wallet-wagon, but at least you could look like you had similar tastes. Even though the Chevy Celebrity Eurosport was misnamed twice over.
9. Conversion vans. These are still around, so somebody must still be buying them. There’s no better way to travel in bourgeoise style. Great quantities of road are best eaten up with your eyes six feet above the highway and your butt planted on a flocked-velour captain’s chair. Some of the better models even had refrigerators and card tables.
10. Chevettes. I never wanted one of these, but when I was in high school, they frequently contained big-haired girls in college sweatshirts and stirrup pants . . . and maybe we’d just better leave it at that.

WHICHEVER WAY THE BREES BLOWS

Well, I guess you can forget about those Drew Brees to the Dolphins rumors, now that the Vikings have traded Daunte Culpepper to the Fins.

The whole thing was triggered by the Saints’ signing of Drew Brees, which should indicate that maybe Matt Leinart won’t be the #2 pick after all, or the Saints plan to deal that pick. The Vikes are still pursuing Green Bay backup QB Craig Nall, but Nall says he’ll only jump ship if he can be guaranteed a #2 slot.

Amazing. Now, even if Brett Favre retires, he’ll still be the best quarterback in the NFC North.