Lead Of The Day

From Lee Jenkins' piece in today's New York Times:

MIAMI, Jan. 28 — On one side of the field Sunday will be a quarterback who completed more passes this season than Joe Namath in 1968, for more yards than Roger Staubach in 1977, at a higher percentage than Johnny Unitas in 1970.

He threw more touchdowns passes than Joe Montana in 1981, with fewer interceptions than Terry Bradshaw in 1979, and with a higher passer rating than Len Dawson in 1969.

On the other side of the field will be Peyton Manning.

Awesome.

I don't know who I want to win MVP more: Rex Grossman or Tank Johnson. But I'm thinking the guy who will win it is Devin Hester.

You Make Me Feel Like ... I Don't Know

I remember Charlie Pierce coming to speak to our sports reporting class not too long ago and recollecting that he couldn't determine how he, as a lifelong Red Sox fan, was supposed to feel when Boston was busy stomping the Yankees in New York during the seventh game that ultimately proved to be the final touch on an improbable three games to zero comeback that is basically unheard of in all of professional sports.

So was the Chicago Bears victory this past Sunday on par with that achievement? No, not exactly (the Bears were favored, after all ...).

But the feeling was similar. And that's what counts.

The last time the Bears made the Super Bowl, I was 7 years old and assumed that this was the way it would be every year. So, the following year, when Chicago got smacked by those bitchy Redskins, I broke into tears and Mom told me to go take a bath. When my sister tried to turn on the TV after I submissively turned it off, I fought with her about leaving the power off so I could deny the pain. And then I sat in the tub, weeping and realizing you can't win every year.

For right now, however—two days later, I'm still in a state of extreme joy. Win or lose in the Super Bowl, rooting for a team I love hasn't felt this joyous since Kenny Rogers threw the bases-loaded ball four that sent the Braves to the World Series in 1999 (We almost let that one get away, too—being up in the NLCS 3-0 and being up in the final game something like 6-0 or such).

Anyway, the day is something you cannot erase from one's memory. For now, I can't stop thinking about how the entire day unfolded. Let's indulge ourselves and relive the glorious ass-beating Chicago delivered (All times are approximate ... and likely inaccurate):

8:45 a.m.: I arrive at work, 15 minutes late. For the second day in a row, I write the phrase "Go Rexy Go" on the styrofoam cup I will consume coffee out of for approximately the next five hours.

2:00 p.m.: Game coverage begins and patronage dwindles. What tables I am still serving usually have to grab their plates from my hand as I stand tableside, staring at the television and failing to complete my own pass. "I'll take that for you," a woman says. "Take it out of my tip," I think.

2:30 p.m.: Virtually nobody in the restaurant other than carryovers who are sitting around and waiting for the wives, older relatives, or children to stop yapping. The Bears are up 9-0 on three field goals, leaving me nervous that the Bears are unable to convert in the red zone.

3:15 p.m.: I'm driving in the snow, realizing the car's traction isn't all that great. Shortly after leaving work, Thomas Jones runs into the end zone on his eighth straight carry. The Bears lead 16-0 as I wait outside the White Hen before buying cigarettes. It's the NFC Championship and our opponent hasn't scored yet. This can't be happening.

3:25 p.m.: Drew Brees seemingly orchestrates an effortless drive downfield with less than two minutes left to put the Saints on the board. Suddenly, 16-7 isn't as comforting. Three plays later, the half ends and I'm still uncertain whether I should be overconfident or needlessly worried.

3:30 p.m.: The cabbie says he will be at my house at 4:00 to give me a ride to my buddy's house, where the game is paused at halftime so he, his wife, and two of my other friends can play Wii.

3:45 p.m.: On the second play of their first drive of the half, Reggie Bush blows past the Bears defense and makes it a two-point game. My mother—as she typically does during sporting competitions involving Chicago teams—either mutters "Shit" when something bad happens or says "Yes!" when there is a positive result. I pray for the cab to arrive soon ... (although the Illini rallied past Arizona when I watched that classic with my parents).

3:55 p.m.: Cabbie calls. He needs to go and switch cars ... tires are bald ... can't drive in this. Ten more minutes. Please don't make me have to watch this entire game with my mother, I'm thinking.

4:05 p.m.: Saints are lining up to take a field goal that would put them in the lead. My father and I shout that it's no good, falling short. Bears have great field position.

4:15 p.m.: Another three-and-out results in a Bears punt. I'm getting nervous. Where did that fucking momentum go? On the plus side, Brad Maynard delivers another nice punt that pins New Orleans within their own five.

4:18 p.m.: Drew Brees, caught in his own end zone and facing a deadly pass rush, throws the ball away. With no receiver anywhere nearby, I shout, "Intentional grounding!" Actually, it's a safety. Turning a two-point lead to a four-point is huge.

4:25 p.m.: Bernard Berrian makes an incredible adjustment to catch a Grossman pass that is somehow beyond the Saints' defenders fingertips, rolling into the endzone and making the score 25-14. Suddenly life is good.

4:29 p.m.: Brees is sacked ... and the football apparently came out on the replay ... but the whistle wasn't blown—or was it? To the replay booth when—the cabbie honks the horn. Time to go.

4:30 p.m.: I immediately turn on the radio upon taking my seat in the cabbie's minivan. "The Bears might've just gotten the ball back," I say. Sure enough, it's Bears ball on the Saints' 26.

4:35 p.m.: Snow is making the roads a bitch. My buddy texts me to let me know I'm a "fag" for showing up late and they're about to resume second-half viewing. Go ahead, I think. I tell the cabbie that my fellow fans at the destination are way behind in game time and he makes a motion towards the radio, saying, "Well you probably don't want to hear this ..." I stop him and say I can keep a secret.

4:40 p.m.: Cedric Benson runs 12 yards into the endzone to make it a three-score game. The cabbie begins to say how exciting it is to have the Bears going into the Super Bowl. Pessimist I am, I remind him there's still a lot of time left. I've seen crazier shit happen before.

4:45 p.m.: Brees is intercepted by Nathan Vasher and I feel speechless as we arrive at my buddy's house. I shake my cabbie's hand and remark how pleasant it will be to actually once again be in the Super Bowl. Slamming the door shut and thanking him for his efforts, I now have to keep a secret.

4:46 p.m.: I ring the doorbell and enter my buddy's "mansion," immediately asking if I have to go downstairs to smoke. Indeed I do. When he follows me, I can tell from the audio that they aren't too long after watching Reggie Bush somersault into the endzone and dance for the only time that day. We're smoking in the basement when he begins prodding me about what I know. "So, did the Saints score at least two touchdowns since you last heard the score?" I try to refuse to answer—"I don't want to ruin it for you," I say—but eventually shake my head "no." He asks if the Bears have scored since, at which point another friend comes down. The audio on the television is so loud that I can hear the fans booing when Brees throws his incompletion out of the end zone. As my friend repeats his question, Joe Buck can be heard saying how the Bears want a flag on the call and Troy Aikman is saying how he thinks Chicago will get it. I point at the ceiling and say, "Safety." The friend who has just entered the room is clueless to what I'm talking about and doubts me, but sure enough, another friend watching the game shouts from the top of the stairwell: "SAFETY!"

5:10 p.m.: I'm amazed at how drunk my friend and his wife are—I haven't seen them drunk at the same time in quite some time ... if ever. Joe Buck is talking about how this could be a definitive drive for Rex Grossman when I realize what's coming up next. Sure enough, seeing the Berrian miracle catch is even sweeter when I can be the first to say that it counts. The friend who doubted my safety call asks if I knew that was coming and I say that it was the last play right before I got around the house.

5:12 p.m.: "There's still one more big play coming," I admit to that friend, right before seeing Vasher's pick. My friends are practically shitting themselves with excitement as they jump around the spacious room.

5:15 p.m.: Perhaps Cedric Benson's best run of the season is accentuated by the hop through would-be tacklers around the five-yard-line as the Bears cement their appearance in the Super Bowl. The Soldier Field crowd has never looked so alive as these playoffs, and my favorite sign is still the well-cut "XLI" in a sea of jumping fans.

5:40 p.m.: The nail was in the coffin long ago, but just to remind the team why he merits being rehired, Thomas Jones runs to the bottom of the television screen and then runs back up to the top of it before going into the endzone and finishing a 15-yard TD run.


And all this was before we continued getting drunk, watching the Colts go down 21-3, played a lot of Wii, and then watched Peyton Manning and Indianapolis fight its own way into the Super Bowl.

Friends: There are days ... and then there are days. And this will be one I shall not forget.

No Guts, No Glory

Usually I'd have picked up the latest copy of Entertainment Weekly, or something similar, and kept myself updated on the Oscar buzz. But perhaps the continuing streak of amazement that the Chicago Bears are still playing at this point in the season has made me less faggish—or something like that.

Nonetheless, I did pretty well last year at picking nominees (better than I did at picking winners, unfortunately, but at least I didn't gamble actual money last year), and with that said, my five to ten minutes of research has led me to believe that your ballot is going to read like this for the "Big Eight":

BEST PICTURE
Babel
The Departed
Dreamgirls
Little Miss Sunshine
The Queen

BEST DIRECTOR
Alejandro González Iñárritu, Babel
Martin Scorcese, The Departed
Bill Condon, Dreamgirls
Stephen Frears, The Queen
Paul Greengrass, United 93

BEST ACTOR
Leonardo DiCaprio, The Departed
Ryan Gosling, Half Nelson
Peter O'Toole, Venus
Will Smith, The Pursuit of Happyness
Forest Whitaker, The Last King of Scotland

BEST ACTRESS
Penelpoe Cruz, Volver
Judi Dench, Note on a Scandal
Helen Mirren, The Queen
Meryl Streep, The Devil Wears Prada
Kate Winslet, Little Children

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR
Alan Arkin, Little Miss Sunshine
Jackie Earle Haley, Little Children
Djimon Honsou, Blood Diamond
Eddie Murphy, Dreamgirls
Jack Nicholson, The Departed

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS
Adrianna Barraza, Babel
Cate Blanchett, Notes on a Scandal
Abigail Breslin, Little Miss Sunshine
Jennifer Hudson, Dreamgirls
Rinko Kikuchi, Babel

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY
Babel
Little Miss Sunshine
The Queen
United 93
Volver

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY
The Departed
The Devil Wears Prada
Little Children
Notes on a Scandal
Thank You For Smoking

Is now a bad time to mention that United 93 is the only film I've seen of any that I just listed???

UPDATE: That's 32 out of 40 (although one incorrect pick was the right actor in the wrong film, but ...). Since this was another pretty easy year, that's a fairly weak showing in my mind—especially considering last year's track record.

But Dreamgirls getting the most nods and no Best Picture or Best Director nomination really will make things pretty interesting come ceremony time.

Fun While It Lasted

I was rather quiet around the pancake house regarding the newfound "holiday" job. But catch me on a bad day, and I was likely to murmur something.

So when one of the lifetime breakfast-shifters asked me about the other place, the roll of my eyes about the inquired differences must have been all she needed to hear before adding, "Night and day, huh?"

Then my Greek boss' mother must have come by complaining about me not using a tray or something before I replied, quite loudly, "Literally."

You be the judge:

STARTING TIME
DAY JOB: As soon as I wake up.
NIGHT JOB: As soon as I'm ready.

SMOKING POLICY
DAY JOB: Never.
NIGHT JOB: Whenever, and pretty much where ever I want.

TELEVISION PROGRAMMING
DAY JOB: Limited to family-friendly programming on local antenna programming (which immediately disqualified Maury Povich's two hours of paternity tests I like to round out my shift with, apparently).
NIGHT JOB: Bulls games, AMC movies ... hell, whatever we felt like watching.

EMPLOYEE MEAL POLICY
DAY JOB: A whole three dollars off ... everything. No more, no less. (And everything on the menu is at least three dollars ... unless you're anorexic.)
NIGHT JOB: Half off of anything you buy. (Except alcohol ... more on that later.)

BEHAVIORAL MANNER OF IMMEDIATE EMPLOYER
DAY JOB: Large Greek man in early-30s whom generally seems to have no desire to be working restaurant industry but enjoys the power of shouting at those under him what to do at certain points in the day. Since returning from the latest sales job I got duped in to and ultimately abandoned, he seems to realize how reliable I am at serving while granting that I'm incapable of arriving on time.
NIGHT JOB: Woman in her late-60s perhaps who must have inherited a fortune and sees fit to run it into the ground by taking over a formerly cheap sort of Italian fine dining establishment and trying to re-invent it in an already competitive atmosphere. We converse little, but since she spends her latter half of the day throwing back Beefeater's on the rocks before I arrive, she seems to sincerely appreciate me assistance on crossword puzzles.

BEHAVIORAL MANNER OF IMMEDIATE EMPLOYER'S ASSISTANTS
DAY JOB: The girl who makes our schedule also works six days a week. We generally get along, aside from the fact that she is a Packers fan.

My boss' nearly 60-year-old mother shows up almost six days a week just to roughly exercise her neurotic behavior by seating whomever she pleases, harassing me about whatever she pleases, and making the life of everybody (even, sometimes, the customer) a living hell.
NIGHT JOB: The dining room manager (or something like that) is a couple years younger than me and just recently proposed to his girlfriend on New Year's Eve, which puts him two wives ahead of me.

We also have my boss' boyfriend, who apparently sits at the bar the entire day, begins those crosswords we were talking about, drinks coffee, and then switches to Jim Beam around, well, the time I come in. Timing is everything.

ALCOHOL POLICY
DAY JOB: No liquor is served, although it's frequently mentioned that the place used to be a bar.
NIGHT JOB: A wide array of spirits and wines are available. And employees are entitled to one free post-shift drink—if the closing manager sees fit (which they typically do).

UNIFORMS
DAY JOB: Upon asking another server if using a purple pen made me look gay, she replied, "You're wearing an apron with an apple on it."

It's green, and it basically covers up whatever tie I'm wearing with my white dress shirts and black pants.

Oh, and I have a name tag with two smiley face stickers on it. Now ... does that make me look gay?
NIGHT JOB: Goodbye tie, name tag, and green apron; lose the button on the neck of the shirt and tie the knee-length black apron around your waist ... good to go.

CHECK AVERAGE
DAY JOB: $10 per person, at best.
NIGHT JOB: $20 per person, at least.

CLIENTELE
DAY JOB: Regular elderly diners or their immediate local suburban families.
NIGHT JOB: Curious faux posh-types of the local dining scene.

TIP AVERAGE
DAY JOB: 10-20%, or roughly a buck or two per person.
NIGHT JOB: Steadily around 20%, or roughly more than five bucks per person.

GUEST APPEARANCES
DAY JOB: Two of the boss' mom's grandkids, one of which is guaranteed to burst into tears moments after arrival.
NIGHT JOB: Two dogs, one of which was a black lab whose belly I often enjoyed scratching right before placing the same unwashed hand upon a loaf of bread about to be cut by myself for any cheaper patrons.

RATE OF SERVICE
DAY JOB: Steady on most days and hectic on weekends. Four-plus years in the same location brings people back.
NIGHT JOB: Slow as shit nearly every day. Less than two years in a new location has people asking when the old place closed.

MUSIC
DAY JOB: Most of the time, it's Sirius' Channel 2 which plays the same Dave Matthews song we've all heard seven-fucking-million times now and Lone Star's "Amazed," which never even deserved to be played once.
NIGHT JOB: Live jazz on the weekends and Frank Sinatra-type fanfare during the week.

COMPUTER SYSTEMS
DAY JOB: Truly old-school black-screen, green-type appearance on equally ancient monitors. We type in orders by numerical codes, as though we were performing confidential operations within our own kitchen. Using the series "5-2-3" (which equates to "SEE SERVER" bring printed) causes alarm and panic among cooks and expediters.
NIGHT JOB: Touch-screen system that allows us to swipe customers' credit cards at every terminal. Any special instructions can be typed in on-screen via a keyboard option, allowing us to verify such urgent requests as "AARON IS A GIANT HOMO."

"SPECIALS"
DAY JOB: On Wednesdays, senior citizens get ten percent off.
NIGHT JOB: On Wednesdays, we have karaoke night at 9:00 p.m. Oh, and the risotto changes daily.

The "new" co -workers warned me not to get excited after one of my bigger nights during the weekend. "Don't quit the day job," they told me, as though the extra money the party I'd had and added to my already automatic gratuity on the bill wasn't sign enough of my awesomeness.

Behold the call that came in last Thursday as I was on my way to the "night" job after the "day" was over. The chef's last day had been a few days prior, but there was already a replacement.

No matter.

The night place is now supposedly closed until the beginning of February. To many of the employees, shutting down came as no surprise. But still, not being given just a little head start to cover their asses and find work to, you know, pay their bills was a little insulting. Most, I assume had planned on leaving anyway.

And so as I spent my newly acquired free-Friday night out with one of the servers, and he mentioned places he'd be applying at before asking me where I would be looking, I simply sipped my drink, shook my head, took a drag off my smoke and said, "I'm not applying at any more restaurants."

And that was that.