The View Below

I had a friend who once told me a very amusing story. Whether or not it is true is irrelevant.

My friend was an outstanding writer. Specifically, a poet. he submitted some pieces to the New Yorker as some sort of amateur contest. He was one of the four finalists that gets published. He wound up an honorable mention. I thought it was awesome. He was heartbroken. He decided to go on a little bit of a binge to "get it out of his system."

During his binge he met a very flirtatious and attractive woman. So attractive, in fact, that he actually danced for the better part of the two or so hours that they were on the dance floor. The rest of the time they spent kissing and rubbing against each other in non-dancing way. They retired to the bar for some drinks and barstool "snuggling". Leaving the bar hand in hand he was pretty sure that he would get the sadness of the poetry loss out of his system and possibly even some new inspiration.

The next morning he left her apartment very concerned. During the course of the evening he had developed some red markings on his shmengy. He went to friend who worked at a pharmacy and therefore was a medical expert to take a gander at his friend and let him know if he thought there should be concern. The pharmacist friend told him he did not have to look at his genitals to tell him that any strange markings were always a sign of concern. At least to him. But sometimes people get things in their heads and are unwilling to let them go. Later that night there was a pantaloon-drop and peek.

The pharmacist, who was already uncomfortable with the whole shebang, took a good hard look. At least that's the phrasing that makes us laugh hardest at the bar when we recount this story. Then he asked a question that is normally reserved for strangers in dark alleys after the Pride Parade.

"Uh, could you rub it for a sec."
"What?"
"With some, oh God, uh, something wet."
"Like what?"
"Um, spit or a sponge or something."

The order was followed and the answer to the ailment was found.

I'll get back to this story in a minute. Before the "punch line" I would like to discuss the non-resigning of Ron Rivera as the defensive coordinator fro the Bears. I won't say that it was a mistake because that will be determined by play on the field in the next year or so. I will say that it was unnecessary. A little like making your way to the top of the Sears tower and then spending money to look back down to where you were with giant, immobile binoculars. Or a doctor leaving th room while you get naked.

There are one of two things that this could relate to. The first, as in all sports discussions, is money. By not resigning Rivera there is more money for Lovie. That's alright I suppose but it begs the question of who then becomes the cheapest owner in the Windy City, McCaskey or Wirtz? This man put together one of the best defenses in the league and despite there inability to change a gameplan at halftime they have been top ten for three straight years now with Rivera as their coordinator.

The second option is that the Bears (or Lovie who has built some considerable clout) are sick and tired of hearing about the '85 Bears. Rivera was known for having former '85 Bears players "bless" the team before each season. He would often invite them to give the defense a pep-talk before games and during practices. Enough so that it seemed to loose some of it's specialness. During the weeks leading up to the Superbowl, we heard more about the '85 Bears in this town than the '06 Bears. That may have been too much for the organization.

Either way, he is now in San Diego as a linebacker coach after interviewing for four head coaching jobs. Our new coordinator is Bob Babich, longtime friend to Lovie Smith and the world has continued to turn. Time will tell if this was a good move but I believe that this was just a move. Sometimes, like my binocular analogy above, you just need to know. But sometimes you are missing a spectacular view by not looking around with your own eyes. On the other hand, maybe the doctor doesn't inadvertently laugh at the patient's Scooby-Doo boxer shorts at the wrong time.

The ailment, by the way, was lipstick. Curable with a shower and some scrubbing.