Because his days are getting short…or not?

Notre Dame is now 1-9. Laughable is the only word I can think of at this time. Either the man is one of the worst coaches in the country or he is one of the best who, next year, will show the world what a genius he is. I’ve 95% written him off. But then I think of Jimmy Johnson’s first year with the Dallas Cowboys when they ended the season with a dismal 1-15 record before going on to win two Super Bowls.

I’m not sticking up for Weis at all. But I won’t call him a complete failure, not just yet. If he can end next season with a winning record, I may, may see a glimmer of hope in his future. Otherwise, I will see him as nothing more than a colossal bust.

And for all you people who like to blame this horrid, record-breakingly bad season on Tyrone Willingham and his subpar recruiting, I refer you to the blurb below, taken from a Neil Hayes editorial in the Chicago Sun-Times last month.

A lack of talent, thanks largely to Tyrone Willingham’s inferior recruiting classes, usually is fingered as the culprit for Notre Dame’s ghastly season, but a talent void is not an ironclad alibi for the crimes against football Weis and his team have committed this season.

If a college football season littered with upsets has reminded us of anything, however, it’s that the team with the most talent doesn’t always win. Does Stanford, which has won two conference games this season, including a historic upset of then-No. 2 USC, have more talent than Notre Dame?

Notre Dame’s 2004 recruiting class was ranked 32nd in the country by Rivals.com. Teams currently in the Top 25 that had classes ranked lower than Notre Dame’s that year include South Carolina, Virginia, Virginia Tech, West Virginia, Kentucky, Kansas, Rutgers and South Florida.

Georgia Tech defeated Notre Dame 33-3 in both teams’ season opener. The Yellow Jackets’ class was ranked 56th that year.

Willingham’s 2005 recruiting class was ranked 40th — below Notre Dame standards, to be sure, but well ahead of Kansas, Boston College, South Florida, Kentucky and Rutgers, all of whom have been ranked in the Top 25 this season.

Ranking recruiting classes is an imperfect science, as we all know, but the point is this: Notre Dame’s shocking inability to compete can’t be blamed entirely on lack of talent. It can’t be blamed entirely on youth, either — not when so many freshmen are making significant contributions across the country.

At some point you have to look at the man leading the team. Maybe he’s one season away from greatness, or maybe he’s one season from being tossed out on his ass with a huge, multi-million dollar paycheck jutting from his back pocket.

One last thing: Jimmy Johnson went 1-15 in his first season, not his third. So, I give Weis some latitude…but “a very little latitude”.

Remember the scene from Stand By Me when the Wil Wheaton character encounters a deer on the train tracks early one morning? The scene is peaceful, quiet. Wheaton and the deer stare at one another for a few moments as if they are sharing a silent secret between each other. Then, the deer slowly trots off and Wheaton has that memory to keep all to himself. Remember that? A tender moment, I’d call it.

Well, tonight I was on my way to the dumpster, taking the garbage out. There is a rather large field next to the dumpster and on this particular evening there were six, that’s right, six deer grazing in the field. Now, I don’t live in some secluded little area. It can be somewhat busy at times, so imagine my surprise when I came upon six adult deer. We stood there staring at one another for about thirty seconds, and something occurred to me. Sharing a quiet moment with one deer must fill a man with an immense sense of peace. Sharing a quiet moment with six deer fills a man with an immense sense of “Oh, shit.” You know why? Because with one deer, I am pretty convinced that he is more afraid of me than I would be of him. It’s friggin’ Bambi for goodness sakes. But six deer? That’s a gang. And I wasn’t thinking of Bambi. I was thinking that at any moment these six mothers were going to rush me and kick the shit outta me.

The scary thing is that when my garbage landed in the dumpster with a rather loud THUD!!, the deer didn’t move. They just continued to stand and stare. WTF?!? Okay, fellers. I’m leaving. Sorry to disturb you. Don’t hurt me.

It’s funny how you can go from “awwww” to “awwww #&*$!!!” in just a matter of seconds.

I don’t want no funeral. I don’t want no wake. There will be no closing me up in some dark, stuffy box with nothing but grubs and stale memories to keep me company. When I go, toss me to the wind. Return me to ashes. Take me to some distant hilltop and scatter me to the earth where the wind and rain and the ever changing elements will blend me with the dirt and wash me to the shore and forever sweep me here and there until the end of days. No tears, no black garb and sullen faces. I want my friends and family and all those who loved me to gather in a little pub somewhere, order a few pints, and clink to me a toast of farewell.

There is nothing more depressing than the thought of a cathedral filled with people mourning over me, passing by the bier shedding tears and dispensing words of goodbye to a shell that no longer houses the soul. Remember me as I lived, not the lifeless husk that I will have become. I shudder at that thought.

And while you are in the little bar with lights dimmed and the conversational hum of those who truly loved me buoying a night that will be memorable but not melancholy, I want an album to play in perpetuity over the stereo or jukebox or whatever they have available. Knowing me, you would think it would be a jazz album. But if you really know me, you know that it could only be one album, one collection of songs that have entranced and embraced me for five years now.

When I die, I want you to play Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks. From the title song to Slim Slow Slider and back again. Play it over and over until the last bar patron has donned his cap and ventured out into the cold, damp evening, searching for his car keys and deep down wondering when his final moments will arrive and if he will be ready. And then when you are one day driving in your car or at the theater watching a movie or having a bite at the corner deli and a song from Astral Weeks begins to play, I hope your eyes well with tears. I hope that you are collapsed by the beauty of the record as well as by the memories that it evokes. I hope that every image brings you happiness and an intense knowledge that though I am gone from this earth, if I am lucky, I am somewhere as beautiful as the pictures painted by that odd little man from Belfast with a voice inimitable and a verbal gait, slow and enticing.

Oh sweet thing, sweet thing
My, my, my, my, my sweet thing
And I will raise my hand up
Into the night time sky
And count the stars
That’s shining in your eye

What time is it?? Shit. I’ve been standing here for almost twenty minutes. Just…standing here. Occasionally I’ll strode from one end to the other, stroking my chin thoughtfully. If I look interested, maybe they will help me. I stare at the screens for a few moments, taking in the deepest blacks, the crispest blues. Oceans so vivid, I feel like at any moment the foam will come rushing past my feet, drowning my ankles. Trees so life-like I find myself squinting sometimes when the sun comes peeking through the shivering leaves. Yep, this is what I have been waiting for. This is what I’ve wanted for the longest time. So, why are they ignoring me?

I’ve been denying myself all these years. Telling myself I couldn’t afford it. Convincing myself that with the situation as it was, it would be foolish of me to indulge. So I sat in frustrated silence, staring every night at that inferior 25 inch screen. It’s not that bad, is it? 25 inches is plenty, right?

HD? High Definition? What’s that? You don’t know? It’s welcome to the 21st century, Edison. Archie Bunker called. He wants his television back. Get with it, friend. Everybody’s got one. Randy’s got one 60 inches big. Jealous? Yes. Thou shalt not covet your neighbor’s…oh, but I want it. If his TV were a woman, it would have double D’s with tight denim shorts and the overwhelming desire to invite me up for coffee. I weep each time I walk into his house. Yeah, yeah. He’s got the great wife, the beautiful kid, a nice home. But I could care less about that. It’s that f*cking TV that I long for. And dammit, now’s the time…or so I thought.

Checking my watch again. The night is getting long. Today is Monday. If I buy the TV tonight, I will have it by Sunday. Me, hot pizza, cold beer and the Colts versus the Patriots on my brand new high def, 46 inch beauty. Now, if I can only get someone to help me.

They pass by me, one by one, all dressed in blue and khaki. I know they see me. I’m the only guy in the section. Yet, they zip right by like disgruntled cab drivers who have no intention on taking my black ass to Harlem. Don’t get me wrong. This wasn’t a black thing. I was being dissed by sales people of every color. As long as they were wearing the blue and khaki, I was just like Ellison’s invisible man.

“Why don’t you stop one of them?” you say. “Ask them to help you.” Hell no. Thing is, if someone is going to give you between two to three thousand dollars, they shouldn’t have to beg you to take their money. It doesn’t work that way. Not for me anyway. So, realizing that they weren’t that eager to bend over backwards or forwards or even look at me, I decided to hit the bricks and find a more amiable establishment.

A minute after walking through the doors of Circuit City and sauntering over to their big screen mecca, a guy named Clarence walks up. First thing, he shakes my hand. I like that. He knows this is business we’re talking. I mean, this isn’t Michael Corleone trying to take over a few casinos in Vegas kind of business, but it is business nonetheless. When you walk up and announce yourself and shake my hand, it’s a sign of respect. You’re telling me that even if I’m not here to buy anything, you’re here to serve. It especially means something when you know that the guy isn’t getting any commission. He’s just doing his job. It’s easier for some than others, I guess.

Clarence tells me about the 46 inchers, the ones I have my eye on. He shows me Sony and Samsung and then intimates that Samsung is just as good. With the extra money on Sony, all I’m paying more for is the name. Noted, Clarence. He then explains all the technical stuff to look for. And when I screwed my face with bewilderment, he asked me if I understood. If I said no, he took time to break it down for me. Another gold star for Clarence. I almost wished he were getting a commission. I almost wanted to leave the man a tip.

Finally, Clarence tells me that Circuit City will match any low price I may encounter at other stores for the same television. Great! But what sold me was when Clarence told me to wait until Black Friday (the day after Thanksgiving) to purchase my television. The price was bound to drop by then. What?? Doesn’t Clarence know that he should be nothing more than a used car salesman who sells televisions. He’s supposed to be shoving that 46 inch down my throat (that’s what she said). But no. He told me to wait. He told me how I could save my money. Damn, Clarence. You need a raise.

So, Best Buy…nevermore, my former friend. I will buy from you nevermore. From the little electronic knickknack to the montrous television that will keep me locked inside for entire weekends, my cash is going elsewhere. I’m Circuit City’s bitch now. Televisions, stereo equipment, game consoles. Whatever. I’ll go to Circuit City first and if I am not satisfied, I will go somewhere else. But I’m not handing you my hard-earned money again. Not that you care…but you should.

“Big mistake. Big. Huge! I have to go shopping now!”

Due to the fact that I have been bouncing around a lot these last couple of months, I haven’t had a real chance to sit down and add more tunes to the station. However, I spent a few hours today doing just that. Check out the main page to see all of the new albums and tracks I am adding this week. Hopefully, there will be plenty more added by the end of next weekend.

Two standouts to the wealth of material added this week:
A live version of “Someone To Watch Over Me” by Andy Bey. Simply superb!

And a few tracks from an album done by Sonny Stitt back in the ’70s - Endgame Brilliance: Constellation & Tune-Up. Over and over again, Stitt proves to me that no one comes as close to the brilliance of Charlie Parker on alto as Stitt does. The man was not only technically profound, but he was prolific as well.

Enjoy all the new tunes and enjoy this crisp weather. Romance is in the air. Feels good!