I'm probably doing myself a disservice here, because I plan on using one of this band's songs on Concept Two: In Which Elton John Becomes a Man and Sheds the Snakeskin of his Youth and Leaves it to Rot By the Side of a Creek, but here you go anyway: The Department of Eagles, as recommended to me by "The Voz", or "The Wizard of Voz", or "Vozhalla", or "Hollywood and Voz", or "The Boys of Voztober", or "The Vozby Show", or "A Lost Voz", or "His Vozerino", if you're not into that whole brevity thing.
A couple of people have sent me this link and, since I'm allergic to peanuts, I ascertain they either want to inform me of this disturbing incident and caution me against warming to lovers with peanut breath or, as I suspect is more accurately the case, wish to remind me that I am abnormal and weak and vulnerable and, further, that this fact is funny to them.
Finally, did anybody else watch yesterday's game between the Giants and Seahawks? Holy moly. For those who didn't watch the game, this is all you need to know: at the end of regulation and twice in overtime, the Giants' placekicker, Jay Feely, missed what would have been game winning field goals. That's three chances to win the game, and three duffs. The Seahawks went on to win the game.
Now, I'm not a professional athlete, but I am aware of the challenges and difficulties of succeeding in professional sports. I understand that they are astronomical. Of all of the motley crue of highly-paid athletes (at least in America), placekickers may have it the easiest of all. Millions dollars are given to you, every year, if you do one thing: kick a football through two posts.
You don't have to run with the ball, you don't have to pass it, you don't have to tackle the guy with the ball, you don't have to shoot it, dribble it, catch it, hit it, pass it, slap it, or outrun it. You just have to kick it. Forward. A distance of roughly 50 yards. Through two metal posts.
Every day of your life, what do you do? You practice kicking a ball far, and through posts. You train, you develop muscles in your legs. You eat well, you stay limber, you don't ride motorcycles or go bungy-jumping. You marry a beautiful woman, have three little kids. But damn it all, you don't lose focus. You kick, kick, kick. You fucking kick. You kick every fucking day of your life. Because a) you want to keep making millions of dollars a year fucking kicking a ball and b) you don't want to be the asshole that misses three consecutive, potentially game-winning field goals.
I could go on like this for some time, which would be annoying, so I'll just stop while I'm ahead.
But I mean. Seriously. ALL HE HAS TO DO IS KICK A BALL THROUGH A COUPLE OF POSTS. I'm sure that if I practiced enough I could get pretty good at it. Not amazing but consistent, at least, and certainly consistent in the 40 and under range.