Go Bucks, Part III

I’ve know I’ve told you this before, but I’m going to say it again:  I grew up in a house where Woody Hayes was God, and football Saturdays were sacred.  I am old enough that I was actually sitting in front of the television at my cousin’s house when Woody threw the punch heard round the world.  The rest of that day was like a funeral – I was seven years old and I remember this like it was yesterday – because everyone knew that Woody would not recover from what he had done. 

But Buckeyes are Buckeyes forever, and there was never a question of Woody’s place.  This could not have been more clear than in 1983, when Hayes dotted the “i” in script Ohio, to a thunderous ovation.   Or in 1986, just a year before his death, when Hayes gave the commencement address to graduates in Ohio stadium, where he said, “When you get knocked down, which is plenty often, get right up in a hurry, just as quick as you can. Do you know what to do then? You probably need more strength. Do you know where you get it? You get it in the huddle. You get it by going back and getting a new play and running that same play together with your teammates. That ‘together’ is the thing that gives you the buildup to get ready to go again.”

Buckeyes are Buckeyes forever.  Jim Tressel found that out today, as he was hoisted onto the shoulders of his 2002 National Championship team, and the Buckeye faithful gave him a sincere and sustained cheer of appreciation, even as the team on the field was living the consequence of his mistake, in a perfect season that couldn’t continue. 

Woody Hayes said, “Anything easy ain’t worth a damn.”  This year’s graduating senior class learned that the hard way.  When they entered Ohio State, it was to play for a proven program, under a proven coach – the one who had come to their homes, and promised their parents that their boys would get the kind of care on and off of the field that their parents wanted for them.  And these boys were failed.  In their careers, they suffered the disgrace of their coach, the loss of their talented quarterback, suspensions, a year of disappointment under a courageous, but thoroughly overmatched Luke Fickell, the Bauserman era, and another coaching change, this time for a guy who started them off with punishing 5 am practices in the dead of winter.  And these guys stuck with it, and believed in the legacy that Woody Hayes built – something that Urban Meyer learned under Woody protégé Earle Bruce – that, in the words of Woody Hayes, “It does not matter the size of the man, rather the effort the man is willing to put forth.” 

So, to this year’s senior class, you are the men Woody Hayes was describing, and your legacy will live forever.  In the words of Carmen Ohio, “The seasons pass, the years will roll….”  But the friendship of Buckeye Nation will be with you forever.  Go Bucks.

CWK FAQ

I’ve been writing this blog for a while, and while I generally like to treat it like a fight club (the first rule of this blog is you do not talk about this blog), I feel like it’s been long enough that I can address some frequently asked questions. So, here you go. FAQs, Cats with Knives style.


Q: Why is your blog called Cats with Knives?
A: True story: I wanted to name the blog Killer Baby Robots. But then I realized that there are probably freaks out there who are actually either trying to buy or make killer baby robots, and I didn’t want to be any part of that. So I settled on Cats with Knives. A cat will convince you that it’s sweet and cuddly, but you know that it would love to cut you people like the bitches you are, steal your wallet, and snack on your entrails.

Q: Why are you always making fun of Delaware?
A: Dela where?

Q: Why won’t you confess to writing this blog? We know it’s you.
A: I know you know it’s me. But, much like the Ku Klux Klan, even though we all know who’s under the white sheets, we still wear them because it’s not about the individual racists; it’s about racism as an institution. This blog is not about me. I write the blog as a character, who sometimes shares my thoughts and sometimes doesn’t, but I don’t want to have to explain what part is me and what part isn’t me.

Q: Why are you so obsessed with zombies and nachos?
A: Like you’re not?

Q: Does your dad really wear pajama pants and carry a gun? And does your mom really smoke that much?
A: That, and so much more, guys. You have no idea.

Q: Did you pass the bar exam? Because you haven’t said anything about that, and that’s usually not a good sign.
A: Yes.

Q: What is your most popular post?
A: It’s called My Big Fat Welfare Check, and somehow it got indexed on Google, so when people type in “average welfare check,” this post comes up. Often, it inspires strangers to put angry comments in the comment field, which then requires me to put a super snarky response back to them. You will never convince me I’m wrong about this one, angry comment posters.

Q: Were you secretly talking about me in that one post about that thing?
A: Probably not.

Q: What makes you angrier: bad grammar, comment posters on USAToday.com, or people misquoting historical figures?
A: Usually, they are all together. I just don’t understand how these fuckers have all day to write comments on USAToday.com, but they don’t have the time to learn the difference between your and you’re.

Q: What’s your favorite post?
A: Broad and High. This is the only post where I said exactly what I wanted to say in exactly the way I wanted to say it. And I really, really love these four corners in downtown Columbus.

Q: Did you know that I send your blog to my mom?
A: I did not know that. But thank you. Your mom sounds cool. You should also send it to your friends. I bet they’re cool, too.

And, for a final note, thanks for reading. We’re approaching 20,000 views, which would make me feel important, except that everything else on the internet has, like, a million views. But in any event, I appreciate the support that so many of you have given me over the past couple of years.

Horrible!

Fact: I don’t believe in being horrible at things. That’s a big cop-out, as far as I’m concerned. I believe in tackling the horrible out of everything until horrible is lying in submission, and I’m sitting on its chest, repeatedly punching it in the face. In that spirit, here’s a list of horribleness that I would like to admonish:


To the man who insists on grunting and moaning on the treadmill at the gym like you are the only person there: you are a horrible treadmiller.

To the dogs who heave themselves against the window and bark relentlessly at the African-American postal employee: you are horrible, racist dogs.

To Cousin Oliver: you are a horrible Brady.

To Starbucks: you are horrible at making lids and cups that go together without leaking. Why is it that you’re still horrible at this?

To any parent who feels the need to discuss what an asshole his or her spouse is in front of your children, not only do you have a horrible marriage, but you are a horrible parent. You can fix that, you know.

To the woman who was my server at Marcella’s on November 6, 2012: you are a horrible server!

To Helen Hunt, and I’m sorry if this is the first time you’re hearing this, you are a horrible, wooden, stern-faced actress.

As Good As It Gets is also a horrible, ridiculously sexist movie. Helen Hunt won an Oscar for it? Horrible!

To slugs: you are horrible gastropod mollusks. Get a shell!

To the people who claim that Thomas Jefferson said the following, “The democracy will cease to exist when you take away from those who are willing to work and give to those who would not:” you are horrible fact-checkers. Do you not understand how Google works?

To the people who say “fall” instead of “autumn:” you are horrible at using beautiful words.

To Lorena Garcia: you are horrible at making food for Taco Bell.

To every weatherperson who thinks that you are going to win a Peabody by standing in water in the middle of a hurricane: you are horrible at your job. We totally would have gotten that it’s raining where you are without you showing us that you’re getting abused by weather. I AM TALKING TO YOU, JIM CANTORE!

To green beans: you are a horrible food. Ugh!

To John Kasich: you are horrible at predicting how the state of Ohio will go in an election.

It Will Be Okay

I feel like I should write something pithy and political, since we’re about to elect our next President.  On the other hand, I feel like I would be speaking to an empty room.  Many of us have already voted.  Most who haven’t had their minds made up long ago.  Some lazy fuckers aren’t voting at all.  Those who are undecided are hopeless.  If you haven’t gotten enough information to decide by now, God bless ya, you indecisive little pop tart. 

This all leaves, however, the looming spectre of dissatisfaction and loss that’s going to settle over about half of the people, come Tuesday night. And while I hope and hope that it’s not the Barack H. Obama side that is dissatisfied, I’m trying to steel myself to the possibility that I could be one of the disappointed ones.  And trying to figure out how I’m going to manage a world with President Romney.  Even if this election goes as I hope it will, I will still have friends and neighbors who are deeply disappointed, and I’ve been trying to figure out how to navigate these tender times.  Democracy is weird – it’s a dirty game, but once a winner’s been called, we all make the decision to live with it.  It’s a surprising bit of civility after a cagefight. 

But I think I have a solution to all of this angst, courtesy of my favorite ex-President, Bill Clinton, spoken to my favorite tiny human, Jon Stewart.  When Clinton was on the Daily Show, he posed the idea that, instead of looking for happiness in our daily lives, we should all seek joy instead.

What’s the difference between happiness and joy?  Well, according to the internet, happiness comes from the Hebrew word ashar, and means, “to set right or be blessed.”  Joy comes from the Greek word chara, and means, “To be exceedingly glad.”  Happiness tends to be momentary and replaceable, while joy, although not as dramatic, is more constant and internal.  Don’t get me wrong, happiness is great.  But with joy, there’s a deep sense that “this, too, shall pass,” even in the shittiest of circumstances.

When I see crap out there like the Real Housewives and Jersey Shore, and even a number of people I know in my real life, I am so flabbergasted by the single-minded quest for happiness that people have, and how unsatisfying it must be to acquire so many things, and so many empty relationships, but to be so transparently unhappy.  And I wonder, if we all just shut up for a minute, and started thinking about who we are, rather than what we want, if this wouldn’t start to instantly make things better.  I mean, if we deeply questioned ourselves, asking, “What do I know?  What do I not know?  What do I believe?  Why do I believe that?  How can I do good?  Am I doing good?” we might actually come up with some answers that help us find peace. 

I think this is complicated, and I suspect that joy is a life-long practice, like golf, or religion, but I definitely know that we all have an opportunity to practice it on Tuesday night.  If you’re on the winning side, resist your urge to go scream, “In your face, motherfucker!” to your asshole neighbor with the twenty million signs in his yard, and instead, think about how you can help your friends who are just as scared and grieving as you would be if you were on the losing side.  And if your side loses, take comfort in the fact that you’re not alone, and that our greatest power comes from who we are as people, not necessarily who sits in the White House.  Okay?  Okay.