Shame, Blame, and a New Name for the Washington Redskins

Washington Redskins owner Daniel Snyder continues to fend off pressure to abandon his franchise’s 81-year-old nickname. It’s a complicated and thorny issue, involving a long-dead racist owner, the First Amendment, shameful ethnic policies and attitudes, tradition, fan loyalty, and lots of money.

George Preston Marshall, who bought the fledgling Boston Braves in 1932 and changed its moniker to the Redskins, most likely was, according to Thomas G. Smith’s Showdown: JFK and the Integration of the Washington Redskins, the prime mover behind banning blacks from the NFL, a blight that commenced that same year. Whether he was or wasn’t, what cannot be disputed is the bewildering fact that Marshall’s franchise did not integrate until an ungodly-late 1962, essentially making him the NFL’s version of Tom Yawkey. And much like Yawkey’s long-vanilla Boston Red Sox, Marshall’s Redskins deservedly went a quarter-century between playoff appearances after World War II. (Interestingly, the Redskins of Boston played their four years in Fenway Park, making Marshall and Yawkey partners in slime, before Marshall relocated the franchise to the nation’s capital in 1937.)

There’s a lot more to Marshall’s sordid story, and although he always claimed the Redskins name was intended to honor America’s Indian culture, any man with Marshall’s track record on race relations is not to be believed.

Various attempts to make Redskins ownership change the franchise’s name have been initiated—some of them predating Daniel Snyder’s taking of the helm—but the fallback positions have always boiled down to either the extreme longevity of the name or a refusal to cave to political correctness. Advocates on opposing sides of the issue can cite polls that show ample support for either retaining or jettisoning the Redskins name.

From a legal standpoint, I don’t know what the answer is; from a moral standpoint, I’m in favor of changing any name that explicitly focuses on the color of one’s skin—especially in the capital of a nation that ostensibly stands for freedom and equality.

Of course, let’s not forget that this same capital did not deign to grant unconditional citizenship to American Indians until 1924...

Daniel Snyder is probably none of the things that George Marshall was, and his refusal to re-christen his franchise surely is not intended as a slap in the face to Native Americans. Yet he’s faced with an uphill battle to moral ground, and history won’t have his back.

My solution to this quandary is to rename the Washington Redskins the Washington Rosaceas. This, I strongly believe, would satisfy both sides—the offended party no longer endures a disparaging slur, while Washington ownership maintains the ethos of red skin while freeing itself of racist baggage.

And it keeps an “R” name, to boot.

If this then offends rosacea sufferers, well, there’s never been a solution that pleased everyone…

A Coupe Fit for a Pope—The Cordoba Could've Been a Holy Roller

What if the 1975 Chrysler Cordoba had seats made not from soft Corinthian leather, but from soft Corinthian letters—as in Paul’s letter to the Corinthians? Imagine driving in the plush comfort of parchmented scripture as you get to your destination in style and a state of grace...

I’m surprised Paul VI—the first pope to make formal appearances in a motor vehicle—failed to deem this his “Popemobile.” The 1975 Cordoba certainly was roomy enough to accommodate not only His Holiness, but a trio of his favorite cardinals as well. And with a three-speed, automatic, V8 engine, the Most Holy Father would rest assured that he’d get to his destination with all expedience. Paul VI could even have issued a papal bull re-designating his vehicle as a Chrystler Cordoba...perhaps also decreeing that something from First Corinthians become the brand motto...

Ricardo Montalbán: “The new 1975 Chrystler Cordoba—All things to all men (1 Corinthians 9:22).”

Happy Days and The Godfather Aren't Apollonias and Oranges

Although Happy Days' original theme song was Bill Haley and His Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock,” the producers eventually commissioned for Season 3 a new theme—yielding the Pratt & McClain “Sunday, Monday, Happy Days” theme that we all know.

Keeping that in mind, let’s take a step back and consider for a moment that Happy Days premiered in the wake of The Godfather—and while the eagerly awaited Godfather II was being filmed.

Now, I’m not saying that Happy Days was a shameless prime-time knock-off of The Godfather, but I am saying that undeniable similarities exist between the Cunninghams and the Corleones: Howard (“Mr. C”) heads his family with the protectiveness, if not brute vigilance, of Don Vito. Marion, like Mama Corleone, is the loyal wife, mother, and cook.

And although The Fonz—lending ethnic provenance as “Arthur Fonzarelli”—Potsie, and Ralph Malph are not blood members of the Cunningham family, for all intents and purposes within the parameters of the show, they, along with Richie, serve as the four brothers. The hotheaded, impulsive, womanizing Fonzie is a dead ringer for Sonny; dim-witted Potsie aptly reflects Fredo; brainy Ralph Malph wouldn’t be far removed from Tom Hagen had the all-business consigliere possessed a sense of humor (or at least a pair of springy-eyeball glasses); and the shrewd, All-American Richie, of course, fills the role of war-hero Michael.

Joanie rounds out the family similarly to Connie Corleone, even marrying The Fonz’s cousin, Chachi—as Connie wed Carlo, who, similar to Chachi, was introduced to his future bride through Fonzie’s cinematic “progenitor,” Sonny.

Furthermore, could Arnold and Al be more brazen clones of Tessio and Clemenza? Savvy restaurateur Arnold, like Tessio, clearly is the smarter of the two, whereas Al displays Clemenza’s girth and love of food.

Extending beyond the family, Richie Cunningham’s history with women closely mimics that of Michael Corleone: Although a violent end is not implied, Richie’s first girlfriend, Gloria, passes quickly through his life, appearing in five early episodes before departing—somewhat akin to Michael’s brief, star-crossed marriage to Apollonia Vitelli. Later, Richie weds Lori Beth, who, in her prim-and-proper WASPiness, echoes Michael’s second wife, Kay Adams and, like Kay, knows nothing of Richie’s former life with Gloria.

And perhaps the producers threw in for good measure that—even though they’re not analogous characters—Potsie, like Johnny Fontane, made his bones with a microphone.

Finally, eldest son Chuck Cunningham isn’t exactly a replica of the traitorous Paulie Gatto, but it’s no stretch to believe that the mysteriously vanished Chuck ended up slumped over a steering wheel somewhere in the marshes of Milwaukee. (After all, orange—the color of Richie’s hair—is the Italian symbol of death, and Chuck went missing not long after being in the presence of his younger brother’s hair...)

Hell, the trisyllabic Cunningham even sounds something like an Anglicized version of Corleone…

With this less-than-coincidental—and very lucrative—family model in place, Executive Producer Garry Marshall should have further capitalized on the Godfather films’ popularity through the show’s new theme song, especially because The Godfather II was largely set, like Happy Days, in the nostalgia-filled 1950s. This could best have been accomplished by having Truett Platt or Jerry McClain—whichever is performing the lead vocal in “Happy Days”—sing the lyric as how Michael’s new Sicilian bride, Apollonia, recited the days of the week in The Godfather. Or better yet—hire Simonetta Stefanelli, herself, to sing the theme in her adorably fractured English...

Mon-day, Tues-day, Happy Days
Thurs-day, Wednes-day, Happy Days
Fri-day, Sun-day, Sa-tur-day, Happy Days
The car explodes
That’s the way it goes
Fabrizio meant it for you!

(Images of The Godfather copyright Paramount Pictures; images of Happy Days copyright ABC.)

Might As Well Jump...For Your Country

I was thinking that the official division march for the 82nd Airborne should be Van Halen's "Jump." I mean, what better song to inspire and encapsulate the proud history of the U.S. Army's initial airborne division? Let's face it: the division's current march, "The All-American Soldier," hardly does justice to these paratroopers' specialized training.

And, the 82nd being the "All-American Division," their uniforms should match that of David Lee Roth. As you can see, like Roth, they'd be donning "All-American" colors, thus paying proper homage to divisional tradition. This design would even make for ideal shoulder insignia to replace that rather obvious and mundane "AA" patch they've been wearing since World War II.

Not to mention, an even smaller version of little David Lee would double as perfect jump wings.

 

And if I can't get the 82nd to bite, then I can always suggest an insignia of Don Henley in mid-shriek for the 101st Airborne Screaming Eagles...

3600...3599...3598...

Certainly, the most enjoyable moment of New Year’s Eve is the countdown from 11:59:50 to midnight—ten seconds of anticipation and suspense as we cork our emotions and then let them burst forth in unchecked celebration. In those ten seconds, all of our pent-up frustrations of the past year dissolve into alcoholic ecstasy of the New Year’s promise. We revel in the ten-second countdown—both roomfuls of friends and millions of anonymous people simultaneously playing out the exact same ritual—but like most festive occurrences, the moment ends all too quickly.

That’s why, every New Year’s Eve, I take a page from the master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, and draw out the moment of anticipation by starting my countdown not from the final ten seconds, but from the final hour. There is nothing like beginning the New Year’s countdown at 3600 and living out the mounting drama three thousand six hundred times. Sure, I’ve received angry stares, many a Shut the fuck up!, and celebrated one or two midnights on the street after being told to leave, but commencing the moment of joyous abandon while everyone else is still making small talk about property taxes and sinus problems makes such awkwardness well worth it. Like how the great Hitchcock let his audience in on the secret and stretched nail-biting suspense across the next hour of Rope, I’ll be starting my countdown to Happy New Year! at 11:00 sharp. Care to join me?

Now let's all sing in our best Alfred Hitchcock voice:



Good evening...
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind…

Why not a drinking reality show?

They've done just about everything else. I propose Leaving Las Vegas: The Reality Show.

Host: "Jim-Bob, you've been voted off; please leave Las Vegas."

Jim-Bob: *stumbles* "Fuck you!" *breaks bottle in half and chases
host*

Idea for an Invention

TV remotes are boring. They just sit there on the coffee table or between the seat cushions doing nothing to spruce up the room. They have these little annoying buttons too. And they're always getting lost.

Instead of a remote control, wouldn't you rather control your TV using a big, wooden captain's wheel from an old wooden ship? Just set it up in your living room with an infrared sensor tuned to the TV, and when you want to change the channel, you take the wheel. Spin it to the left and the channels go down; to the right, they go up. The faster you spin it, the faster the channels change... like the iPod click wheel.

A Super Idea

You hear it every season. Does the NFL want certain teams to win and instruct its referees to favor the desired franchise? Troy Polamalu’s overturned interception in last season's AFC divisional playoff game. A very late false-start flag on the Eagles' Scott Young in last week’s NFC divisional playoff. The "facemask" penalty on Bronco Nagurski in the 1934 NFL Championship game, which predated the invention of the face-masked helmet by nearly twenty years.

Perhaps league preference is merely fan paranoia. But if it isn’t and the NFL really does pull the strings, then I urge Commissioner Roger Goodell to finagle a New Orleans–New England Super Bowl.

Why?

Because nothing in the history of professional sports would lend cause to party like a Saints-Pats showdown.

Saint Pats

Should that match-up come to fruition this weekend, Goodell must postpone the big game until March 17. Sure, this would be a dangerously unpopular move and hand everyone a ridiculous six-week wait that would drain every last drop of anticipation and excitement from the event. But the payoff! A Saints-Pats Super Bowl on St. Pat’s Day. Drinking on a scale never before seen. Excessively intoxicated fans everywhere—many of them female and eager to relieve themselves of clothing. New Year’s Eve 1999 in Times Square would be a Women's Christian Temperance Union meeting held on a Sunday in Pennsylvania during Prohibition by comparison.

And when better to celebrate a Super Bowl featuring superlative Irish players named Brady and McAllister than on St. Patrick’s Day?

Commissioner Goodell would do well to take a page from Pete Rozelle, the visionary progressive who brought the National Football League to national television, negotiated the NFL-AFL merger, and ensured that O.J. Simpson would not kill anyone in the stadium by enacting a harsh loss-of-down penalty for homicide.

Let’s hope that Commissioner Goodell has the good sense and the gumption to see this through—and we’ll all share the record for the longest bomb in Super Bowl history.

Erin Go Brees!

Erin Go Brady!

So Cool Your TV Will Melt

Idea for a Science-Fictiony-Type "Show":

Us are the heroes.

These Guys are bad and are always fighting with Us.

These Other Guys are badder than These Guys and will sometimes fight with These Guys or they may just fight with Us. Sometimes These Guys and Us will team up even though they hate each other and fight These Other Guys.

Anyway, the Show will be about what happens when Us finds out that These Guys are builiding an Huge Bomb Thing. What the Huge Bomb Thing does is when it's dropped, it goes BOOOOOSH! That's all that currently known about it.

Both These Other Guys and Us have interest in the Huge Bomb Thing. Us wants to destroy it. These Other Guys want it for their own evil purposes: To get Us and These Guys together and drop it on them.

This Show should be done in Cartoons. This is key. And These Other Guys look like huge blocky robots and they talk in roboty voices... like this:

(robot voice)
Hello. I'm a robot.

Us look like muscley humans and talk normal. These Guys look like giant monkeys with uniforms. These Guys communicate with brain waves, so you hear them talking but their mouths don't move. Maybe their eyebrows move a little so you know which one is talking.

And when the music is playing in the beginning of the Show there should be a huge pile of melting TVs.