The Unchosen

Today I, like 927 other aspiring poets, received a "Dear Poet" letter from BOA Editions in regards to their A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize. (Okay, we probably didn't all receive it today.) Actually, it isn't even a letter; it's a copy of the press release announcing the winner, Janice N. Harrington's From the Shadows' Darkness. Also announced were three runners-up, none of which was mine, nor any belonging to my friends.

I have no beef. It's hard to be upset about landing somewhere between #5 and #928 in the final rankings; enough is left to the imagination to make hope salvageable. But the Poulin Prize is a first-book contest, which means that at least 927 first-book manuscripts are drifting around the country, looking for a publisher. One of them is mine. The odds are hard to fathom. One would like to think that such competition means that only truly excellent books will be published, but I've read enough first books to question that logic. I hope Harrington's book is good, but I wouldn't bet on it.

I wonder, too, about the quality of those 928 manuscripts. Who's writing them? How many come from accomplished poets? How many are MFA theses? How many are by self-deluded poetasters in misguided emulation of Rod McEuen? Can 927 poets write between them ten good poems? It's hard not to wonder.

Still, I'm sure my manuscript was fifth or sixth, right?

Cheers.

Recognizing the Obelisk

This from Terry Eagleton's After Theory:

"[A]llowing sensitive, politically idealistic young people to gather together for several years on end remains an imprudent policy. There is always a risk that education may put you at odds with the tasteless, clueless philistines who run the world and whose lexicon stretches only to words like oil, golf, power, and cheeseburger. It may make you less sanguine about entrusting the governance of the globe to men who have never been excited by an idea, moved by a landscape, or enthralled by the transcendent elegance of a mathematical solution. You may develop grave doubts about those who have the nerve to speak of defending civilization and would not recognize an obelisk or an oboe concerto if it were to slap them in the face. These are the men and women who prate of freedom and would recognize it only in the form of a hand-out" (26).

Discuss.

The Shootist

It's hard not to be utterly engrossed by the recent story of Dick Cheney shooting his quail-hunting partner in Texas over the weekend. The obvious story is the cover-up, the possible scandal (after scandal after scandal) of who knew what when and just why the story took so long to surface.

But I think there's more. The story is stirring because it is believable, just believable, that Dick Cheney would shoot a man. Cheney is the sort of character who, in the movie version, would invite an old friend on a hunting trip in order to eliminate him in a "hunting accident." The actual accident gets us just a little too close to the simmering brutality that we all always sense as we look at him.

Divide and Conquer

After months of tenuous negotiations here at DBE World Headquarters, an agreement has been reached to spin off this blog's obsessive blathering about football to the good folks over at blackygold.blogspot.com.

What does this mean for you, the consumer? Precisely this: if you want to waste your time reading about football, go there. If you want to waste your time reading about other things (like poetry, Dick Cheney's kill percentage, and the Westminster Dog Show) come here.

Cheers.

There We Went

"Here we go, Steelers," is the favorite chant of the team's fans, a chant I'm sure rang through the streets of Detroit all last week. I said it once or twice, too, to my wife and dog, though neither seemed terribly interested. The wife adopted the Steelers as her team once they booted her beloved Peyton Manning from the playoffs, and she supported my here-we-going, but I suspect her allegiance was primarily a cagey attempt to keep my head from exploding on Sunday.

My head nearly exploded on Sunday, anyway, when the recently-potent Steelers offense managed nary a first down in its early drives. Ben Roethlisberger, despite his seeming calm leading up to the game, was obviously freaked out. The Seahawks offense was having more success (is anything in football less exciting than the West Coast offense? It's football's version of the 3-man weave), and it seemed only a matter of time before frustration set in for the Black and Gold. 7-3 Steelers at halftime, the touchdown coming on a run by Roethlisberger that we would later admit to doubting was a touchdown.

I did note, however, that the Steelers' play improved when I stopped sitting on the couch and instead stood in front of the TV, pacing into our little hallway when things got tough. I stayed standing for the rest of the game, and that adjustment was, I believe, the key to Steeler victory.

My head nearly exploded again--for a different reason--when Willie Parker broke the second play of the second half for a touchdown. I jumped up and down screaming. My antics made the dog hyper, and we watched the rest of the second half with a chew toy in one hand. Shortly after Parker's run, ABC showed video of Jerome Bettis, the venerable back who at night's end would announce a triumphant retirement, coaching the younger back: don't try to outrun the defensive back to the corner, Bettis told him. Get him going outside, and then cut it back. On his touchdown run, Parker left safety Michael Boulware ankle-deep in FieldTurf as he followed the Bus's advice to the end zone.

So, they did it. It was a win that highlighted the quality personnel on the team: the great passion they had for one another, the willingness to pull together and dedicate themselves to those closest to them. Sport at its best, no? I must admit to getting misty-eyed several times Sunday night, first at game's end, watching Bettis hoist the trophy, then again as footage of the players' interviews was played and replayed into the night. My heart swelled.

And so did the hearts of the 250,000 people who clogged the easily-cloggable streets of downtown Pittsburgh yesterday. The sourest skeptic should need no more proof of what that team means to that city.

And I will entertain no whining about the officiating in the game. Tough calls are a part of the narrative of every game. They are among the challenges that each team faces. So suck it up, Seahawks.

Cheers.

Pre-Game Jitters

So the Super Bowl starts in a little under 4 hours. Earlier this week, the wife wondered aloud why I wasn't having more fun as the game drew near: I seemed serious, anxious, as though my job or a large wager rode on the outcome of the game. Nothing rides on the outcome for me, of course, except the momentary disappointment or exhilaration that is the only reward of any faithful fan. So I'm trying to regain some perspective, to remember how little Monday (and every day after) will change according to the final score today.

But the Steelers are easy to like, not just as a team but also as individuals. I'm fond of them. I want to see Bettis get his ring. I want to see Roethlisberger make good on his promise to Bettis. The Seahawks are difficult to dislike, but easy to forget. How would history be served by their victory? The Steelers have the story on their side; their narrative is better. They should win. And that's what makes it so tough.

Like any loyal fan, I am holding myself responsible for the outcome. I have gotten the Steelers this far by betting against them. I didn't think they could win two games in Cincinnati, and I certainly didn't think they would win in Indy. When they headed to Denver, I thought, "Well, it has been a nice run, but now it's over." Each week I resigned myself to a Steelers' loss; I was just happy to see them playing. But I can't sustain my (lack of) expectations. I feel as though they could win. And that makes me nervous.

Here's the thing: the Steelers have played in a superior conference against superior competition. While the Steelers played two games against both the Browns and the Ravens (and lost to Baltimore once), the Seahawks padded their record with two games against the Rams, Cardinals, and 49ers, three truly lousy teams. The trend continued in the playoffs: while the Steelers beat three of the league's best, the Seahawks beat a strong Carolina team after dispatching a Washington team that wouldn't have made the playoffs but for some miserable play down the stretch by other teams. The Steelers' defense is excellent, as is their offensive line. Roethlisberger is hot, and everyone is confident.

But I only need to look back to last year to remember why that confidence might be cause for concern. The Seahawks are an unknown quantity, which makes them dangerous, I think: it's hard to know what you'll get from them. Their O-line is among the best in the league (though perhaps unused to the 3-4 alignment and certainly unused to LeBeau's blitz schemes). Their defense led the league in sacks, a feat accomplished largely without blitzing. And, of course, Shawn Alexander was the league MVP this year, no small feat regardless of the competition. The Steelers have given up yards against running backs like Rudi Johnson this year, and they key to stopping the run has often been the offense: once the Steelers are ahead, opposing offenses stop running the ball.

So the game is a tough call, and not just because of the Xs and Os. But here are my thoughts: the Steelers will come out running the ball if the Seahawks don't blitz, running draws and screens to slow down the Seattle front four. They will try to slow the game down, keep the defense on the field, tire them out. They will try to confuse the Seahawks' linebackers, who are young. The Seahawks will try to chew up the Steelers with Shawn Alexander, to discourage the defense and put them on their heels. Polamalu and the middle linebackers (Foote and Farrior) will need to play well and with intelligence and patience, as Alexander is a shifty cutback runner. Expect the Steelers to try to punish Alexander, too, much the way that the Patriots's secondary did against the Rams' receivers a few years ago.

Ben must stay calm. Hasselbeck must get confused.

The beauty of sport is that anxiety and speculation must give way energy and action. And maybe that's why I haven't been having more fun: no energy for me, no action. My pick? Steelers, 27-10.

(If the Steelers lose, tell them I'm sorry.)

Cheers.

Saints and Sinners

David Baker, the editor at Kenyon Review, has divorced Zoo Press, for whom he judged the Kenyon Review Prize for a First Book. The open letter describing the end of the affair can be found here: http://www.kenyonreview.org/news/krppletter.php

The upshot, though, is that Neil Azevedo, editor at Zoo, is a dirty skunk. A mangy skunk with patchy hair. And he stinks worse than a regular skunk. A mangy skunk who fell into a sulfur mine. In 2005 the press introduced another book prize, this one under the Nebraska Review heading. Editors at NR (Azevedo is one) were the judges. I, like hundreds of other young(ish) poets around the country, submitted to both prizes last year, and it appears now that Azevedo is in the wind (as they would say on NYPD Blue). Certainly, I'm not trying to say that Assholevedo is smoking cigars on the Riviera with the contest money ($25 for each contest), but I am saying that the man is a gutless worm. (And a skunk (see above).) I'd rather send my money to a crooked contest, one that uses its prize to reward alumni of its MFA program, than send it into a black hole like this one.

A bit of good, though, too: Cheryl Strayed, old friend of DBE, has just published Torch, her first novel, which I expect will be made into a movie, and which I expect will make her a star. (Though she's already rather a star.) Go to Amazon and buy it.
Now.

Cheers.