Sunday, February 2, 2014

Superbowl XLVIII - 21-word short story - Poem: Superbowl XLVIII

Oh no! Philip Seymour Hoffman will not be watching the Superbowl. He's dead! He died of a heroin overdose. The syringe was in his arm. Clean for 23 friggin' years, he got hooked again last year.

He will always remain 46 years old. And has children. Read the Times article.

It's 58 degrees outside. If it were 60, I would have no associations with the number. 

58 is when my dad got sick with brain cancer, and 59 is when he died.

Scott and I walked in the Pennypack this morning. It was so icy we cut short our walk.

OMG! Look who died. Dody Magaziner. She was the guidance counselor when Sarah first went to Round Meadow elementary school in Upper Moreland, PA. 

Mrs Magaziner told me to send Sarah to a private school, she'll never do well here.

I'd tried to get in touch with Dody several years ago but was unable to get the right email address. Oh, I'm so sad. Wonderful woman.

Sarah will be 40 on Feb 7 and is having a huge party in Brooklyn on Friday nite. I'm trying to get a ride there.

I told my Writers' Group I entered a contest. The theme? Write a short story in exactly 21 words.


Some diet! So I wouldn’t gain weight by eating the Cherry Garcia, I ate 16 pretzels dunked in Jif peanut butter.

Spoke to my friend Rob this morning. He's gonna watch the Superbowl over in NJ with his friend Phil Martino and his Phil's mom, Terri. 

Told Rob I was gonna write a poem on the Superbowl and that it wouldn't be easy. Well, it was easy, but is it good?

Scott: Sorry, I just don't think it's all that good.

Whilst we were walking I shared with him an idea I've had for months about a short story that takes place at Pennypack. Tentatively titled, The Heiress, it's about a woman with diabetes who forgets to take her glucose tabs w/her in case she goes low - you can die this way. That's all I'll mention.

Do you know what "XLVIII" means? 48. I goggled it.

Long-necked Peyton Manning, never heard of him until last week. 37 years old. (That's Jimmy Piersall's old no. when he played for the Cleveland Indians.)

Manning is No. 18. 

Wiki - He is a son of former NFL quarterback Archie Manning and an elder brother of New York Giants quarterback Eli Manning

Richard Sherman, Stanford U grad in Palo Alto, is only 25. Look at this, according to Wiki: Selected by the Seattle Seahawks in the fifth round of the 2011 NFL Draft.

You never know! Sherman and the other defensive backs have dubbed themselves "The Legion of Boom."


Thank you for talking with us,
Tony Verna, inventor of the
Instant Replay. His son, who
worked with him, died of brain cancer
in 2010.

We got here early, helping myself
to BBQ wings and that
Ranch dressing, the wife
takes off for the kitchen, but not
before I give her a pat on her soft
bee-hind, still my woman after
-what? – 31 years, one
miscarriage and two live ones
leaving their daddy and mama
to go up north, hell knows why

Bobby! Another Coors and
he plops in on the little silver coaster
with the ducks flying away
I pat my belly, hardly bigger than
on my wedding day, back at
Camp LeJeune, I’m a lineman,
climb those poles for Verizon and
Man o man! have seen some things!
Squirrels fried to a crisp – they eat them here
in Texas, but not me, no sirree – but I
love my job, refused to make more dough
and be a boss – I’m just a member of the
team, like Manning and Sherman – wonder
how many folks are gonna name their kid
Peyton? That’s Americans for you. God bless

Sure I voted for Obama, in fact we’re talking
about him now, his State of the Union Speech
last Tuesday, the boys say he promised us
everything and delivered us nothing, but, hell,
he’s a good man, got us outa one war; I lay
down my life and the lives of my family in the
Invasion of whoever heard of Grenada.

Oh, the letters they wrote. Dad, I go down on
my knees and pray for you every night, Your
darling daughter Mona. I brought the family
bible and read Thy rod and thy staff they
comfort me. But after all these years I ain’t
told no one this, but you’re all alone in the

All alone.

I put three twenties on the coffee table next
to the salted Planters and tiny rings of
pretzels. “The Seahawks,” I say stringing
some pretzels thru my fingers.

So! I say taking a long sip of the icy-
cold Coors. Let’s take up the God question
what dyou think?

You serious, Johnny? We
just dismantled your president bone by bone
and now you want to discuss the Creator?

Laughter and the wife came out of the kitchen,
her dyed blond hair and green swinging
earrings lookin good. Babe, c’mon sit here
on Johnny’s lap. Why, you’re just plain
drunk, she said, and plopped that soft ass
on my legs and gave me a nice smooch on
the lips.

How many more minutes? asked Roger, in the
swiveling purple chair, wearing an A & M

Tee-off, said my wife, is in sixteen minutes.
I mean kick-off.

1 comment:

  1. More interesting things here again!. I think I might actually like this poem better as a short story. Up for the challenge? Nonetheless it is so hard to write a poem on a "prompt", at least to me, so I give you much credit.
    Personally, I call it the Stupid Bowl so you can see I'm not much of a fan, which makes me almost persona non grata in this household. (I almost ruined my first marriage from the get-go by making social plans at a relative's in the East Bay on the first Super Bowl Sunday and was told to never EVER do that again!). I actually remained in the room last night during the game, which I rarely do, and read a book on my Kindle but quickly stopped rooting (if you could call my half-hearted occasional glance up at the screen that) for the Seahawks and attached my positive thoughts to the Broncos. I am and always was, an incurable lover of the underdog.

    Happy 40th to Sarah. I sent myself a birthday card on my 40th and hung it on the wall. As a young widow, I thought then that I would never again be happy. I was pretty depressed on that particular birthday. May Sarah be filled up, instead, with joy, glee and great plans.