"Totally coup, yo."


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by James R. Miller

I know it is customary for the opinion writer to save the exegesis of his column’s name for the farewell installment, but given the potentially painful associations of the phrase “Wide Right” for many Buffalo sports fans, I thought it best to make my intentions clear from the outset.

There are of course those who feel that the ghost of Scott Norwood is best left stowed away in the attic of our collective mind, that dredging up such bitter memories at this late date will only lead to ever greater bitterness. I could not disagree more. Such a head-in-the-sand attitude will only leave us woefully unprepared when such a moment of truth once again presents itself.

In fact, we would do well to take examine how Mr. Norwood himself handled the situation following his 1991 Super Bowl failure. Rather than replaying the situation over and over in his mind and letting it become an obstacle to his future development, the place-kicker went on with his life. He left Buffalo later that year, and today is a well-contented insurance agent in the suburban Washington area of Virginia.

Buffalo, meanwhile, muddled on rather aimlessly in the wake of Mr. Norwood’s missed field goal. Although the Bills made it back to the Super Bowl in each of the three following years, each time they were systematically demolished by representatives of the then-dominant NFC East. Salary cap woes and a roster of aging veterans led to even more woeful results in the years since.

The lesson here is obvious: the sensible player knows not to throw good effort after bad and recognizes when it is time to get out of what is quite clearly a bankrupt situation. As the wise carpenter says, better to tear down and start anew than to perform superficial cosmetic repairs on a structure whose foundation is ruined. The rat who flees a sinking ship may seem selfish and cruel, but only from the perspective of those foolish enough to stay behind and slowly perish.

Still, it is not too late for this city and its beloved football franchise. And the way out lies in the true meaning of “Wide Right.” In short, we must adhere to traditional, conservative values while subtly adapting them to meet the requirements of modern realities. Nothing can alter the fundamental truth that strong defense and veteran leadership wins championships. But now that free agency is no longer in its infancy, we must adopt a slightly different approach in our off-season transactions. The signing of high-priced marquee players must be balanced with bargain pickups of key role players.

This of course is an approach that worked wonders for the New England Patriots, a divisional rival and, until last season, a team that had good reason to feel every bit as jinxed as our own Bills. And yet that team rode all the way to the championship on the shoulders of an untested backup signal caller and an unlikely assortment of free agent pickups that no one else seemed to want. And surely it is no coincidence that Adam Vinatieri’s field goal on the Super Bowl’s final play to beat the heavily favored St. Louis Rams was from 47 yards out—just like the one Mr. Norwood missed those 11 years ago.

The Bills and their fans would be wise to view this as a positive omen as we head into the upcoming season.

Was the Bills’ Losing Season Really Bad?

I know that a lot of people were disappointed with the Bills’ 3-13 regular season mark last year, but where did the expected victories disappear to? I’m not sure exactly what happened with the Bills, but I suspect that many of those 13 losses were the result of imprudent trades on the free-agency market. This means that the victories the Bills failed to achieve were not wasted, but rather transferred to someone else.

Consider two hypothetical NFL teams that experienced disappointed losing seasons. One team wasted tens of millions constructing useless luxury boxes that no one will ever use and signing aging veterans who can no longer compete at a high level. This team reduced the value of the franchise and its supporting community by wasting resources.

Now consider a second team whose season went down the crapper because it made a free-agency market bet with another team (let’s call it the third team) that certain players’ effectiveness would rise when it really fell, and vice versa. The second team did not waste resources, because its expected victories were enjoyed by this third team.

While I’m not entirely sure which team more closely represents the Buffalo Bills, I suspect it might be the second. Likewise, the third team appears to be a reasonably good approximation of the New England Patriots. For example, Bills castoff Antowain Smith was a key element in that latter team’s unexpected triumph.

Thus, the way to that elusive championship is elementary: the Bills must turn the tables on the Patriots, who now have nowhere to go but down. The much ballyhooed signing of quarterback Drew Bledsoe must then be a key element of this strategy.

But Is Bledsoe the Solution?

This, unfortunately, is a question with no easy answer. The eternal optimist will surely be quick to point out that one man’s garbage is another man’s treasure, but I’m inclined to be a bit more skeptical on the matter. Is it really reasonable to expect that New England, which was so flawless in its decision-making last year, would now be so frivolous as to give up the player with the skills to carry a division rival to victory? Probably not. But then again, stranger things have happened when a perennial underdog has suddenly found itself the king of the hill.

We may argue back and forth on the subject all we like, but ultimately the victor is decided on the field of play. As for which will be the last team standing at the end of this upcoming season, only time will tell.

Born and raised in Hamburg, James R. Miller is currently doing post-doctoral work in economics at London School of Economics. His column on the Buffalo sports scene will appear in this space each issue.

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We here at THE BEAST feel we should be honest. When we started scouting the competition here in Buffalo, we couldn’t be totally dismissive of ArtVoice. Sure, it’s duller than a Jet Blue in-flight magazine. Sure, it shamelessly blows all of its advertisers, and publishes poetry so awful you could use it to torture terrorist suspects at camp X-Ray. And sure, its publisher looks like a midget vampire, and sings agonizing covers of “No Woman, No Cry” in local bars.

artvoice ? save the childrenBut ArtVoice has one thing going for it: a nifty-looking full-color cover. No doubt about it: from a commercial standpoint, the full-color ArtVoice cover is definitely an advantage over the no less earnest, but certainly more modest 2-color Beast design. Advertisers like full-color papers, and we even hear that girls are impressed by the way they look.

But is full color really an advantage, from a moral standpoint? We called the Canadian press that prints ArtVoice, and asked for price estimates that would give us some idea of just how much extra money we’d have to spend in order to have a cover that looks like ArtVoice‘s. The sum we came up with, per issue, was $180.

It took just a few phone calls to find out that what ArtVoice wasn’t only buying a competitive advantage with that extra money. It was also, it turns out, buying the premature deaths of 15 children a month.

Here’s a partial transcript of our phone call to the Save The Children headquarters in Westport, Connecticut (203-221-4000), about the ArtVoice cover problem:

BEAST:   So in order to sponsor a child, we’d have to spend how much?

Save the Children:   It’s $24 a month.

BEAST:   Does that go directly to one child?

STC:   No, it’s pooled. It goes to the community the child lives in. But you get reports about the progress of the programs in the community, as well as information about the individual child. And you get a report once a year about the child’s progress.

BEAST:   Okay, so does that mean that the $24 figure corresponds to some real calculation as to how much it costs to actually feed a starving child? Or is it just a random figure?

STC:   It… I’d have to say it’s an actual figure. You know, we get audited. Yes, it’s an actual figure.

BEAST:   Okay, so the thing is, I work for a newspaper. We want to sponsor a child.

STC:   Oh!

BEAST:   Yeah, actually, we’re going to try to pressure other newspapers into cutting back on non-essential expenditures, so that there would be more money to send to worthy charities like yours.

STC:   That’s a wonderful idea!

BEAST:   Yeah. So for instance, you take a newspaper that has a full-color cover, it could easily go two-color, you know, and save some money. I mean, we’re saving like 180 bucks every two weeks.

STC:   Right!

BEAST:   The way we see it, that… Save the Children: That’s seven children a month!

BEAST:   No, it’s 15 children a month. The $180 figure is every two weeks.

STC:   Right.

BEAST:   But our competitors, you see, they’re spending that money. I mean, who cares if a newspaper has two colors or four? In the grand scheme of things.

STC:   Exactly. Exactly.

BEAST:   That’s like 15 children that will go starving. For a color cover.

STC:   Uh… I guess.

BEAST:   So how do we sponsor a child?

STC:   Just go online at savethechildren.com and fill out the form… Or you can send us a check. We’ll send you a photo right away.

BEAST:   We’ll be sure to do that.

STC:   Well, thank you. I think you’ve got a great idea there.

BEAST:   Thanks. What’s your name again?

STC:   My name is Greer.

BEAST:   Like Greer Garson?

STC:   Uh huh!

BEAST:   Thanks, Greer. Goodbye.

STC:   Goodbye!

We sponsored a child for this issue and will be receiving information in the mail about him before next issue. When we get updates on his progress, we’ll share them with U, the BEAST reader. As time passes, we will ask you to bear in mind that he is only alive, and well-fed, because we decided to forego a wasteful full-color cover.

Minor Celebrity MathArtVoice, meanwhile, can’t make that claim. Until they follow our lead, we’ll be publishing a weekly death toll. After two weeks, the body count is seven. Seven tiny little babies, starving to death. Imagine that the next time you catch yourself thinking, “Gosh, what a great ‘Reinventing the Bus Stop’ cover!”


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Bledsoe Vs. Johnson




Bledsoe vs. Johnson

According to FCC statistics, approximately 4,386 hours have already been spent on talk radio in Buffalo in the month since The Trade debating this city’s new Eternal Question – who’s Better, Drew or Rob? The FCC also reports that not a single new point has been made since the 411th hour of the debate. From where we stand, it seems like the hometown crowd is failing to grasp the real issues… Maybe the reason we’re all at an impasse is that we’ve got the wrong Johnson. So the BEAST decided to ask: how does the Patriot Missile stack up against the star-crossed 17th President?

Drew Bledsoe Andrew Johnson



  • Benched by New England
  • Impeached by Northern Republicans
  • A “class act” whose teammates just didn’t respond to him
  • Considered an “honest and honorable man” who lacked political savvy
  • Self-described “trailer trash”
  • Grew up in a shack in North Carolina
  • Drop-back passer with great arm
  • Jacksonian Democrat with alcoholism problem
  • Fit, sober and professional for speech at Buffalo welcoming rally
  • Stone drunk and completely incoherent for Vice-Presidential inaugural address in 1864
  • Set single-game records for attempts and completions by going 45-70 in 26-20 win over Minnesota in 1994
  • Sponsored the Homestead Act as a Senator; privately hated black people
  • No. 1 overall pick in 1993 draft; passed for seven straight 3,000-yard seasons
  • Notorious for wandering the White House drunk, crashing into busts and portraits
  • After trade to Bills, took out ads in Boston papers thanking New England fans for their support
  • Lived out his days racked with guilt over the fact that he had secretly desired Lincoln’s death; privately thought Lincoln was overrated
  • Happily married to charming wife Maura, with whom he held hands throughout first visit to Buffalo
  • Impotent in marriage and reportedly vomited on wedding night; known for leering at children of both sexes from Oval Office window
  • Led Patriots to victory in 2002 AFC championship game with inspiring off-the-bench performance against Steelers
  • Presided over the restoration; shortly before death, went insane and began eating own feces
  • Had a cameo in “Jerry Maguire”
  • Corpse had an erection; was our “most maligned president”

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By John Dolan

Praying for America
By Dutch Sheets
Regal Books, 2001

There’s a scene in the fourth “Living Dead” movie, Day of the Dead, where they capture a zombie and pen him in a subterranean lab. They want to examine a specimen in order to understand this mindless cannibal breed that has taken over the United States.

It’s a haunting scene, deeply sad in the way those Romero films are. It turns out that you can’t teach a zombie much. “Bud” the zombie learns to answer a phone, but that’s about it. Beyond that, there’s not much to him but pus and fangs. Something almost human looks out of his eyes now and then, especially when he sees an Army uniform– Bud was a soldier once, and he still remembers to salute. But it turns out you can’t trust those flickering vestiges of humanity. The only way to deal with the beasts is to kill them all.

And that pretty much sums up the findings of my recent experiment in trying to understand the Christians. I thought it might be interesting to read an American Christian response to the WTC attacks, see what the drooling zombies who have taken over my country have to say about this calamity striking God’s favorite country. I picked Praying for America off the Amazon lists because it looked relatively literate. This glossy pamphlet is the work of one “Dutch Sheets.” (I know, I know: nobody could be named “Dutch Sheets;” it sounds more like the punchline to a pubescent joke– and in a sense, it is– but it’s also the name of the author, pastor of a church in Colorado Springs, Colorado.)

Praying for America wasn’t very literate, actually; Dutch has a prose style even a social scientist would be ashamed to own. But it was informative. Above all, I learned that the rightist American Christians have mutated, gotten a lot better organized than they used to be. Dutch says many times that he speaks for “the Church in America.” This confused me at first, because I was raised to think “the Church” meant the Vatican; the Protestants were a disorganized rabble, a chaos of feuding sects. But that was long ago. The Bible-thumpers got smart and formed up. When Dutch talks about “the Church in America,” he means it. They march in step now. Dutch doesn’t even bother naming the particular sect he fronts for, because the militant Protestants are a single body now, far more united and a thousand times more powerful than the senescent Church of Rome ever was.

The Christians snuck up on us. We used to laugh at them– and then suddenly they were on us, hordes of grinning zombies. I used to prate about Whitman and the cadences of the King James Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress and Horatio Alger, Jerry Lee Lewis and Jim Swaggart, the Evangelical tradition in American literature, Stonewall Jackson, dying, delirious, murmuring “Let us cross the river and rest in the shade of the trees….” I used to refuse to indulge in Christian-baiting at Berkeley because it was, as I used to say, “unsporting.”

All that seems like self-indulgent campy idiocy now. “Unsporting”? What does “sport” have to do with it? It’s Romero time: hole up on the roof of a mall with a hunting rifle and pick them off one by one… you have to get them in the head, remember. They don’t go down unless you hit them in the head.

And when you read their tracts, and find out what goes on in those heads– believe me, shooting them is a mercy.

Where to begin? Well, take a deep breath, hold your nose, and dive with me into the rotting insides of Praying for America. It’s a slick little pamphlet, with good graphics and a good sense of strategy. It borrows many technique from that venerable American literary genre, the salesman’s handbook– but that’s nothing new. American evangelists and pep-talking sales guys have always slipped easily between their respective callings (e.g., Norman Vincent Peale).

Dutch is fond of epithets sales guys love: “Are you a history maker?” he asks. Along with “history maker,” you might want to be “cause-minded,” a “boat rocker,” a “crossing-over guy,” or “a life-changer, a rearranger, a cause producer.” He wants us all to be “circumcised”– but as he explains to his wincing gentile audience, “Our circumcision in the new covenant is, of course, of the heart.” A circumcised heart– not sure I’d like that, actually. One snip and the room gets an arterial spraying.

In Dutch’s theology, God is a sort of travelling salesman, impregnating farmers’ daughters (of either gender) as the mood takes him. Using the laughably bad attempts at Classical etymology which are another feature of his rhetoric, he underlines the fact that he really does mean “penetration” when he talks of God’s way with us sinners:

“Because ‘abar’ is a transition word, it also means ‘to penetrate,’ as in penetrating territory, or even the human heart. [Note the repeated switch from genital to cardiac zone, as in 'circumcision' above.] And not trying to be overly dramatic or graphic, it is indeed a word used to designate the physical relations between a husband and wife that results in pregnancy [Sometimes, Dutch, they don't even have to be "husband and wife"!]. Yes, ‘abar’ does mean to impregnate.”

Now we know what Dutch means when he says, “Several months ago, God began to grip me….” These divine rapes are confessed with pride, of course; to be so “penetrated” is a point of honor with the devout. Like a great deal of American Evangelical discourse, it begs a medical, rather than theological interpretation. There’s a name for people who talk to god and feel Him gripping them: “schizophrenics.”

And the match between Evangelical theology and schizophrenic symptoms is perfect. When a word comes into Dutch’s head, it’s from God. Take “Shechem,” the name of some town mentioned in the Old Testament– the ramblings, in other words, of an unmedicated Levantine schizophrenic two millennia dead. This is how Dutch explains the way “Shechem” came into his head: “… During that… October evening, the Lord deeply impressed into my heart the thought, ‘I am calling this nation to Shechem.’”

“But Dutch,” you ask in that annoying way of yours, “how can we know it was a truly Divine inspiration?” Dutch has an answer ready for such doubters: “Since everything else I felt during that encounter with the Lord has proved to be very accurate, I have great confidence that this thought is accurate as well.” And if that doesn’t convince you, I don’t know what will.

So Dutch is not at all shy of passing on his neurotransmitter-depleted epiphanies. Every time he has a dream; every time a place-name or set of numbers comes into his head; every time there’s a coincidence in his daily schedule; he takes it as a sign of God’s direct intervention in his mental processes. Sometimes Dutch’s sense of God’s tinkering with his mind (using the term loosely) is so much like textbook schizophrenic reasoning that you’re amazed the guy’s still walking around. He spends three pages detailing the series of coincidences involving the number sequence “222″:

“It began on a cross-country flight. I noticed that my departure time was 2:22, I was seated in row number 22 and the total travel time was 2 hours and 22 minutes.”

Well, if that doesn’t smack of direct divine intervention in the flight schedule of one Dutch Sheets, D.D., I don’t know what does. The only thing that worries me is that 222 is exactly one-third of 666. So if Dutch buys three tickets, does the plane go down?

Laughable as it sounds, this sort of paranoiac drama gives you a sense of why Christianity appeals to so many lonely Americans. Unlike the Catholicism I knew, this religion makes the worshippers the center of the universe. God, no less, is manipulating your very flight-times to give you the word about Satchmo, or Shinbone, or whatever it was. The Protestants are nice that way: they coddle their worshippers, set them up with plain, chubby, equally devout dates, and bring food around– Protestant food, with lots of casseroles and marshmallow things– when they’re sick. They make you feel important, in a pitiful sort of way. The Catholics had a simpler attitude: “You owe the Church everything; the Church owes you nothing.” And they wonder what went wrong!

One thing that went wrong for the Catholics is very clear from Dutch’s tract: the militant Evangelicals stole the best bits from the Catholic agenda. Tops on the list is abortion. Thirty years ago, abortion was a Catholic obsession. The Protestants didn’t give a damn about it, and associated it with Rome’s mad drive to swamp the Anglo-Saxon lands in a tide of brown babies. But the Evangelicals grabbed the issue somewhere along the line. Dutch can’t shut up about it. It’s perfect: a guaranteed source of sin, at which he and his fellow pastors can rail forever, licking their chops as they get the calculators out to tote up the ever-rising total of dead babies which can be laid against the sinners’ tab: “We have now killed over 40 million babies in what was supposed to be their safe haven of nourishment….”

What hits you when you read these denunciations is that Dutch’s churchgoing people loathe America, if only so that they can redeem and love it once more. It’s the whore they can’t resist, and that bipolar orientation makes for them an endlessly exciting ride. It’s like marrying a cocktail waitress: at least you won’t be bored.

But no other American sins are invoked in these lists. None of the horrors perpetrated in SE Asia, Latin America, or for that matter Chicago, show up on the lists. America must be denounced and despised for her sins, but only from the inside; America, when juxtaposed to any other country on earth, is right, period. All America needs is a president who stands with “the Church.”

And that, finally, turned out to be what this odd little tract was about: the election of George W. Bush. Little anti-Clinton jibes pop up from the start: “And speaking of partying, our former president did a lot of it.” It infuriates Dutch that no divinely directed lightning bolt slithered under the presidential desk to zap the presidential dick, as it tickled the Mon’s uvula. “God is capable of dealing with… wicked, ungodly politicians,” Dutch says. “When he doesn’t, we need to ask why.”

Well, not to give away the plot, but it turns out God inflicted Clinton upon us because there was a curse on the nation. Something about those McDonald’s-like abortion figures: “Over 40 million fetuses hosed!” Or was Clinton the cause, rather than the effect, of the curse? It’s not always easy to follow the logic of these people, but at any rate: there was a curse, OK? And there was only one magical cure: electing George W. Bush.

So when “God shared his passion for America with [Dutch]” in October 2000– just before the election– he, or rather He, told Dutch to start a “prayer alert for the upcoming election.” I’ll let Dutch himself tell it from there:

“This alert ultimately went to millions of people, resulting in a great mobilization of prayer for God’s person to be placed in office…. And then, even when the election was finished, the identity of the next president had not yet been determined. The high level of spiritual warfare was very apparent… we desperately needed a president through whom God could work.”

And with whom God could deal. See, you thought that slimy Florida banana-republic vote-scamming was all about payoffs and lawyers, but it was actually “spiritual warfare.” Well, that’s why we need people like Dutch, to explain the higher implications of these things.

Luckily, God’s candidate won:

“At that pivotal moment in our nation’s history, God’s people made a choice to cross over. As a result, God gave us a sincere, humble man who loves God and through whom He [God, that is] can work to accomplish His purposes.” This walker-in-righteousness being, y’unnerstan’, one G. W. Bush. Dutch goes on to recount his trip to the Inaugural. It was a great occasion, he explains– it was literally the lifting of a curse which had been upon the land:

“I watched and heard [GWB] end his swearing-in by saying with great conviction, ‘So help me God.’ Upon the uttering of these words, one well-known minister in attendance was heard to say, ‘The curse is broken off of America.’”

This is where the dates get interesting. See, if God had gone and lifted the curse on America when GWB was inaugurated, how come those planes slammed into the towers only eight months later? Dutch wrote this tract while still strutting with pride over getting out the vote for his God-endorsed candidate. The inaugural was held on January 20, 2001. At that moment, according to the unnamed “well-known minister,” “the curse [was] broken off of America.” Now, leaving aside the minister’s somewhat demotic phrasing, let us do the math. After all, Dutch has taught us all to look out for those zany little numerological omens the puzzle-addicted Deity so frequently lobs into our schedules.

And Dutch has also taught us to think of God as the great Penetrator, who when the mood takes him impregnates his followers– male, female, or otherwise. Now, the Lord has put a great and terrible thought in my head. For lo, I realized that the Lord had counted the days, and the days between January 20, 2001 and September 11, 2001, that terrible day of wrath when the Curse was very definitely reimposed on America, amounted to eight months, the length of a (slightly preemie) pregnancy.

Yes, when God gripped America from behind on that Inaugural day, he begot a spirit of destruction; and that spirit was born on September 11, and it took the form of swarthy men with boxcutters, who rode in planes numbered 676– only TEN NUMBERS AWAY from the very number of the Beast!

And the 676 times two struck the two towers, and subtracted them from two to zero, and caused to be burnt many a believer.

But not nearly enough of them.

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