Daily - The Austin Chronicle (2024)

Maybe I was wrong about the whole “tough love” thing last week. Even after my brilliantly conceived pep talk, the Cowboys somehow managed to still lose, 39-31, to the second worst team in the NFL. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn the Lions were desperately attempting to throw the game in order to get a shot at the first-draft pick but were somehow foiled by the unstoppable losing machine the Dallas Cowboys have become.

But I’m not here to whine about what went wrong. I’ve done more than enough of that. Instead, I’m giving some props to an underappreciated force in the Cowboy’s season so far: the offensive line. They deserve much of the credit for the Cowboy’s performance, but they’ve remained mostly invisible in my commentary and even to other players on the field. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that if you asked Tony Romo or the Detroit Lions defensive line, they’d probably tell you they weren’t even aware the Cowboys had an offensive line last Sunday.

This is just the kind of thinking I would like to put to an end. So, in my last blog before the Cowboys probable playoff sweep and Super Bowl upset victory, I’d like to take a moment to introduce you to the real unsung heroes of last week’s game.

TODAY'S EVENTS

CelebrASIA Austin at Asian American Resource Center

Diamond’s Dirty 30 Rodeo at Cheer Up Charlies

MUSIC | MOVIES | ARTS | COMMUNITY

Look who's giving the Trans-Texas Corrdor a five star review: Gene Shalit's mustache-fluffer turned third-tier Republican apologist Michael Medved. While rightfully calling out his talk radio colleagues over their Ruby Ridge fever dreams that the Texas "monster highway" will usher in some Illuminati-approved marriage of Mexico, the U.S. and Canada into a "North American Union," he strictly reaches for the low hanging fruit. Instead of a reasonable look at all the things wrong with the TTC, including that Republican cause célèbre, overzealous use of eminent domain, Medved spends all his meager load creaming the jackbooted Y2K crowd – shooting survivalist straw-men in a barrel.

He does dispense with this chestnut: "Actually, I am afraid of wasting government money on useless mass transit or light rail projects, but I’m hardly terrified by road-building. Any time they want to build super-highways and lay down old-fashioned asphalt to facilitate cars and reduce traffic, every red-blooded American ought to stand up and cheer." Looking at that face however, I don't think Medved could be roused to cheer a John Stossel presidency. With that perpetually hangdog puss, it's like his home's being foreclosed on every minute of his life. (Via)

Am I dreaming? Or maybe I’m still so bloated from holiday consumption that my mind has ventured into a candy-coated alternate reality? I ask because according to any source I check, the New Orleans Saints earned themselves a first-round bye in the NFC playoffs and are now only two victories away from their first-ever appearance in a Super Bowl. Will we all soon be watching the plumed drum major of the Southern University Marching Band prancing his way onto the field at Dolphins Stadium? Is it suddenly not at all that far-fetched to foresee a television commercial sporting Donald Duck shouting a surly “Who Dat?” from the overly-manicured grounds of Disney World?

Without intentionally trying to put the cart before the horse, I’m going to go ahead and begin to prepare my celebration now. Problem is, getting blitzed and screaming at the top of my lungs just isn’t going to do the trick this time. In fact, there is no precedent for this type of grandiose possibility. For the past couple of decades, I have proudly informed even the most remote and temporary of my sports buddies that by a long shot the most prominent aspiration of mine as a sports fan is to see the Saints win themselves a Lombardi Trophy. Just one within what I hope to be a span of 80-plus years doesn’t seem like much to ask. But sure enough these past 35 have been about as fruitless as an NRA rally. From Archie Manning to the Dome Patrol to Aaron Brooks, a certain cloud of irrefutable doubt continues to linger even as I put the six-pack of canned Dixie that I’ve been saving for this particular big moment in my refrigerator for a most holy month of anticipatory cooling.

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