I spent a considerable number of weeks this semester discussing convivencia Spain with students.  The marvel of the Moorish heyday has left no small impression on the class, and has tempted me to put down my numerous Arabic tomes to consider the pursuit of Spanish fluency.  After all, what polished academic dares complete her course of studies without attaining proficiency in at least one Romantic language?

It should come as no surprise that all and sundry have turned me to the most recommended program for the acquisition of this Romance language: the hyper-romantic telenovela.

I have been told that if I wish to learn Spanish, I should put myself on a strict diet of these syrupy Spanish confections. Having been raised on a steady consumption of Bollywood, I should find this a particularly easy transition to make.

 The telenovela should not be confused with the American soap opera, in which the same series and the same heroine can be counted upon to reign supreme for decades on end.  There is no analogue for Susan Lucci in the telenovela realm.  Instead, the telenovela provides its audience with the pleasure of viewership for the indefinite and unknowable future.  There is no way of predicting when an escalating story arc may suddenly come to an abrupt finish.  The story unfolding before the viewer’s eyes may continue to blossom for months on end, or may come to sudden completion in a couple of dazzling, heady weeks.  The true devotee of the telenovela understands to appreciate the run, no matter how long, and to taste the sweetness of whatever successes the favored characters are able to find.

 

It is not especially difficult to imagine Mark Sanchez as the buff male lead of a particularly addictive Mexican production.  Recently spurned by his own fans during the Bills match, Sanchez has managed to woo his way back into New Yorkers’ good graces with the dramatic turnaround delivered in last week’s episode against the Redskins. 

The most engrossing serial productions leave the audience begging for more. Let's see what Mr. GQ can do!

Juliet:
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

Juliet was clearly not a Jets' fan.  Consider the names on our roster:  Plaxico Burress.  Antonio Cromartie.  Vladimir Ducasse.  Santonio Holmes.  LaDainian Tomlinson.  D'Brickashaw Ferguson.

It's almost as though Alexandre Dumas and William Shakespeare were jointly invited to name a cast of characters for a joint stage production of epic proportion, featuring swashbuckling heroes of true valor.


We all know that ink was never spilled for the sake of a great epic that didn't include a few great names.  We also know that no cracking adventure story ever made it into print without a strong element of peril at work.  So if there be peril in our upcoming skirmish with the Redskins, I say, bring it.  Our aristocrats know how to throw down the gauntlet and how to keep us on the edge of our seats until the very last.

My friend Katie recently made one of her spectacular but brief (comet-like!) appearances in New York City, courtesy the 30^th street station Bolt Bus, and handily coaxed me, despite the hecticness of the midterm season, into attending the screening of the soon to be released documentary, The Island President.  Because her brother Craig has garnered associate producer credit on the film, we unabashedly planted ourselves, with all the smugness of next of kin, in the front row in order to take in this extraordinary film.  It presents the life of President Mohamed Nasheed of the Maldives—described as a modern day Atlantis, these islands are indeed veritable jewels adorning the Indian Ocean, and are the favored resort of Bollywood star and European adventurer alike.  Sadly, these idyllic islands are poised to sink ignominiously into the ocean waters that seem to lap with such limpid, gem-like beauty on each side.

Nasheed’s sudden ascent to power at age 41 placed him at the helm of the lowest lying country in the world, the leader of a nation literally washing away before the inhabitants’ own eyes, faced with little hope of survival unless a dramatic change in environmental policy is made by larger, neighboring countries (see: India.  And China.  No small feat to demand that these burgeoning industrial titans stem the tide of their ever increasing consumption and polluting output.) 

What the Maldives does have going for it is a leader shrewd enough to realize that he needs to maximize on, not bemoan, his islands’ decidedly underdog status in this skirmish.

Although the Maldives may be the last place on the mind of a Jets fan, it is interesting to note that Nasheed, in the midst of a PR campaign at the United Nations in New York City, and in preparation for the Copenhagen Climate Summit so crucial to his cause, nonetheless found time in his tireless schedule to grab a burger and a coke at a local sports bar, where he took in a match played by the Jets’ division rivals, the Buffalo Bills.  Although the audience is only afforded a short glimpse of the scene, we nonetheless see Nasheed and his close cabinet members taking in the Bills’ match, at first with interest but some natural degree of confusion, which seems to vanish as they get involved in the atmosphere of the New York sports bar and find themselves rooting for the local team with genuine enthusiasm.  I was struck by the image of the no-longer-quite-so-young and physically petite leader of a hapless, drowning nation rooting for a team that has only managed at its best moments to lose four consecutive Super Bowls (and that back in the 1960s) and which takes as its mascot the buffalo, an animal which was once King of the American Prairie and has since been rendered nearly extinct. 

This begs the question I posed in a previous post: does the cheering of a hapless team somehow mirror the constancy one must show in a foundering nation, even if the prospect of getting submerged forever flickers in the horizon? It seems to be that there must always be some of us who reserve their energies for championing the most important cause of all, that of the underdog. 

I only wish that Nasheed had chanced upon a Jets’ game, so that we could link his story more closely to that of our chosen team.  For which Jets’ fan does not understand the deep and abiding appeal of rooting righteously for the less favored team on the field? 

Today, it was the Bills who faced the Jets, and it was the Bills who seemed to demonstrate better consistency and crisper play supplemented by clear communication between teammates.  Bills’ player Stevie Johnson may have enjoyed his early celebration, in which he seemed to mimic a gunshot wound to the leg, the better to rub salt into Plaxico Burress’ injury while presaging a Bills victory.  And it seemed all too clear that the Jets would most certainly lose the game to a team demonstrating better coordination on all necessary fronts.  And yet, we dared to exhale at the very last when the maligned Plaxico and a shaky Mark Sanchez managed to finally, critically, connect, opening up the berth for Holmes' satisfying catch.  And although we were still rattled, we dared to believe in an imminent Jets win.  It would not matter how well placed the theatrical #13 was in the Bills’ end zone in the game’s final moments. The tide that seemed all too ready to drown the Jets suddenly washed them to the safety of higher ground. 

Go Plaxico Ho!

Not only do you have one of the best sounding names in the NFL today, you must also have webbed Spidey hands to have made that stunning one hand grab.  Plaxico: Hero of the Day. 

(Take that, Stevie Johnson.  You're still unlucky #13.  You mocked the ones who stole your win!)

Honorable mentions must go to the referees and to the fans.  For now, I will decline to comment on the performance of our QB: the fans at the stadium may have already said enough!

Is it worth pointing out that the Jets emerald green and white striped uniform bears a distinct resemblance to the Pakistani flag?  As the lady in the link posted by Leader of Jets Nation points out, "You have to have faith in your team."  Indeed, you must always have faith in your nation, especially when it is most difficult to muster the conviction.

(Or was this pep talk a mere ploy designed to get a nice photo of Mark Sanchez onto GJH? You make the call!)

Week 11 State of the Nation Address

This sums it up with surprising accuracy:

http://nyc.barstoolsports.com/random-thoughts/this-is-why-i-wont-raise-my-kids-to-be-metsjets-fans/

I know that we are all upset by the back to back losses by the Jets.  But Go Jets Ho! followers know how to NOT throw in the towel.

Speaking of towels, look at this gem that I discovered in the 2011 Official Casebook of the National Football League,

"A.R. 5.28    ILLEGAL UNIFORM
Third-and-6 on A21. A1 passes to the tight end who runs out of bounds at the A45. At the completion of the play, it is noticed that A2 has a towel that is approximately 20 inches long attached to the back of his belt. Written on the towel is “Superstar.” Ruling: A’s ball, first-and-10 on A45. A2 must be suspended for at least one down and the towel removed. He can remain in the game by taking a charged timeout if the equipment is repaired."

You've got to love a sport that thinks of every possible contingency, and how to properly adjudicate fashion violations. Now if only we could suspend women for wearing Ugg Boots on the subway, for at least one stop and the footwear removed.  She can return to the subway by charging a pair of respectable driving mocs on her AmEx after the boots are incinerated.