Wolverine Liberation Army

Los Angeles is a city undivided in its division. The grime, the smog, the midsummer heat. Everyone is affected, the rich, the poor, the young. The old. LA is the last, great American tabloid. Those who love the city will claim that there’s nothing like it on a clear day, a crisp day, when the Santa Anas roll in from the desert and brush their westward across the expansive blue of the Pacific.

Barwis thought of these things, and then thought of a world gone to hell.

******

David Bowie wrote “The Final Countdown” before “The Final Countdown” was actually written. “Space Oddity” is the final countdown. “The Final Countdown,” as a concept, as a thing, as a fragment of intellectual property, is inherently dishonest. And, disappointingly so. Countdown? Countdown to what, exactly? When Major Tom burst through the clouds into the infinite blackness of space, time became irrelevant. Unconstrained nothingness deems the fiction of spirituality meaningless. In his tin can, floating high (but not that high, when you consider everything) above the marbled gloss of an absurd world, Tom remarks, with clarity and with poise, upon the only thing that can, or should, exist. “Tell my wife I love her very much, she knows.”

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Welcome to the Offensive Line Practice Chat Room!

EarthwermKurt: Seriously?

TheBarwisAidMan: YES. SERIOUSLY.

EarthwermKurt: You want me to run through that?

TheBarwisAidMan: QUIT GABBING YOU HUMAN SIZED SACK OF VAGINAS AND DRAG YOUR WATERBED OF AN ASS THROUGH THAT TUNNEL

EarthwermKurt: It’s only 16 inches tall

TheBarwisAidMan: TO IMPROVE YOUR PAD LEVEL

EarthwermKurt: There is a wolf with construction paper wings stapled on its back

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Chapter 2:  5′ 11″ of South American Sex Appeal

(for “Chapter 1:  Ann Arbor’s Not A Whore (But She’s No Saint Either)” click here)

Normally a leggy broad in my office is cause for celebration.  But I don’t take too kindly to unannounced guests, especially when I think they came with an agenda.

“My name’s Giselle,” she says  while stepping into the soft light being thrown my desk lamp.  She’s tall, taller than me.  Her knee length skirt would be ankle length on most other dames.  She has features that are at the same time attractive and mannish.  Maybe she’s a looker or maybe I’m a gueer.

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The distant mountains sat dark blue in the fog-streaked ether. Barwis sighed, clenching his teeth tight against each other. Exhale. Inhale. He counted in irregular patterns of serpentine disillusionment. He spat dark mottles of blood onto the dirt, shivering in the morning chill. He wrapped the twine around his upper arm and pulled until it cut deeply into his circulation, forcing his median cubital skyward.

Barwis buried needle the in his arm and prayed for warmth. Prayer, of course, existed only as a conceptually ironic disillusion of a man lost in the wilderness.

*****

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Part 1, here.

Strategy

A frequent complaint under the Lloyd Carr regime was that the offensive play-calling relied too much on “throwing rock” - plunging Mike Hart into the defensive line, through the same hole, ad nauseum. Frequently, fans complained of a lack of “halftime adjustments” of some sort. Many hoped that Rodriguez, architect of the NCAA’s most dangerous rushing attack, would freshen the offensive playbook, providing it’s first update in virtually twenty years.

Grade: 3 Molotovs. This was a boom-and-bust area for Rodriguez. The degree to which the offensive was under-manned, under-powered, and under-experienced has been chronicled ad nauseum. The question, however, is how did Rodriguez do with what he had? Despite Michigan’s first offensive line in memory that lacked a single All-Big-Ten performer, and no discernible passing game, Michigan’s rushing attack averaged 5.1 yards-per-carry, net of sack yardage – equal to 2007 (when they had Michigan’s all-time leading passer, rusher, a first round pick at left tackle, and two NFL Wide Receivers), and considerably better than the 11-2 2006 team (which all of the above, plus a 3rd NFL Wide Receiver).

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