Tonight on Fox

 

Everyone thinks it is easy to promote Fox shows during the World Series or during football games. They don’t even consider that anyone even writes them. I bet most of the brainless hogs sitting there with their mouth open watching some roid-addled doofus try to hit something with a bat (big deal, I hit things with bats all the time and instead of being given millions of dollars I am usually asked to leave) think that Joe Buck simply goes off the top of his head and says things like “Tomorrow night it’s an all-new Grease Pyramid. Three more contestants try to climb the grease pyramid for $75,000 but they’ll have to fend off the Whackers, the Smackers, and their own friends and relatives. Are you slippery enough to beat the grease? An all-new Grease Pyramid tomorrow night. On Fox.” Do you think Buck actually could come up with “beat the grease?” Well even if you do, he didn’t.

Every day I wake up and open up The Box, which is a heavy safe that contains a half dozen different brands of smelling salts and I stick my head right in it and scream at the top of my lungs. Then I sit and watch four to six hours of new Fox television programming that I will need to come up with a promo for. This is a lot harder than it looks. You need to get to the essence of the show and sell it in a couple of sentences. You can’t just loiter around the point and hope the audience will get there because they are a bunch of dead-eyed cattle who think it’s impressive that a fat guy can throw something 90 miles an hour. So you can’t take 35 seconds to tell viewers that next Thursday on an all-new Stack, Stack faces his greatest threat yet: his own dad without telling people that Stack is actually a dog that turned into a man and became a detective with a powerful sense of smell like Phil did that time. You can’t just assume that people know that Stack is a dog-man!

You need to know what gets to the heart of the matter. There is an art to writing “Wednesdays on Fox, you’re gonna be glad you don’t have smell-o-vision with a brand new episode of America’s Stinkiest. Who is going to be the one who brings guest judge Breckin Meyer to his knees? America's stinkiest. After an an all-new Wyoming Plaid.” That requires a totally different type of promo than when you’re writing for “The Stink,” which is about a detective nicknamed “The Stink” who is as brilliant as he is irascible. These shows did not overlap, by the way. 

You think I care what happens to these shows after I write my promos? I don’t really watch TV anyway outside of work. The only thing that I know, for example, about Mantis & Mantis is that it is 2002’s hottest law drama and on this week’s episode a high-powered attorney’s biggest case yet is how to conceal his steamy affair with the opposing lawyer. Or that tomorrow night on Fart Circus, someone’s going to get farted on “real bad.” What I like to do is I go out late at night with my friends to an industrial park and line up a bunch of empty cans and we drive our motorcycles through them repeatedly which we call “riding the shark.” That’s the kind of stuff I’m into.

So the next time you hear Joe Buck say “Tuesday, it’s America’s funniest and rockin’est new comedy Butterface. Five friends. One band. Can they make it in L.A.? Who will end up with the bassist next door? And will the record company make them change their band name from Butterface? With original music by Shep Lunk. It’s Butterface, Tuesdays, on Fox” you’ll know that it wasn’t just some dumbass who came up with that. This is what I do. 

Remains of the Season, by Joe Bruin

 

It appears that my trip to the Mid West is more likely to happen.  I spoke to Interim Coach Skipper and he told me I did not need to remain with the team while they performed their calisthenics and tackling rituals and that I should take a golf cart that says “Bruins Football” and is used to cart around players with broken femurs and drive up to the Evanston area.

The football facility has been more empty than it was in the days of Coach Foster.  In those days, it was full of visiting dignitaries: Bill Walton, Dorian Thompson-Robinson, even Stephen Davis.  The best of the Professional Sports landscape convened here, and I was very busy fist-pumping at them and carrying various flags, and occasionally doing complicated hand-slapping rituals with their children. Coach Skipper has favored a more austere environment, wanting the players to focus on the fundamentals and not as he said “taking selfies doing butt bumps with the mascot.”  These are not the ideal conditions for mascotry, but I also believe that the professional is able to work within whatever restrictions the Coach sets.

I have, with other professionals, discussed the essential traits of a good mascot. I believe that the essence of good mascotting comes from the principle of buffoonery. The mascot must be a silly, jovial oaf whose antics entertain the crowd without ever becoming a sad or macabre spectacle. One’s thoughts naturally turn to stories of the infamous inflatable velociraptor who attempted to rollerskate down stars, slipped, and went flying as its mouth flopped open in a disgusting, leering spectacle, its tail deflating in silence as it was swarmed by medical personnel. The crowd was not guffawing but terrified that the fool had broken his limbs. My colleague, the duck from Oregon with whom I had passed many hours discussing the finer points of our profession, also pointed to the time the Denver Nuggets mountain lion passed out while being lowered from the arena ceiling before landing on the floor in a lifeless heap in a demonstration that looked like a warning sent from a rival mascot crime family.

The professional mascot should charm and delight, unlike, for example, the dreadful Stanford “tree.” I had endured its disgraceful antics for several years every time it visited, many times suspiciously wavering and tottering in an amateurish stomach-turning parody of the types of wholesome capering about one should expect from a trained mascot.

It is difficult to describe what I mean by professionalism in buffoonery, but I often heard this anecdote from my father, also named Joe Bruin. He told me that he heard of a mascot who had gone over to a section filled with rowdy children who had spent hours at a tailgate ingesting the type of candy where one licks a sugary stick and then swirls it around in pure sugar, and he had een warned that these children had already been chided for roughhousing. Nevertheless, the mascot walked over there, greeted the children and the largest and most aggressive went in for what appeared to be a hug before kicking the mascot in the most sensitive of regions. He wandered off into the tunnel to shake off the pain before returning to the section and another child then repeated the motion. Once again he returned to the tunnel before going out again, knowing the fate that awaited his most delicate parts, and once again another child delivered. A cheerleader organizing t-shirts to be thrown to the crowd said you cannot keep going out there, please find another section, but the intrepid mascot, without flinching, took another five kicks and one punch without showing pain, discomfort, or disgust, and managed to high five and take photos with more than a dozen children in the section. The mascot completed the game before retreating to his quarters with a package of frozen peas, a job honorably and professionally done.

Many mascots become briefly fashionable as the ideal of the profession.  For a time, I suppose it was Gritty, a hockey mascot with maniacal eyes and a morbid, terrifying grin.  I suppose those in the profession valued a mascot who appears to be performing his duties with the unhinged enthusiasm of an escaped maniac, but I suspect it will not be long until the pendulum swings in the other direction and the professional standard defaults to those of us who have perfected the more subtle mascotry arts instead of flashy, fashionable antics such as breakdancing or leaping from a trampoline and dunking flaming basketballs before getting immediately sprayed by a team with fire extinguishers.

I motored up the scenic environs of Interstate 90 from the airport, bludgeoned by the ubiquity of Brian Urlacher hair replacement billboards.  Urlacher is himself one of the most famous Lobos from New Mexico, a program that contributed to an incident that led to the ouster of Coach Foster.  I do not care for the slanderous insinuations about Coach Foster.  In my experience, Coach Foster was a good, honorable coach who acted from the most noble instincts of his way of life. I do not believe that it was a defect of character that led to the team deploying their linebackers ineffectively against the relentless New Mexico rushing attack, nor do I think it was his intention to put heralded transfer quarterback Nico Iamaleava in a position where his statistics are well below where they had been at the University of Tennessee even though he had deployed a large section of the program’s resources to bring him over to our facility.  
It is not the job of the mascot to question the Coach on the direction of the program but only to stir up the fans in support, to do pushups after scoring touchdowns, and to never hang one’s head or be caught by cameras in the “surrender cobra” position after an ill-advised turnover or defensive breakdown. These things are simply not done by the professional mascot.

As I motored up the twisting byways of Evanston, I could not help but think of how things had been in the heady early days of Coach Foster’s leadership.  In those days, we had a larger staff of mascots, particularly with my colleague Josephine Bruin. From time to time, she would try to show me videos of other mascots such as the time Tommy Lasorda tried to assault the Philadelphia Phanatic after it made a series of provocative belly shakes in his direction and the old Coach was offended enough to try to steal the Phanatic’s personal ATV and to knock down the mascot and beat him with the Phanatic’s own crude effigy of himself, a video that I admit I had watched alone in my parlor during off-hours several times and found very amusing despite the Phanatic's actions that went beyond what I feel is appropriate mascot behavior.

Of course, I had explained that I was far too busy attending to my duties: checking “Let’s Go Bruins” cards to make sure that no one had slipped in a card with obscenities, combing the costume fur, cleaning and oiling every part of the hot dog gun to make sure that it fired consistently and regularly but would not cause an injury to a spectator's face. I suggested if she has time to watch Phanatic videos, she surely had time to take comical photos with Jonathan Ogden where he looks enormous compared to even the largest mascot heads, as I had been alerted that he had just arrived on campus.

I arrived at the Lake and saw another mascot just sitting there, saying perhaps to no one in particular how much he enjoyed the smell of dying fish in the air on a crisp autumn day.  He turned to me and noticed that I too was a mascot.  He asked where I had come from and I told him I was the Bruin after working for the interim Coach. I am not sure why I did not mention working for Coach Foster. 

The Wildcat told me he was slightly embarrassed discussing important matters of mascotry with me, a mascot who worked in the Rose Bowl while he was at home in a stadium that fits fewer people than our basketball arena.  But we both, I suppose, were working at difficult times.  “I have heard that previous mascots here were locked in a cage until Northwestern scored, which rarely happened, back in the ‘80s,” the Wildcat said.  I resolved that no matter what happened that afternoon I would learn some of the more restrained antics that Coach Skipper preferred, perhaps a Jose Canseco-style forearm bump.

Infinite Big Ten Cities

 

The Great Big Ten Commissioner has an atlas of all of the cities in his empire. “Sometimes,” the Commissioner says to Marco Polo, “it seems that it is easier for you to describe cities from this atlas than the ones you have actually been to.”

“For these cities, I just need a glimpse,” Marco Polo says. “I just need to see how the light looks when the sun sets over their jumbotron. To smell a single bratwurst wafting from a tailgate. To know how close I am to a Culvers. From there I will put together the perfect Big Ten city, one made from fragments, from the combination of space and time, from the collision between memory and plans for the future, from the people who have dwelled in a city from time immemorial and the people who will arrive and make it their home, buildings reassembled from ruins only to be razed again and cultures rising and collapsing the same way.

In this way, I can see infinite Big Ten cities. These elements already exist in some city in the world and they will be put into infinite combinations in cities that have existed or will exist somewhere on earth or within your Conference. Once you see their forms, you only need to be able to put them together in different ways to see cities that do not yet exist but yet already exist somewhere. The landscape of cities is flattened across time all being built, existing, and being destroyed simultaneously within the Big Ten into bigger tens, tens not even yet in your empire.”

The Great Commissioner paused and took a puff off his pipe. “How many of these infinite cities do you think we can get into the Playoff?” he said.

Cities and Language V: Minna

 

The Great Commissioner brought his foreign envoy Marco Polo to the seat of his empire’s greatest crown jewel. It sits at the nexus of all known types of transportation with rail lines and great highways and even airplanes landing majestically overhead. He takes them through a complex of inns and sites of great exhibitions of goods from lands that even Marco Polo has never heard of. It is ringed by portraits of an unsettling man with an uncanny head of hair impossible to exist in nature. 

The Great Commissioner takes Marco Polo to the seat of his empire, an ornate palace that shares a parking lot with a meat restaurant. It is across the highway from a minor league baseball stadium named for a hot dog where the ketchup mascot is regularly imprisoned and humiliated to reflect the tastes of the populace who abhor that condiment. 

“Tell me, Marco Polo,” the Commissioner says. “In all of your travels and all of the cities you have told me about, could you ever envision a city like this?”

“No,” Marco Polo said. 

Cities and Language V: Minna 

One arrives in the great city of Minna by road or perhaps even by the river through the gates and marvels at the enormous inflatable buildings and structures ingeniously designed to shield its residents from the harshest of the elements. The city is prosperous and tidy as residents bustle around conducting their business. It is only when a visitor attempts to speak to a Minnan that they will be utterly befuddled by how they communicate in this city.

The residents here speak in an almost impenetrable argot of slogans and acronyms. For example, a visitor simply attempting to greet a stranger and perhaps ask for directions will be told “Board the Train!” and when they ask for further clarification being told that “train” is an acronym that stands for “take risks and invalidate naysayers” before the person will chestbump the visitor. 

Even those practiced in Minna-speak can get tripped up. An experienced guide who spent a happy childhood in Minna and then left to pursue studies in other parts of the Commissioner’s vast kingdom before returning to serve as an interpreter for visiting dignitaries suffered a humiliating breakdown while trying to convey the meaning of G.A.R.G.A.N.T.U.A.N. somewhere around the second G. Even years later he could barely get through the story without holding back tears. “That is too many letters for a motivational acronym,” he said. “A child could see that.”

Despite the bizarre and oblique methods of speaking by telling each other to “readying hard means going hard” when “h.a.r.d.” is an acronym that in some tortured way ends up meaning trying hard, the people of Minna understand each other. There is a sort of labored poetry to their words. Unfortunately, this type of speech can lead to problems. I once witnessed a man greet a friend with “maximum drive means driving your max” and the two men disagreed with whether the V in drive stood for Velocity or Vicissitude. The two men came to blows on a sidewalk, pulling each other’s dri-fit quarter-zips over their heads exposing the shirt and tie they wear underneath and pummeling each other until passersby urged them to be K.I.N.D. (kindness is never donnybrooking).

The residents are kind and welcoming, largely because they are happy to sit down for hours and explain what their various sayings and acronyms mean. They are excited because it has taken their ancestors hundreds if not thousands of years to compile such a beguiling and twisting language that follows its own logic, even if it is kind of silly. But because they cannot speak without their comforting store of aphorisms and sayings, every conversation mushrooms into an even more impenetrable nest of references. I recommend staying away from Minna at all costs.

Cities and Legal Structures II: Anna

 

The Great Commissioner has an atlas that shows all of the cities in his conference’s empire. He shows it to Marco Polo who sees them unfold from coast to coast, popping up features. The explorer remembers the freeways of Angelina unfolding before him in a shimmering, endless ribbon whose haze formed a curtain between the real and the possible. He remembers the great and terrible grotesques of Lafeya, their hammers poised above his head. And he remembers Piscataway, where he once had a nice sandwich.

"When you return to Italy, will you tell the people about the cities that you see?" the Commissioner asks.

“Each person is only able to receive the stories they can understand. When I talk about a city where memories are at war with the living, the gondolier or stevedore hearing it can only understand from the context of their own memories, their own ghosts. That city will be entirely different than the same city I tell you about, Commissioner. The cities all exist simultaneously to buttress and destroy each other.”

“What’s the cable TV market like for football where you’re from?” the commissioner asks.

It is an unwise traveler to Anna who arrives without legal representation. The city of Anna is a city of formal complaints, lawsuits, and hearings. To walk down the street is to invite a summons or be deposed as a witness to a dispute happening several feet away. 

The citizens of Anna are busy appearing in courts, writing letters, and demanding evidence. They move furtively through alleys and sewers to avoid further complaints and denunciations and subpoenas. Or they sneak about themselves, trying to track down the targets of their lawsuits. The largest growing industry in Anna are people who will disguise themselves to deliver notices. They pop out of garbage receptacles and paint themselves like tree bark; they hoist themselves onto ceilings and dangle themselves from light fixtures. The most diabolical of them disguise themselves as someone their target is serving papers to only to whirl around serve their target before anyone has time to activate a smoke bomb and melt into the streets.

The city is filled with discarded paper from letters and transcripts. They blow into alleys and onto people’s faces. There is so much official paper flying from windows and open doors and briefcases accidentally jarred and flying open while a dimayed Annan sinks to his knees that the sheets stick together and congeal into hardened bricks. These paper bricks form into large structures that are the only things built in Anna. It is legally impossible to do any sort of construction, and people cram into wobbling paper buildings to hide from each other or to spring through the walls unexpectedly.

The people of Anna send their disputes to courts, committees, and government bodies. But these organizations are beset by infighting and formal complaints as well. All day, matters are referred to responsible bodies whose members are off filing motions each other or disguising themselves as statuary in order to serve papers to rival members. They all form networks of complex alliances and constantly betray each other. They ambush each other with trick complaints that actually turn out, when read aloud, to be a complaint against the person reading it. No dispute has ever been successfully settled.

The citizens of Anna have heard about this section of my writings and dispute it. I have already had fifteen pointed legal documents delivered by a boat navigating around the most treacherous capes to get here and demand my appearance in Literature Court before getting another note that Literature Court had been dissolved and placed under the aegis of Literary Court and then another telling me to disregard the previous letter, Literature Court had in fact never gone anywhere and is in fact suing the members of Literary Court for Court Infringement before getting another letter telling me that Literature Court is actually dissolving and I was hearing from the true Committee on the Activities of Literature Court and not a series of belligerent imposters, who had sent the previous letters and are themselves the target of multiple lawsuits. I also received a letter that was just a drawing of a hand making an obscene gesture.

Under the advice of counsel, I should like to tell the Great Commissioner that Anna is an ordinary city with no unusual features.

Cities and Memory: Linka

 

Big Ten Commissioner Tony Pettiti told Marco Polo that he would tell him about Big Ten cities and Marco Polo would tell him if they existed. "Here is an enormous, teeming city," Pettiti said. "Buildings pile up next to buildings. All manner of people that have ever existed bounce off each other on unimaginable business.  And yet, despite their differences, there is one thing that unites them: wanting to watch small, regional football teams from suburbs or even small towns nowhere near them on television. Every single week, they huddle together around television sets fervently hoping to see their team or other teams from cities hundreds or even thousands of miles away play, and in their excitement they are willing to buy the products they see on screen: extra large men's pants, various braces for sore limbs, farm implements. Every person in these gigantic cities where they are crammed next to each other in small apartments will order a backhoe or one  one of those string spinners used for weeds."

"Great Commissioner, I have not seen such a city," Marco Polo says.  I have seen a city where no one sleeps, where dreams become corporeal and mingle with the half-awake people. Where the distinction between dream and reality becomes blurred and so it has been for generations, no one quite able to determine whether they are in the city or in its familiar but convoluted double, where connections between the dreamers are ephemeral and yet somehow more lasting than in cities where people can differentiate between them. They float on gossamer streets that might not be there and nothing is where it is supposed to be. Those are the cities I have seen."

"You're always seeing cities like that," the Commissioner said.

Cities and Memory: Linka

Linka, the great city of the past.  Everyone in Linka knows that the city had once had been astonishingly prosperous, covered in riches, everyone happy and learned.  The love of the city's past is palpable.  They say that anyone born in Linka or who lives there long enough, no longer even sees the city as it exists, but in their mind's eye they travel the great thoroughfares and boulevards in their own parades celebrating the city's former glories.

Conversation in Linka only consists of the recitation of these former triumphs.  The residents' devotion to ancient scholars and poets and architects who built the great libraries and gardens and palaces is so clear that these great figures seem alive and well in Linka.  Their teachings and personalities have been passed down so thoroughly it is as though they can still speak. But they are not alive. Years of interpretation and scholarship and popular bastardization have created competing versions of the same figures. People in Linka sometimes argue over the merits of these great ancestors, arguments that lead to shoving matches and the inevitable interjection of passesby, who proclaim that the celebrated old figures would never shove, except for Balon The Shover who had perfected the art beyond the comprehension of any contemporary Linkan. "To shove like that is barbarity unworthy of Balon The Shover," is a refrain that is sadly more common than ever in contemporary Linka.

You would think that Linka is covered in monuments and statues and museums to honor the glories of the the city's storied past. But the city is barren. No one can agree when the golden age of the city was. Every person seems to have a different idea of when Linka was a guiding light to the world and when it has shrunk to its present decrepitude. Any meeting where someone proposes erecting a monument descends into denunciations and recriminations and the inevitable bout of shoving. Even after a particularly vigorous bout of shoving when someone suggested building a statue to honor Balon The Shover, a small but insistent faction denounced Balon and claimed that it was actually his successor Pleton The Pusher that had perfected the art, and that whatever shoving Balon The Shover was doing was low, brutish calisthenics. It took three days for the people of Linka to stop shoving each other. A similar episode happened after a suggestion to dedicate a street to Uliot The Chest Poker.

The city of Linka as it presently exists can never compare to the glories of the city in the past, and that makes the people who live there disgusted with their own city. They cannot build anything new because they fear it would compare unfavorably to what was there before, but they cannot admit that the desolate ruins of old, rotting buildings can ever be destroyed because of what they meant. The people of the city lead double lives, traipsing around the imagined city of past glory in their own heads while they grow ever more upset with the state of their own city as it exists, the one they traverse every day.  Linka is a city trapped within a million other cities that perhaps never existed, smothering the present. 

Cities and Transportation IV: Lafeye

 

Every night, the Great Commissioner Tony Pettiti and Marco Polo would sit at Big Ten headquarters smoking as the Venetian described the cities of his empire to him.  One night, Pettiti said to Marco Polo, "every night you tell me about the cities in my realm and yet we sit here smoking. You do not ever seem to leave this Rosemont Fogo de Chao." "Commissioner," Marco Polo said while flipping over his meat card, "consider that a city that is not a fixed place in space or in time, but a collection of memories. These memories build and perhaps are more important than bricks, and mortar, and roads. Cities are a collaboration between the living and the dead in simultaneous realms, for without the dead the city is an empty husk, a collection of asphalt and steel imbued without any meaning. Do you have to travel to a city or can you merely rearrange collections of memories until you can see every city?" The Commissioner chuckled, not completely believing what Marco Polo said but also realizing that the alternative to listening to him was to watch a Rutgers football game.

Cities and Transportation IV: Lafaye

There is no way to get to Lafaye from a road or by boat. The only way to enter the City of Rails is on a train. The entire city exists on rails.  Every road, pathway, and alley, and even the floors of large buildings have been torn up and replaced with tracks and elaborate switching systems. Different trains are constantly moving through the city: zippy cars carrying passengers, ponderous freight cars, trucks that have been mounted on rails to move them from the outskirts of the city, hand carts pumped by Pumpoliers in colorful costumes who belt out songs as they pant that are immediately drowned out by the ferocious roar of a passing train.

Some people in Lafeye wear elaborate rail boots with wheels on the bottom. They propel themselves up and down the tracks with large poles that the push from side to side like kayak oars. The traffic as the tracks narrow through tunnels and around rivers matches the pace of the slowest train. There is no way to pass, so Lafayens are patient and unhurried. But not perfectly so.  Every so often, there is a dispute or a scuffle where two people shove each other with their train-oars and try to roll the opponent off the rails entirely where they will be trapped and flailing until a train car with a joist can lift them back onto the rails to continue their journey.

To move around Lafaye requires travel in a predetermined circuit. Everyone is always going the same way. No matter where you thought you wanted to go when you started out in your journey, the city of Lafaye will deliver you to where you are supposed to be. This does not seem to trouble the residents of the city, who exist with a good-humored fatalism.

The defining aesthetic of Lafaye is grotesque. The only art in the city consists of large, hideous statues of people with jutting chins and eyes dilated with madness wielding heavy bludgeoning instruments. These grotesques stand at every corner designed to surprise and terrify unsuspecting visitors. Some are spring-loaded to leap out unexpectedly at passing trains. The Lafayens know where all of them are at all times and they simply smile and smooth their blonde mustaches.

Take a Lafayen out of the city and this person will fall into the throes of confusion. Put them in a sunny plaza and tell them they can walk in whatever direction they want and they will stand still, unable to comprehend the idea. Tell them they can take a car or a boat and they will worry.  They will even regard a street car with some suspicion. Show them stairs and they will panic and fall down.

The Lafayens seem happy with their lot, boarding trains, taking them where they will go, and being deposited with the flow of the crowd or forced to continue riding around the city until the train stops. There is no concern with what to do next. They are content, even if every night they all end up in the same soot-covered train depot where the trains stop and rest for the next morning. The people of Lafaye do too.

Cities and the Future I: Happylis

 

At first Marco Polo and the great Big Ten Commissioner Tony Petitti could not communicate in the same language. Polo was mystified by what Petitti and his court meant when they kept demanding to see a “deck.” But Petitti soon came to understand Polo’s description of his conference’s far-flung cities that he would never see because there are so many of them through a series of gestures: Polo stomping around like an ungainly giant meant that there were fullbacks there, grabbing his head and pretending to angrily undo a chin strap meant that the city featured an inept Big Ten West-style quarterback, squinting into the middle distance meant an overmatched coach on the hot seat. Eventually, Polo mastered the Commissioner’s language and the Rosemont dialect spoken in his court, but after several conversations, he and Petitti soon decided that the gestures told him much more.

Cities and The Future I: Happylis

The city of Happylis is the great unfinished city of the conference. Every person you talk to in Happylis is excited to tell you about the great treasures that the city will have eventually. Every place you stand is the site of a future monument or edifice. And every person has a different idea what it will be. For example, you can stand in an alley and talk to one Happylisian and he will tell you that you are the foundations of what will be a great museum. Run into another person (the Happylisians are very busy) and she will tell you that you are standing where there will be a brilliant spire with decorations that will bathe the city below in different type of light depending on the position of the sun, turning the entire cityscape in its shadows into a psychdelic art project. It is a city that is becoming.

But while the optimism for the future radiates through every person in Happylis, all of them are despondent about the present. Here, any existing museum is a dump, any existing spire is a ruin, and any existing structure is only a placeholder meant to be demolished and paved way for something larger, bolder, and better. Everywhere there are signs on walls depicting what is going to eventually be there and contrasting signs with differing visions. 

On one building, largely considered the finest and most intricate in Happylis, the entire edifice has been covered in placards going up ten or eleven stories where residents have been feuding for decades about whether it is going to be a luxury hotel or an elaborate arena for laser tag; this argument for several stories until, as you reach the upper floors, the placards give way to personal insults about the person who had made the placard immediately below it. For two stories, the placards go back and forth in threats where the placard-writers threaten to fight each other, sending each other hypothetical combat moves. 

“Pig fucker!” one placard reads. “All you do is write on placards. When I see you in the arboretum (which will eventually be replaced with a helipad) I will do drum fills on your skull with my nunchucks.” “Swine-rutter! I have sketched a picture of my elbow on this placard to exact 1:1 scale so you can prepare for it to meet your solar plexus!” No one, as far as I can tell, has ever fought, and both placard-writers seem content that they had made their point.

The one thing everyone in Happylis can agree on is that the current leadership in the city cannot fulfill their future vision. Everyone spends all day with plans to depose the leader, to throw him in an oubilette. Every poster with his picture, warmly smiling on the site of hypothetical construction, immediately becomes a site for outdoor bowel relief for even the fanciest citizens. Those in their regalia, tails flapping in the wind, elegant evening gowns enmeshed in elaborate scarves that are cut to seem like they come directly from the neck, stop immediately and erect elaborate screens that they carry for this purpose to they can befoul pictures of city leadership. “He will not build the sky library,” one of them tells me as he laps up water to assault an etching of the city leader at a bus station. “That maniac wants to build a sky library” another one on tells me as he charges toward the same image.

For the traveler who is cursed to see Happylis as it is, the city is bustling and idyllic. But after spending any length of time there, the traveler begins to see the city becoming. The entire city becomes subsumed to becoming, the present becomes poisoned. The charming neighborhood becomes a slum, the parks a blemish. The streets curdle and disintegrate. Happylis drowns in its prosperous misery.

Cities and Transportation Infrastructure I: Angelinal/Cities and Waterfowl I: Eugenia

Tony Petitti does not necessarily believe Marco Polo when he describes the various cities of the Big Ten. In the life of any Conference Commissioner, there is a pride in conquering vast swathes of new territory and a melancholy and relief of knowing he should give up any thought of knowing or understanding them. There is a sense of emptiness that comes in the evening, with the smells of unlimited Brazilian meats waft into his Rosemont headquarters and the traffic from the Jane Addams intensifies into a steady roar of passing cars rather than the grind of stalled traffic, and the din from the Chicago Dogs baseball stadium has died down. Only through the tales from the Venetian explorer could Commissioner Petitti grasp the subtle patterns.

Cities and transportation infrastructure 1: Angelina

Angelina is a great city of roads. The roads form a great circuit around the city and the residents travel through them all day every day to unknowable ends. The city is divided into those who can still remember the purpose for which they set off on the road and those who have forgotten and only travel upon the roads for lack of understanding of what else to do. 

Travelers are constantly broadcasting their complicated routes to other travelers and describing the parts of the city they have heard about– the beaches, the gardens, the tar pits, the elevated street taco place that’s still authentic– they are all constantly explaining these plans and meticulously broadcasting them to other travelers who are making and explaining their own plans. The travelers all take to the airwaves to talk about their routes and then appear on other travelers’ broadcasts to have the same conversation.

Somewhere nestled in the mountains through ribbons of road there is a large, flat, bowl. The sun sparkles on it before setting into a picturesque scene, like a softboiled egg nestled in a purple broth. And yet, the bowl is empty. Travelers discuss games that take place there, they relay explanations of complex plays and detailed descriptions of violent tackles, but no one can verify them since they are not there. They have played an infinite number of games, each one altered by a traveler who has not seen it but has heard of it, the games warp in the retelling and become another game. In some accounts these games turn into perverse spectacle and others turn into farcical comedy, impossible comebacks, the endless, recursive return of onside kicks into touchdowns.

No one has seen the games because no one is there. The travelers of Angelina are circling the stadium in loops simultaneously arriving and departing until it is impossible to determine which is which. It all blurs into the same road.

Cities and waterfowl 1: Eugenia

The citizens of Eugenia complain of neck pain because they are always looking up. Their necks stick that way. Older residents are no longer able to see their own shoes and need to have them placed on by children with more pliant, flexible necks. Toddlers crawl and call out obstacles on the ground to older relatives, an imperfect system since they do not have a keen eye to discern obstacles, but they have been deputized for this important job by being lowest to the ground.

The residents of Eugenia must keep their heads up at all times because the city has a duck. Every day, the man-sized duck flies across the city on a nest of zip lines. The tallest buildings have been repurposed into zip line towers, and this duck zooms around, low to the ground, its webbed feet constantly clattering into unaware heads as distracted citizens are knocked into creeks and merchant stalls filled with fresh fish. Before the Eugenians adopted their signature pose, the duck was knocking scores of people to the ground every day as it zips around toward a purpose that no one has discovered.

Every day, the Eugenia go about their business to the din of the zipline and enter their low-ceilinged buildings where they read and write on their own ceilings and hang their belongings so they do not trip on them. Doctors say it takes five years for outsiders to be able to look up vigilantly enough to avoid the duck and unaware visitors expect to get kicked or belly bumped by a ziplining duck at least three times each day, depending on the duck’s activities.

The people of Eugenia like their duck and are horrified at any suggestion that the duck should be harmed or stopped from maniacally ziplining into the populace. You should get out of its way, they say to anyone who protests. This is simply what the duck does in this city. You should not carry large bundles of eggs or panes of glass. 

The duck is whimsical. Every small joy of looking forward or bending over to smell flowers or even to avoid stepping into a pothole or pile of animal waste is subsumed to the enjoyable spectacle of a duck flying around, hopping from line to line, expertly lining up in front of a baker carrying an enormous layer cake unaware of the duck’s whereabouts. 

No one needs to bicker or spread gossip. The only acceptable topic of conversation in Eugenia is what the duck is up to or speculation about where the duck might be going next or even talking to each other as if they were the duck him or herself even though the duck’s own thoughts are entirely inscrutable. People come to Eugenia with hopes and dreams and fears but they happily subsume them to hopes and dreams and fears about the duck in an annihilating relief.

The duck also has a motorcycle.

Michigan Stadium aka "The Big House," Ann Arbor, Michigan

After the construction of Michigan's colossal new stadium in 1927, university authorities feared that they could have trouble filling it. So to drum up interest, they released a radio adventure serial set in and around the stadium filled with intrigue and plots against the beloved local team foiled weekly by the intrepid Conrad Mustangs. Today, here the script from an episode taken from the Michigan Radio Archive.

Note: None of the things I wrote about above are true. I made it all up. It is fiction. For entertainment purposes. Michigan fans, please do not email me about Historical Inaccuracies.

BIG MESS AT THE BIG HOUSE: EPISODE 14: A SINISTER UNIFORM CONUNDRUM

ANNOUNCER: Tonight’s broadcast of Big Mess at the Big House: A Conrad Mustangs Adventure is brought to you by Vance Crayfish’s Leaded Paints. No paint is more brilliant, more beautiful, and more bold than Vance Crayfish’s. Your neighbors and friends will be stunned by the bright colors of your walls. Other paints are dull and faded because they do not provide the American consumer with the lead he deserves. Vance Crayfish’s patented formula has nearly 40% more lead than all other paints available. Write to Vance Crayfish, 432 Rinsdow Ave., Moth, Ohio. Today’s program is also sponsored by hogs. Next time you have pork, insist on hogs.

And now, here he is, the man of a dozen faces, the fearless fighter for freedom and football, your hero Conrad Mustangs in another thrilling adventure. Last week, Mustangs outwitted the hoodlums and punch-merchants of the dangerous Maroon Syndicate by replacing their cigars with ones tainted with undetectable gut-tonics. These blighted belvederes put these toughs in such a gastric distress that they were forced to flee the Big House for an outhouse, and Mustangs was given the Key to the City while his enemies groaned out a stomach symphony. But there are sinister forces afoot in the shadow of the old stadium who have it out for the Wolverines.

We start our story with two mysterious figures having a clandestine meeting outside Michigan Stadium.

(sound effect: the sound of someone getting a sap to the bean attained using a baseball thrown into a pile of burlap sacks and person yelling HURGH and the sound of someone getting dragged away by putting a cantaloupe in one of the burlap sacks and dragging it across a table)
SHADOWY FIGURE ONE(whispering): Hurry up you nitwit! Change into this sap’s clothes while he’s out of it.
SHADOWY FIGURE TWO: The hat doesn’t fit.
SHADOWY FIGURE ONE: Well, we didn’t have time to wait and find someone coming who had a noggin as gigantic as yours. It would take us all day. You must be a world record holder with that cranium. Just jam it on. Here. (sound effect: a hat being pulled over a large head using a paper sack being pulled over a basketball).
SHADOWY FIGURE TWO: Ow!
SHADOWY FIGURE ONE: Just shut your kisser or I’ll wax you in the brainpan. Hurry up, grab those football uniforms and bring the ones we brought in. But don’t manhandle them with those mitts. I was told not to touch them without gloves. We need everything to go perfect for the big game Saturday. Then those Wolverines are in for the surprise of their lives. Ha ha ha ha.
SHADOWY FIGURE TWO: Haw haw haw haw haw
SHADOWY FIGURE ONE: You don’t even know what you’re laughing at you ox.

ANNOUNCER: Meanwhile inside the bowels of the stadium, Conrad Mustangs meets with Coach Van Roast in his office.

COACH VAN ROAST: I say, Mustangs, that Maroon Gang really had us in the soup there. Good thing we had you around to give them the what for with those stogies.
MUSTANGS: Well, it is all in a day’s work. We have to remain vigilant. As you know, the enemies of Michigan football are everywhere and they will stop at nothing to foil our exploits on the field.
COACH VAN ROAST: That’s right. There are plots from crackpots and eggheads constantly popping up against our lads to prevent them from winning fair and square, the Michigan way. Mustangs, tell me, with a big game coming up this week, have you seen anything hinky?
MUSTANGS: My network of street urchins informants have been telling me that something strange might be going on at Cooley Technical High School so I disguised myself as a rough-back named Quig Pomona and infiltrated their game.
COACH VAN ROAST: Did you find out anything?
MUSTANGS: Well, we were down 4-2 in the final quarter so I told the lads to dig deep and execute the headbutt dive. Coach, we pummeled those kids into fields behind the school and got the winning score and afterwards we went out to celebrate at the meat stand. But then Moose Frangella and his Red Street Boys came by looking for a fracas. Things got heated very quickly and I had to give Little Jake Mastodan the old one-two right in the breadbasket and then I beat my feet right out of there.
COACH VAN ROAST: Troubling. But did you find anything out about the game?
MUSTANGS: Yes, we’re going to thrash Johnson High on the field next week after we slapped them into next Sunday at that meat stand donnybrook.
COACH VAN ROAST: No, did you find any plots against Michigan before the big game?
MUSTANGS: Oh yes. Michigan football. No. Not yet. But I know as we speak an unknown enemy is moving among us, Coach.

ANNOUNCER: And Mustangs is right. For even as we speak, there are evil forces afoot that are threatening your beloved Wolverines. 

(Sound effect: thunder and lightning, rain steadily rattling off a rooftop)
SINISTER MAN: Did you switch the uniforms?
SHADOWY FIGURE ONE: Yes, no thanks to this lunkhead here.
SHADOWY FIGURE TWO: Hey! I did my job, I socked him good.
SINISTER MAN: You know what they say about a bad workman and his tools. But excellent. Years of research and finally, a way for toad venom to soak into a garment, putting the victims into a stupor, and those Wolverines will finally be exposed for the bilious worms they are.
SHADOWY FIGURE ONE: And a job well done by us. Which brings us to our arrangement. Ingots, as we discussed.
SINISTER MAN: This is a delicate manner. I have had to move with great caution because I am not just an ordinary criminal mastermind. No, you have been hired by Dr. Jacopo Manbanner, the Chairman of the Big Ten Conference. My goal is to destroy the Michigan Wolverines whom I don’t like because their university president once snubbed me viciously at the All Universities Toasting Fête.
(sound effect: organ playing a diminished chord)
SHADOWY FIGURE ONE: That is a tremendous story, Professor. But we want our money.
(sound effect: cocking of a revolver)
(sound effect: the BLATT BLATT of a heavy liquid hitting someone in the face achieved by dropping marmalade from great height onto an old casserole.)
SHADOWY FIGURE ONE: Argh! My face!
DR. JACOPO MANBANNER: That’s a double dose of my toad venom. By my calculations, you have about thirty seconds before your mind starts to take you on a journey to realms of insanity from which you’ll never return.
SHADOWY FIGURE TWO: Boss, did he just say he’s turning us into toads?
SHADOWY FIGURE ONE: No, you lugnut. We’re going to fall into a reverie of madness. Say, why do you now have two enormous heads?

ANNOUNCER: Our hero Mustangs has not yet uncovered the sinister plot against Michigan football. But he is undaunted and trying. We now find him in a nest of iniquity, a speakeasy where Mustangs is wearing a false nose and large, bushy mustaches while he tries to get a whiff of a plot while mingling with the dregs of the Ann Arbor criminal underground
(sound effect: hot jazz music blaring)
(sound effect: a boisterous crowd buzzing and shouting and clinking glasses and occasionally shouts of HUZZAH or “Boatman’s Uncle”

MUSTANGS (as his alter ego Trent Ghent): Haha the festivities are ripping. Sir please give me an alcohol, and make it extra illegal. Hey fella. As you can tell by this alcohol, I love breaking the law. Do you know of any criminal plots against Michigan football?
MAN AT SPEAKEASY: Get away from me!
MUSTANGS: A tough nut. Maybe one of these dames can tell me something. It’s time to cut a rug. Ladies, may I? No? You’re waiting for Moose? Oh I understand. Tell me, is he involved in any illegal plans to cost Michigan the Big Game? Ok, I’ll scram. I’m scramming.
(sound effect: shoes running away gotten by playing a coconut with drum sticks)
MUSTANGS: You, mister. You look like a strapping young fellow. In fact, you’re someone I have in mind for my criminal operation targeting Michigan football. Would you like to help? Or maybe you’re already in some sort of anti-Wolverine scheme that I can join.
ANOTHER MAN AT SPEAKEASY: Mustangs.
MUSTANGS: I have no idea what you’re talking about, I’m the tool and die magnate Trent Ghent.
ANOTHER MAN AT SPEAKEASY: Mustangs,, cut the malarkey. I’m working for you! I’ve been working this room for weeks. You don’t recognize me? You called me your brightest bean!
MUSTANGS: Of course. Jimmy The Neck. This, eh, was a test. And you passed most admirably. Do you have any leads?
JIMMY THE NECK: No. But I keep hearing something about toads.
MUSTANGS: Preposterous!
JIMMY THE NECK: I thought so. But it keeps coming up. Every underground football criminal has been saying all sorts of nutty things but they all somehow involve toads.

ANNOUNCER: And so our hero Conrad Mustangs goes to his famous Disguise Closet this time for a false beard, a bright green suit, and some alligator shoes. His investigations have taken him to Ann Arbor’s reptile district, a bazaar of boa constrictors, a plethora of pythons, a variety of vipers.
(Sounds effects: lizard noises that come from the hissing from air being let out of a bicycle tire, voices periodically shouting “Turtles! Iguañas!” in the distance.

MUSTANGS: Toads?
VENDOR: Snakes only. Move along.
MUSTANGS: Toads?
ANOTHER VENDOR: Get out of here before I call in the police.
MUSTANGS: Toads?
A THIRD VENDOR: (loudly) I’ve never sold a toad here in my life. Those are illegal. (softly) You shouldn’t be that brazen. There are eyes everywhere. Come in, and be quick. (sound effect: opening and closing a door)
THIRD VENDOR: What makes a man like you in the market for a toad?
MUSTANGS (affecting a terrible and unplaceable foreign accent): Pleased to meet you. My name is J. Konstantin Kroboshkin, toad fancier, enthusiast, scholar.
VENDOR: You certainly do not appear acquainted with the toad market here.
MUSTANGS: (still doing the accent but it’s wobbling like a prizefighter who has been battered about the head for thirteen rounds) Sir, you must forgive. I am normally very active in the market overseas. Baku, Tashkent. Bratislava. These American restrictions are troubling. Land of the free, you say. Not in terms of toad.
VENDOR: You can call me Mr. Glenavery Hiss. What sorts of toads are you looking for Mr. Kroboshkin?
MUSTANGS: Exotic. Dangerous. What sorts of toads typically move through this market?
MR. HISS: Funny you should ask that. We’ve had a large uptick in venomous toads from South America. Big buyers.
MUSTANGS: Interesting. What can I do to get my hands on one of them? Do you have another shipment coming in soon?
MR. HISS: Let me check my ledger. (sound effect, rustling around in drawer recorded from rustling around in a drawer.)
(sound effect: a revolver cocking)
MR. HISS: Mr. Kroboshkin, your inquiries are a bit bold. You hardly seem to be a toad man at all. What are you, police? Customs? Out with it.
MUSTANGS: I am afraid you are mistaken. Perhaps my manners here are… uncouth. I am simply a toad fancier from a foreign land seeking to understand how you do business. There’s no need for guns.
MR. HISS: Very well. But if you’re as experienced of a toad man as you say, then you should have no trouble with this serum of toad-derived insanity poison. I am assuming the exposure should make you mildly odd. Of course a man who had never been exposed to toads would become completely deranged within seconds. But that’s not a problem with an experienced toad man like you.
MUSTANGS: Ridiculous. I am leaving. Someone else here surely wants my ingots. (sound effect: rattling a locked doorknob)
MR. HISS: I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave, Mr. Kroboshkin. You will take the toad insanity serum right now and we will see about your toad tolerance.

ANNOUNCER: And so Conrad Mustagns finds himself in another pickle with a sinister toad merchant. Will Mustangs lose his mind? Will the tainted uniforms turn the Michigan Wolverines from a fearsome football squadron to a bunch of uncoordinated oafs in the Big Game? Will Jacopo Manbanner’s sinister plot against the Wolverines succeed? Tune in next week for Big Mess at the Big House: A Conrad Mustangs Adventure.

Ohio Stadium aka "The Horseshoe," Columbus, Ohio

In 1922, Ohio State began construction of its stadium, known as The Horseshoe. Here is a letter protesting this construction from Dr. Augustus Morgan "Pepper" Matschafter, professor of Physical Education, who was upset at the university's misplaced prioritization of football.

To the Robust and Vigorous Board at The Ohio State University,

Every year we are subjected to the same sights of battered, broken young men sacrificing themselves in the sport of Football for the entertainment of the dullard masses. And now, the University seeks to build an enormous stadium of poured concrete just for this sad spectacle so we can cram more students and yokelous onlookers into it to watch these youths smash and bash each other for their base amusement. Well I, and other high-minded faculty at this supposed Institution of Higher Learning have had enough. I demand that the University cease allocating resources to Football and immediately redistribute it to more important, educational ends. It is time for the University to immediately transfer all funding to the superior sport of Brains Wrangling.

I am frankly embarrassed that our esteemed school is hosting a sport where these young men sprint into each other while trying to gain possession of an oblong pig’s bladder. Ridiculous! These lads should be crashing into each other in tests of strength and brains-power by which I mean they should be trying to injure each other by bludgeoning each other with their own skulls. What sort of dullard is interested in “touch downs” or “half-backs” or those endless procedural meetings mediated by a referee who stops them for infractions for moving the wrong way or being too rough with each other? I cannot imagine thousands of people wanting to see this sort of dainty rules-mongering instead of scores of thick-necked oafs lining up on opposite sides of a field, taking a running start, and trying to headbutt each other in the torso.

The slack-jawed masses currently enamored with football will soon grow tired of its elaborate rules  regime, especially when confronted with a more daring and vigorous sport where young people are spun around by the ankles and thrown into a crowd of opponents who must try to withstand a bludgeoning from the skulls of these human projectiles. Instead of fussy referees constantly trying to penalize the players, the officials will join in the fray, unleashing their own heads upon lollygagging competitors whose bashing of their opponents is feeble and underwhelming.

I urge the university board to reconsider building this palace to a sad, passing fad, a sport that will go the way of bear-baiting and train-punching. University funds simply cannot be allowed to be tied to a dying pageant of tedium where players are not thrown at each other via trebuchet nor allow biting of opponents when the referee has given the signal for legal mouth-combat. Every week, I receive a report from the top scientific minds at the Brains Wrangling Society (the most recent of which I have submitted with this letter) warning of a precipitous decline in football interest in newspaper columns and people shouting about it on the street and (while it may offend the delicate sensibilities of the Board to know that their game has been sullied in this way) I have certain intelligences that suggest that football has seen a significant downturn in underground betting parlors. The men who frequent such dens and shake their money in order to place bets have expressed what I have come to understand as an overwhelming interest instead in a sport where the competitors are dropped on each other head first from great height.

What, may I ask, will the Ohio State University do with an empty concrete behemoth once the greater Columbus dunce population grows tired of this boring, wearying sport? What happens when people, craving robust tackling action instead see a bunch of pointy-headed collegians carefully plotting out their so-called “plays” with protractors and slide rules and bump into each other while swaddled in helmets, like soft-headed children? What will fill the stadium? Chess matches? Competitive examinations? Petting zoos for local children? As you can see, a stadium for football would be another grave mistake and black mark for this University, an even larger error than the one this very board made funding my colleague Professor Brun Punda’s nonsensical paper proposing a sport called “Top Speed Bludgeoning” that made him the laughingstock of the entire field for how brazenly it copied the existing rules for Brains Wrangling that I published years ago.

Instead of spending untold sums of university money for a sport that may not even exist by the end of the decade, it would be far wiser to invest the money in an activity with staying power. With a mere fraction of the funds being spent on this concrete monstrosity, the Brains Wrangling Society could demonstrate a superior sport that would capture the imagination of sporting fans all over the country. For mere pennies compared to the stadium fund, my Brains Wrangling team could instantly attract the attentions of any town in the state by using an old-fashioned railroad pump cart to launch team members head first into someone’s torso, an arresting and daring feat that would instantly conjure up great interest in the sport.

According to the Brains Wrangling Societies’ projections from the esteemed professor Abel Bruus, a conservative campaign of literature distribution, newspaper advertisement, and a modest tour featuring demonstrations of pump cart headbutts would have Brains Wrangling eclipsing football in popularity in the state of Ohio by 1932. I know it sounds astonishing and I personally shook Professor Bruus violently when he presented the figures to me because they sounded so outlandish, but we both painstakingly checked the mathematics. According to our calculations, the University would require a significant stadium built to Brains Wrangling specifications just to handle the demand from crowds who would travel for hundreds of miles just to see Migal Yerop, the Iron Forehead of Bucyrus, put his entire cranium through a concrete block and then swing it wildly at competitors until the referees catch him in a giant net and subdue him with Sporting Grade Laudanum.

Please do not make the same mistake after you built the ridiculous arena for the short-lived Horseless Polo craze of 1893. You will soon make another horse mistake with this ill conceived boondoggle of a stadium for a sport no one will believe that anyone had ever watched.

Yours,

Professor Augustus Morgan "Pepper" Matschafter, PhD, President and First Secretary of the Brains Wrangling Society of the United States

Ross-Ade Stadium, West Lafeyette, Indiana

Speech from Menley Quackow, transcribed from the West Lafeyette Crackpot Archives from 1922 during a municipal election:

 

Well folks, you can tell me a pig’s a pig, but I'll be checking to see if it makes bacon. Now I’m not a fancy big city Lafayette man like Mr. Ross or Mr. Ade, with their spats and their hats and their monocles and their handpicked candidate. But you know what? I think they’ve got some good ideas. That’s right. Now I know you’ve read my pamphlets showing a picture of me kicking them in their behinds until their top hats fall into the Wabash River and you’ve heard my campaign slogan “The Time For Kicking Has Begun” which I’ve also made into a song that my nephew performed on the washboard. But they are right about one thing: Our beloved Purdue University needs a new stadium.

 

Friends, Stuart Field where we gather to watch our Boilermakers play against Notre Dame, Depauw, and the hated Little Giants of Wabash whose tiny beanstalks we’ve seen Purdue cut time and time again, is no longer suitable for so-called “Big Ten Football.” And I have no problem with these fatcats shelling out for a new stadium, which they’re going to name after themselves.

 

But these men and the university are on the wrong track. In fact, they’re not on any track at all. Now, you can tell me a pig’s a pig, but I don’t need to wash the mud off if it’s mooing at me. These, well I can’t politely say what I would call these gentlemen here, but these fine folks want to build a stadium on a piece of land and make us come to it. Imagine that. Putting on your suit, your tie, and pipes you use to defend yourself in case the Rose-Hulman Tech Fighting Engineers gangs come here and menace us with their t-squares and protractors and going to a football game. I say that we in West Lafeyette deserve better. The people deserve better. We deserve a stadium that comes to us.

 

That’s why I’m proposing an easy solution to the stadium problem. Not a fancy new stadium like my opponent supports with gilded spittoons for the Rosses and Ades of the world but an honest stadium for honest hard-working people: I’m saying we put the entire stadium on a train. That’s right. The stadium that travels with the team. You want to play the Boilermarkers? Well, I say let our boys roll up on the rails with their own stadium, with stands and grass and goal posts and thousands of screaming Purdue fans and a band wailing the March of the Purduemen right in their municipal train station while the opposing teams all look at us with their mouths open in disbelief and get upset enough to lose 48-3. The first mobile, locomotive stadium. Right here at Purdue.

 

With a mobile locomotive stadium (I call it “The Train”), Purdue can take on all comers, even cowards that won’t come to play in West Lafeyette. The mobile stadium could even travel between campuses during the game with each team switching off whatever side the wind is blowing from the train's speed and with stops between quarters for fans to get on or off the train. Imagine the excitement when a player gets tackled out of the stadium completely and into a tree or a barn or even onto another passing train as the player who thought he was on the way to the end zone is now on the way to Tucumcari. The novelty will inspire other teams to build their own train stadiums and could fill the rail lines with wholesome football instead of with the swindlers and hoboes the currently clog our cars.

 

Folks, I’m sorry to say that my opponent Mr. Orville Pawpus does not support a train stadium at all. Maybe it’s because he’s attached at the hip to Mr. Ross and Mr. Ade. You can tell me a pig’s a pig when it’s suckling at a trough. No, he wants to build the same stadium that you can see all over the country that can’t transport an entire field and bleacher complex to Columbus Ohio with only 72 hours notice. Now, I’m a gentleman and I believe in a clean campaign so I would never insult my opponent. But I would make a general observation that people who cannot see the advantages of a stadium mounted entirely on rails as pretty light in the brain meat.

 

I’ll confess that I have been reading Mr. Pawpus’s pamphlets and listening to his speeches (I know, someone has to), and I don’t think that he cares much about Purdue’s stadium at all. No, when it comes to this critical part of infrastructure for our state and our country my opponent is strangely silent.Instead, what Mr. Pawpus seems interested in talking about is that Purdue football needs to be represented by a grotesque mannequin that he has invented.

 

Frankly, Mr. Pawpus’s creature is disgusting. People don’t want to look at it. He says it should look like a person but have a giant bulbous head and vacant eyes. He calls it Football Jack and wants it at the games, at the schools, and in your community. While you and I and the other great hardworking people of Tippecanoe County are wondering about putting food on the table for our families or figuring out how Purdue University can have the first operating train stadium that whisks it from Greencastle to South Bend, time and time again my opponent insists his most pressing concern is that Football Jack should be “wielding an implement.”

 

And when it comes to the stadium, my opponent wants his horrible Football Jack all over the place. He wants to have students dressed as this odious cretin wandering around the stadium and accosting children. He wants it capering around the field for amusement, to amuse him and his perverse friends in the legislature. Friends, I have been told that Mr. Pawpus has drawings of a large mechanical version of Football Jack’s head so the Boilermakers can run out of it at the beginning of games like it is vomiting them all over the field. That is an insult to me and you and the entire game of American football.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, I want you to search inside of yourselves and really think. Do you want our boilermakers, our lads playing football in a palace devoted to a balloon-headed specter? Or do you want our boys traveling in comfort in their own stadium on their way to thrash Milikin? I promise you I will fight hard for train stadiums for football, basketball, track and field, and even swimming. That is my promise to you. God bless you and the great state of Indiana.

 

Menley Quackow and Orville Pawpus received a combined 3% of the vote. Pawpus lived to see Purdue unleash Purdue Pete onto the world in 1940 and when he saw him he instantly died.

Kinnick Stadium, Iowa City, Iowa

 Excerpt from the novel "The Demon's Punt House" about the construction of Kinnick Stadium in 1929 as relayed by a stadium worker.

March 6, 1929.
We have finally begun construction by digging an enormous pit. Mr. Phipp [the head of the project] has told us to expect a grueling schedule. Me and the other most robust lads on the team are taking shifts with the mules to haul earth away.

March 9
Construction has been a difficult slog. Every time we believe we have gotten to the correct depth, a part of the pit fills in. Every day is a new setback. Today, that vigorous ass Inus grew frustrated with his mule and began to upbraid it with cruel words and a few sharp blows to the hindquarters. The beast waited for him to walk behind it and then kicked Inus in the solar plexus, a glancing blow, but one that sent him stumbling headfirst into a bucket which got stuck on his head and as he struggled, he managed to stumble into several mules, agitating all of them and they dropped their loads and began kicking out at all comers, a vicious can-can line of animal rage. It took a large supply of mule-grade laudanum to get them to calm down, but we lost a whole day and we are not sure that after managing to grease the bucket to pry it off of Inus’s head we did not permanently disfigure him with upturned nostrils that have given him an uncanny porcine expression.

March 20
The dig came to a halt as crews hit a large piece of metal with their shovels. After several hours of furious digging, they appear to have unearthed a large metal case. It took dozens of men and livestock to drag it out of the pit. I have taken some time to examine it and it appears to be a box with several moving parts and symbols that line up in some way. The men have been taking some time moving things around to try to open it before being sent back down to continue digging and transporting beams. Dabby Dubbert tried to bash it open with a mallet but the mallet bounced off it easily and hit him in the face and he spun around and fell into a bucket that some of us had been using as a spittoon and that night he vanished from the site without a word.

March 22
The box remains propped up on a table in the office. I have been spending all of my spare time (of which there is little as we had a large shipment of pink paints that I have been told will be used to paint the opposing locker room in order to psychologically diminish them according to top Brains Scientists) pondering the symbols. In my dreams I am arranging them on the case. I see it even when I am supposed to be taking inventory of individual nails or reporting the number of men who have fallen to cases of Stadium Bowels, a plague of which has run rampant through the site. Mr. Phipp personally reprimanded me after one of my reports on the latrine crisis consisted of nothing but doodles of the symbols, something that I do not even remember doing and must have written down as if in a trance. We have gotten little sleep, and Mr. Phipp recommended I take two hours for sleeping followed by a course of medical slapping across the face.

March 24
The large man. The small man. The hunchback. The cornstalk. The hawk. The cow. The eyeball. They spin around the box in some combination. They call to me in my dreams. The others don’t understand. I will arrange them.

March 25
I have been reprimanded for muttering. They said I am also negligent in my duties. My ledgers are filled with the symbols. I have also been banned from the tent where they are keeping the case and all managers on site have been authorized to bludgeon me if I come near it. I had been spending all of my time there, sleeping there, writing and writing trying to find the pattern. I am close, I am very close but they shut me out.

March 30
Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo. Bumppo.

April 3
I have the case. I do not know how. I can only recall it in flashes, me wielding a pistol, a desperate cart chase, escaping the clutches of the doctor and his hardest medicinal slaps, yelling “NO” when Mr. Phipp said “come back here you ass.” It is pouring and I am huddling with the case under a tarp in an abandoned barn. I know they’re looking for me but they can’t look too hard. They have a stadium to build and they don’t value the case, they don’t understand it. Not like I do. I consult my notebook and look at the combinations. I will look at the combinations.

April 7
The Combinations.

April 19
The fever has broken. This case was not meant to be opened. It is impossible to break the seal even with a series of powerful kicks, as I have learned and now believe I may have a broken bone in my kicking foot. It is, I believe, perhaps sealed to prevent the unleashing of a great evil. Maybe I should bring it to a university where it can be studied in great detail. Maybe I should bury it far away from the prying of human hands.  

April 20
I believe I have had a revelation about the combinations. It is not about the figures themselves, it is about a narrative message within the symbols. The father and the son. The eye. I see it now.

April 23
I am sore and wounded.  A group of geese also decided to make this barn their temporary home and we were happy sharing the space until they grew aggressive and I had to take out the largest goose, the leader, and in the tussle I sustained several serious pecks before I was able to subdue it with some scientific pugilism and some threatening honks summoned from the deepest recesses of my lungs. The horde flew away leaving behind only feathers and offal. But now I can at last return to the task of opening the case.

May 12
It is open. Forgive me if these writings are blurred with the celebratory tears. I could not believe the happiness I felt when I finally heard that click. I don’t know what I was expecting. Light, music, some sort of revelation. But what was in the case will require further study. They appear to be some sort of tablets and even some papers. This will require further study in the morning.

May 13
I have studied the objects. They are some clay tablets with more symbols similar to the ones outside the case. There are also newer engravings and some paper. It appears that this case has been opened repeatedly and added to. All of the symbols show a common element: a small figure, a larger figure and various other symbols but always those two in that configuration. I call them the Father, the Son (larger and somewhat oafish in appearance). There is also a canister containing a canvass with a large painting of the father at the head of a great host of helmeted men in a field gesturing as if making commands and the son lost in a bog making the same gestures. There is a carving of people looking at a man kicking what appears to be some sort of animal.

May 15
I have been going through a sheaf of papers. One appears to be a journal written in a language I cannot understand but illustrated with pictures of a man kicking. But, in the very back of this case, faded and crumbling but still legible, there is something in an older version of English. It appears to be a part of a log from a ship’s manifest and someone has circled Mr Foghens and Mr Foghens (son, oaf’s passage) bringing with them a Quantyty of Swynne’s Skinness.”

May 31
I have made my way back to the City. Though my beard has made me largely unrecognizable to anyone working on the stadium, I have taken great pains to avoid the site. I have used some money I had saved and bought myself nice clothing, bathed, and restored my appearance as I had grown my fingernails out into what I called “goose claws.” I have spent time at the library researching ancient languages and have sought out an expert at the university in Professor Clegborne, esteemed expert on Sinister Archaeology. I forged a letter of introduction from a colleague of his whom I took from the footnotes of one his publications “I Said Go Ahead and Smash the Laughing Demon Idol” from the pages of Traps and Blowdarts: A Compendium of Modern Graverobbing and presented myself as ancient objects dealer A. Vont Montgontage.

I showed him the objects telling them I have acquired them from the ancient artifacts underground and touched my nose, a gesture meant to show him I knew about where he got things from but one that seemed to leave him baffled. He was very interested in my objects though and said he had never seen anything like it. At first he seemed skeptical like I had made it up (archaeological hoaxes were in fashion on college campuses, as I had read in some publications, and many faculty had been taken in by embarrassing undergraduate mummy scams).  He was able to decipher that one of the writings, one of the most detailed ones, seemed to be written in Old Church Slavonic and he wanted to keep it for further study since he had a book to translate it.

June 4
Midnight. Someone pounding on the door. I would like to say I had been sleeping but I had been troubled by nightmares of the man and his terrible son since I had opened the case and I was up doodling figures. It was Cleghorne. He was distressed. He told me he had translated the document or at least some of it and it was one of the most sinister objects he had ever seen in his long career. Something he saw that disturbed him were repeated references to “the field of maize,” and “the great maize palace” even though there was no reason for anyone writing at the time to know about the existence of corn. There was a reason why this was buried here, he told me. Something terrible was going to happen if they built that stadium.

June 5
We ran to the stadium site and demanded to see Mr. Phipp. The stadium had crude outlines for grandstands and the beginnings of dressing areas for the team. The site was no longer a tent city, and Mr. Phipp had lodging in town. Prof. Cleghorne told him about objects found under the stadium, but Phipp told us they had been hauled away by a madman who had worked here. I grabbed him by the lapels and told him I was that man and in fact I was not mad but the sanest person he had ever met, in fact the most sane person on the site. I told him that the objects in the case portended great calamity if the stadium had ever been built, something that would potentially destroy the sport of football itself. He laughed and asked Cleghorne why he was listening to me and that I had been administered mule-grade laudanum for my many muttering fits. The professor said “I agree, this man must be insane” and then he whispered apologies but he had his position here at the university to worry about and then the cudgeling crews swarmed and threw me out of the stadium site.  By the time I got back to my lodgings, the case was gone.

Camp Randall Stadium, Madison, Wisconsin

Gentlemen,

I have recently learned that the State plans to use the former site of Camp Randall as a grounds for the University Foot-Ball team. I expect that the Grounds will attract much attention and excitement from the way the great public embrace of this new exhibition of vigorous Man-Sport as these youths smash and bash each other into smithered-reens on the muddy fields and pits of this former Wartime Trainings Ground.

I would like to propose a Lucrative and Satisfactory business arrangement that would both bring prosperity to the good State of Wisconsin and University. I am offering a large Sum that you could consider a donation and symbol of my Investment in the state of Wisconsin and in the boys you have trying to vigorously ram their Limbs and Skulls into each other’s spinal-columns. This can be used to spruce up the field and clear it of the thorns and animal droppings that often cover it and cause Injury and Pestilence to befall the athletes and spectators. Or it could be used to furnish equipments that would allow the lads to train their neck muscles against the Twistings and Wobblings inflicted by the most bludgeonous Opponents of the middle-west.

All I ask in return is some acknowledgement of the monies I have donated by allowing me to inform the intelligent and discerning Public who attend these spectacles of Health and Vigor of some Products that I offer. It would be a rather simple matter to change the name of the Field from Camp Randall to Dr. Manoxko’s Re-Vitalizing Elixir for the Conditions of Stupor, Lethargy, Reduction of Hair, Dyspepsia, Repepsia, Snoring, Excess of Mucous, Paucity of Mucuous, Bile, Mange, and Re-Invigoriation of Manful Activities, an Elixir suppressed by the Medical Authorities in order to continue to subject the Public to their various Surgeries and Medicines for their own Profit Field.

This is a winning Deal for all involved: the State and University, which receives a healthy sum to replace money that would be otherwise taken by from hard-working Tax-Payers of Wisconsin to carry the burden of the expense for the Foot-Ball squad’s bludgeoning sleds and bone-saws and surgical laudanum, and the people of Wisconsin who will have an opportunity to learn about an important and healthful Product that will ease their Ailments.

I am prepared to-day to ignore my complex business transaction appointments and travel to Madison at a moment’s notice to deliver a large and cumbersome display-sized Cheque that requires two or three strong men to hold it aloft and deliver it directly to the Bursar to deposit into the University’s coffers. I would also pay for the Signs and Banners informing people about my products and even be willing to stand upon an Apple Box or other sturdy platform and shout about the many benefits and improvements offered by my world-famous Elixir which I have given by the way as a gift to numerous Princes, Sheiks, Nizams, and other Royalty around the Globe who have sought out my aid with their medical problems as their quotations in my Pamphlets will attest. I expect I will be granted a warmer welcome than when I was a humbler peddler of Blood Serums and Wolf Urines and was man-handled and thrown from the Capitol steps by a gang of toughs hired no doubt by the Medical Doctors scheming with Legislators to prevent the public from getting my miraculous cure-alls.

I look forward to the grand opening of Dr. Manoxko’s Re-Vitalizing Elixir for the Conditions of Stupor, Lethargy, Reduction of Hair, Dyspepsia, Repepsia, Snoring, Excess of Mucous, Paucity of Mucuous, Bile, Mange, and Re-Invigoriation of Manful Activities, an Elixir suppressed by  the Medical Authorities in order to continue to subject the Public to their various Surgeries and Medicines for their own Profit Field.

Sincerely,

Dr. L.P.X. Manoxko, Surgeon, Esq.

-----------------------

To the Gentlemen of the University and the State Legislature.

It has come to my attention that you have received a most provocative communiqué from the so-called Dr. Minoxko offering a large payment in exchange for renaming the historic and hallowed university ball fields after his useless elixir. I urge you to reconsider this deal as I and anyone who has done business with this Minoxko fellow knows that his medical expertise is in fact the lowest form of quackery.

I have had many encounters with this ruffian, and I assure you he is no more a doctor than I am a cudgel-back for the university foot-ball team (I have enclosed an accurate portrait showing my feeble frame and hunched posture that would allow even the weakest foot-ball player to rearrange my skeleton on a basic scrimmage-brawl in order to illustrate my point). Instead he is a shameless scoundrel, an invidious swindler of the meanest type whose elixirs are actually concoctions of whatever substances he encounters in the wild including poisonous herbs, mill water, skunk spray, and even the various dungs of the animal kingdom that he and his assistants whom he recruits from the darkest realms of the criminal underworld mash up into a paste and stir into his swill.

Normally, one would offer a person who allows himself to be persuaded to buy and drink a concoction of axle grease and possum’s offal a hearty “caveat emptor,” but Minoxko is causing grievous injury to his gullible customers. In my travels, I have seen persons who have consumed his slop suffering from Draughtsman’s Bowels, Railroad Vision, the Spills, the Wobbles, Cattle Polyps, Reverse Gouts, and too many varieties of Diarrheas to mention in a letter that is being sent to the government. Mr. Minoxko represents a singular menace to the state of Wisconsin whose only business at the foot-ball field should be as a dummy for the players’ thrashing exercises.

I have reason to suspect that the man who claims to be “Dr. Minoxko” is actually the notorious swindler who has also gone by the names Ralph October, the Rev. Laurence Mint, Zubuz The Formidable, and many other aliases as he has traveled from territory to territory always one step ahead of the law with his various schemes including as a dealer of occult artifacts, a peddler of the most obscene types of pornographies, and as the proprietor as a bear circus whose cavalier restraint of the beasts nearly led to numerous maulings if the brave citizens did not possess a ceremonial cannon used for the purpose of solemn memorials. I assure you that the University of Wisconsin does not want to do business with this type of slippery reptile.

It is absurd to allow this man now going as “Dr. Minoxko” to purchase any right to name the stadium after his fraudulent skunk-mixtures. If anything, the stadium should be named for something wholesome. This is why I propose that the University should accept a large sum from me in order to name it Dr Jaed Jerenchki’s Full Body Health Serum: one sip of this Invigorating Serum will clear you of Vicious Bowels, eliminate pain from Joints, Muscles, and Organs, and give you the energy of a Bull Elephant in his Uncontrollable Musth Rage Stadium at Camp Randall.

Gentlemen, unlike Dr. Minoxko’s poisonous and foul-smelling concoction, my health serum has been proven by rigorous scientific experimentation on rodents and simians, with satisfied customers willing to trumpet its benefits to all who will listen. Many have written me personally to tell me they have been thrown out of dinners, pancake breakfasts, and other social events by people tired of hearing them once again expound upon the wonders of my health-ful serum. Moreover, my proposal, unlike the grotesque one made by Dr. Minoxko, preserves the historic and popular name of Camp Randall; the minor detail of my generous sponsorship would be noticed only by particularly sharp-eyed and discerning foot-ball patrons.

Dr. Minoxko says he will present the University with an enormous decorative cheque, but I would suggest researching the price of card-board beforehand as that will be the sum total of monies that you would ever be able to wring out of this slimy charlatan. I, on the other hand, am willing to make a payment purely in specie in coins or in ingots that could be delivered to the University accompanied by guards trained in the arts of horse, town, and train-combat.

Consider this a warning that any attempt to do business with the larcenous Dr. Minoxko who is a known criminal who has left a trail of ruined lives everywhere he travels will do nothing other than drag this august university into scandal and ill repute. That is why I consider my own suggested deal not only a sound investment for the future of foot-ball at this university but a demonstration that the underhanded tactics and disgusting thievesman-ship of the type practiced by this reptile Minoxko are unwelcome in the state of Wisconsin.

Gentlemen let us promote two important aspects of health and vigor together as we combine my whole-some serums with the brave and delightful displays of manful skull crushings that are synonymous with foot-ball in this great state.

Yours,

Dr. Jaed Jerenchki

Secu Stadium, College Park, Maryland

MEMORANDUM:

Nov. 9, 1947

ASST. DEP. UND. SEC. Bython

The University of Maryland will soon begin construction on a new football stadium approximately twelve miles from the District of Columbia code named Site Acropolis. The Department of Special Projects has formed a COMMITTEE chaired by General L. Moth Pathock to explore the use of this site for a defensive project aimed at potential foreign military action against the District.

MINUTES 

SITE ACROPOLIS COMMITTEE
November, 14 1946.

Gen. Pathock, Chair
Asst. Dep. Und. Sec. Bython
Lt. Meusse
Lt. Feest
Gen. Van Mant

The CHAIRMAN introduced Site Acropolis and proposed construction for a football stadium. The stadium construction presents an opportunity for clandestine construction of a major defense project to cover the District of Columbia. The CHAIRMAN emphasized that the Committee must act quickly within the time provided before construction begins to use the stadium as cover to build a project facility.

The ASST. DEP. UND. SEC. noted that preliminary discussions with the University personnel indicated they will cooperate with installation of government equipment at site Acropolis. The university personnel have no understanding of what the military will put at site, but the  liaison on the university board (codename CUYAHOGA) told the ASST. DEP. UND. SEC. that “if you’re putting missiles down there, leave one for slowing down Bama.”

GEN. VAN MANT stated that preliminary surveillance reveals Soviet plans to use soccer stadiums to hide advanced military technological projects. He said that his CIA sources have informed him that these projects could threaten key positions in the Near East. The CIA also described the nature of these projects as “extremely communist.”

The CHAIRMAN asked GEN. VAN MANT to elaborate on these Soviet projects. GEN. VAN MANT showed the COMMITTEE plans for what the CIA believes to be a “Man-Boulder” program which would allow soldiers to be hidden in a large and powerful artificial boulder and rolled at enemies “to devastating effect.” The CHAIRMAN described these plans as “troubling.”

LT. MEUSSE proposes using site Acropolis for a program that could cover College Park, surrounding areas, and up to 65% of the District in a dense mist within four hours, depending on current wind patterns (project MANITOBA). LT. FEEST asked LT. MEUSSE about the utility of this program by comparing it to normal foggy weather conditions. LT. MEUSSE replied that he does not think he needs to explain to an officer the military value of a mist as this has been part of military tactics dating back to antiquity.

LT. FEEST said that the United States should not be trying to win the Peloponnesian War but be attempting to stop armies armed with tanks, jets, and missiles. LT. MEUSSE recommended that LT. FEEST read the book Mist Battles: The Fogs of War by Prof. G.M.K. “Gimka” Bearrolt. The CHAIRMAN noted the recommendation and suggested it as further reading by the COMMITTEE.

The ASST. DEP. UND. SEC. asked about the use of site Acropolis in LT. MEUSSE’S proposed project. LT. MEUSSE stated that the vats of misting agents could be stored in a chamber beneath the site and the bowl shape of the stadium would be effective for deploying the mist on the surrounding area. LT. FEEST questioned whether RADAR systems would not easily penetrate the mist effect, making its masking irrelevant in modern warfare. LT. MEUSSE suggested that LT. FEEST was trying to discredit MANITOBA in order to procure site Acropolis for his team’s own robotic soldier project.

LT. FESST said that the robotic soldier program focusing on using robotics technology to build an army of tactical military robots had been abandoned for more than a year and his team was working on a Robo-Soldier program (project BAKER”S DOZEN) that would augment soldiers with robotic exoskeletons. He noted that the difference in the robotic soldier program and robo-soldier program were self-evident to anyone with a basic understanding of military technology.

The CHAIR asked if LT. FEEST could use site Acropolis for his program. LT. FEEST said the site could support an underground exoskeleton manufacturing and repair facility and the field could be used to disguise a mechanism to launch robo-soldiers to any battlefield within three kilometers by using pneumatic tubes. LT. FEEST stated that the Soviets were experimenting with similar technology and would have a fully operational robo-soldier division active by 1957 at the latest and that they would easily be able to see through any level of military-grade fog by using robotic exo-goggles. LT. MEUSSE said that LT. FEEST had no evidence for the goggles and was speculating. 

THE CHAIRMAN thanked the COMMITTEE and dismissed the meeting, recommending further study.

MEMORANDUM

SITE ACROPOLIS COMMITTEE

ASST. DEP. UND. SEC. Bython
Jan. 7, 1947

Met with University contact CUYAHOGA. The University has concerns about United States military activity at Site Acropolis. University is concerned with potential exposure to radioactive materials. University is also concerned with any activity that would make Site Acropolis and the University itself targets for enemy attack or intrigue. University is also worried about clandestine work at Site Acropolis that would affect SoCon play as the Terrapins had a strong team returning with eyes on the Gator Bowl.

MINUTES

SITE ACROPOLIS COMMITTEE

Jan 16, 1947

Gen. Pathock, Chair
Asst. Dep. Und. Sec. Bython
Lt. Meusse
Lt. Feest
Gen. Van Mant

The CHAIRMAN asked the COMMITTEE to address concerns brought to the COMMITTEE from the University.

The ASST. DEP. UND. SEC. summarized the University concerns from the enclosed MEMORANDUM.

LT. MEUSSE said that the misting agents in his program (project MANITOBA) had no chemicals that could cause medical injury when stored in a vat underneath a stadium. Studies on subjects enveloped in the mist largely seemed confused or disoriented on account of not being able to see very well.

LT. FEEST asked what would happen if a dense mist was unleashed without warning on a dense civilian population, citing the possibilities of traffic accidents, persons falling into open manholes, persons bumping into each other and getting into shoving matches, etc.

LT. MEUSSE said his team had developed several strategies such as issuing a warning to relevant government agencies, using a klaxon or warning signal when the mist was deployed, or even training a brigade of civilian “Mist Wardens” that were very good at squinting in order to keep calm and order.

LT. FEEST questioned the viability of site Acropolis as a secret facility if everyone in the area would know the government had a misting weapon. He suggested that LT. MEUSSE broadcast an informative radio program about it in both English and Russian.

LT. MEUSSE asked LT. FEEST what safeguards existed to prevent his robotic soldiers from freeing themselves of human command and attacking a civilian population. LT. FEEST said that this was a situation that arose with his robotic soldiers program that he had discontinued and that he was very clear that his new project involved robo-soldiers in exoskeletons which was obviously different (project BAKER’S DOZEN). LT. FEEST urged LT. MEUSSE to stop wasting time repeatedly bringing up the robotic soldiers as everyone could see what he was doing. GEN. VAN MANT cautioned that exosuits could have a detrimental psychological effect on robo-soldiers, citing a study the CIA recovered from a German “Man-Wolf” project that led to “an orgy of unrestrained biting.”

The CHAIRMAN dismissed the COMMITTEE for further study of the questions raised by this meeting.

MEMORANDUM
ACROPOLIS SITE COMMITTEE
PROJECT BAKER’S DOZEN
LT. FEEST
Feb. 22, 1947

Summary of preliminary investigations of the psychological effects of a robo-solider program (project BAKER’S DOZEN). Subjects were administered a questionnaire designed to screen potential participants in the study. Study designed and administered by Dr. Otto Pomermatto. Subjects were asked to gauge willingness to engage with heavy machinery and openness to attaching it to their Person. Subjects removed from program after preliminary questionnaire for obvious signs of psychosis, squeamishness, and laughing. Those chosen to move forward were those with propensity for working with machinery and one subject who stated a desire to be fused with his beloved hot rod “Katy” and honk at people who cut him in the mess line. Some subjects were given a fake test about the viability of the tactical military hairpiece (“combat toup”) in order to throw off potential Communist Double Agents.

Subjects chosen for Phase II of the testing protocol were fitted with cardboard exoskeleton mockups. Subjects were tested for fatigue, range of motion, battle effectiveness, and attitudes towards exo-equipment. Of thirteen total subjects, nine of them participated in simulated exo-suit activities with what Dr. Pomeratto described as “psychologically normal” reactions. One subject broke down and screamed “get this offa me” while throwing off his cardboard exo-implements and running about the facility in undergarments before the subject was able to be calmed with the offer of an extra large cigarette. This reaction was categorized as “mostly normal.” One subject refused to participate after describing simulated exo-suit activity as “stupid.” Only two subjects fell into what Dr. Pomeratto has called “exo-madness” where they immediately saw themselves as no longer human and began attacking field staff with cardboard implements. Both have been subdued and are under further evaluation. Dr. Pomeratto suggests a larger study to develop a baseline Madness Rate, but the BAKER”S DOZEN team has concerns the potential for wider study to weaken the project’s secrecy posture.

MINUTES
SITE ACROPOLIS COMMITTEE MEETING
March 19, 1947

Gen. Pathock, Chair
Asst. Dpt. Und. Sec. Bython
Lt. Meusse
Lt. Feest
Gen. Van Mant

The CHAIRMAN requested updates on progress on projects for site Acropolis.

The ASST. DEP. UND. SEC. noted that the COMMITTEE was running out of time because the University (liaison CUYAHOGA) was eager to break ground on the new stadium so it can be finished for the 1950 season.

The CHAIRMAN asked what kind of equipment would need to be smuggled discreetly into site Acropolis during assumed stadium construction.

LT. MEUSSE said his project (MANITOBA) would require several enormous vats for storing misting chemicals that had not yet been built. They would also require several miles of underground tubing and large computer terminals that would serve as a fail safe mechanism to prevent the accidental discharge of any mist for non-military purposes. The mist could only be deployed with a complex combination of switches, buttons, and levers on two separate terminals that changed daily and could be ordered only by the Joint Chiefs.

LT. FEEST asked what would happen if someone reported it was extremely foggy in Moscow and hastily ordered a misting as a panicked countermeasure.

LT. MEUSSE said that was preposterous as everyone knows the Soviets were still decades away from misting large-scale technology which is why the United States needed to pursue its edge in the Mist Race.

The CHAIRMAN asked GEN. VAN MANT to brief the COMMITTEE on Soviet misting operations. GEN. VAN MANT would ask his CIA contacts about this, but they are currently occupied with attempting to infiltrate a suspected “Man-Seed” project where the Soviets had designed a suit based on the spinning maple “helicopter” seed pods that would spin a soldier hundreds of time per second and allow him to cover more ground and land more quickly and less detectably than current parachute technology. GEN. VAN MANT said the CIA believes the Soviets are testing this by hurling soldiers off the Ural Mountains.

LT. FEEST handed out schematics requiring multiple underground chambers for building, maintaining, and fitting exo-skeletons as well as a large Containment Chamber for any robo-soldier who had succumbed to exo-madness (project BAKER’S DOZEN). LT. FEEST said his team was still studying the feasibility of the pneumatic launching tubes since they had not yet determined whether the robo-soldiers could effectively land in a fighting posture without instantly fracturing their femurs. LT. FEEST said that the tubes should at least be placed in the facility because it would be difficult to install them after construction is finished at site Acropolis.

LT. MEUSSE asked if the soldiers would be told to “break a leg” before being fired out of a tube in the manner of thespians on the stage.

Both LT. MEUSSE and LT. FEEST agreed that both of their projects required big heavy doors that make a hissing noise when they are opened, flashing red lights and klaxons, enormous tape machines the size of a small room, and both emphasized the importance of metal catwalks that go kack kack kack when they are walked on by someone with military grade dress loafers.

The CHAIRMAN agreed to start the procurement process for these crucial items. The CHAIRMAN indicated that both proposals would be sent for further review as it was crucial to begin construction immediately.

MEMORANDUM
SITE ACROPOLIS COMMITTEE
ASST. DEP. UND. SEC. Bython
June 13, 1947

SPECIAL PROJECTS orders immediate termination of plans to build a facility at site Acropolis. SPECIAL PROJECTS reports its review of both potential uses of the site in projects MANITOBA and BAKER’S DOZEN had increased both projects’ rating from Level 4 (Mildly Preposterous) to Level 5 (Preposterous). ASST. DEP. UND. SEC. has contacted the (liaison CUYAHOGA) to inform the University and State Government that plan has been canceled and that construction on site Acropolis can begin immediately for football purposes. LT. MEUSSE has been transferred to the Humidity Generation Project (Project MELROSE). LT. FEEST has reactivated his Robot Soldiers Program (Project SOUSAPHONE).

GEN VAN MANT has confirmed that CIA sources have told him that the Soviets have expended significant resources in an attempt to decipher activities surrounding site Acropolis. GEN. PATHOCK (former site Acropolis Committee Chairman) has been commended for exceptional work.

GEN. VAN MANT has been assigned to coordinate activities to monitor a suspected Soviet “Man-Cannon” project where the Soviets are using trained circus performers to fire soldiers from cannons over enemy machine gun nests “to devastating effect.”

NIXON WHITE HOUSE TAPES
October 3, 1972

President Richard Nixon

John Erlichman, Chief Domestic Council

H.R. Haldeman, W.H. Chief of Staff

NIXON: Now Red China. You don’t have to like it, but you have to respect it.

HALDEMAN: Did you see about the [inaudible]?

NIXON: The whole thing to me is a fog. Like that project Manitoba. BAck in the 1940s.

ERLICHMAN: What the hell was that?

NIXON: The damndest thing. They wanted the whole Atlantic seaboard covered in fog. [Inaudible] at the Navy told me about it. They had a whole site picked out with those things that spray… those goddamned…

HALDEMAN: Nozzles?

NIXON: Yes. They called it Acropolis. Acropolis…what the hell did they end up putting there

[inaudible crosstalk for 48 seconds]

HALDEMAN: Looks like it’s Maryland football