Tournament of Everything World Semifinal: 1 The Sumerians vs. 5 Rushmore

Hey, remember this? The Tournament of Everything is back after some downtime. Today's tilt: The Sumerians, beloved wheelwrights and codifiers vs. Rushmore, bittersweet portrait of gentle obsession and beekeeping.

I've harped on the Sumerians' many contributions to our society, and for good reason. I enjoy that wheels allow me to save precious joules which I can expend in other ways. I am thankful the rule of law saves me from serfdom. And I am thankful for beer.

But as remarkable as these things are, it's safe to say that if the Sumerians hadn't come up with them, someone else could have. I mean, do you think those fuckers rolled to China and Europe, where there's also evidence of wheel-inventing (or more likely, discovering)? Eventually, a group of people would have tired of getting whacked in the head and having their beer and wheels taken. And hell, the Germans probably would have figured out the beer thing, what with their Teutonic resourcefulness.

Meanwhile, even if those thousand monkeys and their thousand typewriters managed to get the final draft of Hamlet off to their agent, could they have stumbled upon a tale as true as Rushmore? Unlikely.

One of the great functions of storytelling for a society is that stories give order to the world. Most works of literature that stand the test of time do so because they have at their heart a fundamental truth about what it means to be human and to be alive. Rushmore is film, and not literature, but it plays the same chords. You watch it and can appreciate how wonderfully absurd and heartbreaking life can be. It also reminds you that not everything is a happy ending, but sometimes what you get is good enough that you can keep living and taking another crack at things.

If the Sumerians had only invented beer and wheels, they'd be formidable opponents, but still blown out of the water here. But the concept of a codified set of rules is basically the foundation of civilization and freedom. I've never set foot in New Hampshire, but I can appreciate a state that believes in freedom over life itself. One of the reasons I find the Bush administration and its fellow travelers so incredibly odious is that they have actual, malicious contempt for freedom and citizens. I'm in danger of getting too serious here, I realize, but this is important shit.

That said, the Sumerians aren't the fount of all freedom, just the first drop in the bucket. That's pretty damn good, but how does it compare against fundamental truths, like the fact that guys are always doing stupid shit like building aquariums or hanging gardens to please pretty ladies? I'd still give the nod to freedom here, but wait.

How does it compare to a story that can relate to just how crushing it is to realize that you're not going to get your Rushmore degree, and inspire you to make a go of it at Grover Cleveland? Oh, and it's going to make you laugh your ass off, too.

Sorry, Sumerians. It's been a good run.

Rushmore 81, The Sumerians 73.

Tournament of Everything: Road to the Final Four

Can a championship be decided without an interlude for hype? Not on this blog. Let's take a look back at the paths our four contestants trod to reach the Final Four held at Gertie's Crab Shack in scenic Bivalve, Md.

Devil's Lake Champion: Animal House

This No. 2 seed is fresh off an epic win over the top-seeded Sistine Chapel. Animal House also bumped off upstart 14 seed Estes Kefauver, whose giant Tennessee Assboot of Righteousness was washed out by a river of booze. The lads of Delta House also made quick work of Contact Lenses and Butter. But they'll have their work cut out for them against the ...

Ann Arbor Champion: Bob Dylan

America's contemporary Walt Whitman won the tilt of the tournament so far, beating the Rose Bowl in an incredible, quintuple-overtime battle. He also took Loreley Beer Garden to task and chewed up two British products _ Exile on Main Street and Foxhunting _ and shat them out like so many leaves of grass. But did his big win over The Granddaddy of Them All leave Mr. Zimmerman overconfident and looking ahead to maybe ...

International Waters Champion: The Sumerians

The only remaining No. 1 seed has torn through the tournament as if it were a more warlike civilization, laying waste to Jacques Cousteau, The Industrial Revolution
Hungary, and Paper Towels in ways that would make sharks, Ned Ludd, Balkans and liquid spills of all kinds green with envy. Of course, being a peaceful, civilized people, the Sumerians would probably just enjoy beating their semifinal opponent as much as they'd enjoy sitting down and watching ...

Cleveland Champion: Rushmore

The lowest-seeded Final Four team, No. 5 Rushmore was clearly underseeded. It's blend of laughter, tears and sublime absurdity has served it well in matchups with Procrastination, Prague, Caffeine and media darling Roald Dahl. In fact, the Max Fischer players probabably have the all-around most likeable collection of scalps in the tournament. Will they be able to add to them?

Tournament of Everything Elite Eight: 2 Rose Bowl vs. 3 Bob Dylan

EXT. ROSE BOWL -- PASADENA, CALIFORNIA -- AFTERNOON

A man approaches the empty stadium. No one else is in sight. We see he has an acoustic guitar over his shoulder, and we notice he is taking out a harmonica. Yes, it's BOB DYLAN.

He stands in front of the rose bushes outside the south entrance to the stadium. He tunes his guitar as we see various shots of the stadium showing no one else, not even security guards or Midwestern pilgrims.

BOB DYLAN

You know why I'm here, don't you?

ROSE BOWL

[No reaction.]

BOB DYLAN looks up at the sign on the stadium's edifice, then walks into the empty stadium, emerging into the bleachers. He sits down and begins to play.

BOB DYLAN

You've got a lot of nerve
To say you are my friend ...

He keeps playing, and we see on the Rose Bowl's jumbotron a montage of images, mostly Rose Bowl highlights: Ron Dayne, Drew Brees, Matt Leinart, Steve Breaston and then ... players from Miami, Oklahoma, Nebraska. All the highlights are from recent games, none are from before 1999.

BOB DYLAN

... You just want to be on the side that's winning.

INT. ROSE BOWL

The stadium is completely empty. Sun gleams off empty bleachers. The paint in the end zones spelling out "Michigan" and "USC" is faded. The logo at midfield is still bright, with it's iconic blossom and the words "Presented by CITI" appearing as sharp as they were on Jan. 1.

BOB DYLAN

No I do not feel that good
When I see the heartbreaks you embrace

BOB DYLAN

... I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes.
And just for that one moment
I could be you.

BOB DYLAN

Yes, I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes.
You'd know what a drag
It is to see you.

BOB DYLAN stops playing and looks at the scoreboard. It has gone dark. He looks around, as if waiting for a response. Seeing none he shrugs, and slips his guitar off his shoulder. We hear a faint drumming in the distance. BOB DYLAN looks up. The drumming grows louder, it's in the time signature of a martial-style march. There's a blast of horns playing "Tribute to Troy" and the UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA MARCHING BAND comes stomping out of the tunnel to Dylan's left. He hears more horns and turns to see the UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN MARCHING BAND pouring out of the other tunnel.

The bands are playing at maximum volume. BOB DYLAN looks bemused at first, then his expression grows concerned when they begin playing "The Victors" again at maximum volume. As the song ends, the bands have filled the entire field from end zone to end zone. They stop and turn to stare at BOB DYLAN. He looks around, clearly alarmed now. In each exit portal, members of every other Big Ten and Pac-10 bands, with several members guarding each exit portal from the seating bowl. He looks back to the field and notices the Michigan and USC bands have sealed off all the other exits.

The scoreboard flashes to life again. And words begin to scroll across it.

ROSE BOWL

Just who the hell do you think YOU are? How dare you come here and spit in the face of my Tradtion and Grandeur. I am an American Classic. Do you not know that I am The Granddaddy of Them All (TM)?

BOB DYLAN

Oh, I'm well aware. Listen, I think it's - ...

ROSE BOWL

Then SILENCE! You shall not be leaving this stadium until you answer my Official Rose Bowl Riddle. (Off camera, an impossibly deep drumbeat begins, growing slowly louder and faster in tempo). If you fail, I shall leave you to be beaten to a slow and painful death by the bands. (At this, several flag girls menacingly begin to sharpen the points of their flags. Michigan's euphonium squad takes nunchucks out of their back pockets. The USC flute players smack their instruments menacingly into their palms. BOB DYLAN tries to remain calm, but is clearlu uncomfortable.

BOB DYLAN

I was born ready! (He has to yell above the sound of the drum, which has become deafening.)

As he finishes, THE WORLD'S LARGEST DRUM, being towed by several members of the Purdue band, enters the field, sending USC band members scattering as it is beaten at a furious tempo. An unlucky few are crushed, their sunglasses sent flying in the air. No one moves a muscle. The drum stops suddenly. Somewhere in the distance, an oboe plays a note like a dog howling.

ROSE BOWL

Very well. The Great Rose Bowl Riddle begins!

ROSE BOWL (Cont'd)

Knock, knock.

BOB DYLAN

Uh, who's there?

ROSE BOWL

Interrupting Woodson.

BOB DYLAN

Interrupting Woods- ...

Before he can finish, CHARLES WOODSON, in full Michigan uniform, enters through a tunnel, runs down to Dylan's seat, steals his guitar, and runs up the steps and out another tunnel, clonking an Ohio State band member on the head with it as he passes.

BOB DYLAN

Hey!

ROSE BOWL

Tough titties. Knock, knock.

BOB DYLAN

[Sighing.] Who's there?

ROSE BOWL

Interrupting Steve Breaston.

BOB DYLAN [Sighing}

Interrupting Steve Breast- ...

He is cut off by the roar of a high-powered jet engine. A maize-and-blue blur flashes over the stadium, accompanied by a sonic boom. The shockwave ruptures one of Dylan's eardrums.

BOB DYLAN

You know, I didn't care for that. Now I'm deaf in my left ear.

ROSE BOWL

Such is the price you pay for trifling with a Bowl Championship Series (TM) bowl, mere human.

ROSE BOWL

Knock, knock.

BOB DYLAN

Who's there?

ROSE BOWL

Interrupting BCS.

BOB DYLAN

Interrupting BC- ...

He is cut off when a giant cloth sack with a dollar sign on the side lands at his feet with a massive "WHUMP!" sound, nearly crushing his toes. It splits open and gold coins spill out. Then a banknote flutters past his face. He watches it land at his feet. It's a hundred. He sees as another, and then another flutter past. More sacks of money are landing, leaving great divots in the field and concussing innocent trombonists. The grass begins to disappear beneath the spilled Sacagawea dollars and banknotes. The band members refuse to move, even as the money piles up over their spats and lands in the bells of their instruments. The sky is dark and quivering with banknotes blotting the sun like locusts.

BOB DYLAN

What is wrong with you? That's not even a riddle. That's the stupidest knock-knock joke I've ever heard.

ROSE BOWL

SILENCE! What do you mean? This is the best thing that's ever happened to me in my long and glorious history. Better than the first Michigan-Stanford game. Better than Charles White's fake touchdown. Better than Leroy Hoard's thrashing of Washington, better than the time freaking Northwestern made it here. Did I mention I was the first bowl game? I'm The Granddaddy of Them All (TM)! And now I'm also the awesomest bowl of all, because I have tradition and I never fail to remind people of it. People pay extra for tradition. It's like a blue-chip stock or a name you can trust.

BOB DYLAN

Oh, we pay for it all right. But if history and tradition mean anything to you, maybe you should actually embrace history and tradition, rather than using them as just another marketing tool. I'm sick of you telling us how wonderfully traditional you are every time you get a Big Ten vs. Pac-1o matchup, only to just watch you look the other way and stuff your pockets when it's time to invite the Oklahomas and Nebraskas and Miamis of the world.

If you want to be just another BCS bowl, that's fine. Call yourselves the Cingular Rose Bowl or the Run for the Roses Presented by Yum! Brands or something like that. Install seatbacks and cupholders and luxury boxes and just whore yourselves out on the street corner, you overgrown massage parlor.

You don't see the Fiesta Bowl promising anything but football and trans fats, do you? They've at least got honesty. Even the Orange Bowl isn't even played in the Orange Bowl anymore. Think about that. It's a shame, but there weren't enough luxury boxes, and maybe a bit too many minorities in the neighborhood. Got to move that up to that one stadium that keeps getting its naming rights sold. Yeah, Davie, Florida, -- the promised land. The place where college kids across the land, from Winston-Salem to Cincinnati, dream of when the season begins anew each fall. The Sugar Bowl was happy to be sponsored by an insurange companies as well as a phone company from Finland, and you know they can't get enough of their Gators and Razorbacks in Helsinki and Espoo, right, assholes?

ROSE BOWL

Oh, stop it, you shriveled up, ugly, old has-been. You're just jealous that you couldn't hold a concert in my press box, let alone fill my stadium with your fans. You keep playing whatever that new shit is. Why not trade on your name, play the greatest hits. People love tradition! They don't have to think too hard! They feel connected to something bigger. I'm not the fucking Alamo Bowl, you know.

BOB DYLAN

Yeah, but what's the difference (other than the referees, of course)? What sets you apart? You pimp yourself just as hard. Where's your integrity? Did Woodson steal that, too? You "leveraged" that like a goddamned Yard-A-Pult to get into the BCS's revenue streams. So own up. Stop hitting us over the head with your "tradition" and your United-States-Patent-and-Trademark-Office-filed nicknames and whatever that other crap is you want us to pay $125 a pop for. You're just peddling a cartoon character of your former self. You used to be something real. A shot of sunshine on a gray winter's day in the Midwest. (And I should know.) But now you're just a name-brand tanning salon, killing college football from the inside out, only no one pays attention to the slowly roasting internal organs because they're all excited to show off their skin's healthy glow (plus those killer lats; they're really starting to pop lately).

ROSE BOWL

Listen, I don't really think ...

BOB DYLAN

Hush up, I'm on a roll. Citi wants to "present" you so Bob and Teresa in Findlay Fucking Ohio will switch their checking accounts over from National City because they got the warm fuzzies watching Michigan get dickslapped by USC again. Or maybe young Emily the Undergrad from the University of Wisconsin will move to the big city and open her checking account with you because she loved going to games so much and now she misses her college years because she works in a company devoted to "building brands" and casting about for anything that can be peddled.

You're a sellout, Rose Bowl. And if there's anything Bob Dylan hates, it's a motherfucking sellout.

ROSE BOWL

Fuck you, Bob Dylan. What about Victoria's Secret?

BOB DYLAN

What about this? Scoreboard, dickface. How does it feel?

Bob Dylan 89, Rose Bowl 82 (5OT).

Tournament of Everything, Elite Eight: 1 Sistine Chapel vs. 2 Animal House

I think that this situation absolutely requires a really futile and stupid gesture be done on somebody's part. -- Otter.

If that doesn't sum up the founding ethos of Cole Slaw Blog, I don't know what does.

Both the Sistine Chapel and Animal House serve as inspirational beacons for dedicated followers and casual appreciators alike. Catholics hold the Sistine Chapel in high reverence because it's both figuratively and literally at the heart of the faith. It's pretty much where all the shit goes down, including those rather important Papal conclaves. There's a reason they brought in Michelangelo for this, even though there was a small faction of Cardinals in favor of bidding out the job to local contractors.

Animal House, too, lies at the heart of a belief system of sorts. Anyone who ever loved college so much they didn't want to leave, anyone who has ever taken over a party by doing silly things (pushing people around in a wheelchair, hooting from the roof, eating mustard) was taking their cues, knowingly or not, from Animal House.

The movie's contributions to comedy are legendary, and have been discussed before. As have the Sistine Chapel's contributions to art and architecture. While the chapel is meant to evoke the Temple of Solomon, Animal House serves as a temple to gratuitous antics and socializing without regard to niceties or standing on ceremony. Why not wear a toga and pour grain alcohol all over your head? Why not eat those flowers on the table? Hey, let's buy some Oreos and punt them across the street.

Without Animal House we would have gone through college presenting our calling cards and playing charades instead of drinking box wine and blasting "Safety Dance" out the third floor window so we could hear it in the street.

Of course, the Sistine Chapel has had it's own beneficient effects. The image of God imbuing Adam with the spark of life, while much parodied, still is a powerful one, no matter what your beliefs. It's also where the Cardinals meet to choose a new Pope, sending white smoke chuffing up the chimney in one of the great all-time bits of procedural drama. The chapel itself is also apparently quite an inspriational sight.

I've never been to the Vatican, but I think it's safe to say that both the Sistine Chapel and Animal House also work better as ideals than in reality. Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life. I'm not sure that creating a revenue stream out of a place of worship is all that great, either.

In the end it comes down to this: The Sistine Chapel is a glorious and highly serious place. One is meant to be filled with the Holy Spirit. Animal House is a gloriously and highly silly movie. One is meant to be filled with the desire to be back in college. Both, I suppose, are inspring in their own way. But although I'm Catholic, I know which has been more influential to me.

Bless me father, for I have sinned. Animal House 76, Sistine Chapel 73.

Tournament of Everything, Elite 8: 5 Rushmore vs. 10 Prague

A lot of people have their own private Rushmore. Mine was the University of Michigan, and one of Rushmore's many, many gifts is its portrayal of healthy obsession. Max is obsessed with the delightful Rosemary Cross, and he's obsessed with building her an aquarium, and he's obsessed with perfecting epic plays.

[Lengthy digression of moderate relevance: When I was in high school I wasn't preoccupied with a theatrical adaptation of Serpico, but my parents happened to have a video camera. Group projects were a big theme in our classes. Friends and I convinced gullible teachers to let us shoot films instead of performing homemade skits or stupid presentations. As a result, somewhere at my parents' house there is a VHS tape of a 30-minute movie made by seventeen-year-olds about the Iran-Contra scandal. It was adapted from the book Landslide by Jane Mayer and Doyle McManus: Mindy played Nancy Reagan, Bob played the President, Jack played Bud McFarlane (his failed suicide attempt was heartbreaking), I played William Casey, Josh played Antonio Somoza; I'm pretty sure that we had a Don Regan, an Admiral Poindexter, and a sequence set in Iran that was shot in a gravel pit. The Iran-Contra story was preceded by a separate 30-minute movie adapted from Gore Vidal's Burr, and there was a whole incident with a fake commercial for a fake telephone service called 1-800-GET-HEAD. It was collective Max Fisherism. Digression over.]

Max's individual obsessions are components of his greatest obsession: Rushmore itself. There aren't many movies that portray a person's obsession with a single place, which is part of Rushmore's magic. Max romanticized the school and everything that he wanted it to represent, and the doom romance with an ideal that you'll inevitably have to abandon (see also Holly Hunter and Albert Brooks in the equally great Broadcast News and the Howard Dean campaign) is one of life's ongoing challenges.

Another movie that gets this right in a very different way is Noah Baumbach's 1995 movie Kicking and Screaming, which is more earnest than Rushmore, and therefore occasionally cringeworthy.

Prague plays a role in Kicking and Screaming. Jane leaves Grover for Prague. For her it was liberation, but for Grover it was the end of all the good things and college and the start of a confused young adulthood.

By all accounts, Prague is a great city, and I look forward to seeing it someday. Prague might be Kafka's (or Jane's) Rushmore, but it's not mine. For this reason, and all of those described in Rushmore's earlier wins, Prague is just a little outmatched. Rushmore 74, Prague 71.

Tournament of Everything, Elite 8: 1 Sumerians v. 14 Jacques Cousteau

And suddenly, the Tournament of Everything is your seventh-grade social studies exam.

Fact: Sumerians thought of themselves as Sue Mary Anns. They had dimples and were adorable.
Fact: Amorites suck.
Fact: Eridu College 28, Nippur State University 38.
Fact: Sue Mary Anns loved music, but still, sickness bathed them.
Fact: Sargon the Great had herpes.
Fact: Prolonged exposure to Utu can cause skin cancer, so apply Utuscreen when outside on bright sunny days.
Fact: Wheels gave Sue Mary Anns boners.
Fact: Gudeau of Lagash's mama was so fat, she DJ'd for ice cream trucks.

Jacques Cousteau était parfaitement beau, je suis sûr, bien que je ne le rappèle pas cela clairement. Il habite sur principalement dans les films de Wes Anderson dans les assauts de requin sur la côte de Floride. Quand j'étais jeune je le genre de pensée qu'il était un ennuyer le gars français. Ses documentaires ont joué parfois sur la Chaîne 47.

Donc regarder. L'eau est bonne et la nature est merveilleuse et j'aime les mers. Un jour j'aimerais aller à une plage (seulement après avoir appliqué Utuscreen, bien sûr), mais jusqu'à ce que ce jour vient, j'enfoncerai aux roues et me baigne dans la maladie. Sumerians 58, Jacques Cousteau 54.

Tournament of Everything Round 3: Cleveland Region

At Jacobs Field

9 Procrastination vs. 5 Rushmore

I think I would have appreciated Rushmore as much as I do at almost any time in my life. I am forever falling for women who I'm I can never be with, and I've almost always feel that I'm simultaneously ahead of and behind the curve. It should be obvious enough by now that I enjoy focusing on the little extras, rather than the heart of the matter; founding and running several clubs while getting crappy grades at a top school is just the kind of stupid shit I'd do.
Rushmore also provided me with two great fantasy baseball names, although the Rushmore Beekeepers and Max Fisher Players never quite lived up to the high standards set by their founder.

But The Tournament of Everything is not just about personal preferences. Rushmore also is the best movie Wes Anderson has made. It paved the way for Bill Murray to take on funny, yet unwacky, roles, (albeit with varying success, although Lost in Translation more than offsets the utter nothingness of Broken Flowers). It also manages to make unrequited love funny and kind of sad and sweet all at the same time, as sometimes it actually can be. And in the end, the guy doesn't get the girl (I'm not giving anything away, honest), and that's perfectly OK.

Heady stuff for Procrastination to deal with, but somehow, this bully can manage.
I really don't know anyone who is a better procrastinator than I am. My "ability" borders on pathological. But sometimes, it's kind of fun. You can get blog reading done. You can join your hallmates on an impromptu trip to Meijer that suddenly ends up having five people in the car. You can get a text message to go see the Elephants march down 34th Street. But Procrastination is a sneaky bastard. It demands that you pay attention to it, feed it and finally, that you vanquish it.

Yes, I said vanquish it. Procrastination is about putting off, not about abstaining. Eventually, shit gets done. And Rushmore is happy to take out the trash. Rushmore 88, Procrastination 83.

6 Kari Byron vs. 10 Prague

If you were to ask me, based on all the evidence available, I'd say that Kari Byron is probably from that small subset of women so incredible you can scarcely believe that they exist. She's smart, capable, quirky, game for almost anything, confident and both sexy and cute. She also got her current job by serving as a butt model. Also, when she's not sculpting, she makes a living by disabusing people of erroneous notions and faulty received wisdom. Few people on TV don't contribute to the dumbing down of America _ she's actually ensmartening us. Prague, of course, is unbelievable in its own way. Twisting, medieval streets wend their way between buildings spanning six of seven centuries. The beer is indeed cheap, plentiful, sweet and cold, like water from the well on a hot day. The women can be drop-dead stunning. There's a giant modern-art pendulum ticking away across the Vltava River from the old town, meant to remind people that all regimes must come to an end. It was inspired, of course, by the Velvet Revolution.

Prague has already bounced one incredible woman from the tournament, but Kari Byron's job as myth-buster kept her in this one for longer. Did we mention that she fences and throws knives? Yeah, well, in Prague they throw people -- out windows. Prague 114, Kari Byron 111, 3OT.

Tournament of Everything Round 3: International Waters Region

At Tyson-Secretariat Arena

1 Sumerians vs. 4 Industrial Revolution

Although my co-blogger has a strange, Doc Brown-like distaste for roads, citing them as part of the Industrial Revolution's aflictions in his previous writeup. I have to agree with him on most of those. But I think with some common-sense regulation (yes, I know corporations always implicitly have society's best interests at heart and regulation is a sin, but just bear with me here, Objectivists), a lot of these are manageable. The Industrial Revolution also led to increasingly efficient and expedient travel, an increase in leisure time, and ... our modern global economy, as well as the current state of our globe. It's a mixed bag, isn't it? Meanwhile, the Sumerians invented beer. Did I mention that? They also invented writing. Since this blog came about as the result of a couple nights at the bar, (and is made up mostly of writing,) I think it's safe to draw a straight line from ancient Sumeria directly to Cole Slaw Blog. But then again, blogs might never have existed without the Industrial Revolution, either, due to the concomitant rise in leisure time. Even if the world were populated entirely with yeoman farmers, I'm sure CrimeNotes and I could reasonably entertain our peers with the scrolls we tacked up in the village square or meeting house. But this match will not be decided on our own blog aggrandizement. It could be, but it doesn't need to be.

The Sumerians gave us the rule of law. The Industrial Revolution gave us Social Darwinism. Which would you rather live under? This one's a blowout. The Sumerians 99, Industrial Revolution 72.

14 Jacques Cousteau vs. 10 The Office (UK)

Both Jacques Cousteau and The Office have made it to the Sweet 16 of the Tournament of Everything because they have legacies. Each was great during their active stages, but had they faded away, they probably wouldn't have made it this far. Aside from his role in the development of SCUBA gear, Cousteau spread his love for ocean life and his concern for the environment around the world via the Cousteau Society. Without his efforts there might be even more trash, pollutants and radioactive waste littering the seas.

Then there's The Office. It managed to be hilarious and heartbreaking all at once in a way that might not ever be equaled, but that doesn't mean people aren't trying. The U.S. version of The Office is reasonably enough well done in its own way, even if it is a paler version. David Brent is probably as well known as Basil Fawlty and Benny Hill in Britain, even if he hasn't translated as well here. Of course, Hollywood still shits out a couple "According to Jim" and "How I Met Your Mother" clones every season. But that's OK. If all TV tried to be like The Office, it would still probably be intolerably Hollywoodified. The U.S. version is always right up against that line as it is, which is probably why I don't mind that my DVR keeps mysteriously not recording it.

On the other hand, is there any better analogy for a lot of the dreck on TV than, say, a giant, slow-moving gyre filled with rubbish from all points? We can turn off the TV, but there's no real substitute for, you know, oceans.

In conclusion, I'm sorry this is such a boring game,and I'm sorry to see The Office go. But this is what happens when two lovable double-digit seeds make it this far. Jacques Cousteau 54, The Office 49.

Tournament of Everything, Round 3: Devil's Lake, ND

At the DevilDome

14 Estes Kefauver v. 2 Animal House

I found myself behind schedule with this post, not because I've been busy with other things but because the Estes Kefauver/Animal House match-up requires deep consideration.

On the one hand, Estes Kefauver could be a proxy for Dean Wormer. He was a white male authority figure who hit his peak in late-middle age. He might have gone after the Delta House to the fullest extent of the law, with superior effectiveness and prosecutorial efficiency. Estes Kefauver wasn't going to take no guff from no ruffians. Take, for instance, the voice-over introduction that Senator Kefauver provided to the 1955 movie Mad at the World:

When young people become angry and violent, it affects the whole community -- your town and mine. Anger breeds anger, until finally it sweeps over all age groups. Here now, is a story of how one police department in a great American city fought to bring this destructive human fire under control.

He prophesied the end of Animal House 20 years early. Would Eric Stratton have been intimidated or amused?

There's Animal House, a favorite movie that after 20 viewings still seems to have untouched surprises and pleasures. Kefauver was antithetical to Animal House values: A beacon of good order, the rule of law, adult responsibility and earnestness.

Like the Delta House guys, though, Estes was known as a bit of a drinker. He liked to hit the sauce. He was on the vanguard of anti-segregation Southerners: He might have liked Otis Day and the Nights.

Like the Delta House guys, he raged against the machine. As Estes said, "I may be a pet coon, but I'm not Boss Crump's pet coon."

I hate Boss Crump.

If this site had its genesis in something other than a late-night brain fart that I thought would last for five posts, it might have been esteskefauver dot blogspot. He's a conversational mascot -- the best thing to come out of Tennessee on a shortlist limited to our friend Bitey and a song by Arrested Development. Otherwise this is a state that whose noteworthy contributions include gumless banjo pickers, Philip Fulmer, a numbskulled Peyton-for-Heisman campaign that still exists ten years ex post, Bill Frist, the massively retarded Andrew Johnson, Graceland, and some song called "Walking in Memphis." Take me to another place, take me to another land. How Kefauver managed to rise from this blight is anyone's guess.

But I am still thirsty.

At the close of regulation: Animal House 66, Estes Kefauver 66.

It looked like Animal House was about to pull away. The foodfight scene would leave Estes confounded and immobile. He would be mortified at Bluto's voyeurism.

Remember at the close of the movie, where the credits roll and the leading players' futures were described? Bluto went on to become a U.S. Senator. While he was a great frat brother, he was not cut from Senatorial cloth. Kefauver could have ran parliamentary circles around him. The late Senator rallies.

At the close of 1OT: Animal House 84, Estes Kefauver 84.

This is no longer a battle between the Delta House and the late Tennessee bad-ass. This is a contest between Estes and his inner Kefauver. Who is he? Is he the aspiring presidential candidate who battled organized crime and promoted rigorous antitrust enforcement, or is he the quirky populist who wore a coonskin cap and defied convention by resisting segregation and machine politics?

Estes pours himself a glass of bourbon and puts on a toga.

2OT: Animal House 100, Estes Kefauver 99.

1 Sistine Chapel v. 5 The Enlightenment

A few things about the Sistine Chapel. First, it has basically devolved into a tourist trap. A visitor takes a long trek through numerous spectacular galleries (the map room was my favorite) only to be disrupted every five feet by a glass counter manned by employees selling kitsch (hooray, more postcards) to German tourists. The whole thing has the feel of the Epcot Center, plus 500 years.

Then there was the restoration of the frescoes, which took some great old paintings by Michelangelo and defaced them into ultra-pastel Pixar-type reproductions. (I realize this is arbitrary.)

So okay, there are all of those problems, but still, there's the kind of overpowering stimulation and just the plain weirdness of the damn thing. I mean, it's weird, the same way that so much great art (Inferno, Guernica, Full House) is weird. It's wall-to-wall naked Bible art. Try getting away with that on Justice Sunday.

One of the Enlightenment's major breakthroughs was its rejection of religious orthodoxy, true. If this just came down to personal preference, the Enlightenment would win in a rout. I fucking love the Enlightenment. Separate that church from that muthafuckin' state, bitch, and hurry! My ass would prefer Montesquieu, Kant and scientific method over Bible art any day of the week.

The Tournament of Everything doesn't work that way. The Sistine Chapel is a subject of enduring popular fascination, and probably for good reason. It's kind of good. Sistine Chapel 78, The Enlightenment 76.

Tournament of Everything, Round Three

Ann Arbor Region
(at Dominick's)

9 Loreley Beer Garden vs. 3 Bob Dylan

A couple weeks ago some friends were commenting on the way that a given album will remind you of highly specific places and times. This is true, but the observation doesn't work for great artists.

I hear pop acts like Oasis or Dave Matthews Band and feel deep yearnings for freshman year of college, but when I hear Dylan I'm not reminded of high school, when I first heard "Highway 61 Revisited" and my friend Jack and I sat around the basement playing the cassette on repeat.

The album never dated. It is always immediate. It's been 42 years since "Highway 61" and "Bringing It All Back Home." I write that and think, "Shit, has it been that long?" as if I'd been there from the beginning. I was born after "Desire," and only have, at most, 15 years of Dylanphilia under my belt.

It doesn't matter if I'm in a lame bar or sitting at my desk clicking around the iPod. When "Like a Rolling Stone" breaks out, with that first hit of the drums like the burst of a firework, everything becomes a backdrop for the song's post-Beat reckoning of bad love, class boundaries, and being young and confused in America. Great songs rewrite themselves.

He is our Whitman. He's an artist that forces you to fall in love with his work over and over again. When Chronicles was published and when Martin Scorsese did the PBS documentary about him, I spent hours replaying his catalog afterward. He is infinite. He only gets better with time. He grows up with you. It continues into adulthood.

This is in many ways the opposite of a great New York bar. New York bars are doomed love affairs. They are intent on growing away from you. You find a place, you drink it dry over years, and then one day it's something else. The place you took ownership of years ago becomes the stomping ground of NYU kids and ne'er-do-wells looking for an adventure in the city. Or else someone renovates it and ruins it forever, and you're left to remember the old bar like it's a lost friend.

It's not that no bar could have provided competition for Dylan. There's that one place that might have pushed this contest into triple-overtime. Nothing against Loreley: It just comes from a weak conference. Bob Dylan 88, Loreley Beer Garden 80.

2 Rose Bowl vs. 5 Boogie Nights

Sometimes a good team can show up to play but the opposition is so sweeping in quality that a person forgets how good the losing team was in the first place. A casual fan scratches his head and says, "How the hell did Boogie Nights get into this tournament? I bet this blow-out wouldn't have happened if the Rose Bowl played the Federal Reserve or Rodin's 'The Thinker.'"

This kind of thinking is always a mistake. As we observe Boogie Nights's unceremonious departure, let's reflect on its strengths. It is at once deadly serious and extremely funny, and the two moods don't defeat each other. Every actor in that movie did the best work of his or her career in it. Its soundtrack is spectacular. It adopted the tones of Pulp Fiction and Goodfellas but used them in the service of a high-testosterone drama -- about the porn industry. And then there is the raunch, depicted in ways that are exciting and upsetting at once. It's probably in a handful of the great movies made in the last 10 years.

Still, against this competition, Boogie Nights is a sacrificial lamb.

The Rose Bowl is the greatest tradition in all of American sports. America's best achievements are its sports, its music and its novelists. Ergo, the Rose Bowl is the best thing about one of the three best things about America. The Rose Bowl 94, Boogie Nights 69.

Tournament of Everything: The Sweet 16

This is your Sweet 16, everybody. As you can see, the seeding committee did a bang-up job. Six of the top 16 seeds made it through -- next time, we won't do the seeding while working our way through a six-pack of Old Speckled Hen and the one part of Grand Theft Auto where you can steal the helicopter. Priorities.

As you have probably figured out by now, the winnner of the Cleveland Region will play the winner of the International Waters region for a spot in the Championship of Everything game against the winner of either the Ann Arbor region or the Devil's Lake region. The Champion of Everything will receive the coveted Anniversary Trophy, in honor of Cole Slaw Blog's second anniversary. Friday night marked baby turning two. How did we celebrate? I went out and drank crappy, but cheap, beer all night and macked on one of my roommate's friends. CrimeNotes yelled at people on the sidewalk below his apartment, then slammed the window and tried to read his Paris Review in peace, goddamit. It was a massive night.

So, anyway, here's the bracket. You're welcome.

CLEVELAND

(At Jacobs Field)

9 Procrastination vs. 5 Rushmore
6 Kari Byron vs. 10 Prague

ANN ARBOR

(At Dominick's*)

9 Loreley Beer Garden vs. 5 Boogie Nights
3 Bob Dylan vs. 2 Rose Bowl



INTERNATIONAL WATERS

(At Tyson-Secretariat Arena)

1 Sumerians vs. 4 Industrial Revolution
14 Jacques Cousteau vs. 10 The Office (UK)



DEVILS LAKE

(At the DevilDome)

1 Sistine Chapel vs. 5 The Enlightenment
14 Estes Kefauver vs. 2 Animal House

*Weather permitting. In case of rain, games will be contested at Ashley's Pub.

Tournament of Everything Round 2: Devils Lake Region

At Fiesole, Italy

I swear this is the first Google Images result for Wikipedia.
1 Sistine Chapel vs. 8 Wikipedia

The Sistine Chapel is more than just a pretty ceiling, you know. It's got walls. And a floor. And parts where the roof is slanty and you're not sure if it's a wall or a ceiling. I guess you could tell by if it's painted or not. I like the Sistine Chapel. I've never been, but I've heard it's really nice. I've never been to Japan either, but I love Japanese history. I read about how the Jesuits helped some Japanese peasants rebel against their kings, or "shotguns" as they were called in Japan. It was beacuse the Jesuits converted them to Catholicism. The Jesuits were always tight with the Roman power structure, so they were kind of like the Pope's palace guard, except they also went out to convert heathers. Sistine Chapel 44, Wikipedia 28.

5 The Enlightenment vs. 4 Pint of Bass Ale

Well, let's see. The Enlightenment sure has taken a beating over the past six years or so, hasn't it? Global Warming and Evolution are highly controversial theories, on a par with the "Second Spitter." Science is just another brand name to slap on propaganda. The Constitution is just a game of Frogger to the Cheney administration. Yeah, the Enlightenment's lookin' real good. But then again, without it, George Bush could piss in a pint glass and tell you it was delicuous Bass Ale, and you'd have to believe it, because hey, who's to say? And then, as if you hadn't suffered enough indignity, some bunch of assholes would remind you what a great guy the dude who pissed your pint glass was, and how great he would be to be around while you drank his warm, strangely hoppy, urine. And because you'd have no recourse to emprical facts, you'd drink it and never be able to imagine a day when things like liberty, freedom and truth were more than just cudgels and cruel jokes. The Enlightenment 86, Pint of Bass Ale 76.

At Windhoek, Namibia

6 Summer F. Sanders vs. 14 Estes Kefauver

Sweet lawdamercy, if this isn't he most towering tilt in all of tournamentdom, I'll go to a habderdashery, purchase myself a fine felt homburg and then eat that hat of mine which I had recently just purchased, all to prove my point. That point being, that this is one hell of a matchup. Almost worthy of the title game. Almost, but not quite. Because someone's going home today.
On one side, you have a dispenser of Giant Tennessee Boost Up Your Ass. A crusader for civil rights, a friend of working Americans and a foe to exploitative, monopolistic business. On the other side, you have not only the most astounding physique and cardiovascular system ever encased in lycra (circa 1992), but also the foxiest. Back in that day, a more innocent time, Summer Fucking Sanders peered out of the pages of Sports Illustrated into my teenaged heart and made it thump. Estes Kefauver, no matter how many trusts he busts, no matter how many would-be Enrons are stamped out by that Giant Tennessee Boot, could never have done that.

But, hey. Bareclona was a long time ago Miss Fucking Sanders. Those tan muscles don't ripple quite so seductively anymore, do they? Those chlorine bleached lashes no longer flutter for me. And who watches NBA Inside Stuff? Not I And anyway, if Natalie Coughlin -- make that Natalie Fucking Coughlin -- could travel in time back to the early 1990s and challenge you to a race, she'd be listening to Nirvana tapes on her Walkman Sport and sipping Nestea in a chaise longue before you even did your last flip turn. Summer Sanders, I'm so over you. Estes Kefauver 87, Summer F. Sanders 70.

10 Contact Lenses vs. 2 Animal House

I'm not in anything resembling good physical shape. I've got fucked-up sinuses. My lower teeth are a bit wonky from that time I went over my handlebars and landed on my face. If I ever appeared on Jeopardy! I'd list my interests as eating, hooting, and blogging. I've got an ugly scar on the front of one of my shins. But goddamn if I don't have awesome vision. I'm the first one to make out signs on the highway. If I want to make a recipe I found online, I just put the laptop up on the counter, safely out of the way and I can read it fine from over here by the stove. On the subway, I don't have to lean to read over someone's shoulder _ not even when they're on an express and I'm on the local. When I was a kid, my eye doctor called me "Eagle Eyes." I think I have 20/(minus 20) vision. Yeah, yeahg, I know it won't last my whole life. I know someday, I'll probably need reading glasses. I might even need contacts one day _ they're a hell of an invention. But even so, I'm a sucker for girls who wear glasses. But until then, I'm watching Animal House on your 19-inch Toshiba ... from five blocks away!!!1!!1!! Animal House 68, Contact Lenses 52.

Tournament of Everything, Round 2: International Waters Region

At Disputed Zone

1 Sumerians v. 8 Hungary

My seventh-grade social studies teacher would be proud. You're a teacher in small town in the sticks and you stand in front of a class full of ignorant 13-year-old pricks, talking about the Hindu-Kush and the Nubians and the Sumerians, making the poor dumbasses memorize every country on the map. Lo and behold, 17 years later, all of that hard work pays off and a former student is writing about this stuff on his lame blog.

To borrow from former Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neil, writing about the Sumerians and Hungary is a little like being a blind man in a room full of deaf people. While I've never been to Hungary, I'm aware that HMQ2K7 hates it, and that one of her friends was almost shot at a bar in Pest. Something about it appealed to Flop's shaggy-chic style, so he came back talking about a balcony in his hotel room or some such shit.

I'm also aware of goulash. Whatever.

My seventh-grade social studies teacher taught me that Sumeria was the cradle of civilization, and for that, we later got stuck with things like A.P. calculus and laws. Also, they wrote; they wrote Gilgamesh.

This is a little like watching a game where one team dominates a conference that you're barely aware of (Boise State, say) and they come out on top of a 1-AA school that they probably shouldn't have been playing in the first place. It's kind of interesting to watch the game, but it's hard to give a shit. Sumerians 81, Hungary 54.

5. Winged Helmets v. 4. Industrial Revolution

Twice on every fall Saturday, I have a conversation that goes like this:

Person A: "Wow, School X's new uniforms really suck."
Me: "Who gives a shit?"
Person A: "That's outrageous! Why aren't you incensed that they look like an arena football team?"
Me: "I care about the game, not fashion. Stop being a priss."

True, Michigan's winged helmets are distinctive but not garish. They've been around forever, and there's a certain superhero-logo quality to them. (If forced to discuss this subject, I'd also acknowledge a fondness for Nebraska's plain-red-N-on-white helmet.) But goddamn, it's a helmet. It's there to prevent a defensive end's skull from breaking apart when he gets pummeled by a 300-pound lineman. There can be aesthetic qualities that come with function, but in the end, it's like praising a beautiful nail. That nail is there to get pounded.

The Industrial Revolution has given us global warming, acid rain, income inequality, ravaged landscapes, black lung, oil dependency, roads, Amtrak and Tess of the D'Urbervilles. We could have done quite nicely without any of these things. So I guess this is a contest between affliction and an aesthetically pleasing nail. Winged Helmets 61, Industrial Revolution 63.

At Macao

6 Eggs v. 14 Jacques Cousteau

Eggs benedict's round-one loss to "All Things Considered" was not without consequences. Egg enthusiasts at a Shawnee's outside of Columbus, Ohio took to the streets in drunken riot, where they torched effigies of Michelle Norris and Mellisa Block. "Fuck NPR!" they shouted.

With their eggs now in one basket (ha!) and a heightened security presence, rowdy egg supporters taunted Cousteau with chants of "Water sucks!" and the ever-insulting "That's all right, that's okay, you'll be eating us someday!" The unfazeable Monsieur Cousteau, flanked by high-profile supporters including Phish, Jethro Tull and the band Aqualung, was impervious. He declared tuna fish to be the chicken of the sea, set up a film projector, and silenced his critics with beautiful and peaceful footage of sea life. The egg-lovers quieted. They were stunned by nature's majesty and harnessed to its yoke. Eggs 67, Jacques Cousteau 81.

10 The Office (UK) v. 2 Breasts

Is the U.K. version of The Office the greatest series in television history? It would make decent fodder for a late-night bar argument. It feels less like a TV comedy than a twelve-chapter, episodic novel that lulls you with raucous, eye-watering humor before knocking you to the floor in a concluding chapter that portrays work, optimism and love as illusions that people fabricate to pass time. It's like if Raymond Carver had written the final chapter of A Confederacy of Dunces. Then you realize that you were not merely watching a scaldingly funny comedy for grown-ups, but a deeply felt meditation about -- yowzer! -- the pitfalls of modernity and the minefields of being human.

There have been other great TV programs in the last 20 years: Seinfeld, Cheers, Arrested Development, Curb Your Enthusiasm, South Park, and the dramas like Twin Peaks, The Sopranos and Six Feet Under. None of them are as disciplined and tightly paced as The Office.

One of our female commenters has been vigorously contending that breasts are overrated, particularly when it comes to jogging. I'll take her word for it.

But look at the pretty lady!

Unfortunately for breast afficionadoes, the No. 2 seed isn't "nice racks." One thing that the Tournament of Everything has revealed is that sometimes the general is weaker than the specific. If, instead of the Internet being seeded No. 1, the entry were for "left-leaning political blogs," No. 9 seed Procrastination may not have won.

"Breasts" are not the same as "nice racks." Breasts include this:

And this:

This?

Don't think of this as denigrating breasts or the unshapely. Think of this as reflecting on humanity. As The Office (UK) can teach us, it's all fun and games to enjoy those nice breasts and have a laugh with them, but some day those breasts are going to get old and saggy, and force the kind of spare reflections that only come with time. At a certain point they're going to lose their firmness and appeal, and what you're left to fall back on is personality and resilience. O! life is bittersweet. The Office (UK) 94, Breasts 88.