My First and Probably Last Memo Post

First, I probably should take this opportunity to introduce myself. My name is Kenneth Oates, and I would like to thank Ray Speen for allowing me to land this sweet gig as “memo” writer on the rspeen.com website. More on my background later. There are three things I wanted to list that kind of defines my personal philosophy (I think) but I can only remember one of them, right now! Is my brain going? Okay, I’ll do that later. So what I’m gonna do instead is a little sports-talk, seeing how my Dolphins are in the playoffs. One rule my editor, Randy, impressed on me was “no sports talk!” Yet here I am—I hope he can make an exception just this once and not can my ass on day one!

I’m sitting in this little shithole motel room in Northampton, MA—well, it’s not bad, and it’s the cheapest place in town. It’s snowing out right now, even though it seems too warm for snow—I guess the cold is on the way. Why am I here? My job, as I understand it, is to add a “travel blog” element to the website—and I’m all about that. I’ll go anywhere. My destinations, however, are kinda being picked for me. I believe the agenda is somewhat Randy’s—he’s scouting out places to move, I guess, and so I’m checking them out for him. Actually, I wasn’t supposed to let on that tidbit of info—I really hope he doesn’t can my ass!

So, I just watched the Browns lose to the Astros, on NBC, and during that game they just kept relentlessly pushing the late game—Dolphins and Chiefs in butt-cold KC—as if you’re watching playoff football and suddenly gonna switch to opera on PBS. So, I’ve got my chips and pico and I’m ready for the game. And what’s this? NBC switched to local news! Well, Springfield, that is. Did I magically arrive in a live-action Simpsons nightmare? Where’s the game? After checking all the cable channels the motel carries, I discover the game is being shown only on Peacock—which is “no dice” here. What kind of outrage is this? Another rule Randy had for me—keep the “fucks” to a minimum.” But this situation calls for a big one!

I’m not a huge sports fan—but I like to watch a little of this and that on TV. I grew up liking the Dolphins because my dad was a huge fan—and he always raved about the, I believe, 1972 season (so like 13 years before I was even born) that was an undefeated Superbowl team—so yeah. My dad’s ultimate. He even got me these four jerseys, as a kid, my most coveted shit growing up. (I still have them, in a trunk, though they’re like rags, and not eBay-able.) Dolphin’s jerseys. No. 42, Paul Warfield, what a badass name. And No. 39, Larry Zonka. (That’s how I spelled it because Csonka made no sense to me.) And then No. 22, Mercury Morris, who had the baddest-ass name of all. And kinda my fav, No. 21, Jim Kiick—because I saw my dad’s pics of him—bubblegum cards and shit—and I liked his Fu Manchu ’stache—plus, why was there two i’s in his name? Why Kiick, not Kick? It’s one of those great mysteries of life!

I know it’s dumb to be a sports fan (not as dumb as betting on sports) but come on! I just want to watch the game! Is this the beginning of the end for the NFL? Succumbing to greed like college football (which I no longer watch since it’s become a hotbed of legal gambling and virtually all the postseason games are on ESPN—which I don’t have—though, if I can extend this travel-writing gig, it seems like most hotels have it). But P-COCK TV? What the hell is that? I can guarantee that the greedy executives decided to put this particular game exclusively on the streaming service because of the “Taylor Swift Factor”—meaning they’re going to get additional numbers from non-sports fans who just tune-in for a “sighting,” Personally, I’m not a Swifter, though she’s okay, and I did have this ambition of writing a short story about what I’d imagine it to be like to date her (or more realistically, a fictional character based on her) you know—someone that famous. A short story—just an exercise to stretch the ol’ imagination!

Well, maybe it’s for the best. I’d just get too caught up in that game and maybe kick the TV in. Not because I hate KC (I admit, I’m a Mahomes fan), but I can’t stand their fans and that insipid “tomahawk chop.” Hearing those morons chant like it’s a fascist rally and do that hand-motion in unison with their mouths hanging open and vacant look in their eyes is enough to put a guy off his Endless Shrimp. I can’t stand Florida State for the same reason (they’re even worse, plus, I grew up a Hurricanes fan—which hasn’t been easy, lately). Though, I do think F. State got royally screwed in that bogus college football playoff this year. Worst thing ever. I’m sure that’s what led to Nick Saban’s early retirement—he’s got too much integrity to live with that deal with $atan and E$PN and Vega$. How come no one was talking about THAT?

Anyway, I’d better wrap this up. The only real rule Mr. Russell and Lord Speen laid on me was to “keep it brief” (one paragraph, as the ideal). Also, keep the italics and exclamation points to a minimum. And most importantly, NO ALL CAPS! And perhaps leave Taylor-Swift-talk for the mainstream media. A minimum of politics, and no sports, and “for the love of god”—no sports politics! No conspiracy-theory-talk whatsoever, please! And maybe save bellyaching, complaining, and crybaby laments for your now-defunct “Blogspot” page. And the most important rule of all: no discussing the bosses and the rules. Uh, oh, Chongo! Let me rephrase that. Uh-oh, Spaghetti-Os! Should I be looking for another job? Well, maybe not. If I go through and fix the typos myself, maybe my editor will be too lazy to read this and just trust me and post it. It must be about halftime by now… maybe I should check in on the score. Maybe the halftime show will feature the Ice Capades—if only I had P-COCK TV!

—Kenneth Oates 1.13.24