Whether we're willing to admit it or not, all of us remember the Brady Bunch sitcom. Sometimes with stunning accuracy you might recall Marsha's broken nose, Jan's nearsightedness resulting in a horrific bicycling accident or Cindy's poignant battle with tattling. Maybe you recall the hot and cold romance of Alice the Maid with Sam the Butcher (not to be confused with 500 lb. pro wrestler Abdullah the Butcher). Or perhaps in the final season, you sympathized with the nerdish plight of the mysterious cousin Oliver. Ahhh Oliver... you disconnected, amusing anomaly. You never truly belonged.
The boys from the father's side of the family also had their share of tales. Bobby became friends with Broadway Joe Namath. Peter's voice changed during an ill-timed, epic battle with puberty. The Brady Six were in deep shit, but somehow miraculously managed to incorporate his tumultuous vocal dilemma. Fuck it! They turned a negative into a positive. Verifiable proof that "when it's time to change, one must in fact... rearrange." Indeed.
But it is the oldest Brady son that served as the inspiration for my latest home decor project. Not sure what season this aired, but Greg was experiencing a tidal wave of independence. He moved out of the tri-bedroom quad and took up residence in the attic. He suddenly became friends with a new group of older hippies (judging by their behavior, some speculate these counter-culture freaks may have smoked grass). And Greg started using words like "groovy" and phrases such as "far out, man!" He wore bell-bottoms and rose-tinted glasses. To top it off, he even had the audacity to address his mom and dad as "Carol" and "Mike." Not kewl.
On the cusp of a family vacation, Greg decided he'd rather hang out with his friends instead of his family. He chose his friends over family. 30 years later on facebook, some might call this "not lovin' the fam." Regardless, Greg's friendship with the hippies suddenly came crashing down. His father tried to persuade him to join the family for a fun-filled trip to the beach. His father made one last ditch effort, encouraging him to come with the fam in that monster vacation-station wagon. Hell, even Tiger the dog was going on the trip (I think).
Anyway, as father Mike entered the attic he had to fight his way through vast columns of stringed beads hanging in the doorway. He even got all tangled up in 'dat shit as the studio audience howled in delight. Surely you remember this debacle. Mike was an architect by trade, so I imagine he had a vested interest in home decor. On some twisted, fundamental level, I think we share this trait.
Fast forward to the year 2011. Now is the time. Let us "pay this shit forward." As we await the Patriots/Giants Superbowl AND on the heels of a debilitating Steelers playoff loss to the Denver Broncos exacted by the Christian savior and overlord, Tim Tebow, I concocted a new project. With roughly 1,200 wine corks and some fishing line (not to mention, plenty of hooks and 2 dowel rods supplied by Gig), I began to string up the corks in what some have termed a "manger scene equivalent" reenactment at the Jewish Ski Lodge. It's a real-time, real-world crucifixion/circumcision. We call it... circumfixion. From here on out, if you wish to enter my living room, you must pass through the hanging wall of corks. Technically speaking, this masterpiece is referred to as "Greg Brady died for Yinz Sinz."
Take heed of the perfectly centered yellow cross with the black cork outline. Reflect back on the sins of the Steelers, the alleged model franchise. Sure I'm a fan, but I cannot dismiss some of their indiscretions. Remember Bam Morris? Wasn't he caught smuggling 200 lbs. of dope along the Texas border? Remember when Greg Lloyd candidly spoke on national tv after an AFC Championship win against the Colts... "We're gonna take it all the fucking way to the fucking Superbowl." Remember Big Ben's extra-curricular activity in a rural Georgia bar bathroom stall. The ugly transformation from "Roethslisberger the Sandwich" into "Raping Burger" the sexual conquistador. And now Jerry Sandusky has stolen the spotlight? I can't believe that sodomizer is petitioning the court so he can see his grandchildren. What the fuck is up with that??? Shouldn't his ass be the one "that receives regular, unsupervised visits?" But I digress...
So here's the point. If you voluntarily enter my living room, I consider it to be an admission, or at the very least, an endorsement of sinful activity. As one struggles to pass through the corks, we are to be reminded of Christ's eternal struggle. For it was not just Art Rooney. For it was not only Neil O'Donnell. For it was neither Bill Cowher nor his secretary. It was, in essence, all of us who've been impacted by the crucifixion. Even Uncle Saffy, I suppose. That seems to be the consensus on about 14 channels on my Directv. One channel is hardly sufficient to convey a message from God. You need at least a baker's dozen or so.
So replace the blessed wine with a cold I.C. Light. Instead of taking communion, feast on the bread of Primanti's. Get off your hands and knees. Stop kneeling and repenting. Stand up and SHHHOOOOUUUTTTT (Donnie Wahlberg in that movie Rock Star). For all this time, it was Greg Williams aka tv personality Greg Brady, that died for his love of the Black'n'Gold. Who would have thunk it?