It's coming up on that time of year again. Yep, it's only a few days away. You know what I'm talking about - cooler temperatures, crisp falling leaves, costumes, decorated pumpkins. That's right, it's Daylight Savings Time again.
No, it's not the sweet-and-sour DST of the Spring where we lose an hour. It's the woolly-sock comfort of gaining an extra hour. Ask anyone about DST (except for those iconoclasts in Arizona and parts of Indiana), and they'll say "Yep, we get an extra hour of sleep." No one ever says, "Hey! An extra hour of daylight! Let's all detail the car or paint the fence!" We are creatures of comfort and nothing is quite so comforting as prying open a bloodshot eye with the rest of your face buried in the pillow and thinking, "Hot damn! I still have another hour!" It's not like we get any real use out of that hour. Most of us will still get up and kick-start our bodies into action. We'll make the coffee, read the paper, take up residence in the bathroom for a while, flip through the channels on TV, take a few stabs at the crossword, have more coffee, go back into the bathroom and then realize you pissed away most of your Sunday. As usual.
Like a lot of people, I always set my clock ahead. For some reason, we think we're cheating our Circadian Rhythms and buffering in that extra time to make us feel we have a jump start on our day. Give me a break. Some people take that opportunity to squeeze out a few extra minutes of shut-eye...and promptly end up falling into a deep sleep, waking up in a spastic panic and rushing to work with their hair in a ponytail or smothered in styling gel because they didn't have time to shower. Others realize the literal translation that five minutes was supposed to bring and can quickly (and subconsciously) do the math that 6:00 am actually equals 5:55 am. What recourse do these junior varsity math team wizards have? Why, set the clock ahead by TEN minutes, of course. Feeling slightly superior with 10 extra minutes to their day, they don't realize that their lives are one constant deja vu (forgive the lack of accents, but my laptop doesn't speak French).
Being one of those clock-setter-ahead-ers, I thought I'd take it to the next level. Every time I moved the clock, unplugged it or the power went out because nature hates me and battered me with a violent storm, I would keep setting the clock ahead a little bit more. And a little bit more. And even more, until, after a year, my clock was ahead by two hours and thirty-seven minutes (seriously). Yet, I STILL compensated in my brain when I woke up, saw the clock read 9:15 and almost automatically calculated that it was 6:38. I kept setting it so far ahead that I traveled through time. As of this writing, I am currently living in the distant future. Please send me $1,000 and I will provide you with stock tips, winning lottery numbers and the next several World Series winners. Supermodels only, please.
Usually, there will be some knucklehead at work who will claim, "I just got used to setting my clock ahead - now we have to turn our clocks back again!" and chuckle that annoying self-satisfied chuckle that only the A-List sycophantic brown-nosers can give. It's enough to make you want to set them on fire and light a Cuban cigar off their burning bodies. But that would be wrong. After all, Cuban cigars are still illegal in this country.
I never could quite get the hang of the future ramifications of DST. Let me explain. When pondering what effect setting my clock back another hour would provide, I'm stumped. I have loads of questions. Will the mornings be darker? Lighter? Will it be pitch black when I leave the office now? Will the local vampire community have extended dining hours? Do I look fat in these jeans?
You have probably noticed that I seamlessly transitioned from calling "Daylight Savings Time" to the more economical "DST". You probably also noticed that DST sounds like something a sailor would come home with after a year at sea with monthly visits to the flesh pots of Thailand:
Sergeant: "Say, private,* I hear you have a nasty case of DST"
Private: "It's nothin', Sarge. Got some ointment for that."
Major: "Maybe you should have kept your privates private, private."
Private: "It's nothing major, Major."
Captain: "That's admirable, private. Still, you should see a specialist for that discharge."
Private: "For something so petty?"
Colonel: "You could be a carrier, son"
Private: "Will you be able to get someone to sub for me?"
Admiral: "Replacing privates is our business, son...in general."
* - No, I have no idea how military ranks work in the Navy
And what about those stores that are open 24 hours a day when there's an extra hour to account for? Do they have to close for an hour? Hell, if it's late night and I'm in my pajamas with my fuzzy slippers on and a bloodlust for a heavily-blistered chili dog, I'm not going to want to spend 60 minutes yelling at the cashier to open the damn doors while he grabs his crotch and shakes it at me, making comments about the circumstances of my birth. No, I'll just haul my carcass back to the house, get back in bed, set the clock ahead five more minutes, and go to sleep.
For another hour.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Soldier of Fortunes
Bear with me, readers - I have no idea where this is going to go. First of all, let me thank all those yahoos out there who bought Power Ball lottery tickets. If it wasn't for your fastidiousness (hope I'm using that word properly) and desperation, I might have been having paltry $100 million fantasies instead of the more robust $340 million fantasy that I wrestled with for a handful of days. If you're like me - and God bless you if you are - you queue up with other shifty-eyed citizens when the jackpot breaks the $100 million membrane. A lot of people buy their tickets in convenience stores, supermarkets, or off the big sweaty Lottery Fairy. Me? I go to the local newsstand-cum-gigantic-humidor. Normally, this place would be replete with itchy middle-aged men who pretend to find interest in magazines with such titles as "Civil War Pumpkin Carving," "Heavy Metal Pan Flute," and "Condensed Stories of Rickets Survivors". What everyone knows is that they're just trying to see how long they can hold out before letting out a rebel yell and barreling towards the adult magazine rack. Why go through this whole charade? Embrace your perversion! Stride mightily and purposefully towards your super-glossy, thick-stock pages of smut. Let the other customers think, "Now HERE is a man with direction and a clear vision. THIS guy lives by his own rules." Yeah, and he probably still plays Dungeons & Dragons, but 15 seconds of fleeting respect is about as much as he can reasonably expect each month. I never buy lottery tickets with the expectation that, hey, SOMEONE has to win - why not me? Sure, and SOMEONE has to be the first to hump a whale's blow hole, but it sure as hell is not going to be me. I only buy tickets when it's an intoxicatingly large jackpot. I'm not buying a chance to win - I'm buying a dream, or to be more exact, the RIGHT to dream. The right to dream of super-cool power boats, gargantuan houses and acres and acres of naked women. Could I instead put that effort into being industrious, thrifty and organized? Sure, but, spending $10 once or twice a year is much easier.
So, there I am, waiting behind the enterprising guy who has a list of "his" numbers - you know, the numbers he plays for every lottery, no matter what the size? Somehow, this modern-day Euclid has calculated that the gods of random chance have pre-ordained his inevitable jackpot if he just keeps his hands on the wheel every night the ping-pong balls are dropped. Let me put this gently: You have just as good a chance of winning if a stoned baboon hurled handfuls of warm dung at a giant bingo card and used those numbers. It's not like counting cards at the Black Jack table, watching for the lip-twitch of a slightly toasted businessman with a pair of Queens, or calculating the probability if the Redhead at the Roulette Wheel is a crumpler or a folder. Yet, there are people out there convinced that they have the system beat. Hell, there are lottery junkies so addicted that even past winners are still known to play the numbers. And how about the people in the office - you know, 50 people in the office chipping in $5 a piece, everyone from Darlene the receptionist to Frank in Accounting to Marci in Marketing going in on a jackpot, that, should they win, might net them each 500 bucks once the money has been split up. And should they win a substantial amount, who is going to bother to show up for work the next business day? Oh sure, you'll get the people who return to pick up the photographs of their spotty teenagers, their "special" pens and their "I Hate Mondays" coffee mugs, but other than that, they're busy booking flights to get their flabby pale bodies on a stretch of hot sand quicker than you can say "Jack Robinson". What if this was a vital utility office such as a gas company in the middle of Winter? What if it was a garbage-collection company? What if it was the local phone sex company? I'll tell you what - it would be anarchy, dear citizen. Anarchy.
Personally, I think lotteries and other games of chance are loaded pistols in the hands of a nation full of Bubbas if the proper perspective isn't maintained. Gambling is an addiction and if you have to ask yourself if you might be a gambling addict, then you probably are. For those of us who are not addicted to gambling, have a bit of perspective and realize that, well, you just might be a loser every time you play. Don't take it personally. There's not an Angel of Gambling who peers down at you through the toes in his sandals and says "This ain't your day, Butch" as he's chomping on a ratty cigar and hurling lightning bolts of bad luck your way. Meanwhile, you're cashing in savings bonds to maniacally scrape the silver coating off yet another serrated rectangle of chance with your lucky buffalo-head nickel.
I am a consumer of Coca-Cola products. I am not doing a commercial for them unless they want to offer me an oil tanker full of money, and even then, they wouldn't risk the profitability of their company by having a clown like me advertise for them.
But, I digress...
Coke runs contests constantly. Lift the cap and win the panhandle of Florida, have a disease named after you or get to punch out the actor or actress of your choice. Millions of prizes! One in three wins! Let me tell you something, I have NEVER won anything from these so-called contests. I'd have a metric ton of soda caps saying "Drink Coke - Play Again" while some lucky bastard out there is up to his pucker in winning caps. Yet, for all of my indignant posturing, I can let it go and focus on more important things, like the NEXT contest, the NEXT $100 million jackpot, the NEXT winning hand.
After all, I'm a man with direction and a clear vision. I live by my own rules. And will you look at that - it's time for Dungeons & Dragons.
So, there I am, waiting behind the enterprising guy who has a list of "his" numbers - you know, the numbers he plays for every lottery, no matter what the size? Somehow, this modern-day Euclid has calculated that the gods of random chance have pre-ordained his inevitable jackpot if he just keeps his hands on the wheel every night the ping-pong balls are dropped. Let me put this gently: You have just as good a chance of winning if a stoned baboon hurled handfuls of warm dung at a giant bingo card and used those numbers. It's not like counting cards at the Black Jack table, watching for the lip-twitch of a slightly toasted businessman with a pair of Queens, or calculating the probability if the Redhead at the Roulette Wheel is a crumpler or a folder. Yet, there are people out there convinced that they have the system beat. Hell, there are lottery junkies so addicted that even past winners are still known to play the numbers. And how about the people in the office - you know, 50 people in the office chipping in $5 a piece, everyone from Darlene the receptionist to Frank in Accounting to Marci in Marketing going in on a jackpot, that, should they win, might net them each 500 bucks once the money has been split up. And should they win a substantial amount, who is going to bother to show up for work the next business day? Oh sure, you'll get the people who return to pick up the photographs of their spotty teenagers, their "special" pens and their "I Hate Mondays" coffee mugs, but other than that, they're busy booking flights to get their flabby pale bodies on a stretch of hot sand quicker than you can say "Jack Robinson". What if this was a vital utility office such as a gas company in the middle of Winter? What if it was a garbage-collection company? What if it was the local phone sex company? I'll tell you what - it would be anarchy, dear citizen. Anarchy.
Personally, I think lotteries and other games of chance are loaded pistols in the hands of a nation full of Bubbas if the proper perspective isn't maintained. Gambling is an addiction and if you have to ask yourself if you might be a gambling addict, then you probably are. For those of us who are not addicted to gambling, have a bit of perspective and realize that, well, you just might be a loser every time you play. Don't take it personally. There's not an Angel of Gambling who peers down at you through the toes in his sandals and says "This ain't your day, Butch" as he's chomping on a ratty cigar and hurling lightning bolts of bad luck your way. Meanwhile, you're cashing in savings bonds to maniacally scrape the silver coating off yet another serrated rectangle of chance with your lucky buffalo-head nickel.
I am a consumer of Coca-Cola products. I am not doing a commercial for them unless they want to offer me an oil tanker full of money, and even then, they wouldn't risk the profitability of their company by having a clown like me advertise for them.
But, I digress...
Coke runs contests constantly. Lift the cap and win the panhandle of Florida, have a disease named after you or get to punch out the actor or actress of your choice. Millions of prizes! One in three wins! Let me tell you something, I have NEVER won anything from these so-called contests. I'd have a metric ton of soda caps saying "Drink Coke - Play Again" while some lucky bastard out there is up to his pucker in winning caps. Yet, for all of my indignant posturing, I can let it go and focus on more important things, like the NEXT contest, the NEXT $100 million jackpot, the NEXT winning hand.
After all, I'm a man with direction and a clear vision. I live by my own rules. And will you look at that - it's time for Dungeons & Dragons.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Full Mental Jacket, Part II
I feel an obligation to deliver a Part II to the previous entry. It kind of dovetails nicely with the fact the last story was a "Part I" so it's not much of a stretch. So, put on your beanie-coptors, grab a big hunk of chocolate, and take my hand as we venture back into Best Buy.
Breaking away from the CD section of the store, the cacophonic beat of some third-rate white rapper pounding a nuclear-sized concussion into my coconut, I make for the movie section. The first thing I do is shimmy over to the new releases. There they are, regal and over-wrapped, in military-style regimentation. Impressive. Borderline spellbinding. Of course, the aisles are so narrow that you couldn't fit a police chalk outline of Shelley Duvall on the floor. The video game section shares the other side of the aisle and there is always some intense, doughy pre-teen blocking the way. I try to navigate around the Strait of Round, so I can get a full view of my DVD troops. Nine times out of ten, I punt. Ice Cube doing a children's movie? I'll pass. Another gore-fest featuring idiot teens fresh from a Benetton ad? Um, no. Another pretentious period piece from Merchant Ivory extolling the virtues of class while attempting to decry those very same class systems? Pass the hemlock. Plus, the price for a new release is 20-some-odd-dollars. Hell, if I wait for a few weeks, I can pick up the same movie in the "3-for-$25" bin at Blockbuster video. Why I even bother to go to the New Releases section is beyond me. I'm 50% Italian, 50% Irish - 100% idiot.
I'd be embarrassed to tell you how many movies I own. Suffice to say, it's far more than 1,000. I was able to survive the shift from VHS to DVD, but, should another medium become the preferred method of movie viewing, I'm sunk. I'll go down railing at the gods and their unconscionable hubris, scooping up DVD players by the armload so I can still enjoy my dear, precious movies while the rest of the world is flying around town in their George Jetson hovercars.
But, I digress...
I am the perfect fool when it comes to marketing DVDs. For example, let's just say a movie called "Summer Camp Orgy" - you know, the PG-13 version, comes out on DVD. I buy, it, enjoy it, love the extras, can recite a few memorable lines on my buddy's answering machine, and watch it on a rainy Saturday morning. Then, the studio comes out with "The Director's Cut" - with FIVE EXTRA MINUTES OF FOOTAGE! Or, perhaps, they proclaim it's the UNRATED version - the type they COULDN'T show in the theaters. Now, ladies out there, let me give you an obvious lesson in male behavior. When it comes to movies, "UNRATED" = there's a chance of seeing boobs in the movie, or if there are already boobs in the movie, there is the chance we will see....MORE boobs - or at least an ass crack. We'll gladly shell out the $39 to get the 3-DVD version, two discs of which are filled with such useful extras as interviewing Lourdes, the Mexican food service lady, the story board of the white-knuckle chess match between rival camp counselors, and the Mandarin Chinese subtitles. Then, we'll get home, order up an artery-hardening pizza, draw the shades, swirl the ice cubes in our Big Gulp and put the DVD in. Midway through the movie, we realize that the extra footage was NOT of the female counselor's changing room or the all-female skinny dipping session, complete with slow-motion camera work. No, the extra footage was of the nerdy kid falling into the toilet or a few throwaway quips from the wisecracking cook in the cafeteria. Somewhere, Satan is laughing so hard that he ends up crapping in his fur.
There's been a romanticism associated with vintage television - and not-so-vintage television programs. If it was on the tube in the past, it will end up in a DVD boxed set, invariably containing interviews with whatever surviving cast members talking about "what a joy" it was to work with the other members of the cast. What monkey dung. We all know the backstabbing and espionage that went on. Alcohol and drug abuse, tantrums about who had a bigger dressing room or trailer, who had more lines. For once, I want to see some straight dealing on these DVD interviews:
Actress A: "We had our differences. I really don't think it affected our performances. Well, maybe hers."
Actress B: "I hated her. She was such a bitch."
A: "Well, now that I think about it, I think she had a vestigial tail. Oh, and her hair? If she didn't dye it every week, she'd be grayer than a week-old pot roast in a hobo's armpit."
B: "Did you ever smell her breath? It smells like baboon ass. She also has hair on her nipples. We used to call them hairy-olas."
A: "Would I work with her again? Sure, why not. I am confident we can get past our differences for the fans."
B: "Depends. How much?"
Gee whiz. Can't wait for the commemorative DVD collection of Fish, Cop Rock, and Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire? Nothing like instant nostalgia to keep you living in the not-so-distant past. Now, shows put out a season on DVD right after the season ends. It's kind of like a band putting out a Greatest Hits album just months after their debut.
He: "Honey, remember that first episode of "Executive Privilege"?"
She: "You mean the debut episode we watched two hours ago?"
He: "Yeah, that was great."
There are so many decisions to make, too. Full-screen versus letterbox widescreen. Do I really want to be able to see the grubby townspeople in the margins of the screen? Can I deal with those annoying black bands at the top and bottom of the picture? Then again, maybe I'll just read a book. It's relaxing, entertaining and practical.
And if its really good, maybe they'll make it into a movie.
Breaking away from the CD section of the store, the cacophonic beat of some third-rate white rapper pounding a nuclear-sized concussion into my coconut, I make for the movie section. The first thing I do is shimmy over to the new releases. There they are, regal and over-wrapped, in military-style regimentation. Impressive. Borderline spellbinding. Of course, the aisles are so narrow that you couldn't fit a police chalk outline of Shelley Duvall on the floor. The video game section shares the other side of the aisle and there is always some intense, doughy pre-teen blocking the way. I try to navigate around the Strait of Round, so I can get a full view of my DVD troops. Nine times out of ten, I punt. Ice Cube doing a children's movie? I'll pass. Another gore-fest featuring idiot teens fresh from a Benetton ad? Um, no. Another pretentious period piece from Merchant Ivory extolling the virtues of class while attempting to decry those very same class systems? Pass the hemlock. Plus, the price for a new release is 20-some-odd-dollars. Hell, if I wait for a few weeks, I can pick up the same movie in the "3-for-$25" bin at Blockbuster video. Why I even bother to go to the New Releases section is beyond me. I'm 50% Italian, 50% Irish - 100% idiot.
I'd be embarrassed to tell you how many movies I own. Suffice to say, it's far more than 1,000. I was able to survive the shift from VHS to DVD, but, should another medium become the preferred method of movie viewing, I'm sunk. I'll go down railing at the gods and their unconscionable hubris, scooping up DVD players by the armload so I can still enjoy my dear, precious movies while the rest of the world is flying around town in their George Jetson hovercars.
But, I digress...
I am the perfect fool when it comes to marketing DVDs. For example, let's just say a movie called "Summer Camp Orgy" - you know, the PG-13 version, comes out on DVD. I buy, it, enjoy it, love the extras, can recite a few memorable lines on my buddy's answering machine, and watch it on a rainy Saturday morning. Then, the studio comes out with "The Director's Cut" - with FIVE EXTRA MINUTES OF FOOTAGE! Or, perhaps, they proclaim it's the UNRATED version - the type they COULDN'T show in the theaters. Now, ladies out there, let me give you an obvious lesson in male behavior. When it comes to movies, "UNRATED" = there's a chance of seeing boobs in the movie, or if there are already boobs in the movie, there is the chance we will see....MORE boobs - or at least an ass crack. We'll gladly shell out the $39 to get the 3-DVD version, two discs of which are filled with such useful extras as interviewing Lourdes, the Mexican food service lady, the story board of the white-knuckle chess match between rival camp counselors, and the Mandarin Chinese subtitles. Then, we'll get home, order up an artery-hardening pizza, draw the shades, swirl the ice cubes in our Big Gulp and put the DVD in. Midway through the movie, we realize that the extra footage was NOT of the female counselor's changing room or the all-female skinny dipping session, complete with slow-motion camera work. No, the extra footage was of the nerdy kid falling into the toilet or a few throwaway quips from the wisecracking cook in the cafeteria. Somewhere, Satan is laughing so hard that he ends up crapping in his fur.
There's been a romanticism associated with vintage television - and not-so-vintage television programs. If it was on the tube in the past, it will end up in a DVD boxed set, invariably containing interviews with whatever surviving cast members talking about "what a joy" it was to work with the other members of the cast. What monkey dung. We all know the backstabbing and espionage that went on. Alcohol and drug abuse, tantrums about who had a bigger dressing room or trailer, who had more lines. For once, I want to see some straight dealing on these DVD interviews:
Actress A: "We had our differences. I really don't think it affected our performances. Well, maybe hers."
Actress B: "I hated her. She was such a bitch."
A: "Well, now that I think about it, I think she had a vestigial tail. Oh, and her hair? If she didn't dye it every week, she'd be grayer than a week-old pot roast in a hobo's armpit."
B: "Did you ever smell her breath? It smells like baboon ass. She also has hair on her nipples. We used to call them hairy-olas."
A: "Would I work with her again? Sure, why not. I am confident we can get past our differences for the fans."
B: "Depends. How much?"
Gee whiz. Can't wait for the commemorative DVD collection of Fish, Cop Rock, and Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire? Nothing like instant nostalgia to keep you living in the not-so-distant past. Now, shows put out a season on DVD right after the season ends. It's kind of like a band putting out a Greatest Hits album just months after their debut.
He: "Honey, remember that first episode of "Executive Privilege"?"
She: "You mean the debut episode we watched two hours ago?"
He: "Yeah, that was great."
There are so many decisions to make, too. Full-screen versus letterbox widescreen. Do I really want to be able to see the grubby townspeople in the margins of the screen? Can I deal with those annoying black bands at the top and bottom of the picture? Then again, maybe I'll just read a book. It's relaxing, entertaining and practical.
And if its really good, maybe they'll make it into a movie.
Full Mental Jacket, Part I
Something happens to me every pay day. I get this Herculean rush to go to the nearest electronics store and fondle all the light-blinking, sound-emitting gewgaws I can lay my paws on. Stereos, phones, MP3 players, televisions, recording devices, portable thingies and so on. Show me a combination DVD player, cell phone, toast-maker and I'm fantasizing in the bathroom stall at work just how complete my life would be with one of those beauties in my hands. But, it doesn't end with electronics, my friends. You see, I am one of the more obsessive music and movie collectors of our time. And here is where we begin our journey.
I'll invariably stroll into the nearest Best Buy store, drunk with a freshly-restocked bank account. The sliding doors welcome me like an old friend and caress me with promises of eternal ecstasy. In the movie "Full Metal Jacket," a character named Private Payback says:
"That's because you don't have the stare. The thousand-yard stare. It's like you can see...beyond."
Damn straight. There I was, standing threateningly in shorts and a windbreaker, dramatically pausing near the carts like a Tyrannosaurus eyeballing a shallow tank of overfed seals. Forget the fact that seals most likely were not around in the Triassic Period - I was a man with blood on his fangs after a few gullet-loosening burps. I decided to be systematic in my approach. Now, this is important because it's the one thread that connects me with my withering attachment to humanity in these situations. Casually, I circle the cardboard display of whatever new special-edition DVD they're shoving into our mitts. I lean in and give it a sniff, trying to locate any evidence of Julia Roberts, Jim Carrey or Sandra Bullock. Luckily, there was no trace of any of them, and I loosened my grip on the emergency vial of penicillin I carried with me. With reptilian cool, I scan the $9.99 mini-kiosks for movies that beg to be added to my personal stash. This is all a preliminary ruse - sort of like looking at the "lite" section of the menu when you know you aren't leaving the restaurant without a few bones from a porterhouse left spinning on the plate.
I drop all pretense and hit the CD section - I'll cover DVDs another time. Immediately, all albums (yes, I still call them "albums") I had listed in my mind as must-haves systematically disappear from my memory. I'm stuck in the music tar pits, surrounded by some of the worst selections of music in one of the darkest and least impressive eras of creative performance in recorded history. Pasty nancy-boy guitar bands with gratingly whiny singers who are as alien to proper usage of the bass guitar as Homer Simpson is to a salad fork. And when it isn't wimpy "rockers" cluttering up the shelves, it's the Colorform blonde dingbats who are as overproduced and over-processed as Healthy Choice brand lunchmeat. Let us also not forget the thundering static of idiot bands whose only attribute is to play as fast and loud as humanly possible, shouting 3rd-grade lyrics, wearing all black clothing, soul patches, and tattoos as if that is supposed to prove how tough they are. Doesn't anyone remember melody? And speaking of lack of melody, rap music, for all of its social worth, has dissolved into bragging how much Cristal champagne they have in their "cribs," how much "bling" they have on their "grill" and how much "talent" they have. Amazing how boastful these performers can be about talent when they haven't picked up a musical instrument in their lives.
Perhaps you have seen the mushrooming "Essentials" industry in the music section of your favorite store. You know the ones I'm talking about: The Essential Billy Joel, The Essential Earth, Wind & Fire, The Essential Bonnie Raitt. They're "essentially" "Best of..." collections featuring the hits AM radio and easy-listening, white bread adult-contemporary FM stations keep on life support. As I was perusing the "Essential Neil Diamond/Alabama/Sade" CDs, I came across - are you ready for it? - "The Essential Iron Maiden". Well, color me constipated. Since when did speed-metal gargoyles like Iron Maiden qualify for the wire racks that have only known the shadows of khakis and fanny packs?
Frustrated by the bitch-goddess of my failing memory, I end up weaving my way through the aisles like a blind orb spider, touching and sensing anything that might leap off the shelf, into my cart, and change my life. Instead, I pick up a Cream album, turn it over, rejoice at the song list, then toss it back into the bin in disgust because "White Room" isn't on it.
Maybe I'll wait for "The Essential Cream".
I'll invariably stroll into the nearest Best Buy store, drunk with a freshly-restocked bank account. The sliding doors welcome me like an old friend and caress me with promises of eternal ecstasy. In the movie "Full Metal Jacket," a character named Private Payback says:
"That's because you don't have the stare. The thousand-yard stare. It's like you can see...beyond."
Damn straight. There I was, standing threateningly in shorts and a windbreaker, dramatically pausing near the carts like a Tyrannosaurus eyeballing a shallow tank of overfed seals. Forget the fact that seals most likely were not around in the Triassic Period - I was a man with blood on his fangs after a few gullet-loosening burps. I decided to be systematic in my approach. Now, this is important because it's the one thread that connects me with my withering attachment to humanity in these situations. Casually, I circle the cardboard display of whatever new special-edition DVD they're shoving into our mitts. I lean in and give it a sniff, trying to locate any evidence of Julia Roberts, Jim Carrey or Sandra Bullock. Luckily, there was no trace of any of them, and I loosened my grip on the emergency vial of penicillin I carried with me. With reptilian cool, I scan the $9.99 mini-kiosks for movies that beg to be added to my personal stash. This is all a preliminary ruse - sort of like looking at the "lite" section of the menu when you know you aren't leaving the restaurant without a few bones from a porterhouse left spinning on the plate.
I drop all pretense and hit the CD section - I'll cover DVDs another time. Immediately, all albums (yes, I still call them "albums") I had listed in my mind as must-haves systematically disappear from my memory. I'm stuck in the music tar pits, surrounded by some of the worst selections of music in one of the darkest and least impressive eras of creative performance in recorded history. Pasty nancy-boy guitar bands with gratingly whiny singers who are as alien to proper usage of the bass guitar as Homer Simpson is to a salad fork. And when it isn't wimpy "rockers" cluttering up the shelves, it's the Colorform blonde dingbats who are as overproduced and over-processed as Healthy Choice brand lunchmeat. Let us also not forget the thundering static of idiot bands whose only attribute is to play as fast and loud as humanly possible, shouting 3rd-grade lyrics, wearing all black clothing, soul patches, and tattoos as if that is supposed to prove how tough they are. Doesn't anyone remember melody? And speaking of lack of melody, rap music, for all of its social worth, has dissolved into bragging how much Cristal champagne they have in their "cribs," how much "bling" they have on their "grill" and how much "talent" they have. Amazing how boastful these performers can be about talent when they haven't picked up a musical instrument in their lives.
Perhaps you have seen the mushrooming "Essentials" industry in the music section of your favorite store. You know the ones I'm talking about: The Essential Billy Joel, The Essential Earth, Wind & Fire, The Essential Bonnie Raitt. They're "essentially" "Best of..." collections featuring the hits AM radio and easy-listening, white bread adult-contemporary FM stations keep on life support. As I was perusing the "Essential Neil Diamond/Alabama/Sade" CDs, I came across - are you ready for it? - "The Essential Iron Maiden". Well, color me constipated. Since when did speed-metal gargoyles like Iron Maiden qualify for the wire racks that have only known the shadows of khakis and fanny packs?
Frustrated by the bitch-goddess of my failing memory, I end up weaving my way through the aisles like a blind orb spider, touching and sensing anything that might leap off the shelf, into my cart, and change my life. Instead, I pick up a Cream album, turn it over, rejoice at the song list, then toss it back into the bin in disgust because "White Room" isn't on it.
Maybe I'll wait for "The Essential Cream".
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Voyeur to the Bottom of the See
I was watching a local sports program this morning, gnashing my teeth over the coverage of yet another loss by my team when I heard it. It's a phrase with a few variations but all spoken in that same patronizing tone:
"We want to warn you that the next scene could be disturbing."
Then, they roll film on some poor athlete who gets broken in two, with half his torso flung one way and the other half tossed in the opposite direction. Then they show it again. And again. And again, but even slower. Now for the view from the opposing sideline. Ok, how about the super-slow motion camera where you can see the compound fracture ripping out of the poor guy's sock like fragments of bamboo? How about from the quarterback's helmet cam? The blimp camera? The camera mounted on the jiggling breasts of the busty redhead on the all-important drill team?
You see what I'm getting at. They slow it down, spot-shadow it, magnify it, then bring in experts who either proclaim it's a good thing it was a clean break or solemnly declare that "it will be a miracle if he can even walk, pet his dog, or pick up his infant daughter anymore. That's right, just milk the currency of tears out of the collective eyes of the viewing public, you ratings-whore vampires.
But can you really blame them? They're just giving the public what it wants - or, more to the point, what it thinks it wants. Oh heavens no, you don't want to be the only nimrod hovering around the company coffee station who didn't see the latest horrific sports injury, police shootout or live panda birth. Why do people want to see this stuff? Because news is entertainment. Don't let anyone try to tell you any differently. This nonsense is important because you were told it was important, and, damn it, you WILL conform. Hey! Hotshot! Eyes over here! Look at me when I'm talking to you! See this? This is worthless garbage, but we're calling it news, so you have no choice but to call it news, too. And don't get any fancy-schmancy ideas about thinking for yourself and switching over to the other news channels, because they'll have it on, too.
Who in their right mind gives a rat's hemorrhoid about who was seen smooching who behind the dumpster at the Super-K? Jane Hollywood is sporting a new hairdo? Let's drop our collective dinner forks and slam dance our way through our family members to gawk at the television like Deliverance-area mountain men witnessing the extra-terrestrial invasion of aliens who look like a race RuPaul impersonators. Are peoples' existences so empty and void that they have to live vicariously through the lives of people who wouldn't piss on your baby if it was on fire? These are the same people who squeeze into the audience chairs on the Jerry Springer Show like lard-filled condoms, are experts at everything, and speak with that annoying head and finger thing. Their heads are whipping and gyrating like they're trying to mix cake batter with their chins while their stubby index fingers look like they're trying to re-trace the flight path of a drunk and slightly-retarded moth tethered to a porch light.
This is our America. This is us. It is who we are, collectively, to people outside our borders and to a generous number of people inside our borders. We have a bloodlust for tragedy and misfortune. And it's not relegated to television. Hell, the Internet is a septic ocean of misfortune. There's none of this "there by the grace of God go I" involved. It's more like, "ewww, that's gross! Disgusting. Ugh, how could something like that happen? Let me just look at it for another 45 minutes, talk about it for another three hours, and spend the rest of the weekend becoming an expert in the field." Aim high, graduate!
Hands up, who has slowed down to look at an accident by the side of the road? Pretty much all of you. Screw that - ALL of you have. I also used to, but I stopped after I thought about it. First of all, what the hell am I going to be able to do about it? Do I really want to see mangled bodies dragged out of the tangled wreck? Do I really want to see the blood and carnage? What if it is someone I know? Am I really going to help the situation by shouting "Oh my God!" and careening into the guard rail? Aren't I taking my eyes off the road and increasing the chance of another accident? And yet, even though all of these trespasses would qualify you for the gilded jackass badge for your uniform, it is still somewhat understandable, to some degree. What's worse is when a rubbernecker enacts one of these sins ogling a person who is pulled to the side of the road,to change a tire, get a speeding ticket or scrimshaw an image of the Virgin Mary on the jawbone of a whale.
In my mind, I have effectively eliminated half of this country's population. Please, oh please let me be God for fifteen minutes. Just think of the time saved standing in line at the food court after I would be done. Better seats at the ball game, fewer people to snake my bid in the last 30 seconds on eBay and closer parking.
Oh yeah, and fewer rubberneckers when I'm on the side of the road working on my whale bone.
"We want to warn you that the next scene could be disturbing."
Then, they roll film on some poor athlete who gets broken in two, with half his torso flung one way and the other half tossed in the opposite direction. Then they show it again. And again. And again, but even slower. Now for the view from the opposing sideline. Ok, how about the super-slow motion camera where you can see the compound fracture ripping out of the poor guy's sock like fragments of bamboo? How about from the quarterback's helmet cam? The blimp camera? The camera mounted on the jiggling breasts of the busty redhead on the all-important drill team?
You see what I'm getting at. They slow it down, spot-shadow it, magnify it, then bring in experts who either proclaim it's a good thing it was a clean break or solemnly declare that "it will be a miracle if he can even walk, pet his dog, or pick up his infant daughter anymore. That's right, just milk the currency of tears out of the collective eyes of the viewing public, you ratings-whore vampires.
But can you really blame them? They're just giving the public what it wants - or, more to the point, what it thinks it wants. Oh heavens no, you don't want to be the only nimrod hovering around the company coffee station who didn't see the latest horrific sports injury, police shootout or live panda birth. Why do people want to see this stuff? Because news is entertainment. Don't let anyone try to tell you any differently. This nonsense is important because you were told it was important, and, damn it, you WILL conform. Hey! Hotshot! Eyes over here! Look at me when I'm talking to you! See this? This is worthless garbage, but we're calling it news, so you have no choice but to call it news, too. And don't get any fancy-schmancy ideas about thinking for yourself and switching over to the other news channels, because they'll have it on, too.
Who in their right mind gives a rat's hemorrhoid about who was seen smooching who behind the dumpster at the Super-K? Jane Hollywood is sporting a new hairdo? Let's drop our collective dinner forks and slam dance our way through our family members to gawk at the television like Deliverance-area mountain men witnessing the extra-terrestrial invasion of aliens who look like a race RuPaul impersonators. Are peoples' existences so empty and void that they have to live vicariously through the lives of people who wouldn't piss on your baby if it was on fire? These are the same people who squeeze into the audience chairs on the Jerry Springer Show like lard-filled condoms, are experts at everything, and speak with that annoying head and finger thing. Their heads are whipping and gyrating like they're trying to mix cake batter with their chins while their stubby index fingers look like they're trying to re-trace the flight path of a drunk and slightly-retarded moth tethered to a porch light.
This is our America. This is us. It is who we are, collectively, to people outside our borders and to a generous number of people inside our borders. We have a bloodlust for tragedy and misfortune. And it's not relegated to television. Hell, the Internet is a septic ocean of misfortune. There's none of this "there by the grace of God go I" involved. It's more like, "ewww, that's gross! Disgusting. Ugh, how could something like that happen? Let me just look at it for another 45 minutes, talk about it for another three hours, and spend the rest of the weekend becoming an expert in the field." Aim high, graduate!
Hands up, who has slowed down to look at an accident by the side of the road? Pretty much all of you. Screw that - ALL of you have. I also used to, but I stopped after I thought about it. First of all, what the hell am I going to be able to do about it? Do I really want to see mangled bodies dragged out of the tangled wreck? Do I really want to see the blood and carnage? What if it is someone I know? Am I really going to help the situation by shouting "Oh my God!" and careening into the guard rail? Aren't I taking my eyes off the road and increasing the chance of another accident? And yet, even though all of these trespasses would qualify you for the gilded jackass badge for your uniform, it is still somewhat understandable, to some degree. What's worse is when a rubbernecker enacts one of these sins ogling a person who is pulled to the side of the road,to change a tire, get a speeding ticket or scrimshaw an image of the Virgin Mary on the jawbone of a whale.
In my mind, I have effectively eliminated half of this country's population. Please, oh please let me be God for fifteen minutes. Just think of the time saved standing in line at the food court after I would be done. Better seats at the ball game, fewer people to snake my bid in the last 30 seconds on eBay and closer parking.
Oh yeah, and fewer rubberneckers when I'm on the side of the road working on my whale bone.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Steppin' Up
There is a price to pay for doing a good job at work. Sometimes it's the longer hours or the derisive sniping of peers. Other times it's the weight of carrying home the extra ink on the paycheck or moving into a higher bracket of beer brand purchase. It's the Great American Work Ethic, and it just might raise its ugly head in a cubicle or corner office near you.
Everyone remembers their days in the trenches at work. For me, I did credit card collections straight out of college. I was young, stupid, and in desperate need of beer money. Some people couldn't hack it, and it was a grind. The reward was a monthly incentive that kept your appetite whetted until the following month where you could break your back for the chance of a heavily-taxed monthly bonus. But, life isn't always so colorful under the rainbow. Pretty soon, you start thinking of a career - maybe with that very same company that waved that bonus in front of your snout like a sadistic seal trainer. Maybe, just maybe, there was a place for you...in management.
The very thought is both exhilarating and frightening - kind of like a blind date that your friend sets you up with without the words "...but, he/she has a great personality." Do you have the onions to make it in management? Will you be friendly and loved by your people, who have everything from screen savers to bobble head dolls to wood carvings at their desks - all in your likeness? Or will you be the cold, calculating, miserable piece of dry rot so bent on bullying your charges into submission that Ebenezer Scrooge himself would say, "Dude, chill!" These are the very same people who pulled off their masks upon promotion to reveal the sinister, bile-spewing insect they hid so well when they were taking their lunch breaks with you. Either that, or they wore their boss's ass like a clown's nose. It always amazed me that these people, who have achieved such lofty positions with the company, are so utterly blind, deaf and dumb to these scheming weasels when they promote them that The Who hasn't written a rock opera about them (for those of you reaching for a sip of Diet Coke or Fuze, I am referencing The Who's rock opera, "Tommy" about a blind, deaf, and dumb boy who...um, nevermind).
However, not all promotions to management are to manage others. Let's face it, there are people out there who do a great job but just don't want to deal with the administrative hassles of having people report to them. People calling in sick, hung over, or dead, juggling vacation schedules, dealing with errors in paychecks, and about a billion other things to turn you into a raging alcoholic. I've managed people before, and it's quite rewarding when you can help people achieve things they never thought they would be able to achieve, but I prefer to squat in my own machine-gun nest with my peers in a staff position.
Which finally brings me to the point of this whole thingamabob.
The people in the trenches are THE most important people in the company - an ANY company, for that matter. Without the worker bees, there ain't no honey for the hive, and no honey means no end-of-year bonus. I work in what passes as a city in this shoe box of a state and I have to park in a garage that my company generously pays for, which is nice. However, with growth in the company comes growth in the garage, which means that the staff-level dingbats like me were bumped from the Ferris Wheel. My company was good enough to find the closest available parking garage for me and my 30-some-odd fellow emigrants and pay for parking there. They considered distance, safety and availability, all of which were fine by me - until I went there this morning.
First of all, this garage is so far away, that I had to clone myself and set up a relay team every quarter mile. It's uphill the ENTIRE way from the garage to my office, which should provide hours of laughter when the snow is up to my honey sack. I had to hire out a team of Sherpas to help me scale the 45-degree angle of the road outside the garage. I saw mountain goats taking the gondola to the top of the hill. And on those days when it's cold, windy and rainy? Forget about it. I'll have to leave for work at 7:00 - P.M., that is, the previous night, to get there in time for work the next day. By the time I'd get there, I would have written a journal and sold the rights, missed several class reunions, and have a ZZ Top beard. I should have been suspicious when I saw a dozen hospitality tents set up from the garage to the office. So, someone slapped a number on my back, splashed Gatorade in my face and called a paramedic to shadow my every step. Wait, it gets better. The old garage had a very sensible layout. It was circular; you drove the loop and if it was packed, you took the ONE ramp to the next level and so on. This new place is the latest in Dada architecture. It's like M. C. Escher had a particularly horrifying nightmare and drew up the layout of this place. Ramps criss-cross into oblivion, levels change from 2 to 3 without actually going up or down a ramp, elevator or set of stairs, and your car magically disappears and reappears like those cheap hidden coin boxes your cousin used to play with all the time. A toddler walking through the marketplace in Bangladesh working on a Rubik's Cube would have an easier time navigating his way through the crowd than I would if I parked in the first spot on the other side of the guard-arm.
Which brings me to the safety issue. I am not saying it's a bad neighborhood. I am sure that plenty of decent, honest, God-fearing people know someone who has survived going through this neighborhood in a police escort. It's Autumn now, so it is getting dark earlier - and it's really dark on that street. Remember how it was like fumbling for that light switch in the basement when you were a kid? Try fumbling for that light switch for several blocks, where the only light is reflected off the cold steel of a switchblade or a gun. I guess it's all an incentive for everyone to get into shape - or increase attrition.
So, remember, when you're moving up that corporate ladder, know the risks of success.
And watch your step.
Everyone remembers their days in the trenches at work. For me, I did credit card collections straight out of college. I was young, stupid, and in desperate need of beer money. Some people couldn't hack it, and it was a grind. The reward was a monthly incentive that kept your appetite whetted until the following month where you could break your back for the chance of a heavily-taxed monthly bonus. But, life isn't always so colorful under the rainbow. Pretty soon, you start thinking of a career - maybe with that very same company that waved that bonus in front of your snout like a sadistic seal trainer. Maybe, just maybe, there was a place for you...in management.
The very thought is both exhilarating and frightening - kind of like a blind date that your friend sets you up with without the words "...but, he/she has a great personality." Do you have the onions to make it in management? Will you be friendly and loved by your people, who have everything from screen savers to bobble head dolls to wood carvings at their desks - all in your likeness? Or will you be the cold, calculating, miserable piece of dry rot so bent on bullying your charges into submission that Ebenezer Scrooge himself would say, "Dude, chill!" These are the very same people who pulled off their masks upon promotion to reveal the sinister, bile-spewing insect they hid so well when they were taking their lunch breaks with you. Either that, or they wore their boss's ass like a clown's nose. It always amazed me that these people, who have achieved such lofty positions with the company, are so utterly blind, deaf and dumb to these scheming weasels when they promote them that The Who hasn't written a rock opera about them (for those of you reaching for a sip of Diet Coke or Fuze, I am referencing The Who's rock opera, "Tommy" about a blind, deaf, and dumb boy who...um, nevermind).
However, not all promotions to management are to manage others. Let's face it, there are people out there who do a great job but just don't want to deal with the administrative hassles of having people report to them. People calling in sick, hung over, or dead, juggling vacation schedules, dealing with errors in paychecks, and about a billion other things to turn you into a raging alcoholic. I've managed people before, and it's quite rewarding when you can help people achieve things they never thought they would be able to achieve, but I prefer to squat in my own machine-gun nest with my peers in a staff position.
Which finally brings me to the point of this whole thingamabob.
The people in the trenches are THE most important people in the company - an ANY company, for that matter. Without the worker bees, there ain't no honey for the hive, and no honey means no end-of-year bonus. I work in what passes as a city in this shoe box of a state and I have to park in a garage that my company generously pays for, which is nice. However, with growth in the company comes growth in the garage, which means that the staff-level dingbats like me were bumped from the Ferris Wheel. My company was good enough to find the closest available parking garage for me and my 30-some-odd fellow emigrants and pay for parking there. They considered distance, safety and availability, all of which were fine by me - until I went there this morning.
First of all, this garage is so far away, that I had to clone myself and set up a relay team every quarter mile. It's uphill the ENTIRE way from the garage to my office, which should provide hours of laughter when the snow is up to my honey sack. I had to hire out a team of Sherpas to help me scale the 45-degree angle of the road outside the garage. I saw mountain goats taking the gondola to the top of the hill. And on those days when it's cold, windy and rainy? Forget about it. I'll have to leave for work at 7:00 - P.M., that is, the previous night, to get there in time for work the next day. By the time I'd get there, I would have written a journal and sold the rights, missed several class reunions, and have a ZZ Top beard. I should have been suspicious when I saw a dozen hospitality tents set up from the garage to the office. So, someone slapped a number on my back, splashed Gatorade in my face and called a paramedic to shadow my every step. Wait, it gets better. The old garage had a very sensible layout. It was circular; you drove the loop and if it was packed, you took the ONE ramp to the next level and so on. This new place is the latest in Dada architecture. It's like M. C. Escher had a particularly horrifying nightmare and drew up the layout of this place. Ramps criss-cross into oblivion, levels change from 2 to 3 without actually going up or down a ramp, elevator or set of stairs, and your car magically disappears and reappears like those cheap hidden coin boxes your cousin used to play with all the time. A toddler walking through the marketplace in Bangladesh working on a Rubik's Cube would have an easier time navigating his way through the crowd than I would if I parked in the first spot on the other side of the guard-arm.
Which brings me to the safety issue. I am not saying it's a bad neighborhood. I am sure that plenty of decent, honest, God-fearing people know someone who has survived going through this neighborhood in a police escort. It's Autumn now, so it is getting dark earlier - and it's really dark on that street. Remember how it was like fumbling for that light switch in the basement when you were a kid? Try fumbling for that light switch for several blocks, where the only light is reflected off the cold steel of a switchblade or a gun. I guess it's all an incentive for everyone to get into shape - or increase attrition.
So, remember, when you're moving up that corporate ladder, know the risks of success.
And watch your step.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
A Glutton for Punishment
I live a cursed life. No, there is no tattoo that burns like a million suns on my backside during the Solstice, nor do people burst into flames once I get close to them (although I know a few who would volunteer for that instead of getting closer to me). You see, I am a sports fan. Not only that, but I am the most leprous of sports fans - I am a Philadelphia sports fan. A glutton for punishment.
For those not in the know, being a Philadelphia sports fan means a life of eternal sacrifice and self-immolation. In the Bible, Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt. If a Philadelphia fan's significant other was turned into a pillar of salt, he or she would break out the margarita glasses. If the Greek titan, Prometheus, was a Philly sports fan, and ritualistically had his liver torn out of him every day by a giant, mutant bird of prey, he would say, "Yeah, yeah, just keep it down in the fourth quarter."
And now, a brief history lesson...
You do not have to be a sports fan to appreciate the suffering of the Philadelphia sports fan. You just have to be a person filled with a Herculean capacity for compassion - either that or a sadistic bastard. Not to bore you with statistics, but for a major four-sports (football, baseball, hockey and basketball) city, no one knows heartache and heartbreak like my fellow Philadelphia fans. No major championships in well over 20 years. You figure that, over a period that spanned close to 90 team championships, that your team would stumble onto at least ONE championship - even by accident. And don't give me that garbage about Red Sox and Cubs fans being the scions of sports suffering.
Bull.
Chances are, if you are a Red Sox fan, you are also a fan of the other team sports in that area. Let's see...hmm...how about the New England Patriots and their daisy chain of recent Super Bowl wins? What about the Boston Celtics and their habitual run of championships from the 1960s through the 1980s? Cubs fans? Two words (well, actually, five words): The Bears and the Bulls. More than animals in the stock market zoo, they have combined for seven championships in the last 20 years. Not bad for teams who share the same fan base as the Cubs. And besides, the White Sox have suffered just as long as the Cubs but you never hear their fans bitching. However, I do get a bit of satisfaction out of the fact that the White Sox are also from Chicago.
We Philadelphia fans live and die with our teams. We cheer the misfortune of visiting athletes, we start brawls in the stands when we see a fan wearing the jersey of another team, and yes, our mayor (and future governor) started a snowball hailstorm at Veteran's Stadium directed at the Dallas Cowboys as they retreated in horror to their locker room one cold winter day. But, just give us a damned championship and I am sure each and every one of us would atone for our sins towards other fans and sing "Rainbow Connection" while shoving a beer and burger into their hands in the parking lot. Sure, we booed Santa Claus over 30 years ago, but he was a poor tackler. Yeah, we threw batteries at various opposing outfielders, but at least they were Duracell. And hey, maybe we jumped the glass during the hockey game to get after Tie Domi in the penalty box, but it was only to strangle him a little bit - and who among us couldn't do with a little larynx massage?
We know agony. It's like a thick wooly blanket on a cold, blustery day. We suffer more than a Jewish woman whose son just opened a Red Lobster or an Italian mother whose daughter makes a better sauce than she does. It's a ritual, passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, like cufflinks and sepia-colored photos of immigrant relatives we have no emotional connection to whatsoever. A glimpse into an exchange in a South Philly row house:
Father: "Son, it's time we had a talk"
Son: "But Dad, I'm too young for the sex talk."
Father: "No, this is more important than that. You're what, four or five years old now?"
Son: "Eight"
Father: "Eight. Right. Listen, it's about time you became a man. You love football and baseball and hockey, don't you?"
Son: "Sure. They're a lot of fun."
Father: "Silence! They are NOT fun! They are not supposed to be fun! They are bitch goddesses of the season. They will rip out your heart, make you impotent and RUIN your life, but yet, you cannot look away. You must keep watching. You MUST tie your personal happiness to the success of your teams. In other words, you MUST be miserable for the rest of your life! Pack it in, kid! Fun's over!"
Son: "Sooooooo...Mom's not coming back, is she?"
It's grown from a slightly uncomfortable nuisance to a full-fledged apocalyptic locust storm. You could cover me in naked Playboy Playmate nymphomaniacs, and, until we get a championship, I'll still say, "Can we wait until halftime?" I care more about the balls and strikes on the lead-off batter than matching up my Lotto numbers. I'm more concerned about the Power Play than I am about paying my power bill.
Some day, when the planets realign, the messiah returns, and our insect masters force us into building their adobe pyramids, a Philadelphia sports team will accidentally win a championship. It might take the forfeiting of games by every other team in the league, a nationwide influenza epidemic or a cataclysmic cloud of indifference among other athletes, but, the odds just HAVE to eventually fall in our favor sometime.
Don't they?
And when they do, I can finally get this damned tattoo removed from my ass.
For those not in the know, being a Philadelphia sports fan means a life of eternal sacrifice and self-immolation. In the Bible, Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt. If a Philadelphia fan's significant other was turned into a pillar of salt, he or she would break out the margarita glasses. If the Greek titan, Prometheus, was a Philly sports fan, and ritualistically had his liver torn out of him every day by a giant, mutant bird of prey, he would say, "Yeah, yeah, just keep it down in the fourth quarter."
And now, a brief history lesson...
You do not have to be a sports fan to appreciate the suffering of the Philadelphia sports fan. You just have to be a person filled with a Herculean capacity for compassion - either that or a sadistic bastard. Not to bore you with statistics, but for a major four-sports (football, baseball, hockey and basketball) city, no one knows heartache and heartbreak like my fellow Philadelphia fans. No major championships in well over 20 years. You figure that, over a period that spanned close to 90 team championships, that your team would stumble onto at least ONE championship - even by accident. And don't give me that garbage about Red Sox and Cubs fans being the scions of sports suffering.
Bull.
Chances are, if you are a Red Sox fan, you are also a fan of the other team sports in that area. Let's see...hmm...how about the New England Patriots and their daisy chain of recent Super Bowl wins? What about the Boston Celtics and their habitual run of championships from the 1960s through the 1980s? Cubs fans? Two words (well, actually, five words): The Bears and the Bulls. More than animals in the stock market zoo, they have combined for seven championships in the last 20 years. Not bad for teams who share the same fan base as the Cubs. And besides, the White Sox have suffered just as long as the Cubs but you never hear their fans bitching. However, I do get a bit of satisfaction out of the fact that the White Sox are also from Chicago.
We Philadelphia fans live and die with our teams. We cheer the misfortune of visiting athletes, we start brawls in the stands when we see a fan wearing the jersey of another team, and yes, our mayor (and future governor) started a snowball hailstorm at Veteran's Stadium directed at the Dallas Cowboys as they retreated in horror to their locker room one cold winter day. But, just give us a damned championship and I am sure each and every one of us would atone for our sins towards other fans and sing "Rainbow Connection" while shoving a beer and burger into their hands in the parking lot. Sure, we booed Santa Claus over 30 years ago, but he was a poor tackler. Yeah, we threw batteries at various opposing outfielders, but at least they were Duracell. And hey, maybe we jumped the glass during the hockey game to get after Tie Domi in the penalty box, but it was only to strangle him a little bit - and who among us couldn't do with a little larynx massage?
We know agony. It's like a thick wooly blanket on a cold, blustery day. We suffer more than a Jewish woman whose son just opened a Red Lobster or an Italian mother whose daughter makes a better sauce than she does. It's a ritual, passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, like cufflinks and sepia-colored photos of immigrant relatives we have no emotional connection to whatsoever. A glimpse into an exchange in a South Philly row house:
Father: "Son, it's time we had a talk"
Son: "But Dad, I'm too young for the sex talk."
Father: "No, this is more important than that. You're what, four or five years old now?"
Son: "Eight"
Father: "Eight. Right. Listen, it's about time you became a man. You love football and baseball and hockey, don't you?"
Son: "Sure. They're a lot of fun."
Father: "Silence! They are NOT fun! They are not supposed to be fun! They are bitch goddesses of the season. They will rip out your heart, make you impotent and RUIN your life, but yet, you cannot look away. You must keep watching. You MUST tie your personal happiness to the success of your teams. In other words, you MUST be miserable for the rest of your life! Pack it in, kid! Fun's over!"
Son: "Sooooooo...Mom's not coming back, is she?"
It's grown from a slightly uncomfortable nuisance to a full-fledged apocalyptic locust storm. You could cover me in naked Playboy Playmate nymphomaniacs, and, until we get a championship, I'll still say, "Can we wait until halftime?" I care more about the balls and strikes on the lead-off batter than matching up my Lotto numbers. I'm more concerned about the Power Play than I am about paying my power bill.
Some day, when the planets realign, the messiah returns, and our insect masters force us into building their adobe pyramids, a Philadelphia sports team will accidentally win a championship. It might take the forfeiting of games by every other team in the league, a nationwide influenza epidemic or a cataclysmic cloud of indifference among other athletes, but, the odds just HAVE to eventually fall in our favor sometime.
Don't they?
And when they do, I can finally get this damned tattoo removed from my ass.
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