An Open Letter to the Dude in the T.O. Jersey at the Bar
Dear Sir,
First of all, let me say how happy I am that the professional football season is here once again. I enjoy the camaraderie with friends, spending long, lazy Sunday afternoons at the local sports bar, watching multiple games while drinking multiple beers. I assume you, also, enjoy the NFL, because you routinely return to the bar on Sundays. Granted, you seem less inclined to watch the games and more apt to jump around and shout epithets at your friends and the TV, but this is one of our many differences.
Another point of departure is that you are always clad in your Terrell Owens 49ers jersey and your…how to put this?…douche hat, while my friends and I wear jeans and T-shirts. I like to think what you wear has little bearing on anything, except that your choice of jersey (and hat) seem to reflect your personal lifestyle.
And it is that lifestyle that is at the heart of this letter. I do not know that you are gay or straight, nor do I care. I have no idea about your religious affiliation, if you have one, and that doesn’t matter to me one bit. The only thing I really know about you is that you seem to enjoy standing up, often blocking the TV screens, and shouting a derogatory term for “homosexual.” Over and over and over again.
I certainly don’t wish to impede your right to free speech, but do you think you could stop doing that? If you are trying to make a political statement or even an artistic one, I think you are failing. The only point that is coming across to my friends, or to the many tables surrounding yours, is that you are a loud, obnoxious jerk.
If that is your aim, then I say bravo, sir. You have certainly found the sweet spot.
But, now that we all know you’re an inconsiderate jackass, I think it’s safe to stop getting drunk at 2 p.m. and screaming insults. Point made. Move on to the next point, which we’re all hoping is rehab, or at least a different sports bar.
Sincerely,
Every Single Person Who Had to Endure You Last Year
Ban the Asterisk
As a semi-literate writer of things, like blogs and sentences, I love punctuation. Periods are great, period. Exclamation points are vital to hyperbole, such that I would die without them!
And question marks? Do you even have to ask?
Even semi-colons are important; I should learn to use them someday.
But there’s one bit of punctuation with whom I am very cross: The Asterisk. I’m not saying that little hanging star isn’t useful, but it almost never contains any good news.*
(* Exception that proves the rule: Those must be space pants, because your butt looks out of this world. That seems like pretty good news.)
An asterisk in sports always involves cheating or some other scandal. Barry Bonds hit 71 homers* (while he was juicing). Michael Phelps won 14 gold medals* (despite a goofy grin on his face).
It’s even worse when you’re buying stuff. Nothing like purchasing floor wax that claims “Great on Floors*” only to read “* Not for use on tile, hardwood, laminate, marble, dirt or carpet.”
And sales are always ruined by the asterisk. “20% off all purchases*” isn’t much use when the disclaimer tells you “*purchases must be $800,000 or greater and include a yacht.”
Rather than hide behind the asterisk, I think we should put everything out there. Let people know the deal up front.
Think about how many bad marriages could be avoided if everything was out in the open? Too many people say “I do” without looking behind their soon-to-be spouses to see a big, fat asterisk, just waiting to screw up their lives.
I say we do away with the asterisk once and for all. And I’m looking at you next, parentheses.
(Oh, crap.)
TV is my year-round sport
I stopped playing soccer in elementary school. Quit baseball in middle school. Wimped out on basketball in high school.
And since my body went directly from frail and skinny to dumpy and bloated, I was never in “football” shape. Though I guess I’m kind of shaped like a football these days.
I didn’t stick with sports for two reasons — one, I suck at sports, and two, I was way better at watching TV. In fact, I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve kind of honed my body into the perfect TV watching machine.
Still, even I have my limits. TV used to be a fall sport. New shows, new seasons, new stories. Occasionally, you’d get a mid-season replacement, but mostly you finished up well before spring and could play a few pick-up games with reruns, if you were bored.
Nowadays, the new shows never stop. And I’m not talking about “reality” TV, which sucks at being a genre as much as I did at baseball, soccer, basketball and track — the summer has real, honest-to-God scripted fare.
I used to be able to rest up for the fall, get my trainer to check out my remote control hand, buy new pillows for the couch, but now I’m watching “Burn Notice” and “True Blood” and “Warehouse 13.”
My volume thumb is aching. I’m adding padding to my butt as fast as possible, but it’s never enough and BOOM — the calendar says we’re a month away from the fall season. All new shows. And I don’t know if I can handle it.
Maybe it’s time to just watch TV recreationally — it’s a younger man’s game, these days. But, Favre-like, I keep coming back.
Why didn’t I stick with basketball? I was awful, but at least nobody makes you play when it’s snowing outside.
Another year…
Despite fervent protestations from my readers and several noted judicial scholars, I have once again been allowed to live another year.
Turning 31 was not as big a deal as turning 30 was, which was (in turn) not as big a deal as 29 had been.
Thirty-one is no 21 or 25, that’s for sure. Those years held some significance, if only because they held new opportunities for me. At 21 I could (legally) drink. At 25, I got married.
At 30, I worried a bit about my reaction to turning 30, not realizing that my worrying was the reaction.
It was 29 that punched me between the eyes. That was when I started to panic that I would not, in the last year before 30, accomplish all those things that I thought I would do. And my panicking was well thought out, as I proceeded to not accomplish anything.
It’s a tradition I’ve kept up ever since. I’m reading no great novels, nor writing any. I’m certainly not trying any harder at this job. My back lawn is still a mess (and no, that’s not a euphemism) and I can’t grow a tomato to save my life.
And so, another year. Here’s to mediocrity! Wooooo–*cough*cough* ooo!
…another year.
God Bless Texas
I hope you’re not expecting me to be funny today. Those storms last night had my dog and my wife (and by extension, me) awake when we should have been sleeping. I’m too tired for funny.
(Editor’s note: Then how do you explain the rest of the crap you write?)
With that in mind, I hope you enjoy this video of a Texas deposition. WARNING: Some of the language in this video is foul and very, very humorous.
I know they have two pro football teams and access to the Gulf of Mexico, but I think this video puts Oklahoma and Texas about even. (They may still be a little ahead of us if you count Rep. Sally Kern.)
I’ll Care About Health Care When I Get Cancer
If you’re like me, then you’re a devastatingly handsome 6′2 white man with a weakness for gyros and The Kinks. (If these things are true, congratulations on leading an awesome life.)
But another way you might be like me is that the current health care debate has you bored out of your skull. And that is because you, like me, are not dying of anything at this particular moment.
I’m sure if I had cancer or AIDS or a burning desire to teach interpretive dance to Hell’s Angels, I would care about universal health care. Those people care because they need it. But we’re young and invincible — we’ll never need a doctor or surgery or a flu vaccine.
And so we can’t be blamed for ignorance and apathy — well, we CAN be blamed, we just don’t care enough to do anything about it — because that’s for somebody else to worry about.
So, you know, let’s let old people decide. I mean, surely they’ll be as invested in keeping us healthy as they are in getting hip replacements and being kept alive by increasingly expensive machines.
Or let’s leave it up to rich people. Certainly they care more about making sure we can get health coverage despite a pre-existing condition than they do about saving a few bucks on their taxes. I mean, there’s no question, right?
And don’t forget the religious nutbags! We shouldn’t worry that they’ll try to collapse the whole thing because it doesn’t outlaw abortion — which the U.S. Supreme Court has ruled is legal — because they care so much more about helping the poor.
Everybody cares about poor people. It’s why their lives are so great.
No, if you’re like me, you’re just going to sit back and enjoy “More to Love,” the fat-friendly “Bachelor” rip-off with a big pint of ice cream and a bucket of corndogs.
Because we’re young and invincible. I’m sure everybody else is looking out for us. Right?
I would also like to apologize to Rihanna
Rihanna,
Girl, I know a lot of people are apologizing to you right now, like that guy you used to date, Chris Brown. Of course his apology is kind of vague, talking about “the incident” and “what happened.” I’ve used super new technology to embed it below, in case you’d like to watch again.
But unlike Chris, who savagely beat you in a car and then waited six months to say “sorry” as part of his community service, I’d like to make my apology very clear.
I am sorry that I don’t know who you are. Really, really sorry. I heard there was some song about an umbrella you did? But all I can think of is this song from the ’50s or ’60s they’re always playing on KOMA, and I don’t think that was you.
The fact that I only know you because Chris Brown beat you up is not cool. Then again, I though Chris Brown was a running back for the Detroit Lions, but I don’t think that skinny dude in the video could play in the NFL — even for Detroit.
So let me sincerely beg your forgiveness. I will try and figure out who you are beyond police reports posted on the Smoking Gun. And after that, I’ll get to work on the mystery of who gave Tyra Banks a damn talk show.
Sincerely,
Greg
p.s. Seriously? Who gave Tyra a talk show? Were you worried America was getting too smart?
Live from CityWalk — anything but news!
I knew things were rough when I started listening to KJ103.
Now, I like dance and pop music as much (or even much, much less) than the average guy, but lately I’ve found my radio dial tuned to pounding synth and constant remix channel that is KJ103. Why? Because everything else is so damned depressing.
Everybody complains that there’s too much bad news in the world and the newspapers and TV stations only ever report bad things. Which is complete and total bull, but that’s because nobody is actually reading newspapers or watching TV news — they just need something to say when people talk to them.
But I will admit, I have been getting very depressed when listening to the news lately. Not that the news is so bad, just that all the people involved in the news are so stupid.
For example:
Health Care Reform — It’s going to cost a bunch of money! But people need health care! Can we blame it on the immigrants? No? Let’s scream about it being partisan, then! PARTISAN, PARTISAN, PARTISAN!
The California Economy — There’s no money! Wait, there is money, but we don’t want to take it! Taxes are bad! Services are good! Nobody can make a decision! Can we blame it on the immigrants?
Michael Jackson — Still dead! Can we keep talking about him some more? He had kids! He might have molested children! Who gets the money? He was broke! Let’s blame it on the immigrants!
I want to listen to NPR. I want to be informed. But I just cannot stand to listen to another “balanced” story that involved two people talking back and forth about how the other guy is wrong about everything. And apparently, people still don’t like immigration. Big surprise.
So I’m listening to KJ103. It’s like pouring a milkshake over third-degree burns. I’m sure it’s not doing much to help, but at least it feels good for a little while.
Don’t Be Famous
Michael Jackson. Steve McNair. Karl Malden.
These famous people are all dead. And what can their deaths teach us? Don’t have radical plastic surgery and then spend years eating nothing but narcotics-grade horse tranqs? Don’t have a crazy mistress? Don’t get old?
No. Those are lessons you learn from your parents.
The real thing to learn from this trio and the legion of minor-to-mid-level stars who have passed away recently is this: Don’t Be Famous.
Think of every famous person you’ve ever heard of. Guess what? They’re all dead. Yeah. And you’re killing them just by knowing who they are.
As a science-fabulist, I can tell you that awareness emits a toxin that is both photo- and aural-sensitive. When we know of celebrities, we force their brains to release this toxin. The more people who know about them, the more the toxin gets into their system.
Alone this is bad news, but when combined with other symptoms of fame — excessive picture taking, screaming fans — suddenly, the toxin becomes deadly.
Ever wonder why famous writers live so much longer than famous actors or sports stars? It’s because they only get their picture taken once for the book jacket. Plus, the only screaming they hear comes not from fans, but from dissatisfied spouses.
Of course there are a few celebs who are immune. Paris Hilton has miraculously survived, as have Heidi and Spencer. There’s a theory in the science-fabulist community that being well-known but loathed provides a blood-brain barrier to the toxin. That also explains Kobe Bryant.
So what can you do? For your own safety, remain as un-famous as possible. If you do gain some small measure of fame, do like Joe the Plumber and be as annoying and unloved as possible.
And for the celebrities you do love, the best thing you can do is to stop loving them. Stop watching TMZ. Stop buying OK! magazine. It’s the only way to keep old what’s-her-name and that one dude from dying. You know who I’m talking about.
Bad people die. Bad people can create good things.
In case you were in that special kind of coma where you only miss big news events, like in an SNL sketch or a stupid movie, then here’s some shocking news: Everybody totally forgot that Michael Jackson dangled his baby off a ledge and bought his way out of a child molestation trial.
Oh, and Michael Jackson’s dead. That’s probably important to the story.
The outpouring of love for the now-deceased King of Pop is a little baffling to me. On NPR this morning, I actually heard a reporter ask if “we” had messed him up so much that he molested kids.
Uh…no. No we didn’t. “We” bought his records and went to his concerts and mostly let it slide that he had his whole face removed. “We” didn’t make him a pedophile.
Here’s the thing — it’s OK to talk about what a great musician and dancer he was. Why? Because he was a totally great musician and dancer.
But he wasn’t a saint. Not even a little bit. And dying doesn’t change that.
You know how Jim Morrison was a drunk and an a-hole, but The Doors made some great music? Or how Ty Cobb was a drunk and an a-hole, but he was a great baseball player? Or how I’m a drunk and an a-hole, but…wait…never mind.
The thing is, it’s OK to appreciate the art and not the artist. If you can’t seperate the two, then I’d leave them both alone and move on.
Michael Jackson, I’ll miss your music, which holds up really well 20-plus years later. But you, personally? Not so much.
