“Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.”
-- Stella Adler
One of my roommates in L.A., John, represented my fiercest aversions towards film school, and his senior film embodied them. I heard tales of his epic, a project on which my dormmate occasionally served as part of the crew. He spent several evenings, after-hours, in vacated bars on The Strip for filming. We never got into specifics about the production, but Sean spoke volumes in the morning when he walked into our room shaking his head.
Little birdies brought me more details of the production. John spared no expense with his work. Unsatisfied with the limited collection of cameras the SIU cinema department offered, he decided to go halfway across the country to rent a shamelessly expensive high-end 16mm camera. Too good to soil his film with unproven actors from the SIU theater department (who would work for the credit), he went to St. Louis to audition "professional" actors (who he would have to pay). By the time we all moved to Los Angeles, his budget had blown up, exceeding ten thousand dollars at the halfway point. He threw his parents into debt and maxed out both his credit cards, forcing himself to beg his grandparents for money in order to fund his internship stint in Hollywood.
I felt guilty asking my parents for my outlandish L.A. rent, and here John was throwing himself and his family into debt for a student film. I would have had to be certain that I had something pretty great, in story – not to mention talent, to ask that of my family. From what I saw of the film, John did not have that. Early in the summer, he got a rough cut of his film on video, and he gathered his roomies around the television to premiere his passion project. Watching it without the sound (he hadn't even added that expense yet), very little of the film stuck with me. I remember one overhead tracking shot that floated above a bathroom floor, revealing a young man trying to resuscitate his overdosed girlfriend, her head glamorously framed between the wall and the toilet.
Film school culture romanticized this sort of gritty subject matter, though the majority of its students came from comfortable homes and they had limited knowledge of the subjects they found so fascinating. Sure, most of them are more familiar with pot than their professors, but to call pot “drug culture” anymore is like calling jock itch a national health emergency. The fascination these kids had with lives so far removed from their own always confused me; there seemed to be a certain amount of self-loathing involved, as if the experiences of their own lives lacked dramatic value.
From the minute I stepped into my first film class, I felt out of step with the majority of my peers. In my Intro to Film class, we went around the room on the first day to reveal some of our favorite filmmakers. I began film school at the apex of the independent revolution. Naturally names like Tarantino and Van Sant came up frequently. Out of Sight had just jumped into my Top Ten, so I was relieved that I could volunteer an independent darling like Soderbergh.
But I was ashamed that I couldn’t bring myself to admit that my favorite filmmaker of all time remains Steven Spielberg. Just three months after he released the definitive war movie, Saving Private Ryan, I felt ashamed to admit my affection for the film, as if the entire class would turn to me like I had forgot to wear pants to class. Many of my peers found the concept of a popular artist impossible to reconcile. To them, the value came from the struggle more than the product. Film didn't have value if it wasn’t about the dirt that studios were “afraid” to touch. It wasn't film if you didn’t put your friends and family into the poor house in order to make it. Their passions seemed less about filmmaking then cinematic martyrdom, and I had no interest in that.
Still, their evident insecurities eventually infected my own line of thinking. With a dearth of potential inspirations collected from my own childhood, from the great Ski King to the mysticism of the Mississippi (piggy-backing on Mr. Clemens, I know), I suddenly doubted whether those stories had value in the grim cynicism of SIU’s film school. My creative writing classes only exacerbated the problem as I read about the self-destructive dysfunction in Dorothy Allison’s “River of Names,” the slow death of alcoholism in “All the Way in Flagstaff, Arizona,” and incest in Mona Simpson’s “Lawns.” Even Denis Johnson’s “Emergency,” my all-time favorite short story, was so bizarrely brilliant and dark that I felt completely inept with my white bread subject matter.
My worst case of doubt came after meeting with my Screenwriting professor about my final project. Since my senior year of high school, when my football career came to its tragic end, I felt it was the one story I was meant to tell. Whether for therapeutic reasons, or simply narrative ones, there was no story I was more interested in telling than that one. But apparently that was not enough to inspire my professor. We met for a quick chat in his office. He pulled out my script and set it in his lap with a thoughtful sigh, then turned and asked me the question that changed the course of my writing career forever.
“This needs something. This character…” he began, referring to the protagonist who suffered a career-ending injury. “Could he perhaps become addicted to pain-killers?”
The question baffled me. I stammered for a moment before laying out the entire story, and in a way, my heart for his further consideration.
“That’s not what the story is about,” I told him. “It’s about being young, and how much of the danger of youth comes from not having passions. Not knowing what you care about. What you believe in. This kid had that. He had his passion. He knew what he cared about. But he had it taken away from him. And the issue is how does he deal with that?”
“Yea,” he said. “I just don’t think that’s enough.”
I left his office doubting my great, personal story. Did I really need to spice it up with drugs? Is that the magic ingredient for a compelling story? Somebody has to be an alcoholic, or a junkie, or a whore. If that was the case, maybe I wasn’t destined for this storytelling gig. I was a white, middle-class male. I rarely drank. I never touched drugs. And thus far I have exhibited a reasonable modesty in regards to sex. What the hell was I gonna write about?
I went through my remaining semesters at SIU suffering from an intense uncertainty about my work. All of my professors seemed perfectly upfront about my talent as a wordsmith, but they found something lacking in my subject matter. Only my thesis screenplay sponsor, Dru Vratil, seemed to exhibit exceptional foresight when it came to my abilities. Though I look back on the final screenplay I turned into her and cringe, she seemed to see and understand (even if I didn’t) the ideas I was examining, the philosophies I was struggling with. When every other writing professor I studied under seemed anxious for their students to reconsider their callings, Dru pushed me to keep working and to trust that I would grow as a writer as I grew as a person.
She was right. I have done both. Before I accepted the quest for the holy Master’s Degree, I had to first accept who I was as a person and a writer. I am a devout believer in “write what you know,” and since drugs, sex, and violence hold limited influence on my life track, I accept that they have little place in my writing. They will all serve their purpose as my writing career moves ahead, but I cannot imagine any of them being the focus of my work.
My stories are small. They are modest. They are personal. And there’s nothing wrong with that. This fall, as I completed my grad school applications, I wrote what I consider the best story of my life thus far. And it’s a quiet, subtle story about two people who had a place in each other’s life at one time, but have since moved on. As they reunite they must also reevaluate whether their history can justify a future.
I love that story. Objectively, it’s a good story. And it is completely drug-free. There are a few beers, and some intense sexual tension, but that’s it. I could have made either of the main characters an alcoholic and pleased my former professors, but as I said five years ago:
“That’s not what the story is about.”
For the first time in a long time, I’m excited about being a writer again. I believe in the stories I have to tell, and believe they have as much, if not more, to offer than the sensationalistic pap that got my classmates turned on. In a world of increasing dread, why do we need to romanticize the ills of life? I don’t know. I choose instead to look for hope.
Hope in serious literature? What a radical idea.
Monday, January 31, 2005
To Baltimore
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
-- William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet)
I admit it. I jumped on the bandwagon. Just once. I was young and in college. Everyone was doing it, and I succumbed to the will of the masses.
I can imagine my actions during the fall of 1998 were a bit like returning to an old lover. After several years of being bitter and broken-hearted, she comes back into your life, more refined, more interesting, yet still familiar. Somehow what you recognize in the most recent version is not the faults that destroyed you, but ultimately the spells and potions that first bewitched you. Only now it is more powerful, more intoxicating because novelty has once again replaced the mundane; intrigue alloys the commonplace.
It was in this manner, after years apart, that I returned to baseball.
The timeline of my love affair with the national pastime greatly resembles one of the few naïve fantasies which I still cling to, that of two people too ripe, too unprepared for their first go at love finally achieving a more mature, rewarding romance than they ever could have managed without first the loss and then subsequent maturation.
During my fandom as a youth, I could never fully commit. Too young and too distracted, I perpetrated unpardonable sins in the baseball world not out of malice, but out of ignorance. How else could I explain my equal reverence of both the Cubs and the White Sox? Sure, I grew up on the Cubs; my grandmother placed me in front of the television every day and allowed Harry Caray’s neuron-corroding effects to do their work. Still, as I sat on the cusp of my teen years, it was the South Siders who kept my attention. It was Black Jack and Robin Ventura (even after Nolan Ryan pummeled him), Rock Raines and Ozzie Guillen. Above all others, there was Frank Thomas.
On the football field in Junior High, I was anointed Trainwreck by my fellow players. The nickname came from a Reebok commercial starring Big Frank. In voice-over, he describes a collision between himself and an unlucky catcher to the impact of two trains running head-on into each other. As the dust settles on the impact and the ball rolls free Big Frank stands up confidently:
“I’m the big train,” he says.
After Ryne Sandberg’s retirement, I anointed Frank Thomas the new avatar of my romanticism with the game. My first trip to a major league ballpark was not to Wrigley Field, but to the new Comiskey Park. And I went to see Big Frank.
Then, suddenly, my romance with the game of baseball came to a crashing halt. During a season in which the White Sox seemed the prohibitive favorites to reach, if not win, the World Series, the now infamous strike halted the 1994 season as it approached its climax.
In my own life, after playing for an overly competitive JV coach who didn’t understand the inanity of obsessing over a sophomore Conference title, my desire to pursue the game slowly wilted. Now, every time I swing my Brainstorm Bat or pound my newest mit, I regret giving one jackass so much power that I turned my back on the game. That being said, I don’t believe I would love the sport as I do now if I hadn’t given it up.
After hanging up my spikes in the summer of 1996, baseball rarely entered my mind. I went and watched my best friend defy science and reason in center field, but that was the limit of my baseball intake. The spring musical quickly filled the void left by baseball, and Guys and Dolls remains one of the most rewarding projects of my life.
At 18, I thought baseball and I were through. Then, like an ex-girlfriend at a high school reunion, she strutted back into the room, twenty pounds lighter, in tip-top shape, with some great stories to tell. As if in a dream, this familiar love didn’t give me the cold shoulder, but welcomed me back with open arms.
And let’s not forget that tremendous gift: the race to 61.
I cannot lie. I would not be the relentless, obsessive fan that I am, if not for Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. I jumped right into the middle of that bandwagon. Though the drama of the chase seems somewhat diminished now in the immediate shadow of Barry Bonds’ punishment of the pill and the Red Sox’ improbable World Championship, try and recall it if you can. Sammy and Mark, the two sluggers chasing Maris’ record were on the same field when Mark McGwire hit 61. Talk about serendipity. They hugged on the first base line, imitating each other’s trademark handshakes. I remember McGwire’s horrifying bear hug of his son, and Sammy sincerely congratulating Popeye after the game. It was baseball, thin and gorgeous, and suddenly it all came back to me – the romance of it all.
I returned to my first love, baseball, prepared to love it as never before. My life as an athlete had ended unceremoniously, so personal identification with the athletes was no longer the primary interest. And as much as I loved my experience playing football, baseball remained my first, deepest, and most sincere passion. Older, wiser, and willing to forgive, I dove back into the smell of leather and pine tar, of splitters and spitters, of beer and brats.
The love triangle I lived with the Cubs and Sox went to the North Side, if only because the 1998 incarnation of the Sox was completely unfamiliar to me (save for an underperforming Frank Thomas) and the Cubs were blessed with a more compelling storyline for my return, what with a rare (if uneventful) post-season appearance and Sammy’s home run chase.
After playing a major role in my reunion with the game, it was with understandable sadness that I learned this morning of Sammy Sosa’s impending departure from the Chicago Cubs. Now, it became clear that Sosa needed to go well before sneezing meant a DL vacation and grenades found their way over the ivy. Nevertheless, as I count the days till Sosa turns in his Blues, I can’t help feeling a numb guilt and disappointment that things ended this way.
The question bouncing about my brain is this:
How much importance is history to a relationship? Does the considerable time you’ve spent together, the good and the bad, the laughter and the tears, justify a cordial departure?
For me, I’ve been thinking about the last game of last season. Chicago had suffered an embarrassing breakdown to the New York Mets, handing the Wild Card berth to Houston. The game was of no consequence as far as the season was concerned, and Sosa made that abundantly clear when he walked out of Wrigley fifteen minutes into the contest. Sosa caught flak for letting his teammates down, letting the franchise down. Yea, I guess, but that was never what appalled me about it.
The game was of no consequence. As far as performance goes, he let the team down long before that. Sosa’s premature exit from that final game didn’t bother me because of team morale. No. What disgusted me about it was that Sammy took for granted the dreams of millions of boys and men who would have given untold number of digits and limbs just to be able to sit in the dugout of Wrigley Field as a part of a major league baseball team.
Sosa gets paid an inordinate amount of money to live out the dreams and fantasies of his fans, yet he didn’t feel up to it on that day. Had we booed him, started to talk about his substandard play? Absolutely. But we weren’t rooting against him. Nothing would have thrilled the whole of Wrigleyville more than to see Sammy bouncing homers off the Sheffield apartments. We wanted to see that. We needed that. And I’m sorry Sammy. You just weren’t getting the job done.
Cubs fans have a tradition of sulking. That’s what we do. It’s our gimmick. We sulk. We wine. We bitch and moan. But most of that is a manifestation of our need for a hero. We want to be inspired by our team. We bitch, you inspire. That’s our dynamic, and will continue to be. We saw glimpses of that heroism last year, but none of it came from Sammy. Instead, young bucks like Aramis Ramirez and Carlos Zambrano yanked that torch out of Sosa’s hands while he was busy sneezing us out of the post-season.
I like my team a whole lot more today than I did yesterday, and that’s a tragedy. The player who wooed me back into my affair with baseball has lost his place in my heart. Sure, I will remember what he did for me and forever be grateful. But sadly that is not enough to justify my continued loyalty. The past just isn’t enough, not when the future holds so many possibilities. Will I miss you? In a way, I’ve already gotten over your absence. You’re not the player we loved anymore, Sammy. You haven’t been for a long time.
It’s time for a change. We’ve had our time, Sammy, and now we must both move on. Say hi to the Yanks and BoSox for me. I’m sure they’re dying to K you. And try not to harbor any ill will when you hear the right field bleachers erupt this spring…
For Todd Hollandsworth.
-- William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet)
I admit it. I jumped on the bandwagon. Just once. I was young and in college. Everyone was doing it, and I succumbed to the will of the masses.
I can imagine my actions during the fall of 1998 were a bit like returning to an old lover. After several years of being bitter and broken-hearted, she comes back into your life, more refined, more interesting, yet still familiar. Somehow what you recognize in the most recent version is not the faults that destroyed you, but ultimately the spells and potions that first bewitched you. Only now it is more powerful, more intoxicating because novelty has once again replaced the mundane; intrigue alloys the commonplace.
It was in this manner, after years apart, that I returned to baseball.
The timeline of my love affair with the national pastime greatly resembles one of the few naïve fantasies which I still cling to, that of two people too ripe, too unprepared for their first go at love finally achieving a more mature, rewarding romance than they ever could have managed without first the loss and then subsequent maturation.
During my fandom as a youth, I could never fully commit. Too young and too distracted, I perpetrated unpardonable sins in the baseball world not out of malice, but out of ignorance. How else could I explain my equal reverence of both the Cubs and the White Sox? Sure, I grew up on the Cubs; my grandmother placed me in front of the television every day and allowed Harry Caray’s neuron-corroding effects to do their work. Still, as I sat on the cusp of my teen years, it was the South Siders who kept my attention. It was Black Jack and Robin Ventura (even after Nolan Ryan pummeled him), Rock Raines and Ozzie Guillen. Above all others, there was Frank Thomas.
On the football field in Junior High, I was anointed Trainwreck by my fellow players. The nickname came from a Reebok commercial starring Big Frank. In voice-over, he describes a collision between himself and an unlucky catcher to the impact of two trains running head-on into each other. As the dust settles on the impact and the ball rolls free Big Frank stands up confidently:
“I’m the big train,” he says.
After Ryne Sandberg’s retirement, I anointed Frank Thomas the new avatar of my romanticism with the game. My first trip to a major league ballpark was not to Wrigley Field, but to the new Comiskey Park. And I went to see Big Frank.
Then, suddenly, my romance with the game of baseball came to a crashing halt. During a season in which the White Sox seemed the prohibitive favorites to reach, if not win, the World Series, the now infamous strike halted the 1994 season as it approached its climax.
In my own life, after playing for an overly competitive JV coach who didn’t understand the inanity of obsessing over a sophomore Conference title, my desire to pursue the game slowly wilted. Now, every time I swing my Brainstorm Bat or pound my newest mit, I regret giving one jackass so much power that I turned my back on the game. That being said, I don’t believe I would love the sport as I do now if I hadn’t given it up.
After hanging up my spikes in the summer of 1996, baseball rarely entered my mind. I went and watched my best friend defy science and reason in center field, but that was the limit of my baseball intake. The spring musical quickly filled the void left by baseball, and Guys and Dolls remains one of the most rewarding projects of my life.
At 18, I thought baseball and I were through. Then, like an ex-girlfriend at a high school reunion, she strutted back into the room, twenty pounds lighter, in tip-top shape, with some great stories to tell. As if in a dream, this familiar love didn’t give me the cold shoulder, but welcomed me back with open arms.
And let’s not forget that tremendous gift: the race to 61.
I cannot lie. I would not be the relentless, obsessive fan that I am, if not for Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. I jumped right into the middle of that bandwagon. Though the drama of the chase seems somewhat diminished now in the immediate shadow of Barry Bonds’ punishment of the pill and the Red Sox’ improbable World Championship, try and recall it if you can. Sammy and Mark, the two sluggers chasing Maris’ record were on the same field when Mark McGwire hit 61. Talk about serendipity. They hugged on the first base line, imitating each other’s trademark handshakes. I remember McGwire’s horrifying bear hug of his son, and Sammy sincerely congratulating Popeye after the game. It was baseball, thin and gorgeous, and suddenly it all came back to me – the romance of it all.
I returned to my first love, baseball, prepared to love it as never before. My life as an athlete had ended unceremoniously, so personal identification with the athletes was no longer the primary interest. And as much as I loved my experience playing football, baseball remained my first, deepest, and most sincere passion. Older, wiser, and willing to forgive, I dove back into the smell of leather and pine tar, of splitters and spitters, of beer and brats.
The love triangle I lived with the Cubs and Sox went to the North Side, if only because the 1998 incarnation of the Sox was completely unfamiliar to me (save for an underperforming Frank Thomas) and the Cubs were blessed with a more compelling storyline for my return, what with a rare (if uneventful) post-season appearance and Sammy’s home run chase.
After playing a major role in my reunion with the game, it was with understandable sadness that I learned this morning of Sammy Sosa’s impending departure from the Chicago Cubs. Now, it became clear that Sosa needed to go well before sneezing meant a DL vacation and grenades found their way over the ivy. Nevertheless, as I count the days till Sosa turns in his Blues, I can’t help feeling a numb guilt and disappointment that things ended this way.
The question bouncing about my brain is this:
How much importance is history to a relationship? Does the considerable time you’ve spent together, the good and the bad, the laughter and the tears, justify a cordial departure?
For me, I’ve been thinking about the last game of last season. Chicago had suffered an embarrassing breakdown to the New York Mets, handing the Wild Card berth to Houston. The game was of no consequence as far as the season was concerned, and Sosa made that abundantly clear when he walked out of Wrigley fifteen minutes into the contest. Sosa caught flak for letting his teammates down, letting the franchise down. Yea, I guess, but that was never what appalled me about it.
The game was of no consequence. As far as performance goes, he let the team down long before that. Sosa’s premature exit from that final game didn’t bother me because of team morale. No. What disgusted me about it was that Sammy took for granted the dreams of millions of boys and men who would have given untold number of digits and limbs just to be able to sit in the dugout of Wrigley Field as a part of a major league baseball team.
Sosa gets paid an inordinate amount of money to live out the dreams and fantasies of his fans, yet he didn’t feel up to it on that day. Had we booed him, started to talk about his substandard play? Absolutely. But we weren’t rooting against him. Nothing would have thrilled the whole of Wrigleyville more than to see Sammy bouncing homers off the Sheffield apartments. We wanted to see that. We needed that. And I’m sorry Sammy. You just weren’t getting the job done.
Cubs fans have a tradition of sulking. That’s what we do. It’s our gimmick. We sulk. We wine. We bitch and moan. But most of that is a manifestation of our need for a hero. We want to be inspired by our team. We bitch, you inspire. That’s our dynamic, and will continue to be. We saw glimpses of that heroism last year, but none of it came from Sammy. Instead, young bucks like Aramis Ramirez and Carlos Zambrano yanked that torch out of Sosa’s hands while he was busy sneezing us out of the post-season.
I like my team a whole lot more today than I did yesterday, and that’s a tragedy. The player who wooed me back into my affair with baseball has lost his place in my heart. Sure, I will remember what he did for me and forever be grateful. But sadly that is not enough to justify my continued loyalty. The past just isn’t enough, not when the future holds so many possibilities. Will I miss you? In a way, I’ve already gotten over your absence. You’re not the player we loved anymore, Sammy. You haven’t been for a long time.
It’s time for a change. We’ve had our time, Sammy, and now we must both move on. Say hi to the Yanks and BoSox for me. I’m sure they’re dying to K you. And try not to harbor any ill will when you hear the right field bleachers erupt this spring…
For Todd Hollandsworth.
Friday, January 28, 2005
On Hunting
“They take unbelievable pleasure in the hideous blast of the hunting horn and baying of the hounds. Dogs dung smells sweet as cinnamon to them.”
-- Desiderius Erasmus
It’s my belief that I could make an entire career out of walking through a bookstore and piling up the completely inane and ludicrous books that are put into print. From the Nascar Library Collection (the greatest oxymoron I have yet to discover) to “How to Become a Millionaire the Lord’s Way” (nepotism, naturally). When I’m fortunate enough to escape the register, I routinely stroll the aisles looking for my next read or, in most cases, next eye roll.
Tonight I came upon a collection of deer hunting books. On the cover, a gruff, homely man in camouflage held aloft the limp head of a six-point deer. The buck’s eyes were glazed over and its purple tongue dangled out of one corner of its mouth. The proud hunter grinned with such masculine pride that I can only assume they had to air brush anything below his belt buckle.
The picture reminded me how much I didn’t understand the modern hunter. Back in the day when bling meant leopard pelts, life necessitated the hunt. If you didn’t hunt, you didn’t eat. If you didn’t eat, you hung out with Paris Hilton. But at some point in the evolution of mankind our advances in agriculture and maintaining livestock diminished the need for the manliest of the species to scratch their asses in the bushes waiting for that prize buck to come over the hill. Suddenly, scratching one’s ass in the bushes became recreation.
With a mind gifted for psychological deconstruction, I’ve tried to understand what drives millions of grown men to rise at the crack of down, throw on their Sunday-best camo, pack up a small arsenal of weapons, and then sit in a box of sticks for hours. Is it a return to those golden years before the development of our frontal lobes? Is it a superiority complex, a quest to best the dazzling array of creatures they confront on a weekly basis? Clearly it must be something more than the concussion of their boomsticks. Having never hunted, I can’t be certain.
If any of these are the correct reasons, the hunters out there have not fully committed to their motivations. An abundance of homes throughout the country display the spoils of these patriarchal (or step-patriarchal I would imagine) expeditions into the wild. These heads and pelts always struck me as absurd trophies, rewards of decidedly lop-sided battles. It’s kind of like Carl Lewis taking pride in sweeping the Special Olympics. With the array of artillery at the disposal of modern hunters, they have a decided advantage over their furry adversaries.
In a way, I have no real prejudice against the practice of hunting, but merely the pride of accomplishment in outwitting the dimwitted. The idiom “deer in headlights” did not come out of the clear blue sky. One witnesses a degradation of brain function when this spell sets in. When you see a friend with their jaw hung open, eyes wide, frozen in place, that friend is clearly operating at less than full intellectual capacity. So, why do so many hunters have deer heads prominently displayed in their living rooms? They tricked a baser creature with their wiles. Wow. And I can make an infant believe I pulled a quarter out of his ear. Talk about a deer in headlights. Those kids have no clue.
But I digress.
Unlike much of the pontificating I do on this site, I offer a solution; a way hunters can reach back to those days before agrarian society stole their thunder and bag a creature in a way that celebrates the alpha male in all of them.
Let’s go old school. Let’s make it fair. Strip yourselves of all those newfangled gadgets that have stacked the decks so far in your favor that it’s become the greatest of David and Goliath situations – if David was also retarded.
Start with the camo. No more spending hundreds of dollars on cozy, warm jackets and pants, no. It’s time to improvise. Get out and roll in the dirt. Stick some leaves to your ass. If warmth is an issue, well, you’ll just have to wait until you bag that first deer or, if you’ve been a good boy or girl, bear. Skin that sucker and wrap it around you tight. That’s how your great ancestors used to do it. You disrespect their memory with your wool lining and water-resistant boots.
Second, let’s stop trying to outsmart the animals. No more decoys or other contraptions to make the prey think they’re coming to a cocktail party. No more of those manufactured scents meant to lure the males to their doom. How would you like it if you got invited to a Hollywood premiere by a beautiful woman only to get shot in the ass with a graphite-shafted arrow? It’s just rude. Besides, if we’re going to embrace the old school and you want the scent of a female deer, by God, you’re going to get it the old-fashioned way.
Finally, and most importantly, let’s talk weaponry. I have no respect for a hunter who takes out a deer with a bow that could shoot an arrow through a Buick. Talk about overkill. Plus, I know there are hunters out there with laser sights and super-zooms (or at least that’s what the NRA would have us believe), and is that really sporting? Give me a hunter who bashed a deer’s head in with a rock and I’ll shake his hand. He can throw that carcass over his shoulder and walk down Main Street and I’ll follow him like a troubadour, hailing his virtues in song. Imagine the pride you would feel seeing your husband or father walking into the living room scratched all to hell, clutching his ribs, bleeding internally, but dragging the furry mass of a bear behind him. I for one would stand up and proclaim “There’s a real man!”
I’m just talking fairness folks. There’s nothing fair about the modern hunter. It’s high time to strip off the excess and get back to the roots of the contest between man and beast. It’ll better us as people, and it might help diminish that white trash population that won this last presidential election. If nothing else, I’m certain the ratings for the Outdoor Living Network will go through the roof.
-- Desiderius Erasmus
It’s my belief that I could make an entire career out of walking through a bookstore and piling up the completely inane and ludicrous books that are put into print. From the Nascar Library Collection (the greatest oxymoron I have yet to discover) to “How to Become a Millionaire the Lord’s Way” (nepotism, naturally). When I’m fortunate enough to escape the register, I routinely stroll the aisles looking for my next read or, in most cases, next eye roll.
Tonight I came upon a collection of deer hunting books. On the cover, a gruff, homely man in camouflage held aloft the limp head of a six-point deer. The buck’s eyes were glazed over and its purple tongue dangled out of one corner of its mouth. The proud hunter grinned with such masculine pride that I can only assume they had to air brush anything below his belt buckle.
The picture reminded me how much I didn’t understand the modern hunter. Back in the day when bling meant leopard pelts, life necessitated the hunt. If you didn’t hunt, you didn’t eat. If you didn’t eat, you hung out with Paris Hilton. But at some point in the evolution of mankind our advances in agriculture and maintaining livestock diminished the need for the manliest of the species to scratch their asses in the bushes waiting for that prize buck to come over the hill. Suddenly, scratching one’s ass in the bushes became recreation.
With a mind gifted for psychological deconstruction, I’ve tried to understand what drives millions of grown men to rise at the crack of down, throw on their Sunday-best camo, pack up a small arsenal of weapons, and then sit in a box of sticks for hours. Is it a return to those golden years before the development of our frontal lobes? Is it a superiority complex, a quest to best the dazzling array of creatures they confront on a weekly basis? Clearly it must be something more than the concussion of their boomsticks. Having never hunted, I can’t be certain.
If any of these are the correct reasons, the hunters out there have not fully committed to their motivations. An abundance of homes throughout the country display the spoils of these patriarchal (or step-patriarchal I would imagine) expeditions into the wild. These heads and pelts always struck me as absurd trophies, rewards of decidedly lop-sided battles. It’s kind of like Carl Lewis taking pride in sweeping the Special Olympics. With the array of artillery at the disposal of modern hunters, they have a decided advantage over their furry adversaries.
In a way, I have no real prejudice against the practice of hunting, but merely the pride of accomplishment in outwitting the dimwitted. The idiom “deer in headlights” did not come out of the clear blue sky. One witnesses a degradation of brain function when this spell sets in. When you see a friend with their jaw hung open, eyes wide, frozen in place, that friend is clearly operating at less than full intellectual capacity. So, why do so many hunters have deer heads prominently displayed in their living rooms? They tricked a baser creature with their wiles. Wow. And I can make an infant believe I pulled a quarter out of his ear. Talk about a deer in headlights. Those kids have no clue.
But I digress.
Unlike much of the pontificating I do on this site, I offer a solution; a way hunters can reach back to those days before agrarian society stole their thunder and bag a creature in a way that celebrates the alpha male in all of them.
Let’s go old school. Let’s make it fair. Strip yourselves of all those newfangled gadgets that have stacked the decks so far in your favor that it’s become the greatest of David and Goliath situations – if David was also retarded.
Start with the camo. No more spending hundreds of dollars on cozy, warm jackets and pants, no. It’s time to improvise. Get out and roll in the dirt. Stick some leaves to your ass. If warmth is an issue, well, you’ll just have to wait until you bag that first deer or, if you’ve been a good boy or girl, bear. Skin that sucker and wrap it around you tight. That’s how your great ancestors used to do it. You disrespect their memory with your wool lining and water-resistant boots.
Second, let’s stop trying to outsmart the animals. No more decoys or other contraptions to make the prey think they’re coming to a cocktail party. No more of those manufactured scents meant to lure the males to their doom. How would you like it if you got invited to a Hollywood premiere by a beautiful woman only to get shot in the ass with a graphite-shafted arrow? It’s just rude. Besides, if we’re going to embrace the old school and you want the scent of a female deer, by God, you’re going to get it the old-fashioned way.
Finally, and most importantly, let’s talk weaponry. I have no respect for a hunter who takes out a deer with a bow that could shoot an arrow through a Buick. Talk about overkill. Plus, I know there are hunters out there with laser sights and super-zooms (or at least that’s what the NRA would have us believe), and is that really sporting? Give me a hunter who bashed a deer’s head in with a rock and I’ll shake his hand. He can throw that carcass over his shoulder and walk down Main Street and I’ll follow him like a troubadour, hailing his virtues in song. Imagine the pride you would feel seeing your husband or father walking into the living room scratched all to hell, clutching his ribs, bleeding internally, but dragging the furry mass of a bear behind him. I for one would stand up and proclaim “There’s a real man!”
I’m just talking fairness folks. There’s nothing fair about the modern hunter. It’s high time to strip off the excess and get back to the roots of the contest between man and beast. It’ll better us as people, and it might help diminish that white trash population that won this last presidential election. If nothing else, I’m certain the ratings for the Outdoor Living Network will go through the roof.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Where I Stand After a Quarter Century
Today, I turned a quarter-century old (or halfway to fifty as the Stricklers put it), and provided this blog has an ambitious shelf-life I wanted a marker, something I could go back to each year to understand where I was and see the changes that have been made.
For that, I turn to James Lipton of Inside the Actor’s Studio, and the questionnaire with which he ends each night. The questionnaire invented by some French guy for some French radio show…
Phil (dramatic pause) what is your favorite word?
Asinine.
What is your least favorite word?
Dude.
What turns you on?
Intelligent conversation.
What turns you off?
Ignorance, and indifference to one’s own ignorance.
What sound do you love?
The ticking clock theme from 24.
What sound do you hate?
The noise of my dog, Scamp, barking at the raccoons at three in the morning.
What profession, other than yours, would you like to attempt?
Chicago Cubs’ play-by-play man. I’d say starting pitcher, but who are we kidding?
What profession, other than yours, would you not like to participate in?
Anything involving tips. Never again.
What is your favorite curse word?
Bullshit or horseshit. Any word involving animal excrement I find quite delightful.
Finally, if heaven exists, what would you like God to say when you arrive at the pearly gates?
“I suppose I have some explaining to do.”
For that, I turn to James Lipton of Inside the Actor’s Studio, and the questionnaire with which he ends each night. The questionnaire invented by some French guy for some French radio show…
Phil (dramatic pause) what is your favorite word?
Asinine.
What is your least favorite word?
Dude.
What turns you on?
Intelligent conversation.
What turns you off?
Ignorance, and indifference to one’s own ignorance.
What sound do you love?
The ticking clock theme from 24.
What sound do you hate?
The noise of my dog, Scamp, barking at the raccoons at three in the morning.
What profession, other than yours, would you like to attempt?
Chicago Cubs’ play-by-play man. I’d say starting pitcher, but who are we kidding?
What profession, other than yours, would you not like to participate in?
Anything involving tips. Never again.
What is your favorite curse word?
Bullshit or horseshit. Any word involving animal excrement I find quite delightful.
Finally, if heaven exists, what would you like God to say when you arrive at the pearly gates?
“I suppose I have some explaining to do.”
There and Back to the Bookshelf Again
“I guess I was trying to take myself seriously, maybe too seriously, but then there are worse mistakes a young man can make.”
-- Sean Astin in There and Back Again: An Actor’s Tale
A large part of my identity is my favorite films. As a writer who still has aspirations in cinema and television, I find myself returning to my favorite works for inspiration, education, and entertainment. For the first 21 years of my life, the Star Wars films occupied the coveted spot at the top of my list. My all-time personal top ten list is always moving, always shifting, with films dropping off and returning as my knowledge of cinema expands. But Star Wars always came first.
Then something happened. The Star Wars prequels arrived on the screen with sour disappointment and the original trilogy remained conspicuously absent from the library of titles available on DVD. As a result, all that magic I fell in love with as a child began to fade like the color of a favorite T-shirt.
But there was Tolkein, waiting in the wings, to take the crown that once belonged to Lucas’ galaxy far, far away. It was an important day when I turned to my mother after surviving the all-day Lord of the Rings marathon and told her with certainty that Tolkein’s trilogy had supplanted the Star Wars films as my favorites.
Feeling as I do about these films, it was quite a delight to find Sean Astin’s book There and Back Again: An Actor’s Tale on my bookstore’s clearance rack during our after-Christmas sale. Sean Astin had the privilege to portray the lovable Samwise Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings films, and the first-hand account of one of the major players in the film franchise felt like a reasonable investment of my time.
Sadly, getting through the book was a struggle tantamount to Frodo’s quest to destroy the ring of power.
It seems asinine to criticize an autobiography for being too self-indulgent, but that was a major fault of this book. Familiar with its faults, I now think it might make for a compelling read not as a recollection of the production of the most ambitious films in history, but as a study of the natural handicaps of the children of Hollywood.
As a read, the book appears to have somehow avoided the editing process. A long 300 pages, the book could have wrapped up in 200. Almost a third of the book passes before The Lord of the Rings (clearly the major selling point of the book) becomes the major point of interest. Before that, Astin belabors his struggles as an artist who just can’t find rewarding work.
That’s a reasonable perspective for a Hollywood autobiography such as this, but Astin consistently hedges his bets. Every time he presents an opinion that might be seen as somewhat self-centered or off-putting, he prefaces it with a page long explanation so as not to offend anyone. This insecurity about both his opinions and his writing gets tiresome quickly. He name-drops incessantly, prefacing nearly every one with a default complement about their talent or their achievements (i.e. “Bruce Campbell brings a campy grace to almost any project.”) He admires everyone he ever worked with or seen or met or heard of, even when that includes a horrendous acting experience such as Encino Man. It becomes clear early on that we are never going to get Astin’s clear opinion about anything, because he needs to remain political within the Hollywood environment, and God forbid he should put a future job in jeopardy because of a throwaway line in a completely unnecessary book.
Astin, by now familiar with his 30’s, still seems to have an unclear perspective on himself and his career. After playing arguably the most endearing character in the most successful film franchise in modern times, Astin still feels bankrupt in career prospects. If there were ever a time to give a true opinion of the Hollywood machine, this would be it, but Astin doesn’t cash in the opportunity. His acting future remains more important than this one-time literary adventure. I can understand his priorities, but if you’re going to go to the trouble of writing the book, why half-ass it?
A compelling autobiography requires a unique perspective or insight. I don’t doubt that Astin has one, but he seems afraid to give it without first offering a qualification. The book would not have suffered had Astin come off as an opinionated, even unlikable young performer. It would at least demonstrate he has some perspective, some personality, something of worth to say. As it stands, Astin comes off as a weak, whiny Hollywood brat who needs to borrow some of the guts he so greatly demonstrated in his most beloved characters.
-- Sean Astin in There and Back Again: An Actor’s Tale
A large part of my identity is my favorite films. As a writer who still has aspirations in cinema and television, I find myself returning to my favorite works for inspiration, education, and entertainment. For the first 21 years of my life, the Star Wars films occupied the coveted spot at the top of my list. My all-time personal top ten list is always moving, always shifting, with films dropping off and returning as my knowledge of cinema expands. But Star Wars always came first.
Then something happened. The Star Wars prequels arrived on the screen with sour disappointment and the original trilogy remained conspicuously absent from the library of titles available on DVD. As a result, all that magic I fell in love with as a child began to fade like the color of a favorite T-shirt.
But there was Tolkein, waiting in the wings, to take the crown that once belonged to Lucas’ galaxy far, far away. It was an important day when I turned to my mother after surviving the all-day Lord of the Rings marathon and told her with certainty that Tolkein’s trilogy had supplanted the Star Wars films as my favorites.
Feeling as I do about these films, it was quite a delight to find Sean Astin’s book There and Back Again: An Actor’s Tale on my bookstore’s clearance rack during our after-Christmas sale. Sean Astin had the privilege to portray the lovable Samwise Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings films, and the first-hand account of one of the major players in the film franchise felt like a reasonable investment of my time.
Sadly, getting through the book was a struggle tantamount to Frodo’s quest to destroy the ring of power.
It seems asinine to criticize an autobiography for being too self-indulgent, but that was a major fault of this book. Familiar with its faults, I now think it might make for a compelling read not as a recollection of the production of the most ambitious films in history, but as a study of the natural handicaps of the children of Hollywood.
As a read, the book appears to have somehow avoided the editing process. A long 300 pages, the book could have wrapped up in 200. Almost a third of the book passes before The Lord of the Rings (clearly the major selling point of the book) becomes the major point of interest. Before that, Astin belabors his struggles as an artist who just can’t find rewarding work.
That’s a reasonable perspective for a Hollywood autobiography such as this, but Astin consistently hedges his bets. Every time he presents an opinion that might be seen as somewhat self-centered or off-putting, he prefaces it with a page long explanation so as not to offend anyone. This insecurity about both his opinions and his writing gets tiresome quickly. He name-drops incessantly, prefacing nearly every one with a default complement about their talent or their achievements (i.e. “Bruce Campbell brings a campy grace to almost any project.”) He admires everyone he ever worked with or seen or met or heard of, even when that includes a horrendous acting experience such as Encino Man. It becomes clear early on that we are never going to get Astin’s clear opinion about anything, because he needs to remain political within the Hollywood environment, and God forbid he should put a future job in jeopardy because of a throwaway line in a completely unnecessary book.
Astin, by now familiar with his 30’s, still seems to have an unclear perspective on himself and his career. After playing arguably the most endearing character in the most successful film franchise in modern times, Astin still feels bankrupt in career prospects. If there were ever a time to give a true opinion of the Hollywood machine, this would be it, but Astin doesn’t cash in the opportunity. His acting future remains more important than this one-time literary adventure. I can understand his priorities, but if you’re going to go to the trouble of writing the book, why half-ass it?
A compelling autobiography requires a unique perspective or insight. I don’t doubt that Astin has one, but he seems afraid to give it without first offering a qualification. The book would not have suffered had Astin come off as an opinionated, even unlikable young performer. It would at least demonstrate he has some perspective, some personality, something of worth to say. As it stands, Astin comes off as a weak, whiny Hollywood brat who needs to borrow some of the guts he so greatly demonstrated in his most beloved characters.
To Be a Knight in Shining Armour
“Courage is like love; it must have hope to nourish it.”
Napoleon Bonaparte
At my core, I’m of an epic mind. I think in terms of quests and adventures, not goals and obligations. Unfortunately, the inherent monotony of this life too often squanders my lofty ambitions and expectations.
Never has this become more apparent than in my tragically fruitless love life. I long for the fantasies of old when strapping young men needed only to slay a dragon or beguile a witch to earn the hearts of their beloved. Not only does this mode of courtship seem much simpler and, in all honesty, more humane than the crude practices employed by today’s youth, but it put men to the test in a manner not readily available in the wireless world.
I don’t know this self-evaluation has merit, but I walk through life with a pervasive chill of cowardice about my heart. I remain at a loss as to its source. As Antonio says of his melancholy in The Merchant of Venice “How I caught it, found it, or came by it, what stuff ‘tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.” That is how I feel about the taint of yellow flowing through my veins.
This scourge upon my manhood does not come from self-doubt – oh to have such specificity – but from the untested mettle of my soul. I know not whether this cowardice truly exists, waiting silently for a convenient time to trigger my flight response, or if perhaps my bravery has merely run cold, having found no use for itself these days.
As much as I have let cynicism and pragmatism color the world around me, love always escapes their stain; I continue to romanticize it against my better judgment. I don't consider myself incomplete without love in my life, but I do long for it. I am confident in myself – my capabilities and my talents – as a single man, but something in my heart tells me that love can lead me to greater heights. I have tasted such spoils only briefly. Two of the best works I’ve ever managed were love letters, spontaneous rushes of romanticism spurred by a pair of rare and wonderful muses. I can recall how I felt as I wrote those letters. They flowed through me naturally, without the slightest struggle, and I relished the dedication with which I pursued both of them. It may not have been slaying the dragon, per se, but it felt as though I was preparing the sword with which to strike the fatal blow.
In my life, I have told three girls that I loved them. I was mistaken in each case. As every other area of my life forces me to lower my expectations, my regard for love becomes ever more intense. Am I in love with love? In a way, I suppose. When you don’t have another to love, you can either encourage romanticism to flourish in that absence or let bitterness and loneliness corrupt it.
I have set high expectations on love, and in turn, on the girl who I am to love. And if there is a girl for me out there, she will relish and embrace the challenge of my idealism. I will know I’ve found love when she awakens in me the sleeping knight who yearns to prove himself, when fear becomes an afterthought in my daily life. Until that time, I must question my heart, my courage, and hope that there are still those precious few out there who still have dragons to slay.
Napoleon Bonaparte
At my core, I’m of an epic mind. I think in terms of quests and adventures, not goals and obligations. Unfortunately, the inherent monotony of this life too often squanders my lofty ambitions and expectations.
Never has this become more apparent than in my tragically fruitless love life. I long for the fantasies of old when strapping young men needed only to slay a dragon or beguile a witch to earn the hearts of their beloved. Not only does this mode of courtship seem much simpler and, in all honesty, more humane than the crude practices employed by today’s youth, but it put men to the test in a manner not readily available in the wireless world.
I don’t know this self-evaluation has merit, but I walk through life with a pervasive chill of cowardice about my heart. I remain at a loss as to its source. As Antonio says of his melancholy in The Merchant of Venice “How I caught it, found it, or came by it, what stuff ‘tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.” That is how I feel about the taint of yellow flowing through my veins.
This scourge upon my manhood does not come from self-doubt – oh to have such specificity – but from the untested mettle of my soul. I know not whether this cowardice truly exists, waiting silently for a convenient time to trigger my flight response, or if perhaps my bravery has merely run cold, having found no use for itself these days.
As much as I have let cynicism and pragmatism color the world around me, love always escapes their stain; I continue to romanticize it against my better judgment. I don't consider myself incomplete without love in my life, but I do long for it. I am confident in myself – my capabilities and my talents – as a single man, but something in my heart tells me that love can lead me to greater heights. I have tasted such spoils only briefly. Two of the best works I’ve ever managed were love letters, spontaneous rushes of romanticism spurred by a pair of rare and wonderful muses. I can recall how I felt as I wrote those letters. They flowed through me naturally, without the slightest struggle, and I relished the dedication with which I pursued both of them. It may not have been slaying the dragon, per se, but it felt as though I was preparing the sword with which to strike the fatal blow.
In my life, I have told three girls that I loved them. I was mistaken in each case. As every other area of my life forces me to lower my expectations, my regard for love becomes ever more intense. Am I in love with love? In a way, I suppose. When you don’t have another to love, you can either encourage romanticism to flourish in that absence or let bitterness and loneliness corrupt it.
I have set high expectations on love, and in turn, on the girl who I am to love. And if there is a girl for me out there, she will relish and embrace the challenge of my idealism. I will know I’ve found love when she awakens in me the sleeping knight who yearns to prove himself, when fear becomes an afterthought in my daily life. Until that time, I must question my heart, my courage, and hope that there are still those precious few out there who still have dragons to slay.
Friday, January 21, 2005
The Cult of the Gridiron
“OH MY GOD!”
-- Yours Truly, screaming like a girl, with no time left on the clock.
I’m not a people person. In fact, I find the human race in general to be the embodiment of squandered promise. Yet there I was -- my arms wrapped around a perfect stranger, a man who I met casually a few hours before. We leapt and screamed in each others arms, overcome with unquantifiable elation.
How did I get here? I thought as the smell of beer and sweat swirled around us. The question was fleeting, flashing in and out of my head like a steamy breath in an early morning chill. Instead of pondering the inexplicable, I turned to the next drunkard beside me and embraced them.
And thus I was inducted into the fandom of Big Ten football.
When I first decided to move to Florida, the buzzword was “experience.” While the impetus for the move had been escape, I knew the simple migration to Florida would mean a dearth of experiences that would not be available to me anywhere else in the world. Little did I realize the bombardment of history I would play witness to in the Sunshine State.
In the first month, I lived through the most active hurricane season in Florida’s history. Then I sat in the front row for the democratic muck of Florida’s presidential election. A month later on my way home for Christmas I spent 15 hours trapped inside a car on the Kentucky Interstate in the most intense snowstorm the state had experienced in 100 years. Still, looking back on my time here thus far, the most exciting and memorable experience has been the University of Iowa’s serendipitous appearance in the Capital One Bowl.
With a few weeks left in the college football season, my uncle and I suggested in passing that we should look into getting tickets to the Bowl formerly known as Citrus. It seemed a provocative and appropriate idea, considering the Big Ten usually makes an appearance and my uncle and I had become increasingly disgusted with Florida’s elitist football mentality. We needed some real hard-nosed football, and this seemed a good way to get our fix.
As fate would have it, the Big Ten not only made an appearance, but it was the University of Iowa, the default favorite of my specific nuclear family, that would be representing my home region. With the Hawkeyes going to all the trouble of flying down to my neck of the woods, clearly I had to do all I could to support them. Another of my uncles up north, Uncle Robert, was a die-hard Hawkeye fan, and using his connections with current alumni, he got three tickets with little difficulty.
This would be quite an introduction to college football. Attending games at Southern Illinois and watching my Salukis get shellacked by Division III teams was never on my to-do list in college. In fact, it never even made the waiting list for my to-do list. And with my family’s busy schedule, we never made the time to drive to Champaign or Iowa City to take in a game. So, not only would I be attending my first major college football game ever, but my first college football game would be a major bowl game featuring the previous year’s co-National Champion. As I said to my uncles after the game: “There’s nowhere to go from here but down.”
The day began much more quietly than I had expected. As the only person in the house with an alarm clock, I got first-rise duties at around 7:45. My Uncle Robert was already stirring and I got our Schnauzer, Scamp, to attack my Uncle Joel’s face until he rolled out of bed. I showered and had my morning bagel, then lounged around as Joel struggled to dress himself and Robert loaded the cooler.
The trials of finding the stadium were minimal and we soon found ourselves parked in a fenced lot a half-block away from the Citrus Bowl. The lot was dense with gold and black shirts, and the few LSU Tiger fans who ended up corrupted the theme of our parking area were quickly booed into the streets.
Since my interest on this particular day was the game itself, I failed to consider that I would first have to survive that holiest of pregame traditions, the tailgate. As an infrequent imbiber of alcohol, I felt immediately ostracized from the dozens of fans gathered around coolers and grills – including my uncles. As they chugged beers in the back of the truck, I concentrated on the two bottles of water they had generously thrown in the cooler the night before.
The tailgate surprised me not in the degree to which people were losing their cognitive function, but in the people involved in that impairment. I expected to see college kids, young folk my age, doing the majority of the drinking. In fact, most of the tailgating involved people of my uncle’s age. As a young man who venerates his elders to a fault, I found something mildly disgraceful about this collection of middle-agers clinging to their twenties like the last drop of water in the Sahara. Men walked to the stadium cradling their twelve-packs like newborns. One overly dedicated fan sported empty beer cans for nipple piercings.
My uncles, two outgoing chaps, blended naturally into the revelry. They chatted with strangers as if they were old pals while I sipped from my water bottle in the back of the truck. Never one to make chit-chat with strangers, I couldn’t help feeling out of place throughout the pre-game proceedings. As if to confirm my status as an outcast, a young man of about my age dashed through the parking lot and slammed a sticker on my back, chastising me for not partying hard enough. He danced immediately away, the bells on his black and gold jester’s cap jingling merrily. Not long after a similar chap, this one dressed only in black and gold suspenders, asked me with great distinction why I was not “consuming alcohol.” I raised my bottled water to him, and said the only thing I could to distract him from his question: “Go Hawks!”
“GO HAWKS!” he yelled, raising his beer and slapping me in the chest. The rally rolled through the parking lot and into the streets, making its way (I can only assume) all the way to the belly of the Citrus Bowl.
Even as these assholes stuck my sore thumb out even further, I couldn’t help but feel my condescension diminishing. In its stead came the overpowering spirit of Big Ten football. When the Iowa band’s bus crept past us, rocking back and forth on its axle, as if it might tip at any second, I couldn’t help but cheer. The big, black 18-wheeler followed. The massive Hawkeye logo on its side stared down each LSU fan as it passed, and with each belch of its horn I felt my nerve endings tingle. The big rig reminded me what I had forgotten in my petulant isolation.
The day was about football.
In every major sporting event I have ever attended, I always make the same observation upon first entering the stadium. It has to do with scale. It happened at Wrigley and Comiskey. It happened at the Army v. Navy Game. It happened at the Capital One Bowl.
Based on the vague world of sports on television, everything seems enormous. If I were a layman, and somebody asked me how far it was from home plate to the ivy in Wrigley, I would say close to a mile. On television, fly balls seem to travel for days, hanging up in the mystical off-screen, before plummeting into the glove of an outfielder, or the basket of a fan’s hands. Yet, when I climbed into the bleachers at Wrigley for the first time I still remember feeling shocked that it was no bigger than the parks I played on in high school. Fly balls didn’t scrape the cosmos, but merely climbed gently into the air before falling back to earth.
I was struck by the same sensation as we climbed the stairs to our seats in the corner of the mezzanine. The field was a hundred yards long, just as it had been when I played. It seemed almost dainty compared to the sprawling battlefield I had in my mind. Of course, the scale of the periphery was quite different than I was used to – it has to be to fit 70,000 people – but I couldn’t help but chuckle at the familiar strip of grass at the center of the raucous crowd. A little voice in my head reminded me “You know this game.”
We made our way to our seats in Row W, and found a complimentary pair of bang sticks waiting for us. The gift immediately solved two problems – my envy of the thousands of people who I already saw with the sticks and my need to buy a pricey souvenir from the gift shop. I waited patiently through the opening festivities (which paled in comparison to Army/Navy’s Chinook/F-14 flyover) until game time finally arrived.
College fandom has a unique bloodline compared to other sports and institutions. The colors alone mean something. Nearly two thirds of the stadium painted black and gold, the other third deep purple, all in one morphing, undulating mass. The student section wriggled with bang sticks, like a thousand millipedes turned over on their backs. Alma Maters echo through the stadium like hymns in a cathedral. The traditional cheers sound out with a thumping pulse, the cheerleaders all but unnecessary thanks to the enthusiastic bellows of their congregation. The fervor reaches the level of religious zealotry, only their idols are young men in a timed war.
As the game began, I maintained my status as an enthralled observer. By default I cheered for the Hawkeyes, though I did not share the familiarity with the team the untold thousands around me did. I could not name a single player, but as the early minutes wore on players (more specifically numbers) began to stand out. On the second play from scrimmage, an Iowa wide-out went 56 yards for a touchdown, and the Iowa fans went berserk. The score was at once exhilarating and horrifying; as tens of thousands of Iowa fans leapt in their seats the concrete shell of the Citrus Bowl twisted and shook beneath my feet.
Still, even sharing in the exaltation of my fellow Hawkeyes did not complete my initiation into Big Ten fandom. That would come on LSU’s first possession.
After a deep kick and two sacks, LSU was forced to punt with their back against the endzone. I nudged my Uncle Robert beside me.
“We’re going after ‘em,” I told him, convinced that we could at least get our hands on the kick. Sure enough, Iowa cut through the LSU line and crushed the punt straight back into the ground. The Iowa stands exploded again as we collapsed on the ball inside the ten.
Suddenly, the man in front of me, a portly Latin fellow, spun around in his seat.
“I heard that,” he said. “Who called that? Who called it?”
Robert quickly pointed at me, and the portly man growled some indiscernible attaboy! and rubbed his hands over the capital “I” on my shirt. For the rest of the game, when the Hawks were in trouble, he would turn to me, rub my belly and ask for my favorable prognostication. Though my magic faded as the quarters wore on, he never faded in his allegiance to the wish-granting powers of my magical abs.
There was no turning back after that. I had been accepted. I was part of the family. I drank from the chalice of the Big Ten, and oh how the Kool-Aid was sweet.
In sports, few things compare to a great finish, especially if you’re on the winning end of it. What images of sport are more enduring than the walk-off home run, the last second field-goal, or the buzzer beater? My most enduring memory of this fall’s baseball post-season was Jim Edmonds flexing after a game-winning home run forced game seven in the NLCS.
This year I have been blessed in that regard. The day before I left for Florida I was in left field when Corey Patterson capped a two-run, ninth inning, rally with a walk-off home run to send the W flag up over Sheffield. I was on a high for a week, even as the Cubs’ Wild Card demise became more and more apparent.
As great as that moment was, the walk-off home run is not a rarity in baseball. It happens a lot. It seemed extraordinary because of the infrequency of my trips to Wrigley. But what I witnessed on New Year’s Day was historic.
After Iowa jumped ahead after a number of LSU miscues, the Tigers clawed their way back, taking their first lead with forty-six seconds left in the game. The next few frantic minutes of football culminated in one of the most amazing moments of my life.
Iowa found themselves on the LSU 44 with the clock shaving off its final seconds. The fans around me screamed for a time-out, but Iowa dashed to the line. As the Hawkeye fans lost their mind, QB Drew Tate snapped the ball…
I will go to my grave saying that I had the best spot in the stadium for this final play. Angled to the field in the corner of the stadium, I saw the possibility long before its culmination. I saw Warren Holloway break coverage. I saw the lane open up. For a moment, I thought I would head home with my head hung low, knowing that Tate had an open receiver, but had failed to see him.
But he did see him.
The ball went up on a perfect line between myself and Holloway. My eyes widened. My mouth went dry. I grabbed the portly latin fellow in front of me.
And Holloway caught the ball. With no time left on the clock, the two remaining LSU defensive backs crumbled on each other, and Holloway streaked through the end-zone. The Hawkeyes won the Capital One Bowl 30 to 25.
I feel any attempt to sell the celebration after that score will result in clichéd hyperbole. I can only say this: if my feet had touched the ground I would have been terrified that the Citrus Bowl would crumble beneath my feet. As the cleaning crew began their work on the LSU stands, the Hawkeye fans stayed for the trophy presentation. After the team headed to the locker room, many of us lingered with our eyes on the field, as if some ethereal encore might play out before our eyes. When it was clear we’d have to rely on our mind’s eyes for that replay, the Iowa faithful began their reluctant return to the parking lot.
Even as I tell this story now, for the umpteenth time, it seems somehow unreal. It is as if an event like that immediately detaches from your person and becomes something more, something greater, something fantastic. The next day I grabbed the newspaper off the kitchen counter and threw it in my file cabinet, aware that the day was already slipping away from me. But all I have to do is pull out that front page of the Orlando Sentinel, with Holloway on his team’s shoulders, holding his helmet to the sky, and I’m brought back. That day will stay with me for as long as I live, and there are at least 35,000 other people who can say the same thing.
-- Yours Truly, screaming like a girl, with no time left on the clock.
I’m not a people person. In fact, I find the human race in general to be the embodiment of squandered promise. Yet there I was -- my arms wrapped around a perfect stranger, a man who I met casually a few hours before. We leapt and screamed in each others arms, overcome with unquantifiable elation.
How did I get here? I thought as the smell of beer and sweat swirled around us. The question was fleeting, flashing in and out of my head like a steamy breath in an early morning chill. Instead of pondering the inexplicable, I turned to the next drunkard beside me and embraced them.
And thus I was inducted into the fandom of Big Ten football.
When I first decided to move to Florida, the buzzword was “experience.” While the impetus for the move had been escape, I knew the simple migration to Florida would mean a dearth of experiences that would not be available to me anywhere else in the world. Little did I realize the bombardment of history I would play witness to in the Sunshine State.
In the first month, I lived through the most active hurricane season in Florida’s history. Then I sat in the front row for the democratic muck of Florida’s presidential election. A month later on my way home for Christmas I spent 15 hours trapped inside a car on the Kentucky Interstate in the most intense snowstorm the state had experienced in 100 years. Still, looking back on my time here thus far, the most exciting and memorable experience has been the University of Iowa’s serendipitous appearance in the Capital One Bowl.
With a few weeks left in the college football season, my uncle and I suggested in passing that we should look into getting tickets to the Bowl formerly known as Citrus. It seemed a provocative and appropriate idea, considering the Big Ten usually makes an appearance and my uncle and I had become increasingly disgusted with Florida’s elitist football mentality. We needed some real hard-nosed football, and this seemed a good way to get our fix.
As fate would have it, the Big Ten not only made an appearance, but it was the University of Iowa, the default favorite of my specific nuclear family, that would be representing my home region. With the Hawkeyes going to all the trouble of flying down to my neck of the woods, clearly I had to do all I could to support them. Another of my uncles up north, Uncle Robert, was a die-hard Hawkeye fan, and using his connections with current alumni, he got three tickets with little difficulty.
This would be quite an introduction to college football. Attending games at Southern Illinois and watching my Salukis get shellacked by Division III teams was never on my to-do list in college. In fact, it never even made the waiting list for my to-do list. And with my family’s busy schedule, we never made the time to drive to Champaign or Iowa City to take in a game. So, not only would I be attending my first major college football game ever, but my first college football game would be a major bowl game featuring the previous year’s co-National Champion. As I said to my uncles after the game: “There’s nowhere to go from here but down.”
The day began much more quietly than I had expected. As the only person in the house with an alarm clock, I got first-rise duties at around 7:45. My Uncle Robert was already stirring and I got our Schnauzer, Scamp, to attack my Uncle Joel’s face until he rolled out of bed. I showered and had my morning bagel, then lounged around as Joel struggled to dress himself and Robert loaded the cooler.
The trials of finding the stadium were minimal and we soon found ourselves parked in a fenced lot a half-block away from the Citrus Bowl. The lot was dense with gold and black shirts, and the few LSU Tiger fans who ended up corrupted the theme of our parking area were quickly booed into the streets.
Since my interest on this particular day was the game itself, I failed to consider that I would first have to survive that holiest of pregame traditions, the tailgate. As an infrequent imbiber of alcohol, I felt immediately ostracized from the dozens of fans gathered around coolers and grills – including my uncles. As they chugged beers in the back of the truck, I concentrated on the two bottles of water they had generously thrown in the cooler the night before.
The tailgate surprised me not in the degree to which people were losing their cognitive function, but in the people involved in that impairment. I expected to see college kids, young folk my age, doing the majority of the drinking. In fact, most of the tailgating involved people of my uncle’s age. As a young man who venerates his elders to a fault, I found something mildly disgraceful about this collection of middle-agers clinging to their twenties like the last drop of water in the Sahara. Men walked to the stadium cradling their twelve-packs like newborns. One overly dedicated fan sported empty beer cans for nipple piercings.
My uncles, two outgoing chaps, blended naturally into the revelry. They chatted with strangers as if they were old pals while I sipped from my water bottle in the back of the truck. Never one to make chit-chat with strangers, I couldn’t help feeling out of place throughout the pre-game proceedings. As if to confirm my status as an outcast, a young man of about my age dashed through the parking lot and slammed a sticker on my back, chastising me for not partying hard enough. He danced immediately away, the bells on his black and gold jester’s cap jingling merrily. Not long after a similar chap, this one dressed only in black and gold suspenders, asked me with great distinction why I was not “consuming alcohol.” I raised my bottled water to him, and said the only thing I could to distract him from his question: “Go Hawks!”
“GO HAWKS!” he yelled, raising his beer and slapping me in the chest. The rally rolled through the parking lot and into the streets, making its way (I can only assume) all the way to the belly of the Citrus Bowl.
Even as these assholes stuck my sore thumb out even further, I couldn’t help but feel my condescension diminishing. In its stead came the overpowering spirit of Big Ten football. When the Iowa band’s bus crept past us, rocking back and forth on its axle, as if it might tip at any second, I couldn’t help but cheer. The big, black 18-wheeler followed. The massive Hawkeye logo on its side stared down each LSU fan as it passed, and with each belch of its horn I felt my nerve endings tingle. The big rig reminded me what I had forgotten in my petulant isolation.
The day was about football.
In every major sporting event I have ever attended, I always make the same observation upon first entering the stadium. It has to do with scale. It happened at Wrigley and Comiskey. It happened at the Army v. Navy Game. It happened at the Capital One Bowl.
Based on the vague world of sports on television, everything seems enormous. If I were a layman, and somebody asked me how far it was from home plate to the ivy in Wrigley, I would say close to a mile. On television, fly balls seem to travel for days, hanging up in the mystical off-screen, before plummeting into the glove of an outfielder, or the basket of a fan’s hands. Yet, when I climbed into the bleachers at Wrigley for the first time I still remember feeling shocked that it was no bigger than the parks I played on in high school. Fly balls didn’t scrape the cosmos, but merely climbed gently into the air before falling back to earth.
I was struck by the same sensation as we climbed the stairs to our seats in the corner of the mezzanine. The field was a hundred yards long, just as it had been when I played. It seemed almost dainty compared to the sprawling battlefield I had in my mind. Of course, the scale of the periphery was quite different than I was used to – it has to be to fit 70,000 people – but I couldn’t help but chuckle at the familiar strip of grass at the center of the raucous crowd. A little voice in my head reminded me “You know this game.”
We made our way to our seats in Row W, and found a complimentary pair of bang sticks waiting for us. The gift immediately solved two problems – my envy of the thousands of people who I already saw with the sticks and my need to buy a pricey souvenir from the gift shop. I waited patiently through the opening festivities (which paled in comparison to Army/Navy’s Chinook/F-14 flyover) until game time finally arrived.
College fandom has a unique bloodline compared to other sports and institutions. The colors alone mean something. Nearly two thirds of the stadium painted black and gold, the other third deep purple, all in one morphing, undulating mass. The student section wriggled with bang sticks, like a thousand millipedes turned over on their backs. Alma Maters echo through the stadium like hymns in a cathedral. The traditional cheers sound out with a thumping pulse, the cheerleaders all but unnecessary thanks to the enthusiastic bellows of their congregation. The fervor reaches the level of religious zealotry, only their idols are young men in a timed war.
As the game began, I maintained my status as an enthralled observer. By default I cheered for the Hawkeyes, though I did not share the familiarity with the team the untold thousands around me did. I could not name a single player, but as the early minutes wore on players (more specifically numbers) began to stand out. On the second play from scrimmage, an Iowa wide-out went 56 yards for a touchdown, and the Iowa fans went berserk. The score was at once exhilarating and horrifying; as tens of thousands of Iowa fans leapt in their seats the concrete shell of the Citrus Bowl twisted and shook beneath my feet.
Still, even sharing in the exaltation of my fellow Hawkeyes did not complete my initiation into Big Ten fandom. That would come on LSU’s first possession.
After a deep kick and two sacks, LSU was forced to punt with their back against the endzone. I nudged my Uncle Robert beside me.
“We’re going after ‘em,” I told him, convinced that we could at least get our hands on the kick. Sure enough, Iowa cut through the LSU line and crushed the punt straight back into the ground. The Iowa stands exploded again as we collapsed on the ball inside the ten.
Suddenly, the man in front of me, a portly Latin fellow, spun around in his seat.
“I heard that,” he said. “Who called that? Who called it?”
Robert quickly pointed at me, and the portly man growled some indiscernible attaboy! and rubbed his hands over the capital “I” on my shirt. For the rest of the game, when the Hawks were in trouble, he would turn to me, rub my belly and ask for my favorable prognostication. Though my magic faded as the quarters wore on, he never faded in his allegiance to the wish-granting powers of my magical abs.
There was no turning back after that. I had been accepted. I was part of the family. I drank from the chalice of the Big Ten, and oh how the Kool-Aid was sweet.
In sports, few things compare to a great finish, especially if you’re on the winning end of it. What images of sport are more enduring than the walk-off home run, the last second field-goal, or the buzzer beater? My most enduring memory of this fall’s baseball post-season was Jim Edmonds flexing after a game-winning home run forced game seven in the NLCS.
This year I have been blessed in that regard. The day before I left for Florida I was in left field when Corey Patterson capped a two-run, ninth inning, rally with a walk-off home run to send the W flag up over Sheffield. I was on a high for a week, even as the Cubs’ Wild Card demise became more and more apparent.
As great as that moment was, the walk-off home run is not a rarity in baseball. It happens a lot. It seemed extraordinary because of the infrequency of my trips to Wrigley. But what I witnessed on New Year’s Day was historic.
After Iowa jumped ahead after a number of LSU miscues, the Tigers clawed their way back, taking their first lead with forty-six seconds left in the game. The next few frantic minutes of football culminated in one of the most amazing moments of my life.
Iowa found themselves on the LSU 44 with the clock shaving off its final seconds. The fans around me screamed for a time-out, but Iowa dashed to the line. As the Hawkeye fans lost their mind, QB Drew Tate snapped the ball…
I will go to my grave saying that I had the best spot in the stadium for this final play. Angled to the field in the corner of the stadium, I saw the possibility long before its culmination. I saw Warren Holloway break coverage. I saw the lane open up. For a moment, I thought I would head home with my head hung low, knowing that Tate had an open receiver, but had failed to see him.
But he did see him.
The ball went up on a perfect line between myself and Holloway. My eyes widened. My mouth went dry. I grabbed the portly latin fellow in front of me.
And Holloway caught the ball. With no time left on the clock, the two remaining LSU defensive backs crumbled on each other, and Holloway streaked through the end-zone. The Hawkeyes won the Capital One Bowl 30 to 25.
I feel any attempt to sell the celebration after that score will result in clichéd hyperbole. I can only say this: if my feet had touched the ground I would have been terrified that the Citrus Bowl would crumble beneath my feet. As the cleaning crew began their work on the LSU stands, the Hawkeye fans stayed for the trophy presentation. After the team headed to the locker room, many of us lingered with our eyes on the field, as if some ethereal encore might play out before our eyes. When it was clear we’d have to rely on our mind’s eyes for that replay, the Iowa faithful began their reluctant return to the parking lot.
Even as I tell this story now, for the umpteenth time, it seems somehow unreal. It is as if an event like that immediately detaches from your person and becomes something more, something greater, something fantastic. The next day I grabbed the newspaper off the kitchen counter and threw it in my file cabinet, aware that the day was already slipping away from me. But all I have to do is pull out that front page of the Orlando Sentinel, with Holloway on his team’s shoulders, holding his helmet to the sky, and I’m brought back. That day will stay with me for as long as I live, and there are at least 35,000 other people who can say the same thing.
Monday, January 17, 2005
The PV Scale
“I always got more attention than anyone else. If I hadn't, I would have made sure I did...”
-- Salma Hayek (10 on the PV Scale)
There’s a girl at the bookstore where I work. She’s worked there a number of years, and is quite well-liked among her fellow employees.
But I can’t stand her.
It’s fascinating that somebody who I find so abrasive and irritating garners such affection from the rest of my coworkers.
I wanted to understand why.
My first suspicion was based on a general observation about human nature. Some people just rub other people the wrong way. I think the majority of people who meet me come to like me if given a reasonable amount of time. That being said, I know for a fact that a certain percentage of people find me unbearably unlikable. Now, does this mean that my behavior differs from person to person? Or is it the particular chemistry of one person and another that causes a combustible relationship?
Using the vaguest terms, we could call this personality – the distinctive traits or characteristics of an individual -- but this felt too simplistic for my investigation. As much as I could say “Some personalities just clash,” that just wasn’t satisfying for me. There doesn’t seem to be any quantifiable explanation for which personalities will be combustible and those that will mesh. I’ve seen a number of people with drastically divergent personalities get along beautifully, even fall in love with each other. So, personality alone just wouldn’t do.
Since my coworker started me on this quest, I returned to her to deconstruct my dislike. First off, a shallow pet peeve of mine has to do with dressing your figure. Self-confidence is one thing. Personal delusion is another. A girl who is 5’6” and weighs 170 should not be wearing the same shirt as a girl who is 5’3” and weighs 100. And we’re not talking the same design. We’re talking the SAME SHIRT. Call it a crime of fashion. Call it cruel and unusual abuse of fabric. Whatever. Common decency says that if your belly looks like something coming out of a Play Dough Factory Set, you might need to give your adolescent sister her clothes back and hit the mall.
In addition to her aesthetically unsettling characteristics, the spectrum of her conversation runs the gamut from her to herself. On top of this dearth of subject matter, the filter on these anecdotes does not meet FCC approval. The first story I ever heard pass her lips recalled a Christmas party contest – a race to suck the stripes off a candy cane. She relished her domination of the contest, telling the story with a wink, as if the implication needed clarification.
Most recently, she has hatched dreams of becoming an actress. Apparently she has met some business professionals who only seemed interested in sleeping with her. One such individual, who has his own production company, has even offered her a starring role in… something. I don’t know what. The whole preposterous scenario had me wondering if maybe I was caught in a reverse Shallow Hal scenario and this homeliest of homely girls was actually some beautiful waif and my dislike of her has blinded me to it. I know no other explanation for this girl’s unclear Hollywood connections. Although based on my experience with similar tall tales, I’m taking this girl’s own stories with a brick of salt.
So, as I put together all these characteristics, a concept began to congeal in my mind, a concept more specific than personality that would explain not only my dislike of this girl, but of many of the people I have encountered in my life. I call it Personal Volume.
The way I see it, Personal Volume works on a scale of 1 to 10; 1 being nearly invisible to 10 being equivalent to fireworks and flashing sirens. Any given person has their core number; age and experience can change that number one or two points in either direction over a lifetime (the number usually goes lower as life wears them down), but the number usually stays fairly consistent.
What contributes to an individual’s Personal Volume? The easiest test is how many heads turn when you walk into a room. Beauty has nothing to do with it. A 10 would not turn heads because they were attractive. A 10 would turn heads because they were wearing Christmas tree lights on their person and banging on a trash can lid. It’s about attention; a 10 needs all eyes on them.
Now, the form that a 10 takes can be very different. We have the girl who I work with now, and a girl who I had problems with at my previous job. The method my old co-worker used to get her attention was by being a grouch, complaining about everything, and backstabbing and tattling on every person she could manage. Of course, I couldn’t stand her either.
I consider myself a solid 7. I enjoy attention, but only from specific people – friends and family mainly. I don’t crave it, don’t need it to go on with my life. When I sense that desperation in somebody, I find myself immediately put off by them. Compatibility along the PV scale usually works in similar ways, especially toward the top. Normally we have a one to two point swing in either direction with which we will find the majority of our friends. Anything outside of that and things can get hairy real quickly. I just got out of a relationship with a 10 (on the PV scale), and there is no way I will venture into that territory again. Similarly, I will not date anybody below a five, because then we get into the area of complete disinterest in their surroundings.
Again, this philosophy is a work in progress. I now leave it to you, the public, to give me your two cents. What number are you? How accurate do you think the concept of Personal Volume is? Let me know.
-- Salma Hayek (10 on the PV Scale)
There’s a girl at the bookstore where I work. She’s worked there a number of years, and is quite well-liked among her fellow employees.
But I can’t stand her.
It’s fascinating that somebody who I find so abrasive and irritating garners such affection from the rest of my coworkers.
I wanted to understand why.
My first suspicion was based on a general observation about human nature. Some people just rub other people the wrong way. I think the majority of people who meet me come to like me if given a reasonable amount of time. That being said, I know for a fact that a certain percentage of people find me unbearably unlikable. Now, does this mean that my behavior differs from person to person? Or is it the particular chemistry of one person and another that causes a combustible relationship?
Using the vaguest terms, we could call this personality – the distinctive traits or characteristics of an individual -- but this felt too simplistic for my investigation. As much as I could say “Some personalities just clash,” that just wasn’t satisfying for me. There doesn’t seem to be any quantifiable explanation for which personalities will be combustible and those that will mesh. I’ve seen a number of people with drastically divergent personalities get along beautifully, even fall in love with each other. So, personality alone just wouldn’t do.
Since my coworker started me on this quest, I returned to her to deconstruct my dislike. First off, a shallow pet peeve of mine has to do with dressing your figure. Self-confidence is one thing. Personal delusion is another. A girl who is 5’6” and weighs 170 should not be wearing the same shirt as a girl who is 5’3” and weighs 100. And we’re not talking the same design. We’re talking the SAME SHIRT. Call it a crime of fashion. Call it cruel and unusual abuse of fabric. Whatever. Common decency says that if your belly looks like something coming out of a Play Dough Factory Set, you might need to give your adolescent sister her clothes back and hit the mall.
In addition to her aesthetically unsettling characteristics, the spectrum of her conversation runs the gamut from her to herself. On top of this dearth of subject matter, the filter on these anecdotes does not meet FCC approval. The first story I ever heard pass her lips recalled a Christmas party contest – a race to suck the stripes off a candy cane. She relished her domination of the contest, telling the story with a wink, as if the implication needed clarification.
Most recently, she has hatched dreams of becoming an actress. Apparently she has met some business professionals who only seemed interested in sleeping with her. One such individual, who has his own production company, has even offered her a starring role in… something. I don’t know what. The whole preposterous scenario had me wondering if maybe I was caught in a reverse Shallow Hal scenario and this homeliest of homely girls was actually some beautiful waif and my dislike of her has blinded me to it. I know no other explanation for this girl’s unclear Hollywood connections. Although based on my experience with similar tall tales, I’m taking this girl’s own stories with a brick of salt.
So, as I put together all these characteristics, a concept began to congeal in my mind, a concept more specific than personality that would explain not only my dislike of this girl, but of many of the people I have encountered in my life. I call it Personal Volume.
The way I see it, Personal Volume works on a scale of 1 to 10; 1 being nearly invisible to 10 being equivalent to fireworks and flashing sirens. Any given person has their core number; age and experience can change that number one or two points in either direction over a lifetime (the number usually goes lower as life wears them down), but the number usually stays fairly consistent.
What contributes to an individual’s Personal Volume? The easiest test is how many heads turn when you walk into a room. Beauty has nothing to do with it. A 10 would not turn heads because they were attractive. A 10 would turn heads because they were wearing Christmas tree lights on their person and banging on a trash can lid. It’s about attention; a 10 needs all eyes on them.
Now, the form that a 10 takes can be very different. We have the girl who I work with now, and a girl who I had problems with at my previous job. The method my old co-worker used to get her attention was by being a grouch, complaining about everything, and backstabbing and tattling on every person she could manage. Of course, I couldn’t stand her either.
I consider myself a solid 7. I enjoy attention, but only from specific people – friends and family mainly. I don’t crave it, don’t need it to go on with my life. When I sense that desperation in somebody, I find myself immediately put off by them. Compatibility along the PV scale usually works in similar ways, especially toward the top. Normally we have a one to two point swing in either direction with which we will find the majority of our friends. Anything outside of that and things can get hairy real quickly. I just got out of a relationship with a 10 (on the PV scale), and there is no way I will venture into that territory again. Similarly, I will not date anybody below a five, because then we get into the area of complete disinterest in their surroundings.
Again, this philosophy is a work in progress. I now leave it to you, the public, to give me your two cents. What number are you? How accurate do you think the concept of Personal Volume is? Let me know.
Top Ten Films of 2004
I considered for a long while whether I wanted to do a year-end Top Ten list. My movie-going has fallen off recently after losing my free pass when I quit the local theater, getting a theater worthy set-up in my home, and embracing the convenience of Netflix. Still, I looked at the past year in film, and I found so much to delight in that I figured it was my cultural duty as a film fan to add my two cents to the world of film opinion.
So, here is my carefully considered, though somewhat limited Top Ten films of 2004.
10 – Dawn of the Dead
This remake of the George Romero classic deserves its own place among the best splatter films. Fleeing from a growing plague of zombies in suburbia, a rag-tag group of survivors takes up refuge in a shopping mall. Skipping the social satire of Romero’s original, this film goes for pure visceral shock. The zombies aren’t the lumbering lugs we’ve become accustomed to dealing with; most of them could run down Barry Sanders for lunch. Though the film does lose some of its impact upon second viewing, when you know upcoming scares, the first run through is pure horror at its best.
9 – Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
For the first time in the franchise’s history, the beloved Harry Potter books became great cinema. The first two films suffered from being too faithful in their adaptations and so the thrill of seeing the books on film was somewhat muted. But this time around director Alfonso Cuaron brings a thrilling new imagination to Hogwarts that finally feels, in a word, cinematic. The cast of young talent continues to grow into fine actors, most notably Emma Watson as Hermoine Granger, who all but steals the film in the final act. This chapter bodes well for the rest of the franchise if future directors follow Cuaron’s lead.
8 – Farenheit 9/11
Let’s get this out of the way first: I think Michael Moore is an ass. This patriot of the little man has not been in the little man’s shoes for years, and his battles continually inch closer to condescension. That being said, he is a masterful filmmaker. Take out the politics of the film (the bias fluctuates from desperate to ridiculous) and watch the film for its editing, for its use of music, and for the little stories that Moore manages to find in the middle of his Bush bashing. Is Moore pushing an agenda here? Absolutely. But it’s HOW he pushes that agenda that makes this such a compelling film.
7 – The Incredibles
It took me a minute to get used to this film. I walked in expecting another jolly romp like Monsters, Inc. or Finding Nemo. That’s not what The Incredibles is. Short and sweet – this is an action/adventure in the truest sense of the word. The more I considered this film the more I realized that is very much like another film you’ll find later on this list, in that it surrounds superheroes with common man troubles that are as difficult as the next super villain coming down the pipeline. My favorite anecdote about this film is that after seeing it the makers of the new Fantastic Four film had to go back and add dozens of special effects shots after realizing that The Incredibles’ elastic matriarch made their Mister Fantastic look like a Commodore 64 construction.
6 – The Bourne Supremacy
Of the films on my Top Ten List, this was the most pleasant surprise. A big fan of the original, this sequel to The Bourne Identity came out of (virtually) nowhere to become one of my favorite movies of the summer. Matt Damon reprises his role as Jason Bourne, an amnesiac black ops agent who finds himself wrapped up in another plot that he remembers nothing about. The always reliable Brian Cox and Julia Stiles return to their roles from the original, and Academy award nominee Joan Allen joins the cast as another agency foil for Bourne. Matt Damon continues to impress as the title character, bringing a down-to-earth humanity to a larger-than-life hero.
5 – Collateral
Tom Cruise should never play a hero again. Ever. As hitman Vincent, Cruise projects a cool, intelligent menace that is so much more compelling than the cheesy-grin heroes that made him a household name. After kidnapping Jamie Fox’s lonely taxi driver, the two begin a dusk till dawn nightmare through Los Angeles. Cruise got raves (and an Academy nod) for his misogynist motivational speaker in Magnolia, but I thought the performance was way too over-the-top. In Collateral, Cruise goes ultra low-key, and turns out one of the best silver screen villains in recent memory.
4 – Kill Bill Volume 2
Kill Bill Volume 1 got rave reviews from critics, but left me ultimately unfulfilled. This is only natural considering it was half a movie. Kill Bill Volume 2 is not only a superior film to Volume 1, but it actually makes Volume 1 better. Uma Thurman remains pitch perfect as Beatrix Kiddo (aka The Bride) as she seeks revenge on those who murdered her fiancée and kidnapped her unborn child. But the revelation in this film is David Carridine as the title character Bill. Much like Cruise in Collateral, he projects a steely, low key menace that keeps the audience on edge each second he is on the screen. Tarantino returns to form with his sharp dialogue and visceral filmmaking, something I felt got a little out of hand in Volume 1. In Volume 2 he has created a film that transcends its genre.
3 – Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Charlie Kauffman possesses an unrivaled creative mind. I don’t know what planet he spends his downtime on, but it is definitely not Earth. That being said, I found many of his previous films to be lacking humanity. Being John Malkovich and Adaptation were interesting concept films, but I left both scratching my head more than relishing the gentle pulling of my heart strings. Here Kauffman finds a way to weave his quirky sensibility into a compelling love story. Bolstered by the tremendous performances of Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey, Kauffman examines the power and influence of memory and its influence on those we love. Make no mistake, despite the curious concept and virtuoso filmmaking, this is one of the greater love stories of the new century.
2 – Friday Night Lights
A high school football movie that both embraces the constraints of its concept and bucks them. Billy Bob Thorton plays the head football coach in a town where high school football is all they have. Thorton brings gravitas to a coach whose intensity is in his eyes, not in his mouth. The football feels genuine without being stagy, and the team members show how they are carrying the weight of the world on their shoulder-pads. The relationship between the offensive end and his alcoholic father (played wonderfully by Tim McGraw) reaches a heart-rending conclusion that had me sobbing at the back of the theater. One of the greatest sports films of all time.
1 – Spider-Man 2
We go from one of the greatest sports films of all time to the best superhero movie of all time. If the Academy Awards were about justice and not pretension, Spider-Man 2 would win Best Picture this year. I can think of no other film in recent memory that was so universally loved by the critics and the public alike. Watching the film for the second time just recently, my admiration for it only grew. Every single note of this film is perfect. It does not misstep once. From the comic book art of the opening credits, to J. Johah Jameson’s incessant ranting, to Mary Jane’s final line – “Go get ‘em tiger” – everything in this movie is as it should be. I cannot understate my admiration for Sam Raimi who handles the quiet human scenes (Peter’s confession to Aunt Mae) as deftly as the epic action sequences (the train sequence was absolutely astonishing). Only a filmmaker with unmatched confidence could reach back to his cult horror film days and use those tricks to remarkable effect in a $100 million blockbuster. At the risk of endorsing fascism, Sony Pictures should keep Raimi working on these films for the rest of his life.
Last year was a tremendous year to be a filmgoer. This next year promises to be equally as compelling. The Star Wars film franchise will reach its epic conclusion. Batman Begins reenergizes the Dark Knight. Harry Potter will return (with a book too, ironically) in the fall. Constantine and Sin City promise to be sensationally fun dark horses, and there’s the smelly turd of the Fantastic Four threatening to soil the major Marvel film franchises. At the very least, it will be an interesting year.
So, here is my carefully considered, though somewhat limited Top Ten films of 2004.
10 – Dawn of the Dead
This remake of the George Romero classic deserves its own place among the best splatter films. Fleeing from a growing plague of zombies in suburbia, a rag-tag group of survivors takes up refuge in a shopping mall. Skipping the social satire of Romero’s original, this film goes for pure visceral shock. The zombies aren’t the lumbering lugs we’ve become accustomed to dealing with; most of them could run down Barry Sanders for lunch. Though the film does lose some of its impact upon second viewing, when you know upcoming scares, the first run through is pure horror at its best.
9 – Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
For the first time in the franchise’s history, the beloved Harry Potter books became great cinema. The first two films suffered from being too faithful in their adaptations and so the thrill of seeing the books on film was somewhat muted. But this time around director Alfonso Cuaron brings a thrilling new imagination to Hogwarts that finally feels, in a word, cinematic. The cast of young talent continues to grow into fine actors, most notably Emma Watson as Hermoine Granger, who all but steals the film in the final act. This chapter bodes well for the rest of the franchise if future directors follow Cuaron’s lead.
8 – Farenheit 9/11
Let’s get this out of the way first: I think Michael Moore is an ass. This patriot of the little man has not been in the little man’s shoes for years, and his battles continually inch closer to condescension. That being said, he is a masterful filmmaker. Take out the politics of the film (the bias fluctuates from desperate to ridiculous) and watch the film for its editing, for its use of music, and for the little stories that Moore manages to find in the middle of his Bush bashing. Is Moore pushing an agenda here? Absolutely. But it’s HOW he pushes that agenda that makes this such a compelling film.
7 – The Incredibles
It took me a minute to get used to this film. I walked in expecting another jolly romp like Monsters, Inc. or Finding Nemo. That’s not what The Incredibles is. Short and sweet – this is an action/adventure in the truest sense of the word. The more I considered this film the more I realized that is very much like another film you’ll find later on this list, in that it surrounds superheroes with common man troubles that are as difficult as the next super villain coming down the pipeline. My favorite anecdote about this film is that after seeing it the makers of the new Fantastic Four film had to go back and add dozens of special effects shots after realizing that The Incredibles’ elastic matriarch made their Mister Fantastic look like a Commodore 64 construction.
6 – The Bourne Supremacy
Of the films on my Top Ten List, this was the most pleasant surprise. A big fan of the original, this sequel to The Bourne Identity came out of (virtually) nowhere to become one of my favorite movies of the summer. Matt Damon reprises his role as Jason Bourne, an amnesiac black ops agent who finds himself wrapped up in another plot that he remembers nothing about. The always reliable Brian Cox and Julia Stiles return to their roles from the original, and Academy award nominee Joan Allen joins the cast as another agency foil for Bourne. Matt Damon continues to impress as the title character, bringing a down-to-earth humanity to a larger-than-life hero.
5 – Collateral
Tom Cruise should never play a hero again. Ever. As hitman Vincent, Cruise projects a cool, intelligent menace that is so much more compelling than the cheesy-grin heroes that made him a household name. After kidnapping Jamie Fox’s lonely taxi driver, the two begin a dusk till dawn nightmare through Los Angeles. Cruise got raves (and an Academy nod) for his misogynist motivational speaker in Magnolia, but I thought the performance was way too over-the-top. In Collateral, Cruise goes ultra low-key, and turns out one of the best silver screen villains in recent memory.
4 – Kill Bill Volume 2
Kill Bill Volume 1 got rave reviews from critics, but left me ultimately unfulfilled. This is only natural considering it was half a movie. Kill Bill Volume 2 is not only a superior film to Volume 1, but it actually makes Volume 1 better. Uma Thurman remains pitch perfect as Beatrix Kiddo (aka The Bride) as she seeks revenge on those who murdered her fiancée and kidnapped her unborn child. But the revelation in this film is David Carridine as the title character Bill. Much like Cruise in Collateral, he projects a steely, low key menace that keeps the audience on edge each second he is on the screen. Tarantino returns to form with his sharp dialogue and visceral filmmaking, something I felt got a little out of hand in Volume 1. In Volume 2 he has created a film that transcends its genre.
3 – Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Charlie Kauffman possesses an unrivaled creative mind. I don’t know what planet he spends his downtime on, but it is definitely not Earth. That being said, I found many of his previous films to be lacking humanity. Being John Malkovich and Adaptation were interesting concept films, but I left both scratching my head more than relishing the gentle pulling of my heart strings. Here Kauffman finds a way to weave his quirky sensibility into a compelling love story. Bolstered by the tremendous performances of Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey, Kauffman examines the power and influence of memory and its influence on those we love. Make no mistake, despite the curious concept and virtuoso filmmaking, this is one of the greater love stories of the new century.
2 – Friday Night Lights
A high school football movie that both embraces the constraints of its concept and bucks them. Billy Bob Thorton plays the head football coach in a town where high school football is all they have. Thorton brings gravitas to a coach whose intensity is in his eyes, not in his mouth. The football feels genuine without being stagy, and the team members show how they are carrying the weight of the world on their shoulder-pads. The relationship between the offensive end and his alcoholic father (played wonderfully by Tim McGraw) reaches a heart-rending conclusion that had me sobbing at the back of the theater. One of the greatest sports films of all time.
1 – Spider-Man 2
We go from one of the greatest sports films of all time to the best superhero movie of all time. If the Academy Awards were about justice and not pretension, Spider-Man 2 would win Best Picture this year. I can think of no other film in recent memory that was so universally loved by the critics and the public alike. Watching the film for the second time just recently, my admiration for it only grew. Every single note of this film is perfect. It does not misstep once. From the comic book art of the opening credits, to J. Johah Jameson’s incessant ranting, to Mary Jane’s final line – “Go get ‘em tiger” – everything in this movie is as it should be. I cannot understate my admiration for Sam Raimi who handles the quiet human scenes (Peter’s confession to Aunt Mae) as deftly as the epic action sequences (the train sequence was absolutely astonishing). Only a filmmaker with unmatched confidence could reach back to his cult horror film days and use those tricks to remarkable effect in a $100 million blockbuster. At the risk of endorsing fascism, Sony Pictures should keep Raimi working on these films for the rest of his life.
Last year was a tremendous year to be a filmgoer. This next year promises to be equally as compelling. The Star Wars film franchise will reach its epic conclusion. Batman Begins reenergizes the Dark Knight. Harry Potter will return (with a book too, ironically) in the fall. Constantine and Sin City promise to be sensationally fun dark horses, and there’s the smelly turd of the Fantastic Four threatening to soil the major Marvel film franchises. At the very least, it will be an interesting year.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Ryno
“As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary.”
-- Ernest Hemingway
Time and perspective do interesting things to the heroes of our childhood. When they are kind, they reinforce the wide-eyed admiration of youth. When they are cruel, those heroes can become the embodiment of the harsh realities of the adult world. Somewhere in the middle, there’s only the dull weight of doubt that maybe the lofty in our memory figures weren’t as exalted as we once envisioned.
I never had much place for athletes in the halls of my admiration. Since I was eight years old, sports have been a continuous presence in my life. Little league baseball, park board basketball, and flag football started early and evolved through high school. But in all that time, when every one of my peers had a favorite player’s number to request for their jerseys, I was content with what remained in the box.
Very often I felt an elitist pride as a young male more fascinated with the works of Shakespeare and Spielberg than the records of the Bulls and the Bears. I laughed when my brother used “we” to infuse himself into the inner workings of his favorite teams (i.e. “We just need a solid closer to contend next year.”). Even though I participated in sports, I had no interest in them outside of my own personal sphere.
There was one exception, though. My great-grandmother used to pick my brother and I up from grade school every afternoon. She’d take us back to her house where we’d harass the dog and do puzzles waiting for our mother to get off work. I don’t remember much about the hours we spent in that quaint little house, there are no stories to tell, but I’ll never forget the soundtrack – that drunk old man slobbering “HOLY COW!”
My great-grandma Maxi (named after the dog, for whatever reason) epitomized the die-hard sports fan. Barely a teen when the Cubs won their last World Series, she followed them for the remaining 70 years of her life. I don’t know who she inherited her Cubbie passion from, but she passed hers on to my brother and me.
Of the two of us, my brother was the more passionate. He knew the roster up and down, their numbers and stats. I had neither the mind nor the drive to collect the log of ever-changing information that my brother did. My fandom was bare bones. I liked the Cubs, plain and simple. The only aspect of my interest that entailed any sort of specificity was my favorite player: Ryne Sandberg.
I’ve never been drawn to the flashy players. Humility is such a rare commodity in modern sports that as I considered this essay I missed Sandberg's humble spirit more and more. Every day, whether the Cubs were worst or first, Sandberg came to the field and did the job. In a year when whiney millionaires and diva personas poisoned the Cubs, the cool, collected demeanor of number 23 would have been a blessed addition.
I remember the days in little league when my brother often imitated Andre Dawson’s straight-legged batting style. I spent long hours trying to find something, anything, to imitate about Sandberg. Without the flair, or even idiosyncrasies, of most of the premiere players in the league, all I was left to imitate was his character.
Ironically, Sandberg’s character may have hindered him on his path to the Hall of Fame. For the sports writers who vote on the Hall, Sandberg was never a stellar interview. He didn’t carry himself with the brash arrogance of a Deion Sanders; he was never good for a compelling quote. He wasn’t a surly character like Barry Bonds, one whose contempt for the press could at least be marketed. No, Sandberg welcomed the press with a smile, then made generous use of the Crash Davis’ clichés. Gotta take it one game at a time, and God willing…
This week, in his third year on the ballot, Ryne Sandberg was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Of course, I’m thrilled to see my boyhood hero crowned with this prestigious honor, but a part of me is bitter that it didn’t happen sooner.
As I scoured my memories of Ryne Sandberg, there seemed to be little to debate. I remember him hitting .300 religiously. I remember him being reliable for 30 home runs and 100 RBI’s each season when such numbers were unheard of for a second baseman. And at a high volume position like second base, I remember Sandberg errors coming as infrequently as Cubs playoff appearances.
How does this career translate to a third ballot hall-of-famer? Well, that wasn’t exactly Sandberg’s career.
He was not the powerhouse hitter I remember. Sandberg only hit over 30 home runs in two seasons. During those two seasons he also drove in exactly 100 runs, the only two times he accomplished that as well. He never got to 3000 hits, 500 home runs, nor did he bat .300 for his career, the unofficial benchmarks for entry into the Hall.
If one aspect of Sandberg's game that bears out after all these yearst is his defense, the most overlooked characteristic of play in all of team sports. Sandberg’s career fielding percentage, even including his initial years being shuffled from third to short to second, was .989. Out of every thousand plays that came Sandberg’s way, only eleven weren't completed for outs. Most second basemen botch that many in one season. Take out my corrupted memory of Sandberg’s offensive prowess, he was still one of the greatest two or three second baseman of all-time. So, either the Hall completely ignores second basemen, or they overlooked Sandberg’s history at that position. I can’t say with great certainty.
In a serendipitous moment last summer, I got tickets, unknowingly, to Ryne Sandberg Day at Wrigley Field. I never got to see Sandberg play in person, so as I watched him throw out the first pitch from my spot in the bleachers I fought back tears. I felt absurd and tried to concoct an explanation should any of my fellow Cub fans see my breakdown. Only one did.
I turned to my brother, and he smiled at me. It was simple understanding. He had sat next to me in Grandma Maxi’s living room while Harry Caray bastardized the English language and Steve Stone tried to reign him in. His favorite players had evolved over the years, but he knew that, for me, nobody will ever compare to Ryno. Regardless of what the statistics or the Hall voters say, for me he will always be the definitive ballplayer.
-- Ernest Hemingway
Time and perspective do interesting things to the heroes of our childhood. When they are kind, they reinforce the wide-eyed admiration of youth. When they are cruel, those heroes can become the embodiment of the harsh realities of the adult world. Somewhere in the middle, there’s only the dull weight of doubt that maybe the lofty in our memory figures weren’t as exalted as we once envisioned.
I never had much place for athletes in the halls of my admiration. Since I was eight years old, sports have been a continuous presence in my life. Little league baseball, park board basketball, and flag football started early and evolved through high school. But in all that time, when every one of my peers had a favorite player’s number to request for their jerseys, I was content with what remained in the box.
Very often I felt an elitist pride as a young male more fascinated with the works of Shakespeare and Spielberg than the records of the Bulls and the Bears. I laughed when my brother used “we” to infuse himself into the inner workings of his favorite teams (i.e. “We just need a solid closer to contend next year.”). Even though I participated in sports, I had no interest in them outside of my own personal sphere.
There was one exception, though. My great-grandmother used to pick my brother and I up from grade school every afternoon. She’d take us back to her house where we’d harass the dog and do puzzles waiting for our mother to get off work. I don’t remember much about the hours we spent in that quaint little house, there are no stories to tell, but I’ll never forget the soundtrack – that drunk old man slobbering “HOLY COW!”
My great-grandma Maxi (named after the dog, for whatever reason) epitomized the die-hard sports fan. Barely a teen when the Cubs won their last World Series, she followed them for the remaining 70 years of her life. I don’t know who she inherited her Cubbie passion from, but she passed hers on to my brother and me.
Of the two of us, my brother was the more passionate. He knew the roster up and down, their numbers and stats. I had neither the mind nor the drive to collect the log of ever-changing information that my brother did. My fandom was bare bones. I liked the Cubs, plain and simple. The only aspect of my interest that entailed any sort of specificity was my favorite player: Ryne Sandberg.
I’ve never been drawn to the flashy players. Humility is such a rare commodity in modern sports that as I considered this essay I missed Sandberg's humble spirit more and more. Every day, whether the Cubs were worst or first, Sandberg came to the field and did the job. In a year when whiney millionaires and diva personas poisoned the Cubs, the cool, collected demeanor of number 23 would have been a blessed addition.
I remember the days in little league when my brother often imitated Andre Dawson’s straight-legged batting style. I spent long hours trying to find something, anything, to imitate about Sandberg. Without the flair, or even idiosyncrasies, of most of the premiere players in the league, all I was left to imitate was his character.
Ironically, Sandberg’s character may have hindered him on his path to the Hall of Fame. For the sports writers who vote on the Hall, Sandberg was never a stellar interview. He didn’t carry himself with the brash arrogance of a Deion Sanders; he was never good for a compelling quote. He wasn’t a surly character like Barry Bonds, one whose contempt for the press could at least be marketed. No, Sandberg welcomed the press with a smile, then made generous use of the Crash Davis’ clichés. Gotta take it one game at a time, and God willing…
This week, in his third year on the ballot, Ryne Sandberg was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Of course, I’m thrilled to see my boyhood hero crowned with this prestigious honor, but a part of me is bitter that it didn’t happen sooner.
As I scoured my memories of Ryne Sandberg, there seemed to be little to debate. I remember him hitting .300 religiously. I remember him being reliable for 30 home runs and 100 RBI’s each season when such numbers were unheard of for a second baseman. And at a high volume position like second base, I remember Sandberg errors coming as infrequently as Cubs playoff appearances.
How does this career translate to a third ballot hall-of-famer? Well, that wasn’t exactly Sandberg’s career.
He was not the powerhouse hitter I remember. Sandberg only hit over 30 home runs in two seasons. During those two seasons he also drove in exactly 100 runs, the only two times he accomplished that as well. He never got to 3000 hits, 500 home runs, nor did he bat .300 for his career, the unofficial benchmarks for entry into the Hall.
If one aspect of Sandberg's game that bears out after all these yearst is his defense, the most overlooked characteristic of play in all of team sports. Sandberg’s career fielding percentage, even including his initial years being shuffled from third to short to second, was .989. Out of every thousand plays that came Sandberg’s way, only eleven weren't completed for outs. Most second basemen botch that many in one season. Take out my corrupted memory of Sandberg’s offensive prowess, he was still one of the greatest two or three second baseman of all-time. So, either the Hall completely ignores second basemen, or they overlooked Sandberg’s history at that position. I can’t say with great certainty.
In a serendipitous moment last summer, I got tickets, unknowingly, to Ryne Sandberg Day at Wrigley Field. I never got to see Sandberg play in person, so as I watched him throw out the first pitch from my spot in the bleachers I fought back tears. I felt absurd and tried to concoct an explanation should any of my fellow Cub fans see my breakdown. Only one did.
I turned to my brother, and he smiled at me. It was simple understanding. He had sat next to me in Grandma Maxi’s living room while Harry Caray bastardized the English language and Steve Stone tried to reign him in. His favorite players had evolved over the years, but he knew that, for me, nobody will ever compare to Ryno. Regardless of what the statistics or the Hall voters say, for me he will always be the definitive ballplayer.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Britney Spears Sex Video
There is a proud undying thought in man,
That bids his soul still upward look
To fame’s proud cliff!
-- Sam Houston
I always love those passionate diatribes by established authors, actors, and the like, where they tell struggling folk like myself that if I don’t have the passion to write, act, etc. for nothing, then I don’t have the love that is essential to succeed in The Biz. What crap! I hereby volunteer my bank account for any star who can no longer bear the burden of their financial successes and would like to rediscover their passion as a penniless artist.
As for me, I’m a total glory whore. I admit it. It’s not necessarily about the material success, but I cannot lie – I love attention. So, over the past several weeks, I’ve been contemplating how to get my blog out to a greater number of the general blog-going public. I don’t mean to dissuade my family and friends from continuing to visit, but I’d like to get out to the common man as well.
To this point, I have not been able to do that. I don’t even know how these things work. Is there a search somewhere? I did notice a list in the corner of my page listing the most recent posts. Is that what I am supposed to rest my hopes on? A constantly changing catalogue of random thoughts? Well, here’s hoping that maybe this title will generate a few random thoughts.
Oh God. You think those people will be able to read?
That bids his soul still upward look
To fame’s proud cliff!
-- Sam Houston
I always love those passionate diatribes by established authors, actors, and the like, where they tell struggling folk like myself that if I don’t have the passion to write, act, etc. for nothing, then I don’t have the love that is essential to succeed in The Biz. What crap! I hereby volunteer my bank account for any star who can no longer bear the burden of their financial successes and would like to rediscover their passion as a penniless artist.
As for me, I’m a total glory whore. I admit it. It’s not necessarily about the material success, but I cannot lie – I love attention. So, over the past several weeks, I’ve been contemplating how to get my blog out to a greater number of the general blog-going public. I don’t mean to dissuade my family and friends from continuing to visit, but I’d like to get out to the common man as well.
To this point, I have not been able to do that. I don’t even know how these things work. Is there a search somewhere? I did notice a list in the corner of my page listing the most recent posts. Is that what I am supposed to rest my hopes on? A constantly changing catalogue of random thoughts? Well, here’s hoping that maybe this title will generate a few random thoughts.
Oh God. You think those people will be able to read?
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