June 10, 2005
The Missing Sports Chromosome
I've got a buddy who lives nearby, who calls or e-mails at least once a week, asking if I want to come over to watch "the game." He doesn't even name the sport, nor the teams who are playing - it is assumed that I know. I am, after all, a man. Men intuitively know - at any given point in the calendar - what athletic event is important enough to be identified simply as "the game." And I of course am far too clever to ask him what game he may be referring to. I mean, I'm not stupid. But I am flawed.
Yes, I am incomplete. Some might even call me a mutant. Such a word may sting, but it's not inaccurate.
No, I realized long ago that it's true: I'm genetically deficient. Unlike most straight men I know (not that there's anything wrong with not being a straight man, or not knowing me), I don't care about sports. I just don't. The closest I ever came to getting involved in sports was developing a bad case of athlete's foot. I am apparently missing The Sports Chromosome (below).
"How can you not care about sports?" you ask indignantly, unbelievingly, and in a manner that might even require a third adverb if you're not careful.
"How can you care?" I retort, thrilled to have found occasion to use the word retort as a dialog tag (it's the simple pleasures for me).
Seriously, what's there to care about? What's at stake?
Two teams play each other. One team wins. The other loses.
After the game, the star of the winning team takes a shower, gets dressed, climbs into his limo or sports car, goes home to his zillion-dollar mansion, and celebrates by having porn-star sex in the hot-tub with his supermodel wife or girlfriend (or both).
As for the loser? The star of the losing team takes a shower, gets dressed, climbs into his limo or sports car, goes home to his zillion-dollar mansion, and consoles himself by having porn-star sex in the hot-tub with his supermodel wife or girlfriend (or both).
So again I ask, what's at stake? Win or lose, we're talking about millionaires having porn-star sex with supermodels. Just how bad can losing be?
That's why I like reality TV. Not all of it, I hasten to add. But some of it. You know, the classics: Survivor. The Apprentice.
Why do I like these? Because something is at stake. It's all or nothing. If you lose, you don't get dick. But if you win, there is a very real possibility of porn-star hot-tub sex in a zillion-dollar mansion. That's what you call incentive. These are games where it really sucks to lose. Games where winning would literally be life-changing. Now that's something I can get interested in.
That's why I'd rather watch an overweight naked gay man eating coconuts on an island while he plots his teammates' demise than watch the finely tuned perfectly honed physiques of awesome physical specimens of humanity in their prime, locked in the heat of battle for the momentary possession of a leather ball. That's why I'd rather watch MBAs with perfect teeth vie for the affection of a real estate mogul whose godawful hairdo may one day end up on the upper left side of this blog than watch a man with ugly shoes hit a tiny white ball into a hole in the ground. Call me kooky. Just don't call me when Survivor is on.
Me, I'll start caring about sports when we start paying teachers, soldiers, or firefighters even one tenth of what we pay professional athletes.
Elevator to Hell
Another "elevator pitch" I came up with (hey, it's easier than actually writing a freakin' book), which I have no doubt would be a huge seller:
In Other News
An unnamed NYT best-seller vehemently denied allegations that his book's characters were, as some sources allege, "cardboard."
The author responds, "I think you'll find they're really more like plywood. But not the thin crap - I'm talking about the thick stuff you nail over your windows during hurricanes."
The Daily Haiku
Celebrating a form of poetry I'd wager most professional athletes have never heard of, today's offering is appropriately entitled:
Nicely Put:
Miss Stern obviously suffered from the democratic delusion that all people are created interesting.
- Trevanian: Shibumi
Yes, I am incomplete. Some might even call me a mutant. Such a word may sting, but it's not inaccurate.
No, I realized long ago that it's true: I'm genetically deficient. Unlike most straight men I know (not that there's anything wrong with not being a straight man, or not knowing me), I don't care about sports. I just don't. The closest I ever came to getting involved in sports was developing a bad case of athlete's foot. I am apparently missing The Sports Chromosome (below).
"How can you not care about sports?" you ask indignantly, unbelievingly, and in a manner that might even require a third adverb if you're not careful.
"How can you care?" I retort, thrilled to have found occasion to use the word retort as a dialog tag (it's the simple pleasures for me).
Seriously, what's there to care about? What's at stake?
Two teams play each other. One team wins. The other loses.
After the game, the star of the winning team takes a shower, gets dressed, climbs into his limo or sports car, goes home to his zillion-dollar mansion, and celebrates by having porn-star sex in the hot-tub with his supermodel wife or girlfriend (or both).
As for the loser? The star of the losing team takes a shower, gets dressed, climbs into his limo or sports car, goes home to his zillion-dollar mansion, and consoles himself by having porn-star sex in the hot-tub with his supermodel wife or girlfriend (or both).
So again I ask, what's at stake? Win or lose, we're talking about millionaires having porn-star sex with supermodels. Just how bad can losing be?
That's why I like reality TV. Not all of it, I hasten to add. But some of it. You know, the classics: Survivor. The Apprentice.
Why do I like these? Because something is at stake. It's all or nothing. If you lose, you don't get dick. But if you win, there is a very real possibility of porn-star hot-tub sex in a zillion-dollar mansion. That's what you call incentive. These are games where it really sucks to lose. Games where winning would literally be life-changing. Now that's something I can get interested in.
That's why I'd rather watch an overweight naked gay man eating coconuts on an island while he plots his teammates' demise than watch the finely tuned perfectly honed physiques of awesome physical specimens of humanity in their prime, locked in the heat of battle for the momentary possession of a leather ball. That's why I'd rather watch MBAs with perfect teeth vie for the affection of a real estate mogul whose godawful hairdo may one day end up on the upper left side of this blog than watch a man with ugly shoes hit a tiny white ball into a hole in the ground. Call me kooky. Just don't call me when Survivor is on.
Me, I'll start caring about sports when we start paying teachers, soldiers, or firefighters even one tenth of what we pay professional athletes.
Elevator to Hell
Another "elevator pitch" I came up with (hey, it's easier than actually writing a freakin' book), which I have no doubt would be a huge seller:
GONE WITH THE MOBY
The story of a big white whale who frankly doesn't give a damn. (Initially I was going to call it Gone with the Dick, but I ran into censorship issues.)
In Other News
An unnamed NYT best-seller vehemently denied allegations that his book's characters were, as some sources allege, "cardboard."
The author responds, "I think you'll find they're really more like plywood. But not the thin crap - I'm talking about the thick stuff you nail over your windows during hurricanes."
The Daily Haiku
Celebrating a form of poetry I'd wager most professional athletes have never heard of, today's offering is appropriately entitled:
Balls
Maybe I'd watch sports
if they broadcast cooler ones,
like maybe, dodgeball.
Nicely Put:
Miss Stern obviously suffered from the democratic delusion that all people are created interesting.
- Trevanian: Shibumi
