Tuesday, September 21, 2010

You Will Be Impaled

When Chicago Cubs rookie Tyler Colvin was recently impaled by a broken bat, the metaphor was priceless: once again, a freak occurrence had rendered a Cubbie breathless. Whether it be the Mets in '69, Steve Garvey in '84, Steve Bartman in '03, or the heartless '07 - '08 playoff farts, Cub fans have been stabbed more times than a brazen gringo in Tijuana. So when the promising rookie Colvin was symbolically "on his way home," running dutifully down the 3rd base path, it was only Cubs tradition that some unprecedented fate would tragically interrupt.

As Colvin was escorted off the field by a trainer, one could see the scared and startled look unfold upon his face, and his mouth utter the words, "I think I'm bleeding."

Tyler, welcome to the family.

In 2008, after the Cubs were swept from the playoffs for the second consecutive year, I scribed a letter of resignation to my die-hard brethren and never looked back. Since that diatribe, I have refused to visit Wrigley Field, not even for The Police concert. Earlier this summer, on the 4th of July, I had just purchased a new BBQ and decided to turn on a Cubs versus Cardinals game for patriotic effect because I wanted to flip cattle like an American. Even though the BBQ is likely to have exploded because Jewish men generally do not have a proclivity for gas lines, I remain convinced that those burgers were cursed by the glow of the telecast. Holy Cow!

Nevertheless, I have stayed away. Even though I miss watching baseball and take a lot of crap from my friends, my life is probably better without the Cubs. No longer am I burdened by bad base running, worse bullpens, and runners left on base. No longer do I stew amidst the stupid signings and paltry professionalism, nor sweat the irony of a Toyota sign hovering above a left fielder whose brakes work perfectly well when running towards the wall. Instead, I walk freely and breathe easy, almost as if I've gone "Commando" on the Cubs -- awkward at first, but liberating once you've adjusted (and no more balls getting stuck in the ivy).

Certainly, should the Cubs return to the playoffs or flirt with a World Series title, my resolve will be tested. Perhaps by that time I will have a sports watching son.

I wonder if I would protect him?

I'd hate for him to spend his life always waiting around for next year.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Kill Your (Wife's) Television


For the newlywed man, acceptance can be a long and bumpy road. The toilet seat goes down, the golf score goes up, and eventually you concede the inevitability of some really bad TV in your life.

Sure, I still get Mad Men, some Sportscenter and a good visit with Charlie Rose once in a while. But most evenings now, while pretending to read a presidential biography, I catch myself peeking from behind the pages, watching some mediocre blond "Bachelerotte," giggle her way through a dick fantasy. Or maybe it's a C-list celebrity cha-cha followed by conflict resolution with the Kardashians. Whatever the program, the rotting sensation in my brain is prevailed only by confusion -- why does my otherwise sophisticated, intellectually curious wife elect to bask in the glow of such nonsense?

It's her "guilty pleasure," right? Yeah, I get it -- it's the mindlessness we all need at the end of a long day. And if I felt that her TV indulgence was harmlessly contained within the confines of the flat-screen, then let it be. But invariably true, "you are what you eat," -- and sometimes, when I see my wife scrolling through her TiVo listings, I feel like I'm watching a stoned vegan peruse the Dairy Queen menu. Yes, I want her to enjoy her ice-cream. But I also know there is going to be a stomach-ache the next day.

What I'm trying to convey, is that as long as we think it's prudent to protect our kids from mature content, perhaps we should protect our adults from immature content. If we're going to blame "Rambo" for inspiring adolescent boys to microwave hamsters, shouldn't we blame the "Real Housewives," when our mates go defrost mode on logic and reason?

In the battle of the sexes, how many times have we uttered the refrain, "we're just not on the same channel?" No shit. Turn that filth off, give me a kiss, and pretend I'm Brody Jenner -- you've already received the final rose.



Monday, August 9, 2010

Homebodies at War: Conquer your Grapefruit, Conquer your Fear


Since 2001 and during many times prior, America has been at war. This obviously involves young people sacrificing life and limb for a cause that is theoretically critical to our well-being at home. Regardless of the wars purpose or execution, the daily circumstances of a combat soldier are astonishing, and their service (when honorable) is beyond reproach.

Throughout this recent decade of conflict, I am periodically struck by the psychological distance that we "homebodies" maintain towards the reality of such far flung battles. Much of this current disconnect is clearly structured within the modern culture, given the absence of a draft, the craftsmanship of political messaging, and fragmented fizzle of corporate held media. But the divide is also self-directed, quite naturally, by the overwhelming resiliency of American apathy (a force so thoroughly tested over the last ten years, only Pixar could imagine a way to destroy it). Collectively, the results are sad, of course, that many Americans still believe that Saddam Hussein authored 9/11, or that Hamid Karzai is an energy drink. But equally of consequence, I submit, is a perpetual and two-fold laziness of perspective: one, the type that renders errant grapefruit squirt to be a drama of "collateral damage." The other, the type that succumbs to fear.

Said different, I believe that a more fundamental awareness of war would help quell our habitual conditions of petty and profound discomfort; and that to conquer these conditions, however fleeting or infrequently, is a far more patriotic gesture than tying a yellow ribbon around a tree.

My premise is simple:

Many moons ago, I was engrossed by the Ken Burns film "The War," a documentary about the experience of fighting in WWII. Of particular interest to me, were the remembrances from those who survived "D-Day" -- the lionized invasion of Normandy which claimed seven out of every ten men served. To absorb the footage and listen to the memories of those stunning moments, when marines advanced the beach in armored pontoons and then marched directly onto the shores of certain fire, it was EPIPHANY GALORE! I had discovered the power of juxtaposition.

From the "greatest generation," one could learn the greatest lesson. When troubled by citrus, think about it. And the next time you see a pretty girl across the bar; the next time a calculated risk confronts your career; the next time a friend might want to hear from you -- go for it.

For the fellow in the fox-hole right now, it's the best way to say thank you.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The NBA: Where Revenge Happens


On December 2, 2010, when LeBron James and the Miami Heat visit the Cleveland Cavaliers, I believe it will be the most extraordinary (and potentially dangerous) sporting event of the year. Somebody is going to shoot LeBron James in the knee and nobody can convince me otherwise.

Amidst the blue-collar rust-belt of "tea party" sentiment, in a manufacturing economy decimated by over 10 percent unemployment, and in a town officially pronounced dead by the graceless departure of its lone, prodigal asset, the plot is hardly fantastic.

Consider the elements:

  • Dan Gilbert, the majority owner of the Cavaliers, effectively nudged a fatwa against LeBron James as a result of his scintillating letter to season ticket holders (a response to LeBron's nationally televised "The Decision.") Gilbert was eventually fined $100,000 by NBA Commissioner David Stern, and was additionally "refudiated," as Sarah Palin would say, by Rev. Jesse Jackson, who suggested Gilbert's comments "personify a slave master mentality." Without drawing parallels to Iran's funding of Hezbollah, it does appear as if Dan Gilbert, perhaps via compromised stadium security, is poised to be an enabler.

  • Speaking of proxy wars, there was a telling foreshadow last weekend at a Cleveland Indians baseball game. Whippersnapper X and his lovely girlfriend were ejected from Jacobs Field for "safety and security purposes," due to the young man's brash fashion sense -- a freshly pressed LeBron James, Miami Heat jersey.

  • "History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes" -- the etymology of Cavaliers is ironically borne by the English Civil War, a name that was chiefly associated to the Royalist supporters of King Charles I. As loyal protectors of King Charles, the "cavaliers" were described as "malignant men ... without having respect to the Laws of the Land, or any fear either of God or Man, who were ready to commit all manner of Outrage and Violence." Needless to say, these Cavaliers will not be defending "the King" during December's territory war at Quicken Loans Arena.

For those of you who dismiss this admittedly outrageous prediction, or the plausibility of such venom within the context of sport, I refer you to the memory of Andres Escobar, the Colombian soccer player who was promptly killed after scoring on his own goal during a 1994 World Cup loss against the United States; or Bill Buckner's 10 year fly fishing trip in Idaho; or the fact that Steve Bartman now works for a multinational corporation in Europe.

For better or worse, our beloved sports teams (and their respective heroes) routinely crush the little-league myth that "it's just a game," and often play a marquee role in our desire for the personal and/or tribal identifications that are so fundamental to the human condition. No modern athlete had more completely represented their fans sense of self and place more than the Akron-born LeBron James did for the city of Cleveland. If Seattle has the Space Needle, and New York has the Statue of Liberty, the signature landmark of Cleveland's otherwise pathetic skyline was LeBron's 10-story iconic Nike Ad.

As LeBron James punched Ohio in the face on national television when he infamously announced that he was "taking his talents to South Beach," I was quickly overwhelmed by the imagination of his inevitable return to Cleveland -- "Is somebody going to punch back?"

Based on the images of burning LeBron jerseys, I am certain that somebody is thinking about it.

We are all witnesses ...


Monday, July 19, 2010

The Gift of Life


When is "the gift of life" just not quite nearly enough? Last night at a dinner party, I was illuminated to the emerging if not established popularity of the "push gift," -- a reward, I learned, often sparkly, that new dads routinely bestow upon new moms for their sweaty and successful labor in childbirth.

"A push-gift?" I wondered aloud. "Holy shit, is this common?"

"Is the gift like a carrot to inspire pushing or is it only to be C.O.D., cash-on-delivery?"

My reflex was cynical. As my brain motored through the tsunami of marital finance (engagement/wedding rings, a new mortgage, extra plum sauce), I would eventually dock at the exhausted, head-in-my-hands, conclusion -- "Where and when does it stop?"

"Would twins warrant earrings?"

"Will stationary be in order for the inaugural diaper change?"

"Victoria's Secret for breast-feeding?"

In the consumer culture of America, "boundaries" is a bad word. Is the norm that the stork now arrives with a "shipping and handling charge" surprising? Of course not. But at what point do we contaminate the sanctity of our most fundamental joys? And at what harm do we attach material rewards to the natural prize of love and family?

Certainly, there is something sweet and legitimate about memorializing the nine-month journey that a woman endures in giving birth. However, there is also something to cause pause, when, as we visualize the traditional image of mother, supine in hospital bed, handed her newly born child with doting father at side, and the special aura of that scene ... does it really need to shine any brighter? I don't know. But if I had to pass a camel through the eye of a needle while my father-in-law drooled on the zoom lens, I'd probably feel entitled to something too.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Blackbirds Fly


To score a movie montage of recent American storylines, I believe the composer would do well to select “Blackbird,” by the Beatles. To contextualize this soundtrack choice, you should know that Paul McCartney was inspired to write the song as a reaction to racial tensions escalating in America during the spring of 1968. To further appropriate this selection, you must also accept the ironic/abstract connections that I've observed between the song’s imaging and the designated “blackbirds” as listed below. Nevertheless, for all of its potential import, plus its melancholy synthesis of hope amidst sorrow, Paul McCartney’s solemn poem has never been more useful.

Consider the following:

Blackbird #1; Barack Obama is elected the first black President of the United States. In “Game Change,” John Heilman and Mark Halperin’s excellent account of the 2008 Presidential campaigns, Obama’s meteoric rise in politics is compared to Icarus from Greek mythology. Whether Obama has flown too close to the sun remains to be seen, but fair or otherwise, the transcendent nature of his Presidency was quickly singed by the depressing and destructive reality of modern politics if not charred by his own (thus far) relatively muted follow-up as a transformative commander in chief.

Blackbird #2; A “black swan” phenomena engulfs the global financial system and wrecks havoc on nest eggs and the national economy.

Blackbird #3; Tiger Woods, master of birdies and eagles, reveals a new record of “low scores.”

Blackbird #4; Oprah Winfrey announces her retirement from daytime TV and leaves her sanctuary in Chicago to become a snowbird out west. Kitty Kelley, the “poison pen” biographer, writes a book that undermines the character and authenticity of America’s biggest cultural icon.

Blackbird #5; Phoenix, AZ – capital of the controversial (perhaps unconstitutional) state immigration policy that flirts with racial profiling. The city is of course named after the Greek mythological bird that famously reincarnates from the rubble of its own ashes.

Blackbird #6; BP douses Gulf Coast seagulls in petroleum. The stunted flight of oil dressed birds becomes the enduring image of the worst ecological disaster in American history.

Blackbird #7; LeBron James flies south for the winter and splatters the collective windshield of Cleveland, no less flashes the bird to anyone who cares about courage. The irony of his charity clad announcement lies in the more damaging donation that his cowardice conveyed upon young worshippers – as a famous bird watcher once said:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.” -- Teddy Roosevelt

* * *

As the national anthem du jour, “Blackbird” acknowledges America’s sobering condition as a nation of “broken wings,” yet poses the urgency and optimism to once again “learn how to fly.” I simply found it remarkable that the song and its concept seemed to manifest itself repeatedly throughout these American storylines, however surely or stretched these assocations may be.

Hopefully, the news will find a happier Beatles tune …