The Reason for Sports

Call me naive, but I've never been able to wrap my head around sports mania. I mean what is it that attracts so many people to their TV screens, radios and sports arenas to watch men and women battle it out to prove their athletic superiority? Why do we care about these people? Why are blogs, television shows and newspaper articles dedicated to picking them apart? How do such strong emotions as love, hate, fear, anxiety, passion and zealousness find their way into something so relatively unimportant? Is baseball going to score a cure for cancer? Will football tackle the health care debate? Will basketball make a slam dunk in the fight against crime?

Bad puns aside, it all just seems like one big distraction from real life and from what really counts. Do we put our hopes and dreams into these super athletes so our dashed hopes and missed dreams don't seem as bad? If they can make gobs of money, score pretty ladies all over the globe and spend their days doing what they love, then it's not so bad that we're in debt to our ears, divorced (or considering it daily) and stuck in a dead end job.

Well, at least this is what I've felt for years. But something has changed recently as I watch my intelligent, go-getter, environment loving, money hungry boyfriend cherish every minute of his Sunday football/World Series extravaganza. When I met him I had no idea he was a sports fan. He just didn't fit the bill. Yes he was a living, breathing male - that should have been a tip off. But his cynicism, know-how, worldliness and "total lack of athletic ability" (his words, not mine) made me assume he thought sports were a joke, just as I did (a blackhearted, know-it-all cynic myself.) But, alas, I was wrong. The Red Socks, the Patriots, the Giants - they're all his friends. He's sad when they're sad and happy when they're happy.

Even if he's an anomaly, then what are the other reasons people watch sports and cheer on their teams? Here's a list of some food-for-thought theories I've come up with observing my boyfriend and other sports fans in their natural habitat:

1. It's a reason to eat really yummy snacks that you normally don't let yourself have. Greasy, cheesy, salty, fatty things that make life worth living.
2. It's a good way to put off important work - like paying the bills or writing that school essay.
3. It's a reason to drink copious amounts of beer and liquor. How can you justify screaming at the television screen if you're not hammered?
4. It's a reason to not "talk" about things - i.e. your partner knows not to bring up "the relationship" or the need for more cat litter when the game's on. (At least not until commercial.)
5. It provides a sense of purpose. If you didn't watch the game, then it's your fault if they lose. You're their good luck charm! You just know it!
6. It keeps life from feeling too serious. So you just found out your Aunt Diane has kidney failure and the stock market is plummeting... so what? You can think about them when the game's over.
7. It makes you feel a part of something. This is your team, your fellow fans, your sport.
8. It simulates war. Men love war. They're creating new wars all the time. And what is sports other than watered-down war games? The ball for the grenade. The interception for the coup. The touchdown for the bombing. The Super Bowl for the victory.
9. It helps you blow off steam. You don't need to yell at your business partner, wife or kids when you can yell at the referee and the other team's dumbass coach.
10. It give you something to talk about with your friends, family and coworkers. Conversation hit a speed bump? Can't think of what to say? Have nothing in common? Don't know how to bond with your son? Go to sports immediately. Ahhh, that's better. Now you're the best of chums.
11. It's okay to act like an idiot. Ever fancied painting your face, pounding your bare chest and screaming profanities at the top of your lungs in a large crowd? Sports let's you do that and still hold your head high. In fact, it's downright honorable.
    

When 'Comfortable' Is No Longer Comforting

My brain has turned into soggy gray matter. I can feel is swishing back and forth against my skull as I twist and turn in Sculpt Class. If I even take our front steps too quickly, there it goes like an orange thrown against a trampoline. Why the sudden blobification of my most vital organ?... Comfort. I have grown far too comfortable with my life. The other day my boyfriend actually called me a "waiter," as in someone who waits, not a food service employee.

It's as if I'm waiting for something to happen to me, twiddling my thumbs, hoping for the best. I wake up. Go to the gym. Do some work. Eat a salad. Do some more work. Kiss my boyfriend when he gets home and then turn on the television and relax with Diet Ginger Hansen's and think "I deserve this for all my hard work." It's not a bad life by any stretch of the imagination, but the next morning I wake up thinking, what the hell did I actually accomplish yesterday besides firming by backside and making some money? Really, what? Well, the waiting ends today. This comfort is no longer comforting.

Every week I vow to do one activity that is out of my comfort zone. I'm not going to advance as a screenwriter, make friends in this new town of mine or really experience southern living until I take that mushy ball in my cranium and make it strong again. Take chances. Have adventures. Fail miserably and succeed beautifully.

First up, finally taking a banjo lesson. Playing an instrument scares me to death because 1.) I'm not musically inclined and 2.) I fear my teacher laughing at me or telling antidotes to his other students about that 'brain dead wannabe banjo player from LA' he teaches every Monday. Wonderfully uncomfortable, indeed, so this will be a great start. My brand new, practically unused banjo (if you count my pathetic attempt at learning from a dvd) is sitting collecting dust in the corner as it gently weeps. No more weeping; it's time to kick comfort to the curb and embrace uncertainty.

Compromise

Moving in with someone means you have to learn to compromise. And by "compromise", of course, I mean do things you normally wouldn't do in order to get them to stop nagging you. The following is a list of the latest areas of improvement my darling live-in boyfriend has been generous enough to point out:

1.) After brewing a cup of coffee always immediately throw away the filter and rinds.
2.) Don't let the recycle bin get too full. It just makes it harder to carry outside.
3.) My Netflix queue is to be shared, not hoarded.
4.) Don't leave a dish dirty for more than 15 minutes after you're done eating. Immediately make your way to the dishwasher, do not pass Go, do not collect $100.
5.) Do not stop for gas in "bad" neighborhoods. You are bound to get raped and/or mugged.
6.) Do not jog down alleys. You are bound to get raped and/or mugged.
7.) Do not put vodka in the freezer. The bar must hold up to appearances and a missing staple, such as vodka, is suicide.
8.) Don't mix solid whites with light colors in the wash. Those babies must be bleached.
9.) Putting lemons, limes or tomatoes in the fridge drains them of their goodness. Do it, again; lose a hand.
10.) We don't need a large dresser. Clothes must be prioritized.
11.) A desk must always be by a window. Otherwise, your workspace becomes a prison.
12.) Do not tell a helicopter pilot in the Air Force that your friend's father flies helicopters for the Fire Department. It's insulting. (This one still has me scratching my head.)
13.) Only buy meat fresh and never from Trader Joes. Frozen buffalo burgers are a disgrace. Whole Foods is god.
14.) Don't recycle wine bottles. They make ideal ashtrays.
15.) And last but not least (now this is the rule I set down): Always kiss your partner when you come home from school.

Out with the Old

In 3 weeks I will be leaving this metropolis we call LaLaLand and heading down South to the home of country music, better known as Nashville, Tennessee. As I wade through the dust and grime collecting on the piles of junk I've carried around all these years, I can't help but get a thrill every time I toss, recycle, sell or give-away an item, whether it be a Janet Jackson cassette tape or a bag of unused make-up wedges. Seriously, it's like a workout - you sweat, lose weight (i.e. the pounds of crap you're discarding) and work up an appetite. Haul enough storage bins to the garage, and you'll even tone muscle.

But what is it about getting rid of the old to make room for the new that's so satisfying and, well, liberating? It's almost as if I can breathe better without so much stuff lassoed to my being. I suppose it's all a part of letting go - the process isn't easy, but you're guaranteed to feel better afterward.

This gypsy heart of mine has always given me an advantage in forsaking old life chapters for new ones. I once had a roommate who saved everything she'd ever owned since childhood. She even kept her baby teeth in a jar. I'm not kidding for effect. This is the real deal. Some people just can't let go.

Then there was the old lady on my Meal on Wheels route in Santa Cruz. She lived in a house that was floor to ceiling full of trash, collectibles and memorabilia. You could barely move around, and I won't even get into the state of the fridge (or the smell of the house). It was truly tragic. Like Big Edie and Little Edie, there are those of us who'd rather see our gardens grey than give a go at a new surrounding.

If only we could all see places and objects as ephemeral - here today, gone tomorrow - then everyone could get the same thrill I'm having at selling my DVD/VHS player on Craigslist. I am not my DVD player; my DVD player is not me. That said, there's no way in hell I'm giving up my iPod.

Big Fat Bully

We humans are such bullies. As my mom puts it to her cats, "I'm the boss mammal." And bossy we are. The other day I was driving down my street and watched in horror as a black Volvo crushed a little bird under its tires. Its partner (was it a mom, a baby, a boyfriend, a best friend...?) flew off, then hovered around its dearly departed, chirping and screeching and fluttering its wings. Just like that, a little life was snuffed out by a big human bully.

I was fuming about it all day. What makes us so special? Why should we have the power to decide which animals roam free and which end up on our plates, which trees get demolished and which get to provide shade for us at the beach, which flowers dot the landscape and which wind up in vases surrounded by dinner party guests? It's astounding the gall we humans have: the ways in which we play god everyday.

Then as I was driving to the gym later and witnessed a giant hawk or vulture swoop down and tear a piece of roadkill to pieces, carrying off a huge bloody chunk of flesh in its beak, I felt better knowing that at least one species was benefiting from all our bullying. Our angry tires, made his delectable dinner. Vultures feeding vultures... Maybe we're not so bad after all.

Nah, we're bullies.

Cat Asses

In the past 2 weeks I have cleaned not one, but two, cat asses. This, my friends, is not my idea of a fun summer activity. The first was my cat Jade, a dried poo-ball stuck in her fluffy white butt. I had to clean it off, and then scrub her butt in the bathtub as she meowed and yowled like a banshee on crack. Blood curdling, glass shattering, ear drum popping shrieks, as if I were strangling her or sticking pins in her eyes. Our subletter must think I'm some sort of sadist. I kept yelling out, "Really, I'm not hurting her. She hates water!" just so she wouldn't call Animal Control on me.

The second offense occurred yesterday with my roommate's cat, Patrick - the big, furry gray beast with three legs. He has some sort of bladder inflammation, and after taking him to the vet, I noticed he had peed all over his backside. I couldn't let him walk around the house like that, poor dear, so I hosed him off. My arms now look like pin cushions, one particularly gnarly puncture wound currently turning black and blue. A poke hear, a poke there - I wore long sleeves to the gym because I was worried people would think I was a blind heroin addict.

The point of my story is to 1.) bitch and moan and 2.) hope that by writing about it, no other dirty cat butts will fall on my lap. I am no groomer, nor do I want to be. And most importantly, I'm slightly anemic and can't risk loosing any more blood. So, universe, could you lay off for a bit?

Sincerely,
Blackheart

David Sedaris Hates Me

Yup, you read it right. One of my favorite authors in the world thinks I'm an utter disgrace. How did this come about, you may ask? It all began with a little book by the name of "When You Are Engulfed in Flames." A friend of mine gave it to me for my birthday last year, so when I heard Sedaris was holding a free signing in LA last Wednesday I jumped at the chance. I'm not really one to collect autographs, but there's something about a signed book by a renowned author that makes me feel better than other people.

However, things got dicey when I realized the said book was in Nashville with my boyfriend. Feeling bad, he offered to pay me back if I bought a used copy in town. Did and done. The literary shit then hit the fan, once again, when once arriving at Barnes & Nobles with friends, we realized you had to buy a new copy in store to be allowed to get it signed. "Since when? The website didn't say anything about it!" I demanded answers. Apparently it's a special deal Sedaris made with the bookstore. I was beginning to smell a sellout. Needless to say, I had to buy yet a 3rd copy of the book to be returned at a later date once I got through and had my used copy signed. Sound confusing? It was.

But nothing beats the four hours, no four and a half hours, I spent in line alone once my friends - off to bigger and better plans - ditched me, their unsigned books in my hands. My stomach growled. I wished that I'd brought snacks or at least my Updike book club pick. I'd already read the Sedaris book cover to cover. Plus, the line weaved through the worst sections of the book store - Sports, Automobile, Crosswords (particularly painful since you can't very well do one and then put it back in place), Expecting Mothers. Gross. I did manage to look up the car I'm selling in the 2009 Kelley Blue Book. One small victory.

After making friends with the girl ahead of me, taking deep breaths to calm my nerves and flipping through a fabulous book of postcards entitled "Cute Animals Delivering Bad News", it was finally my time to meet the MAN. I had been watching as he spent fifteen minutes with each person, smiling and making little notes in his pocket notebook. Would they end up in his newest essay? His journal? A NY Times article? Would I make the cut?

That's when I blew it. Blew it big time. I had been praying he wouldn't ask what I did, as I'd hate to tell a professional writer of his caliber that I'm a small fry writer myself. But guess what? Bingo. You got it. He asked what it was that I write. "Screenwriting and an online column." I didn't want to mention the commercial treatments because people always want an explanation of what they are, and I have to watch dismayed as their eyes glaze over in confusion and boredom.

He pushed further about the column, and when I told him it revolved around frugality in LA he asked for an example. Well, I'd written about free book signings. "What about them?" he asked. "Just that they're a great way to meet your favorite author. I also talked about books in general." "What about books?" he prodded. "That used bookstores are a wonderful option and your library of course--"

Silence. A look of pure hatred spread over the jolly man's face. "So what other than telling people to not give author's their proper royalties, do you talk about in your column?" The only thing I could think to say? "Uh-oh. I'm the asshole." He tried to revert to his friendly demeanor, but his agent kept shifting her eyes to the exit trying to get me to take the hint. I couldn't leave, though. I had four damn books to sign! And the man kept asking me all sorts of questions. My palms were sweating. I felt lightheaded. I had to get out.

Later, as I drank a glass of wine to wash down the feeling that I was for once in my life 'the douchebag', I read over what he wrote in each book. They are as follows:

Erin: "Diabetes is for lovers."
Katy: "I'm so angry you're not here."
Lindsay: "I'm glad you're alive."

And last but not least:

Me: "Your story touched my heart."