25 years ago today, Chicago Cubs manager Lee Elia became somewhat emotional as he spoke with reporters about the season his team was having.
The recording is legendary. I'm not sure why.
But if you listen very closely, you can almost hear him swear.
It's raining. I don't like to complain, but I have to say that I'm not a big fan of rain, or, really, of any kind of natural phenomena. I like snow, but I'd like it a lot better if it were a lot warmer. Why is it cold? That's poor planning. Animals are pretty, but they smell bad and behave uncontrollably. Some people are able to control them, but those people can be pretty strange themselves.
Nature is, quite frankly, a problem, and one whose time is almost up. The way I see it, we're here on earth not only to have dominion over, but to eradicate and replace every other form of life. Once the planet is as clean and smooth as an Ikea parking lot, we'll really be able to make something of this place; something orderly and efficient, and sensible. Unlike weather. Weather is chaotic. Look at snowflakes. Why is every single one different? Think of the man-hours being spent on that vanity project. Ridiculous.
Homogenization is the answer, my friends. From buildings to trees to the lowly field mouse, automation of materials and process will put an end to the anxiety of our existence, and make us truly one species: steel, glass, rubber, and concrete. From house to mouse; let the future rain down in a silvery shower of functionality; modern, simple, and ego-free.
Just make sure, when you build my place, that it's fucking huge, so everyone will know it's mine. It's only human nature.
In today's NY Times is an article about one young soldier who discovered atheism (or perhaps the phrase should be "lost God") in the service, and was subject to reprimands, peer abuse and eventual discharge because of the unpopularity of his views among the hardcore evangelicals he served with. This is very good news. The only way to export American freedom to muslim countries is by making sure the deliveryperson is a bible-and-rifle-toting religious intolerant.
This also proves, once again, the old adage that there are no atheists in foxholes, for the simple fact that we won't let them in.
Let me be frank. I have willpower coming out the wazoo (if that's the area I'm thinking of): I quit cigarettes after 10 years of chainsmoking, I run regularly (if not gracefully), I recently replaced the chocolate cookies in my cupboard with Fig Newtons— I've even refrained from kissing the wrong person once or twice—ah, but that's a story for grownups.
The point is, I'm able to resist most things that I should resist, if I put my mind to it— for a while, anyway. I lived in Seattle from 1991 to 1995, and escaped without a single tattoo; I was one of the last kids on my block to get a cellphone (excuse me; I should take this); I resisted creating a blog until I knew the world could no longer survive without my blazing thought-missiles, and I flat-out refused to join Friendster or Myspace until I was absolutely certain their time in the digital sun had passed and I would be left in virtual peace, watching the ones and zeros drift lazily past my laptop window.
Still, little by little, site by site, I caved, until, finally, only Facebook remained. It wasn't easy. I knew things were happening there; Myspace was deadspace; Friendster had reached the endster; and still Facebook raged like a teen-gobbling juggernaut, gorging and gobbling on its youthful prey until there were no more youths to gorge nor to gobble, whereupon it turned its bloodsoaked gaze to their elders.
Still I resisted. I was unmoveable. I didn't exactly brag about it, but when people mentioned bloggers with that special pronunciation that means "futureless uberloser", I took no umbrage. I knew that I was not part of the herd. Facebook was for trend-os. I am not a trend-o, friend-o. Facebook is no country for grown men, and I am a grown man.
A man who is now *sob* on Facebook.
Forgive me.
I only did it for the Scrabble.
When I was young, my brothers and I would use whiteout and ink to turn the comics pages into reworked narratives of surreal carnage and highbrow fart jokes. Since we were always adding data, it never occurred to us what would result from only taking data away. Consequently, we never thought of this beautifully simple approach : Garfield minus Garfield.
Click the picture to see an example.
With the fat cat gone, the strip becomes a bizarre existential wasteland, and much, much funnier. And a little sad, too, I guess, since after a while, it becomes clear that this is how conversations between lonely shut-ins and their cats actually sound.
I wonder how well a blank Garfield mug would sell.
It's nearly Oscar time, and I will be having people over to watch, as I sometimes do, and there will likely be a betting pool, as sometimes happens, which my friend Dan from Bald & Effective will win, as he always does.
I'll make the same mistake I make every year, betting on the movies I think should win, instead of trying to put myself inside the mindspace of someone who lives and works in Hollywood; an impossible task for me, which is why I'm unable to understand why Philip Seymour Hoffman wasn't nominated for anything this year.
In 2007 he was in 3 movies: Before The Devil Knows You're Dead, Savages, and Charlie Wilson's War. I saw the first two, and, as usual, he was beyond extraordinary. The man immerses himself. He's a fucking bathyscaphe. Every role he plays, it's as if he was typecast. Not only the look, but the self-image; his ability to create fine and definite shadings of self-esteem and self-awareness is uncanny.
So why no awards?
It's not like he lacks for respect—he already won for Capote—but maybe it's just too much brilliance at once, like staring into the sun for too long. When I'm king (and that day is coming soon, my patient puppets), he shall have three Oscars per year, one for each name, for the remainder of his natural life, which shall be Methuselan, thanks to vitamin supplements and regular exercise.
And I, by the grace of God (and by royal decree), shall finally win the goddamn betting pool. I could just have my armies take the money, of course, but where's the sport in that?
UPDATE:
I just read in the newspaper that PSH was actually nominated for Best supporting Actor for Charlie Wilson's War. I still think he got robbed, but I must admit that this is an excellent example of why I never win the goddamn Oscar pool.
You know, there was a time when Sweden used to stand for something fine and pure: Abba, neutrality (or was that Switzerland?), Volvo, chocolate (was that Switzerland, too?), and meatballs. Big, sweaty, hairy meatballs.
But in recent years, I hear all sorts of discouraging things about the land of snow and smiles; for instance, that they have highest rate of alcoholism and suicide in the world, and that apparently their women do not all resemble Anita Ekberg (an early prototype for Scarlett Johanssen, but who didn't bother to act, realizing it would only be a distraction).
Things have changed so much and so quickly, that I really don't know what to think of this story, about a Swedish couple who have named their child "Brfxxccxxmnpcccclllmmnprxvclmnckssqlbb11116" (pronounced "/ˈalˌbin/").
From the article:
"Because the parents (Elizabeth Hallin and an unidentified father) failed to register a name by the boy's fifth birthday, a district court in Halmstad, southern Sweden, fined the parents 5,000 kronor (US$682 at the time). Responding to the fine, the parents submitted the 43-character name in May 1996, claiming that it was "a pregnant, expressionistic development that we see as an artistic creation." The parents suggested the name be understood in the spirit of 'pataphysics. The court rejected the name and upheld the fine."
It's all very well and good to have fun with names, but why do it to a kid who didn't ask for this particular brand of fun, not to mention being born to a couple of ninnies? I've had enough difficulty getting people to spell my name with no "h".
The parents have offered to compromise by naming the child simply "A", but the court has rejected this, under the reasonable assumption that the child will be begging to be adopted sooner or later, so there's no need to be obvious about it.
The weird and wonderful Coen Brothers are apparently going to write and direct Michael Chabon's weird and wonderful "Yiddish Policeman's Union." Scott Rudin will produce, who also has the movie rights to KAvalier and Klay, which he'd better not fuck up, either, or there will be trouble; not from me; I'm mild mannered; my alter ego, however, while not exactly a super villain, is super impatient with bad adaptations.
Speaking of adaptation, I saw Atonement the other day, and thought that it was stately, respectful and average.
Like Prince Charles.
Who I like more than I liked this movie. But that's because he's sort of clumsy and endearing, and into organics and preserving historical buildings, and loved a woman less beautiful than his wife, which is a new one.
I wrote this for my other blog, Wrong About Everything, but I'm posting it here as well.
I like to think that I'm a relatively healthy individual; I never get sick, and I can eat anything. That's what I tell myself right up until I'm doubled over in the bathroom, whimpering.
Ihe same is true of injuries. On New Years Eve, just after midnight, I was with some friends exploring a basement full of steam engines and I decided to sprint down a pitch black hallway, where I ran smack into an iron steam pipe. I was knocked on my ass and opened up a cut on my head, but I thought to myself, see how tough I am? No big deal. And I laughed my lusty, virile laugh and continued on.
This is my head 10 minutes after impact.
Two days later, the cut was infected, I had a fever, and my hyper-allergenic scalp was bubbling and hissing from something it had touched. God knows what—the dirty steam pipe, the old peeling paint, the neosporin I smeared on the cut, the pillows I slept on, the air I move through, the looks people give me, the thoughts I think—it could be anything, really.
Because the sad truth is, I'm as fragile as a baby mouse clinging to a flowerstalk in a windstorm.
Squeak.
UPDATE:
This is my head 5 days after impact. Observe the robust texture of the rich orange pus. It tastes better than it looks, believe me.
And this is my head today, 6 days after impact. It looks rawer, but you'll notice, if you really get your nose right in there, that there's very little pus. And in my house we like to say "No more pus means no more fuss".
Be patient; don't fast forward. It's only a few minutes. Watch it all the way through.
If you ever lose perspective on the marvels of the world, and how lucky you are to be alive, just remember what you've seen today.
Or eat a chocolate mint milano cookie with vanilla ice cream and mixed berries. Same thing, really.
