What Football Means to Me

Embarrassed though I may be to admit it, I now follow professional football. This is usually an interesting way to pass time, but there are drawbacks, chief amongst them the political views held by most football commentators.

"How can one know the political views of sports commentators?" you are perhaps wondering.
"Politics have naught to do with professional football, and I cannot believe that professional sports journalists would inject their broadcasts with irrelevant political opinions. I must conclude that either you have gone out of your way to do a fair amount of research (in which case, why are you complaining?), or that you are making some rather large assumptions."
I assure you, gentle reader, that I have done no research. Any assumptions that I make are small and based on many subtle clues that these commentators give throughout their broadcasts. For instance, when Sportscenter broadcasts live from Iraq, and Chris Berman takes the opportunity to play a clip of a young Russian tennis player vocalising her support for the war on terror.
Said Chris (the folks at ESPN call him 'Boomer'), "You have to admire that girl for having the presence of mind to say something like that. I can only hope that one day when this war has succeeded in establishing a free Iraq, terrorism will be wiped from the globe and none of us will ever need to worry about living in a world where something like September 11th could happen." (I paraphrase 'Boomer', but accurately.)

Or when former Steelers great Terry Bradshaw (the folks at Fox call him 'TB') looks into the camera, points his finger sternly, and promises Osama bin Laden that we are coming for him (Within a cave on the other side of the world, Mr. bin Laden shakes his fist at the screen and vows to no longer root for the Steelers.)

Or, when John Madden innocently commented that the lead in the New England/ Indianapolis game was constantly "flip-flopping."
"Well, this is the state for that, John." replied his partner, Al Michaels (the folks at ABC call him 'Fuckface').
'Fuckface' was referring to Massachusetts. You know, where John Kerry is from. If you have seen President Bush speak or watched Fox News coverage of anything in the last few months then you know that John Kerry is a notorious flip-flopper, an unkind way of saying that he is capable of complex thoughts and possibly even self-doubt.

In this election season, when I turn away from CNN and C-SPAN and the News Hour with Jim Lehrer and try to watch something stupid and relaxing, i.e. football, I don't expect or want to be reminded of the election, particularly not of the millions of patriotic shitheads who have absolutely no idea what is going on in the world around them, of which professional sports journalists represent a small sample. Fuck all of these people and their mindless predictions and empty analyses of a nearly meaningless game. Fuck them eternally.

Alas, For I am Whitey

Cashiering is one of the lesser jobs at Barnes and Noble, one that many people complain about being assigned. Recently it has been assigned to a wider range of people, many of whom are not used to standing in one place for four hours at a time making change and asking over and over whether or not someone has a Barnes and Noble member card. When they say no you get to ask, "Are you familiar with it?"
And then before they answer,
"It saves you and your family 10% on anything you buy here, not just books but also coffee, CDs, newspapers, anything. It lasts for a year, so if you think you'll spend at least $250 dollars here in the next twelve months it would save you money."
When a customer is buying something you are interested in it saves you from this. You are free to imagine that the person is interesting, someone who, perhaps under different circumstances, you might hang out with. You stop being a whore and remember that you have interests.
"I like Malcolm X."
I said this to a black man who came through my line the other day. I said this, at least in part, because he was buying the autobiography of Malcolm X.
"Oh. Okay." he said.
That response should have tipped me off that he didn't care if I liked Malcolm X or not, but it didn't. I was blinded by a need to atone for my race. "Look at me," I was telling him, "I may be white, but I watch Spike Lee movies. I'm in favor of affirmative action. Would you like my job? You probably don't need or want it, but I owe it to you because my great grandfather might have lynched your great grandfather. My grandmother complains about Negroes crowding the salad bar at the local Sizzler. Please, help me feel better; tell me it's okay because I am better than they."
But even I, full of self-hatred though I may be, knew better than to say that. Instead I said, "I wanted to get a recording of Malcolm X speeches, but they're all out of print."
Fucking whitey won't let me hear Malcolm's words cause I might get too riled up.
"You could probably get a recording at the library," he suggested.
"That's a good idea. Thanks! Have a good day," and I smiled sincerely. As he walked away I realized too late that I'd been bothering him.
At the register next to me I saw Karen Tiller, a crazy thirty-year-old child in garish make-up and a floor-length pink dress, wish someone "a happy day," and took a little comfort in it. I wasn't really creepy, just ridiculous and white.

Happy September 11th

Last year I told my sister and her boyfriend about my idea for a September 11th party. Sarah was into it, but Rob looked kind of disgusted.
"Yeah, we'd have a cake, which we'd probably need to decorate ourselves, cause you know Ukrop's wouldn't write 'Happy September 11th' on it for us. And we could play 'Have You Forgotten' and all that other really awesome country music, and maybe we could even get two guys to dress up like Bush and Osama bin Laden and they could play fight."
And then Rob said, "I think that's really fucked up." He was right of course, but that doesn't make it a bad idea. Lots of things are fucked up but still worth doing, voting for example.

Here's a loosely related story (related in the sense that in both instances I was an insensitive prick):

One Sunday I was driving to lunch with my friend Cara, when a group of people, an elderly couple and five or six children, walked out directly in front of me. I don't entirely believe her, but Cara claims they were on their way to church. Incensed that I had to brake, I flicked them all off. They saw me clearly, and Cara claims that one of the children started crying. She remembers this well, and likes to tell our mutual friends about it over meals and at parties, possibly to get back at me for telling everyone at our store that she has backhair. And she does-- thick wooly backhair. Like a sweater.

Patience, Friends, Patience

Perhaps you have noticed that I have not written much recently. Perhaps you are one of the people who has yelled at me for it.
I have had difficulty writing posts recently. Rather than write some lame bullshit that will bore you and depress me I have decided to give myself some time to think of something better.
This is just a friendly note to let you know I haven't abandoned my journal. I'll try to have something up by the middle of the month.