Troubling Postscript to Recent Post About Secondhand Lions

A lot of superstitious people follow sports: there's the Sports Illustrated curse (in which an athlete who appears on the cover of Sports Illustrated is said to be jinxed and will suffer a slump or injury or some other ill luck), the Madden curse (which says basically the same thing about football players appearing on the cover of Madden Football), the well-known "Dirty Underwear/Unsightly Facial Hair/Not Having Sex/Eating Only Gruel will Keep My Streak Unbroken and Bring Me Success in the Playoffs" Myth, and God knows what others that irrational sports fans/players have come up with to explain things in their lives that are in anyway not obvious.
(Is it coincidence that so many NFL players are also born-again Christians? You decide.)
Then in the light of Mr. Gibson's and Mr. Osment's recent troubles, is this the beginning of a Shyamalan Curse? Will stars of M. Night Shyamalan movies from now on abuse alcohol and drive their cars under the influence? Let's not wait to check this out when it'’s too late: after Joaquin Phoenix or Paul Giammatti has died in some drunk driving accident or Bryce Dallas Howard has publicly called the Iraqi people "sand niggers."” No, let's get to work on this now-- set up some sort of elite task force of scientists and ninja-commandos and see if they can figure out how to stop this thing before it leaves Hollywood in ruins.

Drinking as it Relates to Depression Derived from a Career Scuttled by Puberty

Recently both Mel Gibson and Haley Joel Osment were arrested for driving while intoxicated. Mr. Gibson’s transgression is much the more widely reported offense due to his greater fame, power, and his spectacular ability to say just the right thing to law enforcement, but I was more interested in the troubles of young Mr. Osment, whose career has fallen on hard times since his voice cracked and he was seen in the appalling Secondhand Lions (which Daniel Neman probably reviewed under some hilarious headline like “Secondhand Movie!" What a sparkling wiit that guy is.).
I remember going to see Secondhand Lions with my dad in the aftermath of Hurricane Isabelle. Like the rest of Richmond we were without power and running water, and the idea of going somewhere with lights and air conditioning was appealing, and Robert Duval and Michael Caine are both actors of a certain reputation, and we though, “What the hell? It can’t be worse than sitting here in the dark picking our noses.” We were wrong.
I remember walking out of the Carmike movie theater feeling relieved to be back admist the destruction, and also feeling certain that Mr. Osment was on his way out. Being the sharp, insightful person that I am, violinist Sir Yehudi Menhuin came to mind, and how his bow arm went to shit once he hit his twenties. This seems to be the way of child prodigies: they achieve success on instinct alone, only to fail later when they get a little older and start over-thinking things. Then they get drunk and wreck their Prius. Or turn to Eastern philosophy if you are Yehudi Menuhin.

You Gotta Do What You Gotta Do

This morning on my way to work I stopped by the local gas station to redeem a coupon, one of those frequent customer cards where the cashier punches a hole everytime you buy something. I got all my coffee there for a few weeks, and the cashier recognized me when I came in. So did the man making the sausage biscuits. He waved, I waved back, and went to add the cream and sugar.
I looked up from my half and half to see the biscuit man come around the counter to say hello.
"You find what you need?" he asked me.
"Oh sure," said I, "found it fine."
"Lord I am exhausted," said the biscuit man, hands on hips. "These two jobs I work have me wore out."
"Yeah, two jobs'll do that to you," I said.
"Yeah. I got this here management position, and then I got my own business for myself. Make more money on that."
I knew what was coming, I've been here before. "I'm looking for some quality people to help me with my business, maybe you'd be interested?" And then he'd try to have me sell knives or help people refinance their mortgages or sell amway.
"Yeah, I work here, and then I make movies."
"Oh," I said, unsettled, "that's really great. You must be proud."
"Well, they're all X rated," he said. "I don't tell my mama."
"Uh huh," I nodded. "I guess you don't."
"Good money though, and in these times we livin' in..."
"Yeah, gotta do what you gotta do."
"Yeah, I sure am exhausted though." He wiped sweat from his brow, smiled and said, "You have a good day now!"

Football is Fast Upon Us

1. Recently I dreamt that Heisman Trophy winning running back Reggie Bush was violently murdered during a football game and that Sportscenter kept replaying the clip over and over again. Reggie had "broken a big one" as Madden might say, and was shedding tackles on his way to a touchdown when suddenly a defensive back layed a monster hit on him, knocking him flat on his back. This defensive back then stuck his head under Reggie Bush's jersey and began disemboweling him with his teeth. ESPN captured all of this in stunning detail, and it was Chris Berman's "Play of the Week." In my dream, I wasn't disturbed by this so much as I was inexplicably saddened. It felt just like when Dale Earnhardt died: I knew that being disemboweled by Troy Polamolu was a risk every football player takes, but I hated to see it happen, particularly to someone so full of talent and so admired by so many people I felt superior to. I awoke in a cold sweat, and quickly checked ESPN.com to make sure it wasn't true.

2. Speaking of ESPN.com, I have joined a fantasy football league. I do not expect to be good at fantasy football-- in fact a minute ago I was planning on using the fact that I am not good at fantasy football to somehow make my decision seem cooler to people who hate sports (9/10ths of all my friends; that most of them still read the blog even though I insist on writing about this stuff moves me to tears). The fact that I momentarily planned to use incompetence as a rationalization for doing something I am occasionally ashamed of seems possibly the most pathetic thing I've ever heard of, and were I in a different mood I would probably try to turn this into a bit about the rest of the country and its culture/politics and where I fit in that scheme. But I am not in that mood (my four readers collectively exhale a sigh of relief).
I have named my team The Ninja-Pirates, after my group of kids at work who go by that name, and I spend at least fifteen minutes each day debating whether I want Shaun Alexander in my top five. (On the one hand it seems like a smart idea to put him in my top five because he is really good and everyone on ESPN.com says to do that, on the other hand I just don't like Shaun Alexander, possibly because I dislike the Seahawks in general. If I said this was because of their team name and their uniforms you would question my masculinity, so let's pretend it has something to do with their wide receivers.)
Also, I take issue with ESPN for censoring my posts in our league's web forum, something that seems a tad inconsistent in light of the fat that I designed a team helmet that says "Fuck Your Mom" on it. In this way, ESPN resembles every boss I've ever had.

3. I would like to give a shout out to Jon Biscoe, who put the whole Fantasy thing together and at whose house I plan to spend most Sundays for the next five months, watching games and gorging myself on beer and whatever has been most recently barbecued. We did this last football season and I had a really good time, which probably means that when I am forty I will look back on it as one of the defining moments of twenties and wonder why nothing is ever as much fun as that was. If my blog is still up then I would like to remind my future self that even though this was a lot of fun, sometimes I did drink too much and pass out in the recliner. Also there was the time when I broke Jon's girlfriend Amy's patio furniture. So it wasn't all sunshine and lollipops.

Neighbors

1/14/06

Two girls live upstairs and they are both named Jessica.
Our kitchen has no curtains, and I often see them while I cook or eat. Their back door is right next to our kitchen door, and I see them take their dogs to the bathroom, take their trash out, kiss their boyfriends goodbye. I have never met either of them, and that seems strange to me because I see their mail, and who they date, and I step in their dogs’ shit when I go to work in the mornings.
This afternoon the Jessicas had friends over to watch playoff football, and every time the Redskins did something right or wrong the ceiling would shake and I could hear the deep-throated shouting of what sounded to be a chorus of professional wrestlers singing madrigals. The Redskins eventually lost, and as I cooked my dinner I saw several of the young men walk to their Ford Explorers.

8/13/06
I recently moved to a new apartment building. Here I know a number of my neighbors, many of them from before I moved into the building. I recently met the lady upstairs but cannot remember her name, possibly because she is older and unattractive.
We met one Saturday night around eight o’clock when I was peeing in my new bathroom and felt water trickling onto my head from the light fixture above me.
“Hark, methinks the upstairs neighbors hath overflowed their toilet, or are otherwise engaged in some aquatic sport unimaginable to me. I shall investigate!” I said.
Upon knocking on the door I received no answer, and knocked again. A faint hello came from within, in a voice that couldn’t belong to an old woman but sounded as if it ought to.
I identified myself as the downstairs neighbor.
“Just a moment,” said she, and I heard movement, splashing. She answered the door in a towel, laughing nervously and apologizing for her nakedness. I felt as though I had stepped into a porno film with an unattractive, nervous porn star given to hysterical fits of laughter.
“I’m so sorry! Would you like to take a look and see if you can figure it out?!? I was taking a bath! HAHAHA!”
She was indeed taking a bath: candles lit all around the bathroom, a copy of He’s Just Not That Into You resting spine up on the closed toilet.
“It wasn’t that much water really,” I said, “I’ll call the maintenance people Monday.”
“Okay, HAHA, I’ll just avoid bathing until then! HAHA!”
I took a quick glance at her room. It was very similar to mine, but with an enormous bed with a dozen or so pillows carefully arranged in a geometric design. I tried to hide the fact that I was being nosy and stepped out.
I saw her a week later, and between outbursts of nervous laughter she told me she had indeed been showering at a friend’s house all week. I told her not to worry so much and returned to my room to play Vice City, leaving her cackling like the Joker on the front steps.

I Only Regret It Isn't a Haiku

Today during afternoon snack a five year old boy, one of my favorites, casually spoke what I immediately recognized to be a poem, short but profound. The title is mine.

America
I know what's good for you:
Milk and Apple Pie.
I can make a fist.