I SWEAR IT'S NOT REALLY FOOTBALL DON'T SKIP IT

Feedback from one would-be reader in Durham, North Carolina:
"I took a look at it, cause Jocelyn said it was funny. But then all it was a bunch of football stuff, so I didn't read much of it."

I think a lot of people do this with my blog, and it frustrates me. If these people didn't automatically shut off at the sight of the word "football," they would soon see that I don't actually write about football at all. Sure, I use some player names, I make reference to events from the world of sports, but I don't spend time talking about football games. Have I ever written a word about who I think will win the Super Bowl this year, or what I think of the Colts' run defense, or whether I like Larry Johnson more than LaDanian Tomlinson? No, never. Of course, most of you didn't get to read the words "No, never," because when you read the words "Colts' run defense" you closed your browser window. And I think you suck.

What sparks this tantrum? Well, today I read this on ESPN.com:
"Randy Moss blamed his penchant for dropped passes on the fact that he is unhappy and his focus level tends to go down when he is in a bad mood, the Oakland Tribune reports."
and I thought, "That's just like me! When I am unhappy my focus level goes down, and I lose my patience more quickly and yell at kids when I shouldn't! Randy Moss and I have something in common!"
I think that's really interesting, when I discover common ground with millionaire athletes with pronounced character flaws. Finding a little bit of yourself in another person, particularly someone vilified in the media, gives you insight into yourself as well as into that other person. I find myself saying, "Gee, no matter what our station in life we all have similar problems. Everyone has a rough time at work now and then," and "Oh Jesus, when I am being sullen at work do I come off like Randy Moss? Holy shit I need to watch that."
Maybe I could have posted that in a way that was a little subtler, a little wittier, but I didn't really think it would be worth the effort since most of you would never read the fucking thing since it is, in part, about a football player. What a bunch of closed-minded douchebags you are.

Nobody Understands Me! I'm So Complicated!

Wednesday night found me saying completely straight-faced to a room of my friends: "Did you ever see Ramona or Avonlea on the Disney Channel?" I was trying to share a disturbing anecdote about child actress turned indie director Sarah Polley, who starred in both of those programs. I was laughed at, and it was pointed out that frequently I say things that are not very masculine. Speculation occurred as to whether I had a vagina.
On my way home I remembered an exchange I'd had six months ago with my old roomate JC. One day JC passed through as I watched a man having his throat cut on The Wire (best show to ever air on American television). JC had also seen me watch some other similarly grim, hard-boiled things about cops and poverty and the drug trade and socialism, not to mention the big gun fight in the second half of Heat. And JC said, "Andrew, it seems like you're such a sweet natured peaceful guy, but you sure do watch some depressing, violent stuff on television."
It's amazing how different people know you in different ways. I don't know if my friends who laughed over Avonlea would ever call me "sweet-natured," but they have long questioned my masculinity on the basis that I watch thirtysomething. JC didn't know me as well at all, but I much prefer his view of me as the "lovable teddy-bear masking a bloodthirsty avenger of societal wrongs," to my friends' version, the "whiny, opinionated, and sullen douchebag with the tastes of a twelve year-old-girl."
JC also didn't think it necessary to involve genitalia, which I thought was classy of him. I think I might call him up and see if he wants to hang out.

Up At 3

Yesterday my state voted a marriage amendment into law that would, I told my friend Amy, "keep her from getting her live-in boyfriend imprisoned when he beat her," a crass joke that feels like one thousands of strangers are all making independently of one another at roughly the same time.
In other election news, the Democratic Party reclaimed the House of Representatives and it seems likely that Nancy Pelosi will become the new Speaker of the House, something which inexplicably angers my father. Not that its unimaginable to dislike Nancy Pelosi, he is just literally unable to explain why when I ask.
"I just don't think she knows anything," I think were his words.

Yesterday was also the day I decided to eat a ton of crappy food: pot roast and mashed potatoes, a pot pie, three or four donuts, a cupcake, lots of coffee, a few tootsie roll pops, several beers, several sodas, and a large piece of vegan birthday cake. I woke up at three in the morning sweating with terrible heartburn, wondering what was wrong with me, and in the hours that I've been up since I've attributed it to what I ate. I have also repeatedly checked election returns, showered and shaved, watched half of The American President (which I knew was stupid but has less charm than I remembered) and half of The Shawshank Redemption (still good).
In my late night session of surfing the internets I stumbled on a Slate.com article about Sadam Hussein's February hanging. It tells of "drop tables," charts that tell executioners how far to drop the person they are hanging. Drop them too far and their head will pop off; drop them not far enough and their neck won't break and they strangle to death. This is all based on weight: skinny people need to drop further than fat people, and the drop table is calculated accordingly. Which sets up the following:

The Army drop table turned out to be inadequate for Mitchell Rupe, a Washington inmate who was supposed to hang in 1994. On death row, Rupe refused all exercise and ate junk food nonstop. By the time of his execution he'd reached 409 pounds, well above the table's maximum listed weight. According to Army regulations, anyone heavier than 220 pounds would get a 5-foot drop. The Washington authorities made an exception and cut Rupe's planned drop to 3.5 feet. Rupe appealed his case, and a federal judge ruled that the risk of decapitation was still too high. Rupe died in a prison hospital this past February..

As I write this post, The Shawshank Redemption plays on in the background. Coincidentally, I just saw the scene where Brooks hangs himself. Right now it's the scene where Andy plays the Mozart aria over the prison public address system. It reminds me of my friend Katie.
Once when Katie had been drinking she and Cara and I went to the Village, and I played Mozart on the juke box. As I returned from a trip to the bathroom my song came on, and drunk Katie, remembering the scene I mention above, started yelling "SHAWSHANK, MOTHERFUCKER! SHAWSHANK! YOU SHAWSHANKED THAT SHIT!"
I miss Katie.

It's been a month- oops.

Does anyone still read this? I feel like most people have given it up at this point, and it makes me sad. Biscoe, I know you're still there. I've got like five half written things I need to write the other half of, and I just never seem to get around to it.
Possibly the problem is that I've become too ambitious, and it's gotten to the point where nothing is good enough. Well, no more. Ambition is for douchebags.

Today I want to take a moment to hype up Bravo's new season of Top Chef, which if you didn't know is a "Reality" tv show where a group of chefs take part in different food related challenges, with the worst cook each week being jettisoned until the one remaining contestant is given some new cookware and an expenses paid trip to action-packed Pigeon Forge. It's reality TV so it's stupid by nature, but this past week really sold me on the series and I think I'm now commited to watching the entire season. Consider the following incidents from Wednesday night's episode:

1. The following exchange between contestant and judge:
Judge: Food is for eating!
Contestant: I agree with you one hundred percent.

2. The contestants were given a $100 each to buy ingredients for the week's ELIMINATION CHALLENGE. One young man named Michael, who is obviously a raging alcoholic, used $8 of that money to buy himself some beer, and discovering at the register that he was over budget declined to put the beer back, electing to ditch his cheese instead. His dish? A steak and cheese sandwich.
Later in the episode, afraid he would be voted off, Michael was seen pounding a can of beer and then declaring he would fight head judge Tom Colicchio.

Mike's worth watching all by himself. Throw in a guy who looks like Wolverine only with a squeaky voice, and you've got something truly special.