The Daily Procrastinator

Recently, I had the good fortune to be invited to watch the Astros play in Minute Maid Park. A friend of mine had some really great second-row seats she wasn’t going to be able to use, so J-Roy and I got the nod. Whether or not the Astros won (which they didn’t, of course) is immaterial to this post. The thing that deserves my scornful eye (and yours, procrastinators) is the group of “fans” who sat in front of me at the game.

If you’ve been paying attention, you must realize that anyone who sat in front of me was in the FRONT ROW. These people were just a few feet from the grass at field level about two-thirds of the way down the right-field line. The right fielder was so close I could smell his bubble gum. Was this fantastic view of the game enough to keep my neighbors interested? Of course not! Of the four “fans” (one guy and three women, all in their early twenties), only the guy, who sat on the far right, and a girl in a purple shirt, who sat on the far left, paid any attention whatsoever. The two girls who sat in the middle, YellowShirt and TankTop, literally didn’t watch the game for a single moment.

That guy in the background is neither J-Roy nor I, but this should give you some idea of what we were trying to accomplish.

As soon as the gang sat down, YellowShirt and TankTop both busted out their cameras and began holding them at arm’s length and snapping pictures of their group. I don’t know when this practice of digital onanism began, but the girls seemed intent upon taking the perfect picture of their group at the game. They fussed with timers and flashes, balanced their cameras on the railing (which divided their seats from the FIELD OF PLAY), tried several different poses, and generally wasted about an inning and a half trying to get some nice shots for their FaceBook pages. J-Roy and I joined the fun by occasionally leaning down and making distasteful faces in the backgrounds of their pictures. We’re kind of hoping to show up on ruinedphotos.com.

Once the exercise in narcissism was complete, TankTop embraced the opportunity to complain loudly about her employment situation. Allow me to quote: “I don’t know why I can’t find a job. I have an eighty-thousand dollar degree hanging on my wall. I mean, I majored in communications and took a minor in business (imagine an eyeroll and finger-quotes as she said “business”). I should totally be able to get a job. Maybe it’s because I’m only applying in Austin, but that’s, like, the only place I want to work.” She continued in this vein at great length. As she spoke, her designer sunglasses, used not for (gasp!) blocking sunlight, but instead as a hair accessory, bobbed in time with her incompetence.

J-Roy and I immediately launched into a loud conversation about what a pain it is to be a member of an interview committee. You just have to interview so many idiots before you find a few good candidates, ya know? Of course, TankTop didn’t hear us. Or if she did, she wasn’t able to make the tremendous cognitive leap that would have lead her to understand that she was being mocked. Meanwhile, YellowShirt used her iPhone to compose a long, sappy, badly-punctuated letter to someone named Piper. We read it over her shoulder. Apparently, Piper is way behind on what’s happening in YellowShirt’s life, because it took her two full innings of pecking away at her touch-screen and nodding in response to TankTop’s incoherent babble before she could finish her manifesto.

By this point, J-Roy and I were sincerely hoping that they’d all have to get up and pee soon. Apparently, though, while this pair had the mental capacity of field mice, they had the bladders of grizzly bears. They didn’t leave their seats once during the whole game. Not. One. Time. Just when we thought this was a bad thing, a trivia game sponsored by a travel company came on the JumboTron. A kindly-looking woman with a microphone appeared on the screen, standing next to an excited fan. In order to win a round-trip airline ticket, all the fan had to do was listen to these three clues and then name the city they described:

• The Imperial Palace is located here.
• This city is home to the world’s largest sushi market.
• This city was formerly known as Edo.

Upon reading the clues, TankTop loudly offered this sage bit of wisdom: “Oh, that’s gotta be someplace in California.” YellowShirt responded, “Could be.” My God. Even if you don’t know that the city being described is Tokyo, you’ve GOT to know it’s in Japan. Imperial Palace!?! It took every bit of willpower I could summon not to reach down and knock their heads together. Wow. I wonder why she can’t find a job.

After the trivia debacle, the dynamic duo grew quiet. They weren’t watching the game, though. They were wiling away the oh-so-boring final hour in the front row at the ballpark by playing games on their cellphones. Remember the game where you draw a huge grid of dots and then take turns connecting two of the dots? The one where the object is to draw the line that will close in a box, then put your initial in that box, thus scoring a point? YellowShirt’s iPhone crushed her at that game. Three times in a row. I had to stop watching for fear that I’d actually burst out in hysterical laughter.

Oh, well. At least they were quiet for the last couple innings.

I learned a few new things at Minute Maid park the other day, and some things I’ve known for a while were confirmed. Let’s review them:

• The Astros cannot hit with men on base.
• The Astros’ bullpen is awful.
• Piper is, like, totally out of the loop.
• California is the only logical place for the Imperial Palace.
• iPhones are surprisingly skilled at games of wit.
• Dressing, talking, and acting like a spoiled teenager will NOT get you a job, even if you have an eighty-thousand dollar degree.

Eat...

...drink...

...and relax.

Here’s hoping you did all three.

It’s been a big week for Major League Baseball.  First we heard that A-Rod has “allegedly” been using steroids since he was a teenager, and now Manny Ramirez gets a 50-game suspension for testing positive for human chorionic gonadotropin, or HCG, which can be used to boost testosterone levels (he swears he wasn’t cheating, but it’s only real legitimate use is in boys with delayed puberty; at 36 he’s well past his awkward teen years).

A beautiful day to get juiced at the ballpark.

If you listen to the sports buzz, you’d think that this was all a startling revelation.  You’d think that the journalism that brought us the A-Rod story was risk-taking and cutting edge.  You’d think that Major League Baseball was taking a hard line against doping.

You’ll forgive me if all that I can manage is sarcastic “woohoo.” 

This is all coming two decades too late.  Impossible, you say?  My grandmother, a rabid baseball fan who knew just about everyone who passed through Veterans Stadium, was talking steroids with baseball scouts in the early 1990s.  It’s now 2009.  Are we supposed to be surprised by all of this?

I grew up with baseball.  I love baseball for what it meant to my family, my childhood, my history.  But the game that stands before me today is a shadow of its past, a sport that’s been ruined by winks and nods and silently accepted cheating (yes, MLB commissioner Bud Selig and Don Fehr, head of the MLBPA, I’m looking at both of you with my customary sneer of disgust and chronic desire to kick you both in the teeth).

I’m thrilled to death with Manny’s suspension, if for no other reason than my sincere hope that the salary withholdings significantly cut into the income of his agent, Scott Boras, known for negotiating mega-deals for his clients (like A-Rod’s ridiculous $252 million/10 year deal).  Coincidence that he also represents A-Rod?  I think not.  Let’s hope that his drug-fueled gravy train is about to derail.

For some additional reading on the subject, here are some scathing words from the Boston Herald.  

With the announcement of the death of Harry Kalas, I feel like another part of my childhood is gone.  For those of you who didn’t grow up in Philadelphia, Harry was the voice of the Phillies, the sound that I most deeply associate with summer in my baseball family.  From the AM-only radio in my grandmother’s 1978 Ford Granada, to the transistor radio that my mother listened to while doing laundry and ironing in the basement, Harry’s voice was everywhere.

Having said goodbye to my mother and grandmother — both avid fans — and the giant concrete donut that was Veterans Stadium five years ago, it’s almost as if Harry’s death severs my last tie to the most pervasive part of my childhood summers.  I’m left feeling a little bit older, a little bit sadder and a little bit more nostalgic for the past.

Goodbye, Harry.  If there’s a heaven, may it be filled with real grass, blue skies and great weather for a ballgame.

On Monday night, I excitedly rushed to the local Buffalo Wild Wings to get a good table in the bar. I made sure I could see the big-screen TVs, ordered a beer, and settled in for the most important game of the Spring. The only thing that put a damper on my evening was all the damn basketball fans who gathered to watch the final game of that interminable tournament. I braved hordes of them so I could get a good seat for the Astros’ season opener.

I get nostalgic just from looking at images like this...

That’s right, people. I’m excited, really excited, that baseball season has arrived. You see, my love affair with baseball stretches back literally as far as I can remember. One of my earliest memories is of watching my father play in a city-league fastpitch game when I was barely old enough to walk. I can’t remember a day when I didn’t own a baseball mitt. The neighborhood where I grew up had about 15 boys who were close enough in age to get a game of baseball going literally every day of every summer from about 1987 until 1992. I watched my home team win the World Series in 1987 and 1991. I can still name every position player from both of those fantastic Twins teams. Baseball was a central point of my childhood. It’s a game of my past.

When the players’ union decided to quibble with the management a few years back, and we all had to endure strikes and other shenanigans from the players, I bailed out on baseball. I stayed gone for a long time, too. I’m just not into celebrity millionaires who whine because they don’t get paid enough. A few years ago, though, my buddy WrongFoot (who you may recall from his St. Patrick’s Day hijinks) got me started again. All summer long, any day they had a game, he had the Astros on one of his TVs. That’s right. There were two TVs in WrongFoot’s living room, one for sports and another for more sports. This is a tradition that both WrongFoot and I have chosen to continue to this very day. It’s a game of obsession.

Once WF got me started again, I fell back into my old ways. I have rediscovered my love for America’s pastime. Nothing in the world could be more indicative of summertime than baseball on the TV or radio, a cold bottle of beer in one hand, and a spatula in the other as I stand in front of a smoky Weber grill. Baseball IS summer, and that’s all there is to it. It’s a game of sunny days and charcoal.

I have acquaintances (because who could be friends with such people?) who say things like, “How can you watch baseball? It’s so BORING.” These misguided souls just don’t understand. Baseball is the easiest sport in the world to watch on TV. If you want to sit and really concentrate on the game, there are countless nuances to observe: the defensive shift against a left-handed hitter, the way a pitcher changes his pitch selection the second time through the line-up, the cat-and-mouse games a baserunner plays with the catcher, and the hitter keeping his hands back so he can slap the ball into the opposite field instead of grounding out to his strong side. It’s a game of a million details.

If you’re not in the mood to study the game, though, you can also watch baseball far more casually. I can stand at the grill and just listen to the commentators tell me about the game while I have another conversation or concentrate on my steaks. If anything truly astonishing happens–a towering home run, an acrobatic double play, or a diving catch in center field–they’ll give me a nice slow-motion replay. It’s a game of grand moments.

The Astros lost to the Cubs with flying colors, and I don’t even care. I’m just glad to see baseball on TV. Another of the beautiful parts of baseball is that the season is 162 games long. One loss doesn’t really mean anything. Hot streaks and slumps come and go. Baseball fans know–just know–that their boys will step it up tomorrow, next week, next month, and get back on the winning side of the ledger. It’s game of hope.

Sure, football is more exciting and fast-paced than baseball. One could argue that basketball, with its last-second buzzer beaters, is more intense. Certainly, ice hockey is a greater gladatorial spectacle. Baseball, though, is epic. What moment in sports is greater than watching the pitcher mop the sweat from his brow and look to the catcher for the sign that will decide the pitch he’s going to throw the opposing clean-up hitter, who’s threatening to drive in the tying run in the bottom of the ninth? What else could make thousands of people hold their breath, cross their fingers, and silently mouth the words, “Come on come on come on”? Even if you’re not usually a baseball fan, tune in to a game during this opening week and see what we fans see all summer long: It’s a game of grandeur.

In the write-up of the Notre Dame/Kentucky NIT quarterfinal game, the author of the article included a post-game comment from embattled Kentucky coach Billy Gillispie about his feelings toward the rumors swirling about his job security:

Asked about how he feels about all the judgment he’s facing after posing a 40-27 record in two seasons at Kentucky, Gillispie said: “There’s only one judgment I’ll ever be concerned about, and I hope I pass that judgment. That’s the only one I’ll ever be concerned about, and I’m really proud that that’s the only judgment that will ever have a real effect on me, and I hope I pass that one with flying colors.”

Gillispie declined to answer when asked whose judgment he was referring to, saying it was obvious, apparently referring to Kentucky athletic director Mitch Barnhart.

Uh, no anonymous-AP-sports-writer, he wasn’t referring to Kentucky’s AD, but rather a judgment a bit more consequential in the long run. I actually hope the author was making a joke, though there’s nothing else in the article to suggest that he was.

Otherwise, such obtuseness in a reporter is truly embarrassing…

A-Rod and A-Rod: a love for the ages

The picture from Details magazine says everything you need to know about this guy and his self-absorption.  Also his completely crappy judgment.  Who would allow someone to photograph them in such a ridiculous pose?

The crowds in Boston are going to have a field day with this.  That’s assuming that they let him live it down in the Bronx.

There comes a time in your life when you have to make tough decisions.  Today was that day for me, a day where I needed to evaluate the course that my life was taking, a day where I looked to the future instead of the past.  Why today, you ask?  Because I discovered my rollerblades in a box in the garage.

Not me. But this is proof that I have been paying attention and do know our readership demographics.

I honestly can’t tell you how long they’ve been there, or the last time I used them.  I have a sneaking suspicion that they were living in this very same box prior to the last move, nearly four years ago.  Logic would tell you that if I haven’t used them since the first four years of the W administration, there was probably a pretty good chance that I wouldn’t be using them again anytime soon.

Logic does not apply to these situations.

This strange little voice appeared in my head.  “Oooh!  Rollerblades!  That would be fun!  And it’s great exercise!”  The more rational part of my brain laughed maniacally at the thought of  me, completely out of practice, in a heap on the sidewalk.  I could see neighbor children rolling up on their Razor scooters, wondering what happened to the crazy lady on rollerblades.

But that wasn’t the only treasure in this Box of Fitness Past.  There was also the softball glove for when I played (again as the token girl) on a co-ed corporate team in 2002.  “I can’t throw this away,” I thought to myself.  “It’s in great condition and I might decide to play again.”  Of course, as I no longer work for a corporation and have no time to spend playing softball two nights a week, the odds of that happening are close to nil.

There were other goodies in there, too.  A yoga mat, some dumbbells, a Pilates ring, a deflated basketball and a knee brace that probably hasn’t fit me since I was 14.  A more rational person would have walked them directly to the garbage can, never to be seen or heard from again.  I am not that person.  Instead, I loaded all of these goodies into a large garbage bag with the intention of taking them to the garbage, but then decided to set them aside so I could think about it for a while longer.  

I realized that getting rid of these things was like kissing a part of my past goodbye; admitting that I no longer have the balance or stamina to handle rollerblades doesn’t make me feel sensible, it makes me feel old.  

So for now, all of the gear will remain in the garage, nestled out of the way.  Who know, maybe there will come a day where I wake up and decide that I desperately want to skate my way to the nearest softball field and look for a corporate co-ed slow-pitch team to join.

With The Watchmen hitting theaters this past weekend, and the reports of its levels of violence, sexual scenes, and grim themes, it’s time that Hollywood re-tool its ratings system to bring it more in line with sanity and reason.

Honestly, I have no idea what “R” means to Hollywood, other than that it means the film is for restricted audiences, i.e., the 17 and over crowd (side note: parents, if you take your pre-teen kid to The Watchmen, you are an imbecile and proof that we should require licenses to become parents). Beyond that, it seems to have no real definition. Let me illustrate: There Will Be Blood and The Watchmen received the same rating. Gladiator and the new Friday the 13th received the same rating. Wedding Crashers and Hostel received the same rating.

Do you see something wrong here?

The MPAA website defines each rating here, explaining that an ‘R’ movie “contains some adult material. An R-rated motion picture may include adult themes, adult activity, hard language, intense or persistent violence, sexually-oriented nudity, drug abuse or other elements, so that parents are counseled to take this rating very seriously.” I could probably make a case that The Dark Knight deserved an R rating based on the above criteria, but it was given a PG-13. This is a movie where, among other scenes, the Joker slams a man’s head onto an upright pencil, another man has a cell phone rigged with explosives sewn into his stomach, half of Harvey Dent’s face is burned away, and, because of its serious (“adult”?) themes, it was considered a possible candidate for Best Picture. Why was DK not given an R? Because most of the violence was either off-screen or not bloody, there was no nudity, and the “hard” language did not include the word fu*k. And it works – DK is a PG-13 movie because of the steps the director/producers took while filming and editing, knowing that Batman is a comic book first, and thus will pull in a younger audience.

The R rating, though, is often a failure because there seem to be no set limits to an R movie’s content; the MPAA Rating Board’s decision-making appears arbitrary, at best. The Watchmen‘s Dr. Manhattan, for example, is naked throughout the film. Now, I’m a fan of the comic, and the film doesn’t blink on his nudity (except in its advertisements where he always has the briefs on), and I understand that he’s a demi-god: he’s beyond clothes. Still, male frontal nudity has ALWAYS received an R rating (and, yes, I recognize the MPAA’s double standard with regard to full frontal female nudity), and Manhattan’s nudity is at times sexual in nature. Then there’s the non-blue penis sexual scenes, which are explicit. Beyond this is the language, which is most definitely “hard.” Then there’s the violence, both stylized and graphic. Blood flows, limbs and bodies are destroyed, and the camera does not flinch. All of this, in the MPAA’s mind, adds up to an R rating.

Compare this to Gladiator. In Gladiator, there is no nudity. None, not even a male backside. There is, to my knowledge, no cursing, and if there is it is tame. The word “fu*k” is not uttered. There are no sex scenes; Commodus’ (Joaquin Phoenix) feelings for his sister are implied, though nothing happens between them, on screen or off. The only “objectionable” material is its violence, which is, of course, graphic, as Roman gladiators tend to be violent. Ridley Scott’s Oscar winning film received the same “R” rating as The Watchmen: to the MPAA board, there is no significant difference between the two movies’ content to warrant a different rating.

But you and I know better.

The interesting thing is that the MPAA has another recourse: the NC-17 label. The MPAA site describes that an NC-17 rating “can be based on violence, sex, aberrational behavior, drug abuse or any other element that most parents would consider too strong and therefore off-limits for viewing by their children.” Who here believes that The Watchmen does not fit this description? The Comedian attempts rape on screen. He also kills a pregnant Vietnamese woman. And if Rorschach’s behavior is not “aberrational” (even while being held up as a hero of the film), then whose behavior is?

But we all know why The Watchmen received an R rating rather than an NC-17: profit. NC-17 is seen as a kiss of death for any film because of the stigma associated with it, and it severely limits the film’s ability to be marketed. Many theaters would not carry a film tagged as NC-17. Directors often go back to make cuts to their films to avoid the rating, knowing that an R can mean millions more at the box-office. So much for artistic integrity, huh? And the MPAA turns a blind eye to it all, as if cutting 30 seconds from a sex scene here, two impaled bodies there, makes the difference.

This discrepancy is particularly egregious when considering The Watchmen. Despite its actual content, it has been marketed as a superhero movie, and I suspect many venturing into the theaters this weekend had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Yes, this is partly the fault of the film-goers; there are plenty of reviews out there that warn of the content. But I know plenty of parents who take their kids to “R” rated films (my dad took my brothers and me to see Rambo: First Blood Part II when we were 13, my younger brother 10 ), and that’s the problem: the R rating does not sufficiently describe the film. There is a definite difference between the R of Rambo, of Gladiator, of Wedding Crashers, and the R of The Watchmen, and the MPAA has done a real disservice to its audiences in pretending otherwise.

If the MPAA is truly interested in rating its films, then it needs be honest in its classifications and its ratings decisions. A good first step it could take is using the NC-17 label more regularly, allowing the label to give people a better idea of what a film contains, and take away the “verboten” stigma the label now holds because of disuse.

At the very least, such a step will allow me to concentrate on the film, rather than the 8 year old sobbing in his mother’s arms.

A couple days ago, the Cowboys cut wide receiver Terrell Owens from their roster. So far, no other NFL team has offered him a job. I couldn’t be more thrilled. In fact, I’m grinning from ear to ear. This is glorious. It’s like watching while Paris Hilton falls down the stairs or Ashley Simpson flees the stage after her lip-sync routine crashes and burns. Witnessing such things, one is compelled by custom to feel bad, but it’s hard to do so when you know that the victims of such pratfalls deserve every moment.

Terrell Owens: talented wide receiver and complete ass-hat. Three different uniforms? That's no coincidence.

Terrell Owens (or T.O., as he’s known) is one of those guys who believes his individual glory is more important than the success of his team. He fights with his coaches and quarterbacks, sulks like a child on the sidelines when he doesn’t feel he’s getting the ball often enough, and makes negative comments to the press about his team. Every team he’s ever played for has experienced some sort of middle-school drama because he behaves like a petulant pre-teen. Owens is a gifted wide receiver, but his on-field contributions to his teams have never outweighed the problems he causes on the sidelines, in the locker room, and in the public eye.

In discussing this joyful turn of events with a friend of mine, he summed up the situation perfectly: “Hall of Fame players don’t get traded, and they sure as hell don’t get cut.” I concur. Owens’ legacy in the NFL will not be recorded in the Hall of Fame as a tremendously talented wide-out. Instead, it will be recorded in the memories of unimpressed fans who grew tired of watching a grown man pout.

According to profootballtalk.com, the following teams have “already said they’re not interested” in signing the newly unemployed Owens:

• The Dallas Cowboys (Duh.)
• The New York Giants
• The Washington Redskins
• The Baltimore Ravens
• The San Francisco 49ers
• The Minnesota Vikings
• The Atlanta Falcons
• The Cleveland Browns
• The San Diego Chargers
• The Philadelphia Eagles
• The New York Jets
• The Tennessee Titans
• The St. Louis Rams
• The New Orleans Saints
• The Houston Texans
• The Jacksonville Jaguars
• The Miami Dolphins are expected to join the list soon.

News flash, Mr. Owens–You’re not bigger than professional football. You’re not bigger than your team. You’re a little fish in a big, big pond, and right now, the guy who mops the locker room is more gainfully employed than you are. Nice work.

EDIT: In the few hours since I wrote this post, the Dolphins have indeed joined the list. Likewise, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the Oakland Raiders have publicly declared that they don’t want Terrell Owens. When the Raiders don’t want you, you know you’ve hit rock bottom.

SECOND EDIT: Owens signed with the Buffalo Bills today. While my brief revel in his unemployment is over, the fact that he’s now playing for a decidedly second-tier team still makes me smile. I will take wagers on the start date of the drama in Buffalo. Meanwhile, I’d like to be a fly on the wall when T.O. hangs out with Marshawn Lynch.