Gathering Speed

It’s no simple task being a human. The cerebral cortex that led to the dawn of the most advanced civilization in the history of the universe has come at a price (a quick preemptive strike to all the sci-fi emailers: yes, there could be something else out there that has infinitely renewable laser energy, six legs and Jetsons-style Turkey Dinners In A Pill. Show me one and I’ll agree. And not on photoshop). Humans are the only species that know they’re going to die (again, no photoshop). In a way, we have to live our lives constantly ignoring the fact that at any minute, for no reason, we could be dead. Stories on the local news of pianos falling on pedestrians and Natasha Richardson’s million-to-one checkout should scare us to the point of not being able to get up and go to our job at the fuel pier. Who in their right mind is going to dock boats and man the pump-out if they could die doing it?

We need to ignore these things that could randomly kill us, especially if there’s nothing we can do about it. So when we have 24/7 news outlets and access to the rec league baseball scores in Dubai (they don’t emphasize pitching), information can spread like Hep C at a Duke Lacrosse party, and when that information can kill us, we’re all foisted by our own technological petard.

Ladies and Gentlemen: Swine Flu.

There was no escaping swine flu last week. Commercials running during that horsesh*t fake Lost episode advertised the growing threat of Swine Flu. They brought up Swine Flu during the NFL Draft. Even The Soup was a dangerous show to watch, because you didn’t know if the chicks from The Hills were going to be discussing Swine Flu when the writers decided to add in a super-hot bartender to create a fight between Speidi and Speidi (they’re one person…the terrorists could have a point).

What the hell is swine flu? Is it just in Mexico? Can I get it from eating bacon-wrapped hotdogs on Hollywood Blvd at four in the morning? If a pig doesn’t sneeze in my mouth, am I in the clear?

Only one way to find out: spend six hours on a beautiful Southern California day online reading all about how we’re going to die.

There are actually a few things one can do to remain safe: numero uno is stay the hell out of Mexico (as if a full fledged civil war can’t keep you away from five cent margaritas). The rest is all common sense stuff: wash your hands, avoid contact with sick people, and eat Carl’s Jr as often as possible (damn you, branded content!). But the real truth is that the Swine Flu is no different from Bird Flu or West Nile or SARS or anything else that has threatened to wipe us all off the face of the earth in the last thirteen years since the Dustin Hoffman movie Outbreak came out and convinced us the only thing saving us from total destruction was Dimetapp. Part of the deal with being human is knowing there are millions of ways for us to get snuffed out and eventually one of them is going to get each of us. No one’s getting out of life alive. So all you can really do is be glad you’re alive now, like this very moment, and not worry so much about little ridiculous things that won’t matter in a hundred years. There will always be something new that can kill us.

Like the pending alien invasion from the planet Bribnak (thanks for the photo submission, StrshpTrpr37. See ya in hell).

A day after a historic collapse by the Arizona Cardinals, I realized this old article I threw together for the New Yorker wasn..t up anywhere. It is now.
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It was the first time all year that I hurried to get out of the cold, rushing with short, slip-proof steps toward a bar in Baltimore’s Federal Hill. It was the first round of the NFL playoffs, but I wanted to make sure I got to hang out with a few friends from college before people truly started going their separate ways. The conversation broke at one point as the San Diego Chargers forced the game into overtime, and one of my compatriots asked me, “What is it about sports? I mean, do you really care about this?” It was like that scene in The Godfather when Kay asks Michael countless questions at his sister’s wedding, and you can tell in his face that he’s never had to give answers before. It’s tough to explain what you know when you haven’t known anything else.

I gave some short quip of an answer to appease my friend, who wasn’t looking for an actual detailed response (in fact, it was probably just a rhetorical question aimed at getting me to stop looking past her head to the TV as the Jets kicker lined up for the game winning field goal). But it was a reasonable question; far more reasonable than even she recognized, I’m certain. I distinctly remember the feeling after watching my alma mater capture the national championship in basketball; the jubilation on campus mirrored old tape I had seen of G.I.’s returning from the second World War to grateful, welcoming masses in Times Square and all over America. These people had just defeated the Third Reich; we had just beaten Indiana. There’s no logical reason whatsoever that these two events should yield remotely similar results. But in the minds of 10,000 celebrating college kids, they were on the same exact same level.

Why, though? Why is it that so many people cried their eyes out after Boston won the World Series? Why do people have such spiteful views of cities they’ve never visited and people they’ve never met because of their athletic allegiances? How is it that a game we’re not even playing can be so important to us?

We’ve found a way to make it about us and our place in history.

The sports fan is a lover of history, but would never admit it. The fan chooses to separate his passion for sports from the stereotypical historian’s lifestyle, which is built on speculation and the accounts of others. A historian spends hours in dark libraries, reading the dusty personal accounts of people who had no idea someone would be studying their words this far into the future. A sports fan is a historian who needs concrete proof to back up his claims, and would prefer to obtain that proof via his own perception. There are no primary sources with sports; there are NFL films, records books, and the Hall of Fame. Instead of illustrations, there are photographs, from Ali knocking out Liston to Bobby Orr’s airborne game-winning goal. There are also, of course, “I Was There!” commemorative t-shirts.

The games at their core are all incredibly basic, but the assembly of statistics is as complicated as the most abstract sciences. I honestly believe that if a sports fan’s knowledge and study of statistics was instead directed at the study of medicine, most of this country would hold a Ph.D. We know how batters do in hot weather, cold weather, against lefties, against knuckleballers. We know how well quarterbacks play inside, outside, against a zone, against a constant blitz. We know which player on our basketball team has the highest free throw percentage in games with a 5 or less point differential. More importantly than all of this, we know who was the best. At least we think we do, and will argue our side like Clarence Darrow covered in face-paint.

Competition is often measured with the winner’s calculator. In warfare, the two sides tally up enemy casualties and their own, although neither really can definitely decide the outcome. For example, the Allies sustained seven million more total casualties in Europe than the Germans did. War is not as cut and dry, as pure, as sports are. There is no question who won, because the rules are set in stone more solid than the Ten Commandments. But debate can still exist, however, in a different form.

The New England Patriots had just played in their third championship game in the last four seasons. But the questions leading up to that game were not “Will they win on Sunday?” or “How did their preparation this season help them win the Super Bowl.” The main question on every sportswriter’s lips was, “If they win, are the Patriots a dynasty?” This term carries incredible weight and not because of the Ming Dynasty (which did not field a particularly competitive football team despite scattered effort). A ‘Dynasty’ in sports is a period of time in which this was the best team in the league. The term is most associated with the Pittsburgh Steelers of the 70’s and the San Francisco 49ers of the 80’s, which are both remembered as being legendarily dominant teams. Breaking this down and really looking at the literal questions being asked, everyone’s concern approaching and immediately following the Super Bowl was, are we witnessing history? Are we seeing a milestone of human achievement, perhaps another Shot Heard ‘Round The World (Bobby Thompson edition)? Of course, three championships in a sport is going to pale in comparison to an actual milestone (the landing on the moon, for example). But in a way, sports fans are trying to put them on the same plane. They feel that they are somehow validated by it, that they had been alive to see something truly amazing.

There is a distinction that clarifies the need to create history through sports. The majority of events that qualify as milestones of civilization, as history flashing before our eyes, are not positive events. History is Pearl Harbor and September 11th, the Kennedy Assassination and its sequel. History is the collection of events that knock everyone out of their comfort zone and change the world forever. Sports give us a taste of difference, but there’s another season to start it all over again. We remember the purity of the games, the simplicity and uniformity of the goals involved; what could be simpler than two groups trying to run around in a circle a greater number of times than their adversary (the quick-and-dirty rules of baseball). We get the feeling of believing in something that we can see with our own eyes and satisfy our spiritual needs vicariously through the players’ actions.

Because of the spiritual quenching found in the following of teams, sports can be as comforting and divisive as religion. It’s a rare feeling to be stuck in an airport in a foreign country, waiting patiently with a gaggle of Americans trying to get back to their home, and seeing the insignia of your favorite team on someone else’s luggage. You’re no longer alone in the airport, even if you don’t know anyone’s name. In a world of strangers, you are among friends. Religion exists in many cases to give people a sense of community and belonging, feelings which are never thicker than in the deafening cheering unity found in a stadium.

It is not all in the pursuit of historical validation, however. We as fans depend on this escape to hide ourselves from the grim realities of death, taxes, and loneliness. I think about the 1980 Lake Placid Olympic Games, when a single American victory over an unbeatable Soviet hockey team pushed the “woe-is-me” 70s into the “Ronald-Reagan-blind optimism” of the 80s. I think about the faces of the crowd at the Superbowl in 1991, as Whitney Houston belted out the National Anthem during the opening weeks of Desert Storm. I think of the Yankees wearing the colors of the NYPD and FDNY at the close of the 2001 season. We needed them then, to take our minds off of chaotic reality, and to believe in purity and simplicity again.

I wish I had been aware of this at the time the question of “why” was posed to me, because the answer is clearer than I originally thought. Sport is history with undeniable proof and religion with immediate results, without the unpleasant side effects of either. There is no death, no genocide, no treaty violations, and no slavery. There is no original sin, no infidels, no excommunication, and no crusades. But there are true believers, and there’s always next year.

Slight tape delay on the year report, which was actually locked in and attached to the beginning of October. But I guess now’s s good a time as any to really go to work on the first year in Chicago considering the fact that for the first eight days of my time here the only items I had in my tiny closet of an apartment were a bed, a cable-less tv, and the box the tv came in (which split duties as a tv stand, table, and chair). Does this mean I’ll write a monumentous follow up in February to commemorate the year since buying a microwave? Probably not, because that appliance has been repossessed.

I’m actually writing this from the air, traveling from 80 degree Tampa to 59 degree Chicago. A lesser mind would make some kind of perspective or vantage point metaphor here, but I refuse to succumb to the pressure and will just say that I know what the deal is, regardless of my current altitude. Hacks… But I will say that getting out of the city and the life for a couple days does go a long way to providing some clarity on what your everyday life is like.

I might even go the opposite way of the last one of these and talk about more general things than I did before. I could go on and on and on about switching apartments, the ups-and-downs of figuring out how to do sketch comedy right away (I won’t call what I do improv…ever), the Three Oaks adventure, getting whacked in June (which was doing a February impression), getting total perspective in September, the dreams that flicker in and out but never seem to die, or the sense that everything is about to change. But I won’t.

Reflecting on where I was a year ago is easy, because I’ve followed almost the exact path I expected to. I didn’t plan on working (for food) as much as I am, and I didn’t plan on getting through the Conservatory as fast as I am or having a TourCo audition in three weeks. This has been without question the fastest year of my life. You’ve got the carrots dangling at the end of the tunnel and this suspicion that the weekly activities are propelling you towards them. I say suspicion and not faith because from my current place in the journey, there is way too much discomfort. Plus, faith is something you can’t see or hear or touch. People don’t have faith about winning the lottery, and those that do never win, participating in the most regressive tax in the world. How can these schmucks in Congress look me in the face and say that placing a bet on a football game online is unraveling the sweater of American morality (which you know is a turtleneck) and the scratch-offs that command a palpable percentage of the lowest-class’s income are a perfectly reasonable way to raise funds for public projects? What are you stoned? Why not be honest for a change and replace the Keno cards with full blown craps tables at the unemployment office? At least then the poor saps have a chance to win.

Sidetracked…whatever. Anyway, the reason time has moved so quickly is that everything has been for Sundays; I get up every morning and schlep downtown, busting my ass for a mismanaged company who has a customer service representative posing as an IT director. I spend 90% of my after-tax net on rent, food, and the gym (which just fills up the time even more). All for the shot to do the comedy thing. That’s what this whole thing has been about, I tell myself, just get to Sunday and then repeat. I guess this is what it’s like to be religious. When the only one day in Seven really seems to count, yeah, time’s going to move.

I took the LSAT in October 2003 and wrote my essays for UVA and Maryland in October 2004. In October 2005, I moved to Chicago and in 2006, I’ll audition for TourCo. They say no one gets in on their first shot, that you need substantial improv training to do sketch as well as you need to. My next shot will undoubtedly come after the Conservatory is over with, and who knows what I’ll be looking forward to on a weekly basis when that rolls around, or if I’ll abandon a fantastic city to join the battle in Los Angeles. The uncertainty never gets any easier, especially for someone who ate the same Chinese Food every morning in high school.

Here we are: one year in a landlocked city, secured only in uncertainty. My brother’s trying to buy a BMW, I’ve got a buddy going to Cambodia and Laos, another doing 80 well-compensated hours a week, and I just met a back surgeon doing four million a year that’s only nine years older than me. And here I am, about to get off a plane and hop in a cab, maybe pick up a sub along the way. I could be in my second year right now, going on interviews for six figures of comfort. Why the hell am I doing this instead?

I guess I’m suspicious.

Team Brasil…Joga Bonito…the beautiful game. This team, constructed of some of the finest athletes in the world, is better than even money to win the World Cup, which is rapidly approaching the Knockout Stage (a much cooler title than Sweet Sixteen or Elite Eight). They’ve looked incredibly mortal thus far in the tournament, there is no question. But everyone believes deep down that regardless what they see, what they think, that it’s going to work out for them. That they are going to win, without question.

They are a team of destiny.

This has also been said about the opposite kind of sports team: the cagey underdog’s luck. The 2005 Pittsburgh Steelers were saved by a quarterback tackling a player who not only inexplicably cut back in towards him instead of running cleanly down for a score, but was stabbed in the leg a week earlier by an enraged girlfriend. The 2004 Red Sox were given that label after coming back from unspeakable odds against the mighty New York Yankees. The 2000 Baltimore Ravens (which I insist on mentioning as many times as possible…jesus, we need to win again) beat archrival Tennessee with the help of a shanked field goal, and a blocked field goal returned for a goddamn score.

Teams of destiny, if you believe in that sort of thing.

But do people really? There is a clear cut choice in thinking here. There’s the ‘everything happens for a reason’ school of thought, inhabited by a fantastic number of people I know, all of whom claim to be optimists. The other side is the Terminator 2, ‘there is no fate but what we make’ group. Where do you stand? Where do I?

Everything can change in an instant. Forget the obvious examples of car accidents and convenience store robberies. Everything can change for the better in an instant as well. And sometimes, it can cut back on you, like that defensive lineman in the AFC Divisional game. When you experience something that really hits you, leaving you wondering what the number was on that bus that just hit you, how everything that was so great can, for one reason or another, totally disappear. When that sort of thing happens, you’ve got to make a choice: is this one of those ‘one door closes and another opens’ situations? Or is there something you need to do before you can get back to normal – feel normal, or just good – again?

Believing that there isn’t really tragedy, only opportunity gives a lot of people solace. It helps people accept things. No Fate appeals more to the control freaks of the world, a group of which I carry a fully laminated membership card. The trouble with that is accepting gets a little tougher. You want to fix it, but you can’t. You want to understand, but you can’t. Most importantly, you don’t want to give up. Even if every single strain of logic tells you that you can’t change anything, you find that microscopic, chromosome-esque thread that says you can.

So does everything happen for a reason? Is everything really going to be okay?

The verdict is still out. At least mine is. And so far, it’s one hell of a mistrial.

There isn’t a whole lot of discovery anymore. Amerigo Vespucci and Magellan and the Banana Boat guy are relics of a past where we didn’t know where everything was, how the world looked exactly down to the smallest detail. To illustrate how far we’ve come, I will now look at the hospital in which I was born online in a satelite snapshot from space. Put that in your Santa Maria and smoke it.

As a conossieur of Pearl Jam, 20% of my total iPod is dedicated to the works of Seattle’s finest. Widely regarded as one of the greatest albums of the 90s (or all time), ‘Ten’ boasts a top six lineup that includes Once, Alive, Why Go, Jeremy, Evenflow and Black. That lineup is a 30 foot J right in Eagle Eye Cherry’s eye. But amidst all that mastery, a diamond was left unturned.

Listening to my iPod over the weekend (which, as many of you know, is now a big Shuffle, since I can’t pick songs anymore or change the volume), I was met with, “What the fuck is this world / Running to? You didn’t / Leave a message, at least / I coulda heard your voice one last time.” Porch. Track 8. On ‘Ten.’

I had heard it a thousand times, I must have, but since I hardly ever ventured past Oceans (a decent, but not great track number 7), I didn’t get a chance to hear it. I listened to Porch a thousand times, but didn’t hear it, if you follow. Running out on the lakefront, I discovered something that had always been there, but I’d never noticed. And it might be the best song on the album.

No one will ever again stumble upon a continent, or find a lost tribe, or fall into a temple complete with booby traps and the Cross of Coronado (to my chagrin). But much can be found out there. When the shackles are on, when it’s go to work, eat three meals a day, retire and get a nice watch, and then sit around in Florida to run out the clock, you don’t get to see what’s actually possible. Insert Robert Frost allusion here; the phrase “you have to” does not exist and is entirely in your mind. If you already know how the story’s going to go, why the hell would you read it? Tear a few pages out and see what happens.

Whim Week is being extended indefinetly.

From the people who brought you Bold Statement Sunday, Profanity Tuesday, and Underrated/Overrated Day comes an actual social experiment. The rest of these endeavors have had little impact outside of the people playing the game. This one could result in a number of terrible outcomes for both the participant and the rest of the population of the human race, or at least those in the vicinity of Chicago.

Whim Week.

A bit of backstory. In high school, an English/Math teacher with a brief tenure made a significant impact on the student body by posting the word “WHIM” over his door. When asked what exactly it meant, he responded with a request for an essay detailing what the student took it to mean. My analysis was that is was about not giving in to overthinking, not walking a careful line, not having a problem with saying, “What the fuck.”

We’ll see if this can last a whole week, but whatever. The idea is that over the course of Whim Week, there will not be a single moment of deciding whether an outcome I choose is correct. I’m going to do everything on a whim. I might go bankrupt, I might end up in prison. But either way or anywhere in between, there will be a story of some kind.

I’ve been reading up on Malcolm Gladwell and his sort-of scientific study, “Blink”, and I really want to know if it is a good thing or a bad thing to just act and react. We’re about to find out.

Whim. Here it goes.