Framed and hung in my "Mantic" is an essay I wrote when I was in third grade, entitled, "When I'm 23." I don't remember writing it, but from what I'm able to ascertain, I was asked what I'd be doing when I was 23 years old, which I assume was 15 years from the day I was asked to perform this prognostication.
In the paper, I write that I will have two cats, a goldfish, and two adopted sons. I also claimed I'd either be playing professional soccer for the (now defunct) San Diego Sockers or become an astronaut. The only thing I got right was that I wouldn't be married, and I only wrote that because I thought girls had cooties.
I've never owned a cat or a goldfish, nor do I have any intent to adopt children. Nevertheless, these are at least attainable goals. What in the world could've made me believe that I could play professional soccer (I'm one notch above completely sucking at it) or be an astronaut (no way could I handle the amount of math that would take)?
I think I know. It was that great American myth that was pounded into my head from the day I started kindergarten: You can be whatever you want when you grow up. You just have to work hard, and you can achieve anything.
Hogwash. Nonsense. Bullcrap.
We're all born with certain aptitudes. Some people get more than others. Some people win the genetic lottery and are extraordinarily gifted in an area that society prizes the most: Being able to dunk a basketball without jumping, being gifted with amazing oratory skills, being able to hit a golf ball farther than anyone else, and of course being really, really, ridiculously good-looking.
But the thing is, if you don't have the natural inclination for mathematic equations, you're not going to be the next Stephen Hawking. If you can't spell and struggle putting words in the right order, you're not going to be the next Bill Shakespeare. If you can't pick up the seams spinning on a curveball, you're not going to be the Kung Fu Panda.
Sure, you can practice all of these skills and get better at them. And when you're a kid, I suppose there's no harm in believing that the sky really is the limit (or the stars, in my case).
However, at some point, we've got to face reality. I knew full well by junior high or so that I wasn't going to be a professional athlete, at least in a sport that had already been invented. Since girls showed more interest in their jelly bracelets and hair scrunchees than talking to me, so being a famous model or actor was probably out. When I couldn't cut algebra during 8th grade and was sent back to pre-algebra, that pretty much ended any future with substantial math in it.
Sure, these things hurt. But that's part of growing up. You learn to focus on what you're good at and work hard enough to get by in the stuff that doesn't come naturally.
The problem is, there's a school of thought out there that if you ever tell a kids that they're not good at something, you're crushing their self esteem. Here's the crazy thing: In my experience, teenagers have too much self esteem, not too little. They've been told their whole lives how good they are at everything, and they've built up unreasonable expectations for themselves.
You should hear the apoplectic parent responses we get when we do something cruel and malicious, like...hold on to your hats...not recommend their kids for an honors class. To them, we're breaking their kids' hearts and crushing their spirits. To us, we're simply saying they're not good enough. And guess what? That's going to happen a lot in life.
No, you can't be whatever you want when you grow up. But that's not the end of the world. Find something you're good at, and do what makes you happy.
Unless it's something evil, like mutilating puppies or being the world's craftiest pedophile. If that's the case, please stop reading my blog, 'cause it's creepy.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togethaw today.
Today is my 2nd wedding anniversary. Since I am about the least (openly) sentimental person I know, readers won't be getting 1,500 words on how great marriage is and how much I love my wife.
Marriage is fine, not that much different than living with somebody except for the financial aspect (which can be a huge problem for some couples, but Eileen and I don't have issues, at least not yet). I love my wife more now than I did two years ago, but not in a dramatic way. I've never once in the past two years thought I made a mistake or second-guessed my decision.
Before we got married, we went to a pre-marriage counseling session where I admitted that I didn't know if I'd have the commitment to stay married forever. This alarmed Eileen a little, but I wasn't being pessimistic. Once I explained it, she understood. I was being realistic. Nobody knows what will happen; anyone who says so is relying on faith, and that's not my bag. Notice I didn't write that I doubted I'd be able to be married the rest of my life, I just didn't know. I'm unable to imagine my life that far into the future. All I know is that I like being married to Eileen, I am looking forward to our son being born in January, and I can't imagine a life without her. That's good enough for now and the foreseeable tomorrows that follow.
However, marriage isn't for everybody. Certain people shouldn't be married. Some realize this; some don't. You can't even always tell when a marriage isn't going to work; although, most of the time you can. Sometimes everything can look perfect and go swimmingly, and one person (or both) just...changes. It happens. I don't think there's anything that can be done about it.
Jane Austen once wrote, "Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance." I would agree that she's on to something, but I would change the word "entirely" to "often." While there's no way of knowing everything that could go wrong in a marriage beforehand, there are some obvious warning flags.
Disclaimer: Reading past this point may cause some married people to be offended. Please remember that this is my opinion only, and I am a total dumbass. None of what I write means your marriage is doomed; in fact, I have no control or influence over your marriage at all (unless I'm a bad influence on the husband because we hang out, drink beer, and watch sports together). If you read on, I accept no responsibility for whatever wounded pride you feel.
Three paths to an unhappy marriage:
1. Getting married because you think you're "supposed to," all your friends are doing it, you're worried about dying old and alone, etc. Desperation is never a good reason to get married. Buy a dog. Go to bars. Enjoy the freedom that married people don't have.
Of course, nobody says these are the reasons they're getting married. But deep down lots of people are thinking these things when they tie the knot.
2. Getting engaged (not married) to someone you've been dating less than two years. Two years may seem like an arbitrary number, but it feels about right to me. The first six months to a year of any relationship are a honeymoon phase. It's after the magic wears off that you find out if you're compatible. The reason I write "engaged" is because once the ring goes on that finger, it takes an act of God to stop the ceremony. There are definitely people who get married just because they're too chicken to back out of the wedding. I personally think it's a good idea to live together for a little while before you're married to see if you can handle their sounds, sights, and smells, but I wouldn't say a marriage is doomed without it.
3. Getting married before the age of 25. People are getting married older and older. Part of the reason is that more of the focus is on their careers, but a lot of it is because the past couple generations are learning from the mistakes (and massive divorce rates) of our parents. You do a lot of changing in your 20's. You are simply not the same person at 28 that you are at 21. Neither is your spouse. With two people going through such a transitional period, they are apt to have conflict and grow apart. It's the same reason you shouldn't get a tattoo of your favorite band as a teenager. You may not like death metal as much when you get older.
As I stated before, you can never be assured a person won't change in a fundamental way, blowing up the marriage. But the odds are a lot more in your favor if you wait until you're a bit more settled and mature. I thought I was sane in my relationships when I was in my early-to-mid 20's. It is easy to see now that I was not. That's the problem with youthful insanity; you can believe something feels right with all your might right up until the moment it all comes crashing down on you, and later you see that it was crazy from the start. Thank god I didn't marry somebody. "Somebody" is even more lucky she didn't marry me.
I would say there's one exception to this one. If you've been going out since high school, and particularly if you survived being at different colleges, and you're still together, go for it. But there's no need to rush. Why not live together for a couple years like heathens, or have a two-to-three year engagement? You have the rest of your life to be married. Be young and fun as long as you can.
And always remember that marriage isn't a guarantee of happiness. As Chris Rock said, we all basically have two choices: "Married and bored, or single and lonely." Just make sure you find the right kind of boredom.
Marriage is fine, not that much different than living with somebody except for the financial aspect (which can be a huge problem for some couples, but Eileen and I don't have issues, at least not yet). I love my wife more now than I did two years ago, but not in a dramatic way. I've never once in the past two years thought I made a mistake or second-guessed my decision.
Before we got married, we went to a pre-marriage counseling session where I admitted that I didn't know if I'd have the commitment to stay married forever. This alarmed Eileen a little, but I wasn't being pessimistic. Once I explained it, she understood. I was being realistic. Nobody knows what will happen; anyone who says so is relying on faith, and that's not my bag. Notice I didn't write that I doubted I'd be able to be married the rest of my life, I just didn't know. I'm unable to imagine my life that far into the future. All I know is that I like being married to Eileen, I am looking forward to our son being born in January, and I can't imagine a life without her. That's good enough for now and the foreseeable tomorrows that follow.
However, marriage isn't for everybody. Certain people shouldn't be married. Some realize this; some don't. You can't even always tell when a marriage isn't going to work; although, most of the time you can. Sometimes everything can look perfect and go swimmingly, and one person (or both) just...changes. It happens. I don't think there's anything that can be done about it.
Jane Austen once wrote, "Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance." I would agree that she's on to something, but I would change the word "entirely" to "often." While there's no way of knowing everything that could go wrong in a marriage beforehand, there are some obvious warning flags.
Disclaimer: Reading past this point may cause some married people to be offended. Please remember that this is my opinion only, and I am a total dumbass. None of what I write means your marriage is doomed; in fact, I have no control or influence over your marriage at all (unless I'm a bad influence on the husband because we hang out, drink beer, and watch sports together). If you read on, I accept no responsibility for whatever wounded pride you feel.
Three paths to an unhappy marriage:
1. Getting married because you think you're "supposed to," all your friends are doing it, you're worried about dying old and alone, etc. Desperation is never a good reason to get married. Buy a dog. Go to bars. Enjoy the freedom that married people don't have.
Of course, nobody says these are the reasons they're getting married. But deep down lots of people are thinking these things when they tie the knot.
2. Getting engaged (not married) to someone you've been dating less than two years. Two years may seem like an arbitrary number, but it feels about right to me. The first six months to a year of any relationship are a honeymoon phase. It's after the magic wears off that you find out if you're compatible. The reason I write "engaged" is because once the ring goes on that finger, it takes an act of God to stop the ceremony. There are definitely people who get married just because they're too chicken to back out of the wedding. I personally think it's a good idea to live together for a little while before you're married to see if you can handle their sounds, sights, and smells, but I wouldn't say a marriage is doomed without it.
3. Getting married before the age of 25. People are getting married older and older. Part of the reason is that more of the focus is on their careers, but a lot of it is because the past couple generations are learning from the mistakes (and massive divorce rates) of our parents. You do a lot of changing in your 20's. You are simply not the same person at 28 that you are at 21. Neither is your spouse. With two people going through such a transitional period, they are apt to have conflict and grow apart. It's the same reason you shouldn't get a tattoo of your favorite band as a teenager. You may not like death metal as much when you get older.
As I stated before, you can never be assured a person won't change in a fundamental way, blowing up the marriage. But the odds are a lot more in your favor if you wait until you're a bit more settled and mature. I thought I was sane in my relationships when I was in my early-to-mid 20's. It is easy to see now that I was not. That's the problem with youthful insanity; you can believe something feels right with all your might right up until the moment it all comes crashing down on you, and later you see that it was crazy from the start. Thank god I didn't marry somebody. "Somebody" is even more lucky she didn't marry me.
I would say there's one exception to this one. If you've been going out since high school, and particularly if you survived being at different colleges, and you're still together, go for it. But there's no need to rush. Why not live together for a couple years like heathens, or have a two-to-three year engagement? You have the rest of your life to be married. Be young and fun as long as you can.
And always remember that marriage isn't a guarantee of happiness. As Chris Rock said, we all basically have two choices: "Married and bored, or single and lonely." Just make sure you find the right kind of boredom.
Monday, October 5, 2009
No, you're not. Now shut up.
Normally, I consider it a positive attribute to be able to see the world in shades of gray. It's rare that anything's clearly one way or another. There are always several sides to most arguments, and I often bristle when people try to reduce the complexities of a debate down to a single mantra, slogan, or viewpoint.
That's why I love sports. It's one of the few things in life that's black and white. You win or you lose (ties are like kissing your sister). You score more runs/points/goals: You win, and everyone's happy. You get beat on the scoreboard: You lose, and you feel shame. But there's always a next game waiting, and you might win that one. Unless you're a Raider fan.
Being a sports fan is also very cut and dried. You root for your team, win or lose. You don't switch in the middle of the game when your team starts losing. You put up with lots of losing in the hopes that one day you'll be rewarded with your loyalty.
And one more thing: You root for the team that plays in the city nearest where you're from. You don't get to pick and choose. You don't get to throw darts at a board. You just don't.
This seems like a stupid, arbitrary rule. But that's the thing about sports: they're stupid and arbitrary. That's why it's easy to have a black-and-white set of values to abide by. Ultimately, we're all just "rooting for laundry," as Jerry Seinfeld puts it. There's no nuance to this. You grow up in an area, you root for the teams from that place, no matter how badly they may suck. You'll have some good years and some bad years, but no true fan abandons his or her roots in search of greener pastures.
There are only three exceptions to this rule:
1. Your parent grew up a huge sports fan in another area, has since moved, and has indoctrinated you as a fan of his childhood team. Sports fandom is like religion; it's passed down to you, and there's not much you can do about it. Unlike religion, which is actually an important life decision which should be based on careful study and personal beliefs, you don't get to change because your current team's performance isn't satisfying you. Again, this may seem stupid and rigid, but that's the code of sports.
2. The team you grew up rooting for moved away. You are now not beholden to them and may pick from any other team. There is a caveat to this: the more historically successful/popular a team is, the more douchey it is to pick them as your team of choice. Anyone can root for the Lakers, the Cowboys, or the Yankees year after year; it takes someone with cojones to randomly choose the Houston Astros, Seattle Seahawks, or Columbus Blue Jackets. Coincidentally, I've never known anyone from L.A. who was a Clipper fan or raised their kids as a Clipper fan. Always the Lakers. I'm sure it's solely due to the fact that the Lakers were there first, not because L.A. sports fans are largely frontrunning bandwagon posers who can't even support a football team.
3. You grew up in an area without a pro team anywhere nearby. Montana, Hawaii, Mississippi, etc. You are also a free agent. See #2 above.
There are no other exceptions to this rule. You can't say stuff like "I just really like Shaq, so I pull for the Lakers." It's fine to really like Shaq, except when he's playing your hometown team. Then he's the enemy. I was a huge Barry Sanders fan growing up, but when the Lions played the Niners, I wanted S.F. to shut him down. Ditto Tony Gwynn, Kirby Puckett, Mario Lemieux, Kevin Johnson, etc.
It doesn't make any sense to root for a team just because a player you admire toils for them. Players move around all the time. Even in the rare cases when someone like Puckett, Gwynn, or Magic Johnson plays his whole career with one team, that's just the luck of the draw. If that player had been drafted by someone else, he would've played just as hard for that team. Kobe Bryant is the notable, petulant, rapist exception that proves the rule.
Players don't care about what color the uniform is they put on. They play for money first and competitive glory second. Fans are the ones who care about the name on the front of the uniform; the players worry about the one on their backs.
Again, we're rooting for laundry. But there's honor in that. I wrote before that the rules of sports fandom are silly and arbitrary, but allow me to give a rationale for the idea that one should root for his or her local team exclusively.
Sports bind a community together. It's a common touchstone we can all share. When things are bad, we commiserate. When they're good, we are hopeful and optimistic. When they're great (which hasn't been for a while now), we hug total strangers in bars and experience a kind of communal euphoria.
Even within the community, there's diversity. Each fan base develops an identity. There's the eternally hopeful and knowledgeable Warrior crowd, the equally hopeful but increasingly nonexistent A's patrons, the proud but unsatisfied Shark followers, the sophisticated Giants crew with their blackberries at the ready, the Cal fans who absolutely know that the next disaster is around the corner, even as they hope against all hope for the best, the wine-and-cheese bourgeois Niner fans who mix easily with the fading blue collar San Francisco element, and of course the unwashed Raider masses, with their felony convictions and ref-hating paranoia.
For as much grief as I give Raider fans, at least they're loyal. I would much rather talk sports with one of them than a lifelong Bay Area resident who professes to love the Lakers. Because that person is not a real sports fan. Oh sure, those "fans" may get happy when their adopted, far-away team wins and dejected when they lose, but it's not real. It's not earned. It's not respectable. It's a cop out. They might as well be rooting for another region's weather.
A huge part of being a fan is giving fans of another squad grief. When I find out that someone's breaking the rules of fandom by rooting for a team he or she has no right to, I instantly break off the conversation. Because the person just doesn't get it. You want to talk smack to me about a team you chose because it's successful, while I put up with the Giants' woes (and lack of a single championship) year after year, and act like we're fan equals?
No, we're not. Now shut up.
"But I've always liked the Lakers/Cowboys/Yankees! I'm a true fan!"
No, you're not. Now shut up.
That's why I love sports. It's one of the few things in life that's black and white. You win or you lose (ties are like kissing your sister). You score more runs/points/goals: You win, and everyone's happy. You get beat on the scoreboard: You lose, and you feel shame. But there's always a next game waiting, and you might win that one. Unless you're a Raider fan.
Being a sports fan is also very cut and dried. You root for your team, win or lose. You don't switch in the middle of the game when your team starts losing. You put up with lots of losing in the hopes that one day you'll be rewarded with your loyalty.
And one more thing: You root for the team that plays in the city nearest where you're from. You don't get to pick and choose. You don't get to throw darts at a board. You just don't.
This seems like a stupid, arbitrary rule. But that's the thing about sports: they're stupid and arbitrary. That's why it's easy to have a black-and-white set of values to abide by. Ultimately, we're all just "rooting for laundry," as Jerry Seinfeld puts it. There's no nuance to this. You grow up in an area, you root for the teams from that place, no matter how badly they may suck. You'll have some good years and some bad years, but no true fan abandons his or her roots in search of greener pastures.
There are only three exceptions to this rule:
1. Your parent grew up a huge sports fan in another area, has since moved, and has indoctrinated you as a fan of his childhood team. Sports fandom is like religion; it's passed down to you, and there's not much you can do about it. Unlike religion, which is actually an important life decision which should be based on careful study and personal beliefs, you don't get to change because your current team's performance isn't satisfying you. Again, this may seem stupid and rigid, but that's the code of sports.
2. The team you grew up rooting for moved away. You are now not beholden to them and may pick from any other team. There is a caveat to this: the more historically successful/popular a team is, the more douchey it is to pick them as your team of choice. Anyone can root for the Lakers, the Cowboys, or the Yankees year after year; it takes someone with cojones to randomly choose the Houston Astros, Seattle Seahawks, or Columbus Blue Jackets. Coincidentally, I've never known anyone from L.A. who was a Clipper fan or raised their kids as a Clipper fan. Always the Lakers. I'm sure it's solely due to the fact that the Lakers were there first, not because L.A. sports fans are largely frontrunning bandwagon posers who can't even support a football team.
3. You grew up in an area without a pro team anywhere nearby. Montana, Hawaii, Mississippi, etc. You are also a free agent. See #2 above.
There are no other exceptions to this rule. You can't say stuff like "I just really like Shaq, so I pull for the Lakers." It's fine to really like Shaq, except when he's playing your hometown team. Then he's the enemy. I was a huge Barry Sanders fan growing up, but when the Lions played the Niners, I wanted S.F. to shut him down. Ditto Tony Gwynn, Kirby Puckett, Mario Lemieux, Kevin Johnson, etc.
It doesn't make any sense to root for a team just because a player you admire toils for them. Players move around all the time. Even in the rare cases when someone like Puckett, Gwynn, or Magic Johnson plays his whole career with one team, that's just the luck of the draw. If that player had been drafted by someone else, he would've played just as hard for that team. Kobe Bryant is the notable, petulant, rapist exception that proves the rule.
Players don't care about what color the uniform is they put on. They play for money first and competitive glory second. Fans are the ones who care about the name on the front of the uniform; the players worry about the one on their backs.
Again, we're rooting for laundry. But there's honor in that. I wrote before that the rules of sports fandom are silly and arbitrary, but allow me to give a rationale for the idea that one should root for his or her local team exclusively.
Sports bind a community together. It's a common touchstone we can all share. When things are bad, we commiserate. When they're good, we are hopeful and optimistic. When they're great (which hasn't been for a while now), we hug total strangers in bars and experience a kind of communal euphoria.
Even within the community, there's diversity. Each fan base develops an identity. There's the eternally hopeful and knowledgeable Warrior crowd, the equally hopeful but increasingly nonexistent A's patrons, the proud but unsatisfied Shark followers, the sophisticated Giants crew with their blackberries at the ready, the Cal fans who absolutely know that the next disaster is around the corner, even as they hope against all hope for the best, the wine-and-cheese bourgeois Niner fans who mix easily with the fading blue collar San Francisco element, and of course the unwashed Raider masses, with their felony convictions and ref-hating paranoia.
For as much grief as I give Raider fans, at least they're loyal. I would much rather talk sports with one of them than a lifelong Bay Area resident who professes to love the Lakers. Because that person is not a real sports fan. Oh sure, those "fans" may get happy when their adopted, far-away team wins and dejected when they lose, but it's not real. It's not earned. It's not respectable. It's a cop out. They might as well be rooting for another region's weather.
A huge part of being a fan is giving fans of another squad grief. When I find out that someone's breaking the rules of fandom by rooting for a team he or she has no right to, I instantly break off the conversation. Because the person just doesn't get it. You want to talk smack to me about a team you chose because it's successful, while I put up with the Giants' woes (and lack of a single championship) year after year, and act like we're fan equals?
No, we're not. Now shut up.
"But I've always liked the Lakers/Cowboys/Yankees! I'm a true fan!"
No, you're not. Now shut up.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Bay Area Sports Fail
On the occasion of Cal's pipe-wrenching at the hands of USC, guaranteeing another disappointing season, it occurred to me that sports fans in the Bay Area have put a lot of dedication and dollars into extraordinarily minimal results.
It's now been almost 15 years since the Bay's last championship in any sport, when the Niners dusted the Chargers in January of 1995. Fifteen years. We have two football teams, two baseball teams, two major conference colleges and assorted minor ones, a hockey team, and a team that, on its surface, pretends to be an NBA franchise.
Before anyone starts bringing up the now-defunct Sabercats or Stanford women's basketball, I'm limiting this lament to sports that people actually care about.
I realize now that I was spoiled while growing up. One of my earliest childhood memories was "The Catch," Dwight Clark's soaring, iconic grab in the back of the endzone that beat the hated Cowboys and kicked off the 49ers dynasty. Five Super Bowl victories in the next 13 years made me think things were always going to be this way.
The Bay's other pro sports teams pulled their weight during the 80's as well. The Giants and A's played each other in the '89 series, assuring that the champion would reside in the Bay. The wrong team won, but it was an exciting time to be alive in these parts. Even the Warriors showed flashes of brilliance. "Run TMC" never got past the second round of the playoffs, but they were always competitive and fun to watch. Thankfully, the Raiders were in L.A. for most of this period, so their Super Bowl win was far less annoying. We didn't have to deal with any riots, as I recall.
The 90's brought the Sharks, and other than the Niners' last gasp, a whole lot of losing that has mostly continued unimpeded to this day. Sure, every once in a while somebody makes a run, like the Raiders in 2003 (which was hilarious) and the Giants in 2002 (which I still can't even really talk about), but for the most part it's been 15 years of pain and torture. Even when a team seems great, like the Sharks last year, they find a way to negate all the good times by flaming out with an embarrassing loss in the playoffs.
Meanwhile, except for one short-lived burst of success in 2007, the Warriors have been a national joke. Sigh.
So, why do we put ourselves through this? At least I know what glory tastes like. My teenage students aren't old enough to recall a time when Bay Area sports weren't a giant mess of steaming feces. Yet they are far more positive than I am. They constantly think that a championship is right around the corner, like Charley Brown running up to kick the football, over and over again. They often tell me to "have faith," one of my least favorite sayings, which is proven wrong over and over again.
More often than not, it's not all that fun to be a sports fan around here. Yet, I'm proud of us. Our teams suck, but we persevere. We know that when one of our teams actually does come through, all the torment and angst will have made us stronger. It will all have been worth it. After all, "What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly." -Thomas Paine
Consider this an ode to all the long-suffering Bay Area sports fans. Even Raider fans, in prison or on parole. We're all in this misery together.
As for those Bay Area residents who are reading this and saying, "Yeah, but at least my Lakers won last year," there's a special spot in hell reserved for fans of your particular stripe. Your blog is coming tomorrow.
It's now been almost 15 years since the Bay's last championship in any sport, when the Niners dusted the Chargers in January of 1995. Fifteen years. We have two football teams, two baseball teams, two major conference colleges and assorted minor ones, a hockey team, and a team that, on its surface, pretends to be an NBA franchise.
Before anyone starts bringing up the now-defunct Sabercats or Stanford women's basketball, I'm limiting this lament to sports that people actually care about.
I realize now that I was spoiled while growing up. One of my earliest childhood memories was "The Catch," Dwight Clark's soaring, iconic grab in the back of the endzone that beat the hated Cowboys and kicked off the 49ers dynasty. Five Super Bowl victories in the next 13 years made me think things were always going to be this way.
The Bay's other pro sports teams pulled their weight during the 80's as well. The Giants and A's played each other in the '89 series, assuring that the champion would reside in the Bay. The wrong team won, but it was an exciting time to be alive in these parts. Even the Warriors showed flashes of brilliance. "Run TMC" never got past the second round of the playoffs, but they were always competitive and fun to watch. Thankfully, the Raiders were in L.A. for most of this period, so their Super Bowl win was far less annoying. We didn't have to deal with any riots, as I recall.
The 90's brought the Sharks, and other than the Niners' last gasp, a whole lot of losing that has mostly continued unimpeded to this day. Sure, every once in a while somebody makes a run, like the Raiders in 2003 (which was hilarious) and the Giants in 2002 (which I still can't even really talk about), but for the most part it's been 15 years of pain and torture. Even when a team seems great, like the Sharks last year, they find a way to negate all the good times by flaming out with an embarrassing loss in the playoffs.
Meanwhile, except for one short-lived burst of success in 2007, the Warriors have been a national joke. Sigh.
So, why do we put ourselves through this? At least I know what glory tastes like. My teenage students aren't old enough to recall a time when Bay Area sports weren't a giant mess of steaming feces. Yet they are far more positive than I am. They constantly think that a championship is right around the corner, like Charley Brown running up to kick the football, over and over again. They often tell me to "have faith," one of my least favorite sayings, which is proven wrong over and over again.
More often than not, it's not all that fun to be a sports fan around here. Yet, I'm proud of us. Our teams suck, but we persevere. We know that when one of our teams actually does come through, all the torment and angst will have made us stronger. It will all have been worth it. After all, "What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly." -Thomas Paine
Consider this an ode to all the long-suffering Bay Area sports fans. Even Raider fans, in prison or on parole. We're all in this misery together.
As for those Bay Area residents who are reading this and saying, "Yeah, but at least my Lakers won last year," there's a special spot in hell reserved for fans of your particular stripe. Your blog is coming tomorrow.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
"American Idiot" and my annoyingly small bladder
As I noted in yesterday's blog, I went to see the Green Day musical last night. I had never been to the Berkeley Repertory Theatre before, but I'm definitely a fan now. They have a great outdoor patio with a mini bar, which was serving specialty cocktails named after some of the songs from American Idiot.
It was imperative that my friend Derek and I sampled them all, of course. Would've been kind of irresponsible of us to try the "Letterbomb" and not know what "St.Jimmy" had to offer. We had one outside and took one into the theatre, using the paper cup the friendly bartender provided.
I made a point of making a pitstop before going upstairs to our seats, and I'd already gone once at the restaurant beforehand. When I got to the seats, my wife mentioned that she wished she'd gone also, but alas! It was too late; the lights were going down. I smirked with self-satisfaction.
The show was fantastic. I hadn't listened to American Idiot all the way through in a while, and I'd forgotten that the first five or so songs are all total home runs. There's a bit of plot shoehorned in between the music, but for the most part the show consists of one or more lead singers with a bunch of backing dancers/vocalists throwing themselves all over the eye-popping set, accompanied by a live band. I am more convinced than ever that "Jesus of Suburbia" is one of the greatest rock n' roll anthems ever written. Not in the past decade. Ever.
The show was an hour-and-a-half with no intermission, and right around the 45-minute mark, my bladder starting making its presence felt. However, we were in the middle of a cramped aisle, and there were signs on the way in that stated that if you left your seat, you wouldn't be reseated until an "appropriate moment," and possibly not in the same seat you left. I decided to ride it out.
I knew the album pretty well, and they were playing it chronologically. I couldn't see my watch in the dark, but there were only four or five songs left. I was confident I could make it through, even with the mammoth "Homecoming" looming.
Then they launched into "Know Your Enemy." What??? That wasn't part of the deal! That's not on American Idiot! When "21 Guns" tipped off, I knew I was hosed. I unbuckled my belt to alleviate the pressure. I squirmed and changed positions. I refused to think about any kind of liquid. All to no avail. I made it through "Wake Me Up When September Ends" and had to make a run for it.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Sweet relief.
I sat in a chair in the walkway after I came back so I wouldn't disturb the people I'd had to get past again and enjoyed the finale, the criminally overlooked "Whatsername."
Afterward, we were dissecting the show, and everyone else was talking about how amazing it was the whole way through. I mentioned that I couldn't really keep track of the plot, and they all looked at me in disbelief and started pointing out all these things that had happened that I hadn't remembered. I'd been in agony for 25 minutes and then spent 5 minutes going to the john.
Oh, and my wife held her water the whole time, no problem. I officially have a smaller bladder than a pregnant chick.
It was imperative that my friend Derek and I sampled them all, of course. Would've been kind of irresponsible of us to try the "Letterbomb" and not know what "St.Jimmy" had to offer. We had one outside and took one into the theatre, using the paper cup the friendly bartender provided.
I made a point of making a pitstop before going upstairs to our seats, and I'd already gone once at the restaurant beforehand. When I got to the seats, my wife mentioned that she wished she'd gone also, but alas! It was too late; the lights were going down. I smirked with self-satisfaction.
The show was fantastic. I hadn't listened to American Idiot all the way through in a while, and I'd forgotten that the first five or so songs are all total home runs. There's a bit of plot shoehorned in between the music, but for the most part the show consists of one or more lead singers with a bunch of backing dancers/vocalists throwing themselves all over the eye-popping set, accompanied by a live band. I am more convinced than ever that "Jesus of Suburbia" is one of the greatest rock n' roll anthems ever written. Not in the past decade. Ever.
The show was an hour-and-a-half with no intermission, and right around the 45-minute mark, my bladder starting making its presence felt. However, we were in the middle of a cramped aisle, and there were signs on the way in that stated that if you left your seat, you wouldn't be reseated until an "appropriate moment," and possibly not in the same seat you left. I decided to ride it out.
I knew the album pretty well, and they were playing it chronologically. I couldn't see my watch in the dark, but there were only four or five songs left. I was confident I could make it through, even with the mammoth "Homecoming" looming.
Then they launched into "Know Your Enemy." What??? That wasn't part of the deal! That's not on American Idiot! When "21 Guns" tipped off, I knew I was hosed. I unbuckled my belt to alleviate the pressure. I squirmed and changed positions. I refused to think about any kind of liquid. All to no avail. I made it through "Wake Me Up When September Ends" and had to make a run for it.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Sweet relief.
I sat in a chair in the walkway after I came back so I wouldn't disturb the people I'd had to get past again and enjoyed the finale, the criminally overlooked "Whatsername."
Afterward, we were dissecting the show, and everyone else was talking about how amazing it was the whole way through. I mentioned that I couldn't really keep track of the plot, and they all looked at me in disbelief and started pointing out all these things that had happened that I hadn't remembered. I'd been in agony for 25 minutes and then spent 5 minutes going to the john.
Oh, and my wife held her water the whole time, no problem. I officially have a smaller bladder than a pregnant chick.
Friday, October 2, 2009
My long, enduring relationship with Green Day
Tonight I'm going to the Berkeley Repertory Theatre to see American Idiot: The Musical (that might not actually be what it's called, but close enough) with my best friend from high school and our wives. I'm really excited about both seeing Derek, who lives in Seattle, and the performance based on my favorite album by one of my favorite bands.
It also got me thinking how music, or more specifically following the progress of a certain band, is a great way to mark "the time of your life," if you'll permit me an obvious allusion. I was in high school when Green Day first started getting noticed in the East Bay Area. They played shows in Vallejo, Martinez, and of course, Berkeley. Not that I attended any of these shows, mind you. I was waaaaay too uncool for that. Plus, I was scared of Vallejo. Still am. But some of my more adventurous classmates went, and wouldn't shut up about this pop punk trio that, like, totally rocked.
Their breakout (but not first) album, Dookie, came out during my senior year. Like pretty much everyone else in my generation, I bought it (on cassette...unlike almost everyone else in the mid-90's, I hadn't quite switched to cd yet...I told you I was uncool) and played it until it fell apart.
UNLIKE everyone else in my generation, that summer I rode on a Southwest airlines flight (choose your own seats!) from San Diego to Oakland while sitting next to the three members of Green Day and their road manager. It remains my most prolonged brush with fame, although they really weren't all that famous in August of 1994. Sure, they had two hit singles ("Basketcase" and "Longview"), but average patrons of the friendly skies had no idea who they were.
In fact, the only reason my sister and I were able to sit next to the guys was that they looked to the untrained eye like a bunch of punker misfits. Lead singer Billie Joe Armstrong reinforced this image by loudly warbling his version of Tom Petty's "Refugee," playing along on an acoustic guitar, waiting for the plane in the terminal. Once we were in flight, he staggered up to the intercom and attempted to ask the entire plane if any of the stewardesses could bring him "another bag of penis." He couldn't work the handset, though. In retrospect, he very well may have been high.
Meanwhile, drummer Tre Cool spoke constantly in a falsetto and bugged my sister about letting him have her Hawaiian hat, which he absconded with at the conclusion of the flight. Now that I think about it, those guys were definitely high.
I had a long conversation with the most mellow (but probably also high) member of the crew, bassist Mike Dirnt. We talked about music; I specifically remember him saying that The Offspring's "Keep 'Em Separated" had taken him a long time to get used to, but now he liked it. When he found out I was going to college at UC Davis in the fall, he told me about how they'd played the coffeehouse there a bunch of times. They'd also played Woodstock '94 a couple weeks earlier, and their set had ended in a massive mud fight with fans. Some in the press construed it as violent and agitated, but both Mike and Billie Joe claimed everyone was having fun.
Mike also spoke of his East Bay roots and knowing Billie Joe from growing up together. He talked glowingly of his girlfriend, whom he claimed he couldn't wait to see and would be waiting at the gate in Oakland (remember, this was pre-9/11).
The flight was over all too quickly, but as my sister and I walked off the jetway, I have two enduring memories. One was the quizzical (and slightly worried) expression on my stepdad's face, as he tried to figure out why we were getting off the plane, kidding and laughing, with three spiky-headed, pierced musicians. The other was Mike, rushing into his purple-haired girlfriend's arms, and then looking back at us and mouthing, "See, this is her!" Because I can still picture that moment, Mike Dirnt will never be a spoiled, arrogant rock star to me, no matter what else he does with his life.
As I look back on that time, I see parallels with my life and Green Day's career arc. They were on the cusp of superstardom; I was about to experience the glory and upheaval of my freshman year of college. Ok, so maybe it's a reach, but we were both young and dumb, and the road wasn't always smooth. I bought every new album (one of the first things I did in college was to buy a cd player) and drove down from Davis to see a couple of their shows. I even reviewed their more mature-sounding cd Nimrod for the school newspaper and got paid for it, something I never would've thought possible. We were growing up together, it seemed.
Green Day's popularity waned a bit during the late 90's and early 2000's, as they struggled to find their direction. This time coincided with my early-to-mid 20's, and the less said about that era, the better. I moved to the City in 2003 and met my future wife. Green Day roared back with the titanic American Idiot in 2004, and every sane person hated George W. Bush to the tune of the band's magnificent soundtrack of disaffected youth.
A couple weeks ago, some friends of mine saw Mike Dirnt eating at one of my favorite restaurants from childhood, El Charro, in Lafayette. I still go there whenever I can. But things have changed, as they have for the guys in the band. They're nearing their forties, and all of them have at least one marriage and progeny to their credit.
My friend Derek also has kids, and I have one on the way. We don't get to hang out as much as we used to. I still love Green Day, but I haven't been to one of their concerts in probably 10 years; I'd be the oldest person there who wasn't chaperoning a teenager.
But you know what? Just like the band, we can still do it when it matters. As an added benefit of growing up, we no longer need our fake i.d.'s and have disposable income to spend on expensive cocktails. Tonight, we're gonna sing till our lungs give out.
"I'M THE SON OF RAGE AND LOVE!!!"
It also got me thinking how music, or more specifically following the progress of a certain band, is a great way to mark "the time of your life," if you'll permit me an obvious allusion. I was in high school when Green Day first started getting noticed in the East Bay Area. They played shows in Vallejo, Martinez, and of course, Berkeley. Not that I attended any of these shows, mind you. I was waaaaay too uncool for that. Plus, I was scared of Vallejo. Still am. But some of my more adventurous classmates went, and wouldn't shut up about this pop punk trio that, like, totally rocked.
Their breakout (but not first) album, Dookie, came out during my senior year. Like pretty much everyone else in my generation, I bought it (on cassette...unlike almost everyone else in the mid-90's, I hadn't quite switched to cd yet...I told you I was uncool) and played it until it fell apart.
UNLIKE everyone else in my generation, that summer I rode on a Southwest airlines flight (choose your own seats!) from San Diego to Oakland while sitting next to the three members of Green Day and their road manager. It remains my most prolonged brush with fame, although they really weren't all that famous in August of 1994. Sure, they had two hit singles ("Basketcase" and "Longview"), but average patrons of the friendly skies had no idea who they were.
In fact, the only reason my sister and I were able to sit next to the guys was that they looked to the untrained eye like a bunch of punker misfits. Lead singer Billie Joe Armstrong reinforced this image by loudly warbling his version of Tom Petty's "Refugee," playing along on an acoustic guitar, waiting for the plane in the terminal. Once we were in flight, he staggered up to the intercom and attempted to ask the entire plane if any of the stewardesses could bring him "another bag of penis." He couldn't work the handset, though. In retrospect, he very well may have been high.
Meanwhile, drummer Tre Cool spoke constantly in a falsetto and bugged my sister about letting him have her Hawaiian hat, which he absconded with at the conclusion of the flight. Now that I think about it, those guys were definitely high.
I had a long conversation with the most mellow (but probably also high) member of the crew, bassist Mike Dirnt. We talked about music; I specifically remember him saying that The Offspring's "Keep 'Em Separated" had taken him a long time to get used to, but now he liked it. When he found out I was going to college at UC Davis in the fall, he told me about how they'd played the coffeehouse there a bunch of times. They'd also played Woodstock '94 a couple weeks earlier, and their set had ended in a massive mud fight with fans. Some in the press construed it as violent and agitated, but both Mike and Billie Joe claimed everyone was having fun.
Mike also spoke of his East Bay roots and knowing Billie Joe from growing up together. He talked glowingly of his girlfriend, whom he claimed he couldn't wait to see and would be waiting at the gate in Oakland (remember, this was pre-9/11).
The flight was over all too quickly, but as my sister and I walked off the jetway, I have two enduring memories. One was the quizzical (and slightly worried) expression on my stepdad's face, as he tried to figure out why we were getting off the plane, kidding and laughing, with three spiky-headed, pierced musicians. The other was Mike, rushing into his purple-haired girlfriend's arms, and then looking back at us and mouthing, "See, this is her!" Because I can still picture that moment, Mike Dirnt will never be a spoiled, arrogant rock star to me, no matter what else he does with his life.
As I look back on that time, I see parallels with my life and Green Day's career arc. They were on the cusp of superstardom; I was about to experience the glory and upheaval of my freshman year of college. Ok, so maybe it's a reach, but we were both young and dumb, and the road wasn't always smooth. I bought every new album (one of the first things I did in college was to buy a cd player) and drove down from Davis to see a couple of their shows. I even reviewed their more mature-sounding cd Nimrod for the school newspaper and got paid for it, something I never would've thought possible. We were growing up together, it seemed.
Green Day's popularity waned a bit during the late 90's and early 2000's, as they struggled to find their direction. This time coincided with my early-to-mid 20's, and the less said about that era, the better. I moved to the City in 2003 and met my future wife. Green Day roared back with the titanic American Idiot in 2004, and every sane person hated George W. Bush to the tune of the band's magnificent soundtrack of disaffected youth.
A couple weeks ago, some friends of mine saw Mike Dirnt eating at one of my favorite restaurants from childhood, El Charro, in Lafayette. I still go there whenever I can. But things have changed, as they have for the guys in the band. They're nearing their forties, and all of them have at least one marriage and progeny to their credit.
My friend Derek also has kids, and I have one on the way. We don't get to hang out as much as we used to. I still love Green Day, but I haven't been to one of their concerts in probably 10 years; I'd be the oldest person there who wasn't chaperoning a teenager.
But you know what? Just like the band, we can still do it when it matters. As an added benefit of growing up, we no longer need our fake i.d.'s and have disposable income to spend on expensive cocktails. Tonight, we're gonna sing till our lungs give out.
"I'M THE SON OF RAGE AND LOVE!!!"
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Blog-a-Day Month
For the past two years, my friends Lance and Scott have issued a challenge: Blog once a day for the entire month of October. These two rascals have managed to do it both times, with each declaring himself the winner at the end of the term (although I believe Lance refers to himself as a two-time champion because he declared it first).
Anyway, there are a whole bunch of rules, but I don't feel like re-posting them. I'm going to approach this like Lance approached Ramadan: half-assed. I very much doubt that I'll be able to churn out a blog per day; my last one was almost two months ago.
I usually only blog after I've been turning something over in my head for a while, and thus my writings tend to pour out of me in a torrent. My blogs go long; sometimes I write them over the course of two days.
I also usually edit and revise them a couple times. It's not that I'm a perfectionist; I just believe that if I put my name to something, I want to make sure it's something I can feel good about. Not enough of my teenage students seem to feel that way, which is a topic I'm sure will be coming up frequently this month.
As such, this will be a challenge for me to keep things byte-sized (pun intended), or I'll never have time to finish them all. I'm pretty sure I have plenty of material. Every day it feels like there's a half dozen things that irk me rattling around in my brain. I shouldn't have to resort to writing what I had to eat that day, hopefully.
Again, I very well may not make through the weekend and may have to bend some rules. I may give up on it all together quickly. In the immortal words of Bart Simpson, I can't promise I'll try, but I can promise that I'll try to try.
And yes, I'm counting this one.
Anyway, there are a whole bunch of rules, but I don't feel like re-posting them. I'm going to approach this like Lance approached Ramadan: half-assed. I very much doubt that I'll be able to churn out a blog per day; my last one was almost two months ago.
I usually only blog after I've been turning something over in my head for a while, and thus my writings tend to pour out of me in a torrent. My blogs go long; sometimes I write them over the course of two days.
I also usually edit and revise them a couple times. It's not that I'm a perfectionist; I just believe that if I put my name to something, I want to make sure it's something I can feel good about. Not enough of my teenage students seem to feel that way, which is a topic I'm sure will be coming up frequently this month.
As such, this will be a challenge for me to keep things byte-sized (pun intended), or I'll never have time to finish them all. I'm pretty sure I have plenty of material. Every day it feels like there's a half dozen things that irk me rattling around in my brain. I shouldn't have to resort to writing what I had to eat that day, hopefully.
Again, I very well may not make through the weekend and may have to bend some rules. I may give up on it all together quickly. In the immortal words of Bart Simpson, I can't promise I'll try, but I can promise that I'll try to try.
And yes, I'm counting this one.
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