Yes I am, and no, I have no idea

He was a great writer and all, but F. Scott Fitzgerald was a dick. Yeah, Zelda was mentally unbalanced when they met, but his behavior didn't help the situation. But give the man credit, he knew it. He said - and here I'm paraphrasing, if not wholly making it up - that in order to be great, a writer must be a bastard, selfish, and greedy. I don't know if that's the only way to do it, but of the many published writers I know (2? No, definitely at least 3) 14% are complete douchebags. So there's gotta be something to it, right?

Right now, in my e-possession, I have 40-odd stories in various stages of completion. I also have a large unwieldy, thing, codenamed "Olga," that at this point I am consciously avoiding. I also have a wife who is slowly going insane, as the weirdness of moving back in with her parents splits her brain in two. Then there is Child, who at 4 months doesn't need to demand my attention because he gets it anyway, being obviously the smartest, handsomest, and kindest soul ever to inhabit a onesie.

I need time for all that, plus keeping up with the politics thing, and the Jewness thing, and the experimenting with transvestism thing...there's a lot on my plate. So something has to go. And if you'll notice, there is one substantial portion of my focus, one particularly dear to at least two of my six (seven? Is it seven yet?) readers, that is missing. And that would be sports.

Starting today I am giving up my passionate devotion to all sports, except for football.

My first thought was equivocation: I could put this off a month, and wait to see how the Penguins do in their pursuit of the Stanley Cup, whether the Hornets can prove themselves to be a second generation Phoenix Suns, or whether the Celtics can give their fantastically non-clutch superstar Kevin Garnett the title he so achingly desires, or whether Lebron could really take a mediocre Cavs team, less impressive even than Jordan's Jordanaires, all the way to a championship. Then I thought of the Brewers, and all that young talent, and that it looked like maybe Ben Sheets would stick around for 200 innings, and they might give the Cardinals a run for their money, and that could take me all the way to August, when training camp starts for the NFL. Then I realized that this was the sort of thing I wanted to avoid if I was going to do this.

So. Since Friday I have not once logged on to ESPN.com, nor Kissing Suzy Kolber, nor Free Darko. I won't even link to those fantastic sources of information, for fear of getting sucked in once again. And I will continue not checking those websites - or any sports website - or watching games on TV, excepting, again, football, until one of two things occurs: either I publish a story in some obscure, online-only literary magazine with a readership of 12, who themselves were assigned to read it as a writing workshop experiment in awful internet writing, or I finish a draft of Olga.

To put the questions to the answers in the post's title: "Are you fucking serious?" and "Do you have any idea how long you think you can keep this up?"

I assume Brothers A and S will keep me updated somehow, and I am still getting ESPN the magazine, so it's not like I'm going to shack up in the cave next to Bin Laden. But no TrueHoop, no Deadspin, no WithLeather, no Sporting News. No NBA on TNT, no Versus, no ESPN. Don't think I'm not terrified. But it's either this or I get Wife another husband, and she's already had it with the one she's got, so she's not really inclined to get all Mormony.

As a last hurrah, though, here are some thoughts on the NBA playoffs and one or two on baseball, which, now that I don't live in Boston, I don't really have to care about.

- I hate his team, I hate his style, I hate his combover, but Greg Popovich is simply a great coach. He will do whatever it takes to win, even if it means taking the entire sport of basketball down into the Dungeon of Unwatchability, which is what we in the bizz like to call San Antonio. Tony Parker has gotten too good for a French guy married to Eva Longoria, and with all those titles there is no doubt that Tim Duncan is better than Kevin Garnett. This will bear out if they meet in the finals: Popovich will take Doc Rivers into the deep grasses and show him what it is to be a real coach of men.

- I don't know if you noticed, but Chris Paul? That guard on the Hornets (when did they leave Charlotte?) is pretty good. He can dribble, and he's got a bit of touch around the rim, and he can poke that ball away with those sticky fingers, and that 3-pointer looks near effortless, and he throws lobs like parabolic poetry, and his teeth are perfectly white and straight. I bet he's real good to his mama, too.

- Now that Barry Bonds is gone, and Julio Franco is retired, there's no reason to care about baseball. I can't even root for the Diamondbacks to keep up their hot streak because they're an expansion team, and have already won a championship, over the Yankees, no less. So baseball isn't such a loss.

- Oh, and Cedric Benson? Don't think there's not plenty of time between now and August for me to find you, and slice your Achilles tendons while you're not looking. The only compelling reason for me not to bother is that I don't have the time for Chicago to host a parade in my honor, and give me a key to the city.

Mr. Rivera? I know you're there, pick up the phone, dammit

Earlier in the season I gave my blessing to Bruce Babich, the Bears' new defensive coordinator. I said he was ok in my book, that I loved the taste of extra blitzing on my chocolate sundae. I said Ron Rivera was not vital to the cause, and all but spit on his 1985 Super Bowl Ring.

I take it all back. Bruce, you useless pederast, you can go play with Cedric Benson at his make-believe tea party in the back of the locker room where we keep the brooms, old jock straps, and the dead McCaskeys. The both of you can spend your time discovering each other's nubile bodies while the rest of the team goes out and plays football. And Mr. Rivera? I'm sorry for the offense. Please come back and teach our defensive line how to tackle a backup running back. I could look up this guy Morris' first name, but unless it's Mercury, or Boris (and then only for the humorous rhyming), I'm not going to care, or recognize him. And what is a DJ Hackett? I heard his street-ready mix tape was going to drop in December, with Lil Wayne and Lupe Fiasco guesting, but I didn't know he was a No. 1 receiver for the Seahawks.

I will grit my teeth and say one nice thing about Benson, whose mother probably weeps at all the crap that's written about her dear sweet boy. On Sunday he had his longest rushing gain of the season.

But let's come back to reality, where that amazing run was all of 20 yards. If a running back looks at his season, a season where his team trades away their No. 1 back (who again rushed for over 100 yards, by the way) to make way for him, and he sees that he hasn't had a 20-yard run until Week 11, then maybe this is the time of year he starts cutting himself, if only to feel the pain he's inflicted upon fans and fantasy football nerds. Anytime you need a razor blade and a Smiths record, Cedric, give me a call. Hell, I'll put "Last Night I Dreamt Someone Loved Me" on repeat for you.

One throw, and now the Cannon is the Messiah

You weak people may be ready to forgive and forget, but not me. Rexy throws one bomb, and now it's all "I don't care if you didn't call, I'll still let you do that thing that I thought was uncomfortable but you seem to be fixated upon." Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and...something about a king, maybe? Sayings are for losers.

Bears finally pull one out, although it was against the Raiders, so it's not like it was against a real team. 6-3 with 5 minutes left? This is AMERICAN football, not the other kind, the one with the shin guards. And yes, even though this is a win, I shall be ripping the team. Why? Because I'm a bitter old man with nothing else to do?

Perhaps. But I still wanted to see the Great Orton Neckbeard, so the Cannon can kiss my ass.

Don't you think we're good now either, Cedric. I know it's a little above your average, but a legitimate running back should be able to gain 100 yards on 29 carries. 76 yards? I've mowed more yards than that in a summer!

Zing! I totally got you! Did you see that take down! Oh man, what a great insult! Ha ha! Mowing the lawn is fun!

Oh, and Norman Mailer died. As the author of theThe Naked and the Dead, which suprisingly contains no necrophilia, and Prisoner of Sex, which also isn't about what you think it is, he would have been surprised to hear that it was old age, and not some shrewish, plain-Jane feminists that finally did him in. He didn't hate women, per se. He just didn't want them talking, or writing, or voting.

I once worked for a guy who looked like Norman Mailer. And he had a lot of books...maybe it WAS Norman Mailer! Weird...

Also, I know exactly how long it's been since I last posted. I'll post when I damn well please, and you'll beg for more.

A little random fandom

Watching Demetri Martin on the Daily Show last night, it occurred to me why so much of my writing turns out bitter and angry, and not sufficiently surreal, not adequately absurd (also without enough alliteration. Gosh I love words that share first letters).

I spend too much time reading about sports.

Is there no more bitter population than sports fans? Read Kissing Suzy Kolber. Read With Leather. Sure, there's nuttiness there. But mostly it's couched in furious bitterness, especially towards Boston. Not that its fans are undeserving, but they're not worth the obsession. Sure, I hate annoying Red Sox fans, and the Patriots are simply disdainful of the normal boundaries of excellence on the football field. But come on, people! Wouldn't you rather enjoy watching Steven and Stephen yell at each other?

Or checking out what Demetri Martin has to say about wearing white? I know I do.

In all fairness, though, there is FreeDarko, successfully bridging the gap between highfalutin nonsense and professional athletics. See, e.g., their preview of every single NBA player.

So from now on, we're going to do a little more batshit insanity, a little less road rage. Unless the Bears continue their sucking. In which case I will sneak into Cedric Benson's house in the middle of the night, and smother him with his My Little Pony pillow. He may sleep the sleep of angels, but when he dies he'll spend eternity with Satan. No-yardage-gaining son of a bitch.

Pretty orange shirts cannot hide the suck

At first, when I saw the score, I thought, "oh, well, it's 1995, and the Bears suck, and Barry Sanders is running all over our defense. Hopefully sometime in the future we won't be such a crappy team."

Then I realized that it's actually 2007, and Barry Sanders is off breaking tackles in a rec league somewhere. Then I wept.

Everyone knows the defense is beat up. Mike Brown had his season-ending injury earlier than ever this year, Nate Vasher is still out (and even if he's back in, he's still out), our defensive line is what the experts call "patchwork," and I'm going to stop with the boilerplate excuses...now.

Fine. I'll accept it. The Bears suck ass this year. We're 3-5 at the halfway point, and once again our quarterback has decided that it's not as much fun to throw to people on your own team. What is, it, Griese? Do you secretly want to be on defense? Cause we'll throw you into the trenches, put you between Tommie Harris and Mark Anderson, and let you fight for your life among the giants. We'll get the Neckbeard under center, and at least he doesn't have the arm strength to throw it to the other team.

I call upon every Bears fan in Chicago to find Cedric Benson's car, and key it. Tomorrow is Halloween, and his house better be covered in toilet paper, with several flaming bags of dog crap waiting by his front door.

Oh, and Ron Turner? Devin Hester will be waiting in the tall grass for you, buddy. Wasn't there supposed to be a place for him in the offense? You know, a place where he can get the ball, run down the field, and score, as is his wont? Kinda dumb to neglect your only playmaker. I'm just saying.

As a way to ease the pain, here is a fantastic video on the art of laterals:

Devin Hester, Blazing Arrow (wasted)

Ahh, that’s better. A game where Hester scores twice, and we still lose. I’m back in familiar territory.

By now you’ve all seen the highlights, and read this, or maybe some recap on ESPN. Sure, Devin Hester was his usual magnificent self, and has finally been use on offense after spending weeks lining up as a decoy. But Adrian Peterson…good lord. Sure, I could blame the defense for forgetting how to tackle. But that would presume that the scrubs starting for all the injured starters hadn’t been bagging groceries at Osco the week before (let’s see Kurt Warner tackle Peterson).

Also, just a reminder, Cedric Benson: The guy we dumped for you, one Thomas Jones, ran for 130 yards against Philly this week. I’m not into issuing ultimatums, but if you don’t break three digits against the same defense next Sunday, I’m going to sneak into your house and kidnap your favorite stuffed animal. No, not Giggles, the Superfuzzy Seacow; I’m heading right for Prince Marmaduke Feistyboots. And that cute, cuddly orangutan will remain in my possession until we either trade your worthless ass, or you retire.

Maybe this is the week Bruce Babich learns that overpursuit sometimes leads to big runs off cutbacks. But this is real life, not a special episode of Two and a Half Men, so the only thing Babich will probably take from the game is that Adrian Peterson has a terrific ass. Which is really all the defense will be able to report, given that they pretty much only saw him from behind.

At some point Lovie might figure out that Griese isn’t any better than the Sex Cannon. When that happens the Bears will get the quarterback they really deserve, Captain Neckbeard, Kyle Orton. The only question will be which position they’ll fill with their high draft pick, running back or QB? I’m guessing cornerback.