Mean Gene

Like Sand to the Oyster

Before I get into a few irritating things that happened today, I just got done watching the first run of the men's Aerials in the Olympics. Um...is it me, or is what they're doing friggin' unbelievable. I watched the women yesterday, and, like, wow. And the men are just as insane. They fly up this ramp, soar 50 feet in the air, and do about a dozen tricks before they land. It's an entire gymnastic floor exercise routine carried out while the athlete is falling at 32 feet per second. Per second. I think there's another "per second" in there. Physics? Not my strong suit.

I sent a nasty email to a CNN sports writer who, totally offhand, accused the ref who made the pass interference call in the Super Bowl of favoritism because he's originally from Pittsburgh. I wrote a long letter of protest, providing evidence to support my case, mocking him for having none, and asking if there was any editorial supervison at CNN or if anyone with thumbs can just walk in and grab a desk. I titled the email "Brilliant insight!" to hopefully fire enough neurons in his prefontal lobe to get his attention.

Two weeks later he writes back and his whole reply is "Nice brilliant insights yourself". A mock! My dander, it went up. Either ignore me or at least engage me in verbal battle. Hell, when I wrote about the Super Bowl I got comments from people I consider my friends who basically called me a Black-and-Gold sack full of shit. But I took it in the spirit those comments were intended. And I made a list. A long, long list.

Can someone explain to me why the line, "I'd like to jump you" was deleted from Smokey and the Bandit? And when Sally Field says that she wants to jump a house, a river, why can't Burt Reynolds say "Jump me"? That's out of bounds? I don't get it.

Tell you what, the announcers for the women's figure skating sure know how to drain all the joy out of it, don't they? They bitch after every stumble, bitch about how the skater doesn't have fire, doesn't have enough artistry, doesn't have any fight. I mean, who pissed in Dick Buttons' Wheaties this morning? What's with the negative waves? No wonder American Idol is kicking the Olympics' ass up and down the slopes. At least Paula Abdul says something nice once in awhile.

I take a shuttle back and forth to work. Our driver the first week looked so much like T.J. Cloutier I wanted to ask for his autograph. He listened to country music on the ride over. I'm not a big country music fan, though I did buy the O Brother Where Are Thou soundtrack before it won the Grammy (brief pause to pat self on back). I definitely don't like pop country music. I don't listen to Toby Keith. Period. So the first week back and forth I hear this country-fried schlock and I try to shut out the bad noise so the song doesn't get stuck there.

But there was this one song, I guess the singer was talking about people who are protesting the war and criticising the President, and he asks (in song) if they remember when those buildings came down, and what it was like when we were attacked, and that if these protesters did remember that day (9/11, yes, I remember) they wouldn't protest. Um, didn't this guy read the 9/11 Commission Report? Folks are protesting the war in Iraq. Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11. Just more proof that intelligent political discussion rarely takes place with guitar accompaniment and background vocals.

The new driver listens to the wack-job right-wing talk show host in town. This guy used to be a DJ on the local bubblegum pop station (he also hosted a local afternoon quiz show) before he found his life's work--bashing "liberals". Liberals in his lexicon being anyone to the left of Bob Dole. I can't help but pity the guy. The DJ, not the former Senator. Let's say you really hate liberals. Or conservatives. Or, say, people who insist on drawing to gutshots without pot odds. Pick your poison. Now, imagine having to spend four hours a day, every day, for fifteen years, excoriating these people. It has to warp your mind, no matter how little you actually believe in what you're talking about. You froth at the mouth long enough, your brain has to go gooey. That's a hard way to earn the weekly envelope.

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