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June 27, 2007

Soccer

When you're five, soccer is a religious activity. You don't understand the rules, per se; you just kick the ball in a general direction and hope your mom is watching.

Still, despite the unflagging support of five-year-olds, soccer is bombing on TV. It seems to give viewers the uneasy feeling that something better is on another channel.

If you don't follow soccer, the object is to chase a ball up and down the countryside until someone finally trips inside the "penalty box" and is awarded a free goal. Then there is some more running around and presumably a final whistle (I've never made it that far).

It's the same process in other parts of the world, only fans show up to watch. The Brits, for instance, start preparing for games (drinking dark lager) two days in advance and sing soccer carols in the stands until they find out the game is over, at which point they immediately riot.

Maybe they wouldn't need to riot if soccer had more scoring. The game is all foreplay and no penetration. Goals are so unexpected that when it actually, really happens, players often disrobe.

[Enter Welsh accent.] "The Newcastle squad takes a commanding 1-0 lead, and the players, in a fit of unbridled joy, doff their sweaters."

Female teams keep their jerseys on, which may be just as well: Some Eastern European games are officiated with high-pitched whistles that only the players can hear.

Here is an unedited quote from the British Premier League:

"A nice ball by Beckwith, cool as a cucumber. Sidwell poses a nasty challenge, but there's a comfortable take up the wing, clever as you please."

They should just have Chip 'n Dale do the commentary:

"Tingling good fun, isn't it, chap?"

"Indeed, old chum. Indubitably."

Soccer might also gain fans if players weren't always weeping. Some of these guys roll on the ground long enough to put out a full-body fire. During the World Cup, a player -- and by that I mean thespian -- stayed down so long that ESPN showed the trainer tending the injury IN SLOW-MOTION. Compare to hockey, where players routinely finish games before realizing that they have lost a limb. So it goes.

Fans say that soccer suffers in the Nielsen ratings only for want of commercial breaks. Why, then, don't networks just cut away during play? As if anyone would notice.

"Welcome back to this hotly contested 0-0 tie. While you were away, you missed 16 brilliant passes."

Or soccer could just follow basketball's lead and drop the ads in subliminally...

"That free-throw was brought to you by Gatorade. The IBM inbound pass goes to Johnson, who has graciously tattooed the Nike swoosh symbol into his forehead."

One thing is certain: Soccer needs to be saved. So I have devised for your review a few amendments. I may not get there with you, but we, as a people, will restore soccer to the glory it knew when we were five.

Ahem.

1. Soccer fields will be half as long, and goals will be added to either sideline so that the game plays more like Chinese Checkers.

Stick with me.

2. Games will be played to deafening rock music inside an electric cage and be referred to in the press as "smackdowns."

3. During play, bikini girls will circle the field for no reason at all.

4. Instead of free kicks, referees will issue free punches.

5. Games will be 40 minutes long, no overtime. If goalies hold the ball for more than five seconds, the ball will explode.

6. Goals will be worth 50 points each ("final score: Wizards 2,000 - Galaxy 550").

Or we could use the Grateful Dead model and drug everyone in attendance...

"Whoa, man. It's like a beautiful dance. Scoring would only upset the perfection."

Purists may consider these changes extreme, but if soccer is to compete with satellite TV, it will have to be through the customary channels of sex and violence. Then and only then will it enjoy a rebirth in the marketplace and someday, God willing, have Janet Jackson flash us during its halftime show. Indubitably.

Posted by Jason Love at 6:09 PM

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Thanks to NSNC

Two snaps to The National Society of Newspaper Columnists for somehow, impossibly, outdoing itself at Philly 007. Philly News columnist Stu Bykofsky must be in with the Mafia, because the red carpet rolled whichever way we turned: lunch on a battleship, Eagles cheerleaders, Ben Franklin, our own subway car, personalized M&M's!

I even met my childhood hero, Dave Barry, who felt comfortable enough to tell me off. I was sharing how, for want of options, I keep re-reading his old work, which was starting to wear thin.

"F- off," said Dave. "Quit reading 'em. It's always about you, isn't it?"

It was like talking to Bill O'Reilly, only Dave was joking. (Earlier that day Bill had gotten to shouting at the audience and eventually stormed away.)

NSNC treated us to gourmet meals, never-ending cocktails, double-decker bus tours, a surround-sound presentation at the Constitution Center, a huggable Clarence Page, cartwheels in the hospitality suite...

Since it was Stu Bykofsky's goal to show us the real Philadelphia, as opposed to the one we see on "Cops," he will be cheered to hear this ...

On Sunday I left my wallet in the airport cab and found myself without I.D., credit cards, or food. All I had were two bars on my cell phone. After forgiving myself by name -- first, middle, and last -- I watched my airplane fly away and faced the world as a homeless man.

Would you know the whole town rose up to help?

A security guard gave me ten bucks to eat (I didn't eat the money; I used it to buy food). A cabbie contacted every driver in Philly and, over 24 hours, tracked down my wallet. A friend's father drove 40 minutes to pick me up, take me to dinner, provide shelter, and otherwise bear out my suspicion that people are basically good. Even Bill O'Reilly. Under all that shouting.

Posted by Jason Love at 5:54 PM

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June 13, 2007

Special Occasions

I missed a friend's Quinceanera (gulp). A Quinceanera is like a bat mitzvah, only with tortillas and beans. A Latina turns fifteen, dresses up in a full-length doily, and runs the gift gauntlet.

Now I have Gift Guilt, same as last Christmas when I baked cookies for everyone on planet earth except the milkman, who kindly left a present in my mailbox. So it goes.

Is it just me, or do "special occasions" happen every week? Birthdays, weddings, graduation, going-away, coming-home, Secretary's Day, Groundhog Day. What do you buy for a groundhog?

My children-aged relatives help me stay on top of things...

"Fifty-four days till my birthday. Have you started saving upWould you like an itemized list?"

And their parents -- my relations -- just giggle. I counterstrike by getting the children drum sets, police sirens, and sonic-boom zappers with Duracell batteries that keep going and going and going.

To defend against Gift Guilt, I now carry presents in my car. Maybe that's how Santa got started -- toting gifts around until he finally said, "To hell with it. There will be one day a year when everyone gets a present ... if they're good."

In my trunk there are Barbie Dolls, G.I. Joes, and other models to teach our children what's important in life. Couples get his-and-her presents, which of course are always for her.

Have you ever heard a man say, "Oh, hey, I've been waiting for one of those spa basket sets."

I'd buy gift certificates, but you can never get the price tags off those things.

Oompa loompa doompadee doo. I've got another puzzle for you...

How many times does a child graduate? I seem to miss work every other Wednesday to fling high school caps, Girl Scout berets, orthodontic head gear. There's pageantry for everything.

I even attended the birthday of a one-year-old. It was a surprise party because one-year-olds are surprised every time you appear from behind your own hands.

"What did I get for Johnny? A face! A face! A face!"

On Valentine's Day, Lexus proposed that a man buy for his sweetheart A LUXURY AUTOMOBILE! For the same woman who forbids him to buy the expensive tuna. We sure have come a long way from candies reading, "I heart you."

Think of all the women who were perfectly happy with their edible lingerie until they saw the neighbor's Valentine Car. Men, we should march on Lexus with crowbars and flaming maces ... "Remember the alimony!"

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Hallmark is twisting the dagger. Listen to this radio ad:

"Remember the day you were born?" Insert beating heart. "Of course you don't." Woman writhing in pain. "But I'll bet your mother does." Baby crying. "Hallmark: Because Mom deserves the very best."

I can't take it! Give me whatever you're selling! Two Lexi!

It's the birthdays that do you in, though, observing each year the achievement of not dying. Maybe that was a big deal in the Dark Ages, but these days smokers live to see 90.

"Hey, it's Mr. Carter's birthday ... again. What is he, 100, 200?"

Last year I bought Mr. Carter a plant. He still argues with it.

Oompa loompa doompadah dee. If you are wise you'll listen to me...

To manage the madness, I suggest the following modifications:

* All December birthdays to be transferred to August, a hot, humorless month with no holidays. December weddings will be a felony.

* Families to be limited to three birthday parties a year. Parents with many children -- and you know who you are -- can use a demerit system to choose the "winners."

* Hallmark to be rivaled by "Jack's Cards: When you only care enough to make a gesture."

* If couples divorce, a total recall of wedding presents, every last napkin ring and candle snuffer. A reverse registry will be provided.

We'll have to stop there because I'm running out the door. I have to buy a present for my nephew's graduation: The Busy Town Everything Beeps and Buzzes Total Chaos Play Set.

Like the Oompa Loompa doompadee dooooooo.

Posted by Jason Love at 4:58 PM

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June 5, 2007

WWF

The sport of choice for all the same guys who boycotted Brokeback Mountain...

Posted by Jason Love at 12:38 PM

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Australian Cemetery

Posted by Jason Love at 12:34 PM

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