Tag Archives: Sports

The Wave

America cannot consider itself a civilized nation until the scourge of the wave has been eliminated from sporting events. I do not care if you think it is a magical moment of community amongst fans. Any activity that leads to that much beer spilling can never be considered benevolent. No activity that involves unwarranted exercise can be considered joyous. The only possible benefit the wave has is the shaking of female bosoms caused by the rapid standing, but even on this account, the wave is organized all wrong. Everyone is facing the backside of everyone else. Instead of quivering tits, you get ass crack and back sweat. I came to watch sports, not to do rudimentary calisthenics while having my draft spilled to ghastly sights.

And let’s face it, after the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics no amount of mass coordinated movement will look cool again. Thanks China. So can we all agree that the wave is now unequivocally lame and desist from making asses of ourselves? If the Chinese want to prove how far they come by having thousands of people memorize basic actions and then perform them with slave-driver oversight type precision, that’s fine with me. They can have that honor. But this is American, the supposed land of cowboys and entrepreneurs – a country of self starting, independent thinkers – and the wave flies in the face of all of this. We are not a country of joiners; we are a nation of doers (and borrowers).

Anyhow, can we all hold off on doing the wave, at least until the Chinese call in our debts and we all have to learn Cantonese and synchronized box-crouching? That is all that I am asking.



The Super Bowl


I like football. I like watching football. But I hate the Super Bowl. There, the secret is out.

What was meant to be a sporting game has developed into a miserable spectacle. The game’s rules molested to fit in with a format concocted in a marketer’s wet dream. The cadence of football raped and unnaturally interrupted to maximize commercial time. The event itself staged in a dome or some unseasonably warm environment removing the excitement of watching the teams battle not only each other, but also the elements.

The Super Bowl has become an orgy of flat screen TVs blaring over-produced ads set to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Lindsey Lohan skiing in a bikini with a talking ferret on her shoulder—and all in an attempt to get me to switch to a different brand of chewing gum—is not entertainment; it’s intellectual torture. And I do not care that Ryan Seacrest scored an interview with Rachael Ray before the game. I want to watch football, not ads and a pageant of douche-bags and the sham industry that swirls around them.

All of this is then pared with a glut of junk food splayed out for the gormandizing masses. It’s Thanksgiving without any semblance of taste or reverence, a dissolute tradition based on glorified consumerism and excess. It is pure American, and purely disgusting. If you want to find me during the game, I’ll be doing the dignified thing: drinking in the kitchen and hording the guac and chips.




I have a problem. It’s very serious. I’m going to the University of Chicago vs. NYU basketball game tonight, and I can’t figure out how to stay pleasantly tipsy through the two-plus hours of sloppy comedy they pretend to be “basketball.” If I’m going to watch a group of nerds butcher the game so badly, I’m going to need more than a glass.

The obvious solution would be a flask. I own two. But I can’t stomach the idea of swigging vodka in the middle of a crowded gym that smells like sweat and college students. Or maybe there is a bigger problem: I just don’t like taking shots.

Shots seem like an integral part of the twenty-something experience. Bad day? Shot of whiskey. Goin’ clubbin’? Take tequila. At that horrible East Village bar you can get five shots for $10, but have fun fighting the punks for them. There are fancy shots and flaming shots and foul shots. A shot for every occasion. But not for me.

Shots and I go way back, and I think it’s time to call it quits. We had our fun when I was underage and stupid. But they led to far too many embarrassing situations, questionable men, and bad dance moves. Now 23 (and probably still stupid), I want liquor with more sophistication than a frat party. Especially before midnight.

After the emotional and intellectual torture of college, can you really blame me? I guess this is what “school spirit” gets you these days.