Sunday's Monday Charlie Brown

December 19, 2010: This is probably a good time to create an entry, as I've spent nearly the whole day lying at my computer and can use any new reason to keep from getting up. You see, I've been sick all weekend, and while I've found some solace in listening to football on the radio and playing at least 40 games of Freecell, my neck is starting to hurt and my body is telling me, "Arise, you fool. Arise and walk tonight!" (My body often speaks in the romantic jingo of an 18th century gentleman.)

Perhaps the first thing I should clarify is that my computer is on the ground, where I like it. I write lying down and, perhaps more often these days, I play Freecell lying down. I discovered the joy of this arrangement several years ago while in L.A., though it has nothing to do with L.A., except it sounds like it would, like it was something my cult leader recommended or something. Actually, it was ongoing back pain that motivated the innovation, and while my back is in much better shape these days, I still enjoy settling onto my stomach for some concentrated writing work, Freecell, or online pornography exploration. When I'm not out walking, scolding my children or reading Peanuts books in bed, this is where you'll find me.

Now, without going into too much detail, I am sick, and I can honestly say my mind isn't working as keenly as it often does. Further, a woman at work told me I looked "green," and while it's my favorite color, somehow it doesn't look good as my skin color. I can't exactly say what's wrong -- in fact, I really, really hate being asked what's wrong, i.e., "Do you have the flu?" I mean, how the f*** should I know. I don't go to doctors, because they'll just tell you anything to keep you quiet. I much prefer to suffer through my horrendous symptoms to spite them. I've got my pride, after all, and if I'm going to be sick, I intend to do it on my terms.

That aside, I want to be clear that I hate the New England Patriots -- a reprehensible team with a dour maggot of a coach and a dirty no-good liar for an owner. I'm also one of the few who remembers Boston's history of athletic racism, and being Sicilian I don't intend to forget it. Nor do I forgive the Irish for all the wrongs they've done us, despite how attractive I find their women, although the men all look like leprechauns. I'm not sure what my point was, except I think we need to remain wary about the whole New England region, which contains many Protestants, as well as people who drive pickup trucks.

By the way, did you know I hate Sunday, almost as much as I hate the Patriots. It depresses me immensely for reasons I won't bother recounting here. I just know Sunday will always be the same old Monday of sorts, but Monday is really more invigorating to me and happier than Sunday could ever be. That's part of why I'm depressed, but only part.

The bottom line is I can't decide what else I can eat tonight to try and fill my gaping God-shaped hole of emptiness, which is merely deepened by it being Sunday, by the Patriots' failure to lose more often, by the ongoing use of those annoying accents near Boston way, by my wretched neck and vague incontinence ... and more.

But I didn't want to make this a negative entry. Christmas is coming, after all, and the goose is indeed getting fat. Let's try and remember that ...

Baseball Blah-ugh!

November 5, 2009: Despite my excitement over the New York Yankeees being in the playoffs, their final victory yesterday left me feeling empty and depressed.

It stands to reason that the greater part of my interest in the games centered on the opportunity to distract myself from my feelings, and let me tell you it worked wonders. Night after night, I glued myself to that stupid blue screen and watched pitch after pitch, as if I could ever differentiate between them. When the Yankees led, I grew bored (and drifted over to the Food Network), sure it was no great challenge for them to walk their way through the playoffs. When they were losing I felt worry and wondered if there would ever again be hope for the salvation of the known universe.

I used to love playing baseball -- softball too -- and it's a sad substitute to be groping for any vicarious fun through a television set. I used to love watching the games, too, but now it's a depressing phony spectacle. There are no Earl Weavers or Billy Martins to vent emotions, kicking dirt on umpires and cursing with rabid zeal. The fans no longer mob the field and bring the lovely spontaneous chaos of reality. Television won't let that happen anymore.

Now when the players win the big game, they jump up and down in a cluster near the mound -- up and down, up and down, hop hop hop. They always look the exact same, no matter what team it is, as if they've studied films of how teams are supposed to celebrate victories and act accordingly. The players all make the same comments after the game. The faces all affect the same humble grit and bonehead spirit.

Another sad thing is the inevitable hats and shirts, which are rushed out of the winning dugouts before the umpires are even off the field -- prepared special hats to highlight the spontaneity of the surprise victory. Surely another batch was waiting in the losing team's dugout, too, but what becomes of those? And if that wasn't awful enough, literally before a minute had passed since the last out of yesterday's Yankee victory, Fox TV ran a commercial selling these same hats and shirts that were being handed out to the players.

Perhaps I'm being too critical. The truth is, the pointlessness of investing all those hours in staring at a blue screen may just finally be catching up with me. I'm beginning to realize that that time may have been better spent doing something more constructive -- playing Yahtzee with my kids, finally cutting my overgrown lawn, or perhaps studying pornography on the Internet.