I’m ringing in 2011 without a pulsating ringing in my head for the first time in many years. I’ve been thinking about this decision for quite some time now, and I’ve finally swallowed enough emasculating elixir to not only accept this less-than-titillating proclamation, but to also embrace it; I am not doing a damn thing when the ball drops.
It’s not that I’m not invigorated and intrigued by the notion that it’s a new year. I am. The calendar is a wonderful device, a filing cabinet in the mansions of our memories that organizes life experiences and attaches a number to them. Even for a jaded soul like my own, I understand and support the symbolic connotations ascribed the new year; a fresh start, a chance to set goals, perhaps make resolutions, and even erase some indiscretions or mistakes as “in the past.” There’s a redemptive and rejuvenating spirit that follows the literal turning of the page into the next year.
The only difference this year is that I’m not going to buy into the (generally self-prescribed) notion that I have to be pee-my-pants drunk at the stroke of midnight. I don’t have to find somebody to kiss, or in the absence of that, look for male friends secure enough in their sexuality and equally inept in finding a midnight mate, and then jokingly make out with them. Not that I’ve ever done that (in 2003).
I’m just gonna chill. I went to work today. I went out last night for a couple hours. I talked on the phone to an old friend for an hour. Shaving, putting on a nice shirt, putting on a hellacious buzz, and putting on a swag of false bravado in an effort to kiss someone I may or may not like is not going to change the perception I have of my own identity, at least not in the positive. But trying something new, by doing nothing, well that might just set a powerful precedent for my new year.
At this point you can rightfully say the only point that can be made by the decision to get my “sedentary on til the break a’ dawn” (working on a dance for this jig that’s somewhere between the Dougie and a one man electric slide) is that I’m a lazy loser. While there may indeed be merit to that point that could fill many volumes on many shelves, I’m not entertaining that more pessimistic perspective, because hey, this is my blog.
I’m thinking this might just be an opportunity to realize some self-development and growth many years after my body stopped growing (other than the backfat bone, which seemingly doubles in size every year) and my cognitive capacity stopped expanding (in fact, many years of new years style partying may have irrevocably limited my cranial transmission to max out in fourth gear). I’m hoping that the power of the human spirit to constantly evolve may be the only thing that will be enhanced in these years to come. What better way to start a new year than to actually be thinking clearly, and not just thinking about where the Tylenol is and how little energy I can expend to get the bottle into my hand. (“If I can just pull the coffee table towards me a foot, and knock the bottle over with my toe, and collect it with my feet, I won’t have to sit up!... shit, I need water…”)
This doesn’t mean I’m going teetotaler on that ass. The boys on the Myrtle trip will still get a healthy dose of me shirtless in 54 degree tropical weather this March. I’m sure a softball victory or two this summer will demand shots of tequila. And I know I’ll belt some off-key, misplaced lyrics to a few tunes on the jukebox in 2011. But those experiences will be organic. They will be natural parties. I’m just going to stay away from the most clichéd of the galas.
I’m not trying to be preachy with this stance either. Many people, young and old, will blast into the new year with great cheer, and genuinely enjoy the enchantment of the evening. But for me, for this year, it’s all been done, and I’m doing something new. In this postmodern interpretation, the only thing new is nothing.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
It's Not You, it's Me. But Actually it's You.
It's been about ten days now since "The Decision," LeBron James' prime time, hour long vasectomy of the Cleveland sports scene and by extension, much of Cleveland's psyche itself. We were in over our heads with him from the beginning, as we were the self loathing and deprecating kid kicking it with the proverbial dime piece. But like many dime pieces who have been revered and shown unrestrained adulation for so long, beneath the beautiful exterior lies plenty of ugly, and more insecurity than you or I, the out-of-our-league Clevelander, could fathom.
There are very few things in life that had given me as much unadulterated joy as LeBron and the Cavs had over the past few years. Like most of us, I viewed the King as our savior, the hometown kid that would satisfy our craving for a winner. Winning would mean more than that, it would mean validation and vindication. Respect. And LeBron was our ticket, so we thought.
But the signs were there from the beginning. He never reciprocated the love we gave him. The powder toss and points to the sky were not his attempts to connect with his hometown fans, it was further patenting of an image, of his (the en vogue term) brand. He was distant and perpetually aloof, treating his hometown hero status as a burden and never an opportunity, and certainly not a responsibility. The Yankee hat at the 2007 Indians playoff game said it all; I'm NOT one of you. His failure to recruit players to Cleveland during his tenure was most damning, and leads to some hurtful speculative conclusions; he didn't want to win in Cleveland.
LeBron never let an opportunity pass to remind people that he was from Akron, not Cleveland. We know now that was less about his affinity for the Rubber City than it was a defensive mechanism to further justify a decision he had made previously and perhaps as soon as the lottery ping pong ball bounced the Cavs' way. He was from Akron, which might as well have been Sacramento, and no geographical connotations could steer you away from the fact that Akron is not Cleveland.
I never thought LeBron was stupid, but now I do. He's a stupid liar with very little soul. The disingenuous claim that he made up his mind the morning of the infamous "Decision" made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. That was a lie, and a poorly veiled one at that. A stupid lie. Whatever, there are a lot of stupid liars. But his absence of remorse, the lack of self-awareness from someone so self absorbed, that's what still gets at me. Don't you get it, dude? You didn't love us, but we loved you, and by all rights you were free to leave. But LeBron didn't view his choice for what it was, the stripping of a less than confident city of one of its last shreds of self worth. He didn't let us down gently, he dumped us in front of all the cool kids, videotaped it, uploaded it to youtube, and set it as our home screen image. It was a celebration of ego, and a final cruel statement; "I am bigger than your measly little city, bitch."
But we dig deeper, and as we realize that the genesis to this decision was closer to his birth than it was July 8th, 2010, it gets all the more troubling. We know he quit on our city, but did he do something that in the world of sports is much more unforgivable than that, did he quit on his team? I'm not completely sure he did, but the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced he might have. If he had bad games and was irritable and insufferable afterwards, that would be one thing, and it would have showed he cared. But his actions and words during and after the Boston playoff series (I'd call it the Boston Massacre but I think that's taken) indicate the exact opposite. He was uber-defensive, saying he spoiled the fans (and indeed he did-- almost as much as we spoiled him).
But enough about him, and back to us. To the bitter end, we were there, and despite all the signs, we were faithful.
(Interlude: Cue REO Speedwagon... "Heard it from a friend, who, heard it from a friend, who, heard it from another you'd been messin around...")
And so he's gone. But like the outmatched boxer refusing to stay on the canvas, or me after Greg Rustad drains another three pointer in my eye, we'll refuse to admit that he got the best of us. Maybe it's merely a product of generations of bad news and ridicule, but Cleveland, ignorant and insignificant on the national stage, doesn't go away. So now we're the drunkard on the rebound, but I'll tell you this, we ain't gonna leave the party.
He wasn't that hot anyways, and his personality sucked. Excuse me, I'm going to sloppily make out with Carlos Santana, Josh Cribbs, and JJ Hickson now. LeBron probably took away our dignity, but I'll take defiant pride and a touch of soul any day of the week. Colt McCoy? You had me at hello, and I'm willing to experiment but do easy on me down there.
Viva la Cleve
postscript: I signed up for twitter a couple days before LeBron did (a national wire story in fact, the headline reading "LeBron Starts Twitter Account"). So stupidly clinging to his every word still, I elected to have his tweets come to my phone directly in the form of a text message. Anyhow, the night of the decision, twisting and turning like the scorned lover I was, I was finally able to fall asleep at about 1am. That is, until my phone beeped at 3:30am. It was LeBron, @KingJames, thanking all of his "fans" for their support as he arrived in Miami. He added insult to insomnia, but whatever. I'll be singing Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" by the fall. Adios, LeBron, it turns out we hardly knew ye.
There are very few things in life that had given me as much unadulterated joy as LeBron and the Cavs had over the past few years. Like most of us, I viewed the King as our savior, the hometown kid that would satisfy our craving for a winner. Winning would mean more than that, it would mean validation and vindication. Respect. And LeBron was our ticket, so we thought.
But the signs were there from the beginning. He never reciprocated the love we gave him. The powder toss and points to the sky were not his attempts to connect with his hometown fans, it was further patenting of an image, of his (the en vogue term) brand. He was distant and perpetually aloof, treating his hometown hero status as a burden and never an opportunity, and certainly not a responsibility. The Yankee hat at the 2007 Indians playoff game said it all; I'm NOT one of you. His failure to recruit players to Cleveland during his tenure was most damning, and leads to some hurtful speculative conclusions; he didn't want to win in Cleveland.
LeBron never let an opportunity pass to remind people that he was from Akron, not Cleveland. We know now that was less about his affinity for the Rubber City than it was a defensive mechanism to further justify a decision he had made previously and perhaps as soon as the lottery ping pong ball bounced the Cavs' way. He was from Akron, which might as well have been Sacramento, and no geographical connotations could steer you away from the fact that Akron is not Cleveland.
I never thought LeBron was stupid, but now I do. He's a stupid liar with very little soul. The disingenuous claim that he made up his mind the morning of the infamous "Decision" made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. That was a lie, and a poorly veiled one at that. A stupid lie. Whatever, there are a lot of stupid liars. But his absence of remorse, the lack of self-awareness from someone so self absorbed, that's what still gets at me. Don't you get it, dude? You didn't love us, but we loved you, and by all rights you were free to leave. But LeBron didn't view his choice for what it was, the stripping of a less than confident city of one of its last shreds of self worth. He didn't let us down gently, he dumped us in front of all the cool kids, videotaped it, uploaded it to youtube, and set it as our home screen image. It was a celebration of ego, and a final cruel statement; "I am bigger than your measly little city, bitch."
But we dig deeper, and as we realize that the genesis to this decision was closer to his birth than it was July 8th, 2010, it gets all the more troubling. We know he quit on our city, but did he do something that in the world of sports is much more unforgivable than that, did he quit on his team? I'm not completely sure he did, but the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced he might have. If he had bad games and was irritable and insufferable afterwards, that would be one thing, and it would have showed he cared. But his actions and words during and after the Boston playoff series (I'd call it the Boston Massacre but I think that's taken) indicate the exact opposite. He was uber-defensive, saying he spoiled the fans (and indeed he did-- almost as much as we spoiled him).
But enough about him, and back to us. To the bitter end, we were there, and despite all the signs, we were faithful.
(Interlude: Cue REO Speedwagon... "Heard it from a friend, who, heard it from a friend, who, heard it from another you'd been messin around...")
And so he's gone. But like the outmatched boxer refusing to stay on the canvas, or me after Greg Rustad drains another three pointer in my eye, we'll refuse to admit that he got the best of us. Maybe it's merely a product of generations of bad news and ridicule, but Cleveland, ignorant and insignificant on the national stage, doesn't go away. So now we're the drunkard on the rebound, but I'll tell you this, we ain't gonna leave the party.
He wasn't that hot anyways, and his personality sucked. Excuse me, I'm going to sloppily make out with Carlos Santana, Josh Cribbs, and JJ Hickson now. LeBron probably took away our dignity, but I'll take defiant pride and a touch of soul any day of the week. Colt McCoy? You had me at hello, and I'm willing to experiment but do easy on me down there.
Viva la Cleve
postscript: I signed up for twitter a couple days before LeBron did (a national wire story in fact, the headline reading "LeBron Starts Twitter Account"). So stupidly clinging to his every word still, I elected to have his tweets come to my phone directly in the form of a text message. Anyhow, the night of the decision, twisting and turning like the scorned lover I was, I was finally able to fall asleep at about 1am. That is, until my phone beeped at 3:30am. It was LeBron, @KingJames, thanking all of his "fans" for their support as he arrived in Miami. He added insult to insomnia, but whatever. I'll be singing Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" by the fall. Adios, LeBron, it turns out we hardly knew ye.
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