Nobody remembers the 2005 movie The Weather Man. One of Nicolas Cage‘s best movies, featuring actual gravitas and emotion instead of ghosts or riders, the somewhat macabre flick actually nails the thirtysomething male mind, at least in part.
In one scene, Cage‘s character leaves his Chicago apartment to pick up a gallon of milk or something. During his entire walk, he vacillates between fantasies about a jogger and other, random thoughts bouncing around his noggin. He almost forgets exactly what errand he actually runs. (In fact, he may actually forget it, I can’t remember. No, the irony isn’t lost.)
But that’s reality; and Cage is me (Also ironic, if you’ve ever seen a photo). Only a scant five years ago, my mind could partition off the little things, the major things, the important things, the ridiculous and the sublime. Now, I have to pretty much scribble down each and every thought as they occur, or they’re lost forever. Memorized grocery lists are totally forgotten, my hands are ink-stained with smeared notes left to myself, I always neglect the prescriptions at Walgreen’s, and I just went to the fucking pet store and forgot to get something for the pet.
How on earth does this addled male dementia develop? I’m OK with my mind no longer finding room for the career trajectory of Adam Oates (though I loved him on NHLPA ’93), but seriously, how could my Quantum-Leap, swiss-cheesed memory jumble possibly happen?
I’m no less intelligent. I’m much more productive; refined at nearly all tasks from writing to conversing to household chores to sex. I somehow found the time and drive to write a novel and adopt a cat, and I guess I’m even pretty good at my job. And I keep up this blog for all six of you. But feed me a twelve pack of Harp’s and on Monday I still can’t remember who sang Mambo No. 5, much less the Pythagorean theorem. (Hint: Lou Bega. And the sum of the squares of the two sides of an Isosceles blah blah blah.)
But how could I be expected to remember trivial stuff like the words to Family Ties‘ theme song, or Joe Dumars‘ alma mater, anyway (McNeese State)? Not with such cerebral gems in my cortex as Monday’s:
- I wear lots of shirts with pockets now. At dinner Saturday night, I absently began picking what looked like peanut crumbs out of the shirt pocket. My friends looked perplexed, and I was too — I had no idea how they got there. However, this morning, eating Rice Krispies, I noticed as I elevated the bowl to chomp my breakfast and keep an eye on Night Court, a few stray Krispies tumbled into my shirt pocket while I maneuvered the spoon around the bowl, hoping to soak the entire kernels. Hmm, that must be it, I thought. I clearly was on to something. Of course, late in the day, in the bathroom at work, I discovered half a Dorito in the pocket, so clearly I’m just a fucking slob. Some mystery.
- Is there a televised ESPN weeknight game that Jim Kelly doesn’t attend? Shouldn’t a Hall of Famer be busier? I struggle to think how he’d shuttle from sideline to sideline if Miami (Fl.) somehow played Buffalo.
- About time Syracuse fired disastrous head coach Greg Robinson. Doomed from the start, Cuse’s USC-imported athletic director hand-picked Greg – and watched an entire fan base turn on a storied program immediately upon the poor schmoe’s arrival. Not good. Forget Robinson’s lack of head-coaching experience, zero ties to the northeast or awareness of Syracuse history. He bounced around from offensive juggernaut to offensive juggernaut (Denver Broncos to Kansas City Chiefs to Texas to Syracuse) as a defensive coordinator, only all his teams were markedly terrible at defense. That is, on some of the most memorable, revolutionary offensive squads of all time, Robinson‘s defenses routinely loomed as some of the worst of all time. Good Lord. Syracuse shouldn’t even let this joker coach his last two games; but next week’s is against Charlie Weis, so the empathetic administration probably wants Robinson to simply enjoy the experience of coaching against an equal for once in his life.
- You heard it here first: Kerry Wood will not be done as a Cub. Oh, I know what I said – but I think this is all a ploy, planned by Jim Hendry to strong-arm Ryan Dempster (Yeah, I know, the motive isn’t clear). I see Wood still unsigned by a team on Dec. 1, and the Cubs then offering arbitration, with Wood accepting the one-year deal before Dec. 7. Sure, it seems remote – but it wouldn’t hurt the Cubs, or Wood – who still has durability issues – to partner for one more year. Maybe I’m too clingy.
- Almost daily, my early morning involves a thrilling fantasy dream involving Ms. Faded Glory doing neat stuff she doesn’t habitually do, right before the shrieking alarm rouses me. During each Olympian exploit, my subconscious continually refreshes me “Wake up early, tomorrow morning, this could be real!” Of course, my subconscious is tricking me, because I never actually wake up on time. Which explains why I spent my last snooze break embroiled in a tussle with Sean Penn over who got the top bunk in our dorm room at NYU. Luckily I had to hangglide to transfer student orientation in the Bermuda Triangle, so it was moot.
- Yes, I now completely recall all my dreams. And wow, are they fucking stupid.
- I just watched my DVR of this week’s Saturday Night Live - was the satirical institution making some sort of gay statement decrying California’s Prop 8? Each and every sketch contained tangible homoerotic overtones – from four guys’ singing in between gay anecdotes, to meathead turnpike attendants offering subtle Proposition 8 commentary; to Andy Samberg painting a fully nude Paul Rudd, and the slurpy, kissing family. The show was fairly funny – but the theme was palpable – too much so to be completely coincidental. NBC must plan to re-air this on Bravo, ad nauseum.
- Speaking of sort-of-which, I’m watching a fairly entertaining Browns-Bills game (The mute’s on; I have no need to listen to Tony Kornheiser fawn over Trent-freaking-Edwards while complaining incessantly about the weather), and I’m wishing the Bills trotted out 1974 throwbacks, just so they could offer an attractive counterpart to the Browns’ gorgeous visiting uniforms. Instead of caring about the game, I could simply gaze at two of the best uniform designs ever. And now I’ve said too much; each time I call the Browns’ uniforms ‘gorgeous,’ Ms. Faded Glory bookmarks a divorce attorney.
- Bob Sanders now has missed 33 out of a possible 74 games as a Colt, and I can’t decide if this adds to his legend or detracts. The Texans always play the Colts tough, and I wasn’t surprised with a hard-fought Colts win. I won’t say anything stupid like, Here Come the Horsies, however, they are almost through the killer stretch of their schedule, with a chance to go 4-2 over their last six. Maybe luck is turning? Of course, San Diego derailed their season twice last year – Indianapolis proved fully mortal after the bizarre Week 11 loss in S.D. last season.
- Speaking of division rivals, the Titans outlasted the mentally bankrupt Jacksonville Jaguars, and precisely zero commentators made the apt comparison – the Titans are the Jaguars; the spitting image, only featuring an actual, competent head coach.
- Say, these random lists doubling as columns sure are easy to write, Peter King! Especially the dated pop culture references! You know what I’ve been jonesing for? A show set in Manhattan, which whimsically details the lives of six fresh, youngish suitemates. The other day, perusing the Network of Turners, I found it – called, simply, Friends! What genius! Check and mate. Start polishing that mantel, Mr. Schwimmer.
- So here we are. Six years into this blog, and I’m totally rambling and unleashing horrendously trivial thoughts, nary a common thread among them. Not even a homoerotic one. You’ve probably already guessed the worst, however. That’s right, I didn’t create a rough draft, so I have fully forgotten three crucial thoughts. Guess that brilliance will have to wait for another day.
