Thursday, May 21, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
In Which I Am Dragged Kicking and Screaming From the Womb of Inactivity
So, at last, Eric makes his return, only to waste the world's time with sports-talk. Here we are in the midst of a global financial crisis, with barely-stable nuclear regimes threatening to collapse and bring down all of society with them, and Eric decides to respond to all this fear and uncertainty by making a definitive list of how much he likes the respective members of the Portland Trailblazers. And as if that were not enough, he goes on to present his predictions for how the upcoming base-ball season will pan out, although the voices clamoring for such input amounted to pretty much just one: his own.
But I will grant him this foray into idle speculation, if only because as I have mentioned before, the blog is indeed a tool of self-aggrandizement. Eric himself has even copped to this. Who am I, a Blog-Master myself, to pass judgment on he?
A hypocrite, that's who, and judgment I shall pass. You, sir, are a self-obsessed fool.
Ah, that felt good. It has been many months since I have been presented with material to mock and deride, and it thrills me to no end. At this very moment strange stirrings are being felt in my nether-regions which I will have to attend to shortly. But first, there is one small matter to deal with, and that is my own version of self-aggrandizement, which is inextricably linked to the peg-taking-down of one Eric Walkingshaw.
Eric's post on baseball got me thinking: it has been some time now that I have been under the spell of that grand game called football in most parts of the world, and soccer here in the good old U.S. of A. For the last seven years or so I have become completely seduced by it, seeking it out in whatever form I can find and reading about it in as much detail as I possibly can. With the arrival (or re-birth, some might say) of the local Seattle Sounders, I have become irretrievably entangled in its web, and it can easily be said that in many ways, there simply is no other game for me.
Even as the new baseball season opens with all its pomp and circumstance, I have been too busy following the Sounders and indeed the whole of the recently-opened MLS season; I have, after many a year of fruitless efforts, finally fully embraced its hard-tackling, mistake-ridden ways. Couple the Sounders' surprising successes with Liverpool's sudden resurgence across the pond, and I simply have no time nor inclination to pay any heed to the Mariners and their haphazard ways, awesome Japanese superstars or no. And, over the weekend, as I spent hour upon hour watching various soccer matches and their attendant highlights on the Internet, I had a eureka moment that I never previously thought possible: in many ways, the average baseball game, in comparison to the average football match, is, quite honestly, boring.
This is only a big deal in my mind because one of the key arguments of football (see how readily I slip into the more sensible nomenclature?) detractors is that it's so slow, and boring, and nothing happens, and blah blah blah whine moan piddle. Yet these same people will extol the virtues of baseball, that timeless pastime, with its...three-hour snoozefests replete with constant stoppages in the action and pauses for increasingly annoying commercial breaks.
Don't get me wrong; I still much enjoy the sport of baseball itself, but as a spectator? I much prefer the constant ebb and flow of a football match, punctuated by the scoring of a goal, and interrupted only by half-time and the occasional on-field injury. I still watch and will still watch the odd baseball game, but only in bits and pieces; even at the stadium my attention is diverted by conversation or food-gathering. But for football I will park myself in my seat and watch intently, with no inclination to do otherwise.
In all honesty, I know Eric to be "soccer" fan as well, and so this may not in any way offend him or push his buttons. But it has been a long time and perhaps this gap between mind-duels has softened my edges. Perhaps it is not annihilation and domination I seek but simply a victory on my own terms, a common realization of differing ideals and opinions. There is even the slight possibility that my previous incarceration by his robot-loving hands has defeated my spirit. Whatever the case, in this instance, there will be no gauntlet-throwing, no wild accusations or fist-shaking declarations of anger. There will only be my semi-dismissal of his chosen sport, an off-hand crack about robots (stupid heartless machines), and most importantly, a few paragraphs where I get talk about myself for once and not His Large-Nosed Majesty.
And by-the-by, Travis Outlaw? Fears and distrusts robots with every slam-dunking fiber of his body. Also, if I recall correctly, loves chalupas.
But I will grant him this foray into idle speculation, if only because as I have mentioned before, the blog is indeed a tool of self-aggrandizement. Eric himself has even copped to this. Who am I, a Blog-Master myself, to pass judgment on he?
A hypocrite, that's who, and judgment I shall pass. You, sir, are a self-obsessed fool.
Ah, that felt good. It has been many months since I have been presented with material to mock and deride, and it thrills me to no end. At this very moment strange stirrings are being felt in my nether-regions which I will have to attend to shortly. But first, there is one small matter to deal with, and that is my own version of self-aggrandizement, which is inextricably linked to the peg-taking-down of one Eric Walkingshaw.
Eric's post on baseball got me thinking: it has been some time now that I have been under the spell of that grand game called football in most parts of the world, and soccer here in the good old U.S. of A. For the last seven years or so I have become completely seduced by it, seeking it out in whatever form I can find and reading about it in as much detail as I possibly can. With the arrival (or re-birth, some might say) of the local Seattle Sounders, I have become irretrievably entangled in its web, and it can easily be said that in many ways, there simply is no other game for me.
Even as the new baseball season opens with all its pomp and circumstance, I have been too busy following the Sounders and indeed the whole of the recently-opened MLS season; I have, after many a year of fruitless efforts, finally fully embraced its hard-tackling, mistake-ridden ways. Couple the Sounders' surprising successes with Liverpool's sudden resurgence across the pond, and I simply have no time nor inclination to pay any heed to the Mariners and their haphazard ways, awesome Japanese superstars or no. And, over the weekend, as I spent hour upon hour watching various soccer matches and their attendant highlights on the Internet, I had a eureka moment that I never previously thought possible: in many ways, the average baseball game, in comparison to the average football match, is, quite honestly, boring.
This is only a big deal in my mind because one of the key arguments of football (see how readily I slip into the more sensible nomenclature?) detractors is that it's so slow, and boring, and nothing happens, and blah blah blah whine moan piddle. Yet these same people will extol the virtues of baseball, that timeless pastime, with its...three-hour snoozefests replete with constant stoppages in the action and pauses for increasingly annoying commercial breaks.
Don't get me wrong; I still much enjoy the sport of baseball itself, but as a spectator? I much prefer the constant ebb and flow of a football match, punctuated by the scoring of a goal, and interrupted only by half-time and the occasional on-field injury. I still watch and will still watch the odd baseball game, but only in bits and pieces; even at the stadium my attention is diverted by conversation or food-gathering. But for football I will park myself in my seat and watch intently, with no inclination to do otherwise.
In all honesty, I know Eric to be "soccer" fan as well, and so this may not in any way offend him or push his buttons. But it has been a long time and perhaps this gap between mind-duels has softened my edges. Perhaps it is not annihilation and domination I seek but simply a victory on my own terms, a common realization of differing ideals and opinions. There is even the slight possibility that my previous incarceration by his robot-loving hands has defeated my spirit. Whatever the case, in this instance, there will be no gauntlet-throwing, no wild accusations or fist-shaking declarations of anger. There will only be my semi-dismissal of his chosen sport, an off-hand crack about robots (stupid heartless machines), and most importantly, a few paragraphs where I get talk about myself for once and not His Large-Nosed Majesty.
And by-the-by, Travis Outlaw? Fears and distrusts robots with every slam-dunking fiber of his body. Also, if I recall correctly, loves chalupas.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
In Which I Am Given Precious Little to Work With
Don't call it a hibernation.
Or do. I don't care. It is true that I have been away for some time, and by "been away," I mean "right here, doing nothing."
In my defense, however, I must say that Sir Walkingshaw has not taken full advantage of this opportunity. A full three months or so of consequence-free blog-posting? It's like the Summer of Love, and poor old Eric is stuck inside learning how to play the flute.
It has indeed been awhile; my double-entendres have gotten rusty.
I would go into detail to explain/justify my absence, but I find there is no need. Beyond UN-style non-binding resolutions and something called a "Wordle," it seems Eric has also spent some time alone in his own lair, doing God only knows what (assumption: training attack robots to focus their laser-beam eyes on a crude effigy of yours truly). I would return triumphantly with an incisive, witty take-down of Eric's recent postings, but alas, what could even the greatest of wordsmiths do with a "Wordle?" It is, in its own inimitable way, beyond reproach. And far be it from me to discourage Eric from his promises to occupy his time with activities other than plotting the downfall of mankind.
And yet, I cannot proclaim victory (actually, yes I can--victory is Mine!). No, no, it is hollow, meaningless, a husk. I have won nothing. Our mutual disappearances are, at best, the blog-battle equivalent of a 0-0 draw, minus the excitement. I have a heavy suspicion that Eric's time away from this blood-stained, metal-strewn battleground has been far more productive than my own, that he shall emerge, whenever he chooses to do so, a much wiser and stronger man than myself. And this fills me with a bitter rage that burns hotter than the glowing embers of a dying robot's energy core.
But what am I to do? Without my foil, I am at a loss. I am a balloon untethered, adrift from the finger of its owner. Where, and at whom, shall I direct all this dangerous energy?
The short answer is myself. The long answer is also myself, I just say it really slowly.
This is a blog, after all, and while I fought the good fight valiantly, I cannot tame this beast much longer. A blog yearns to be narcissistic and introspective. A blog's natural state is one of navel-gazing and self-aggrandizement. While I have ridden the coattails of Eric's blog rather successfully, his recent scorched-Earth policy has left me with no choice but to resort to cannibalism. That is a pretty sketchy metaphor, but in this blog's new era, that will be par for the course. There is no room for petard-hoisting in the Theater of the Self.
There is a shred of decency left in me, however, that resists the urge to head down this ugly path. It wants instead to grasp onto something--hope, is it called?--and await our nemesis' return. And since I am such a weak-willed (and weak-armed) man, I relent, to a degree. What shall follow in the days and weeks to come will be about me, as it must be, but it will be about me as I stand in relation to that dark, devious being down Oregon way; how I came to be the way I am, in such stark opposition to him and all he stands for (except baseball, which we are both rather fond of).
It goes without saying that robots will have much to do with it all, as they do with so much else.
Or do. I don't care. It is true that I have been away for some time, and by "been away," I mean "right here, doing nothing."
In my defense, however, I must say that Sir Walkingshaw has not taken full advantage of this opportunity. A full three months or so of consequence-free blog-posting? It's like the Summer of Love, and poor old Eric is stuck inside learning how to play the flute.
It has indeed been awhile; my double-entendres have gotten rusty.
I would go into detail to explain/justify my absence, but I find there is no need. Beyond UN-style non-binding resolutions and something called a "Wordle," it seems Eric has also spent some time alone in his own lair, doing God only knows what (assumption: training attack robots to focus their laser-beam eyes on a crude effigy of yours truly). I would return triumphantly with an incisive, witty take-down of Eric's recent postings, but alas, what could even the greatest of wordsmiths do with a "Wordle?" It is, in its own inimitable way, beyond reproach. And far be it from me to discourage Eric from his promises to occupy his time with activities other than plotting the downfall of mankind.
And yet, I cannot proclaim victory (actually, yes I can--victory is Mine!). No, no, it is hollow, meaningless, a husk. I have won nothing. Our mutual disappearances are, at best, the blog-battle equivalent of a 0-0 draw, minus the excitement. I have a heavy suspicion that Eric's time away from this blood-stained, metal-strewn battleground has been far more productive than my own, that he shall emerge, whenever he chooses to do so, a much wiser and stronger man than myself. And this fills me with a bitter rage that burns hotter than the glowing embers of a dying robot's energy core.
But what am I to do? Without my foil, I am at a loss. I am a balloon untethered, adrift from the finger of its owner. Where, and at whom, shall I direct all this dangerous energy?
The short answer is myself. The long answer is also myself, I just say it really slowly.
This is a blog, after all, and while I fought the good fight valiantly, I cannot tame this beast much longer. A blog yearns to be narcissistic and introspective. A blog's natural state is one of navel-gazing and self-aggrandizement. While I have ridden the coattails of Eric's blog rather successfully, his recent scorched-Earth policy has left me with no choice but to resort to cannibalism. That is a pretty sketchy metaphor, but in this blog's new era, that will be par for the course. There is no room for petard-hoisting in the Theater of the Self.
There is a shred of decency left in me, however, that resists the urge to head down this ugly path. It wants instead to grasp onto something--hope, is it called?--and await our nemesis' return. And since I am such a weak-willed (and weak-armed) man, I relent, to a degree. What shall follow in the days and weeks to come will be about me, as it must be, but it will be about me as I stand in relation to that dark, devious being down Oregon way; how I came to be the way I am, in such stark opposition to him and all he stands for (except baseball, which we are both rather fond of).
It goes without saying that robots will have much to do with it all, as they do with so much else.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)