Lost in LOST
Hey everybody. Remember us? Law & Order? Been on for 20 years? Last episode is tonight? Ring a bell? We’re on an island too, ya know. Yes, we’ve been making new episodes. 450 of them. Ya know what? Nevermind. Keifer, let’s go where we’re appreciated. Goodbye.
Ugly Mugging
I’ve realized something after taking my kickboxing class. If I was ever mugged by someone on the streets, I would not only lose a fight, but look absolutely ridiculous. I punch like a fucking girl. Especially while doing squats. I looked at myself in the mirror for a greater part of an hour and realized that I would be an embarrassment to anyone actually trying to take my wallet. And if I was ever involved in a fight that lasted 47 minutes, I would most definitely give up. Unless Get Down Tonight by K.C. and the Sunshine Band is playing. If that’s the case, I think I could kick anybody’s ass. As long as I’ve stretched for 15 minutes prior to the mugging.
Still Standing Right Here…
Every once in a while, I’m reminded that I’m a 35-year old man who never got into a steady workout regimen. Today was such a day. There was a moment where I needed to take out the fullback in my full-contact flag football game. If you watch football enough, you understand this concept. It is often the responsibility of some linebacker or strong safety to take out the blocker so that someone else may have a direct line to the ball-carrier. If I decide to pull a Corbin-Bernsen-Major-League-Olay move and don’t get the ball-carrier or the blocker, that blocker will be free to go on to the next guy with my color jersey who actually has testicles.
So I was the first one to the scene on this particular running play and had to take out the fullback. Now, my technique isn’t exactly the impressive muscle-rippling collision you would see from a Brian Dawkins or Troy Palamolu. My technique often sends me flying through the air backwards trying to figure out which body part to strategically land on to minimize the pain I will be in for the rest of the week. It is not the most intimidating or technically sound technique, but effective nonetheless, as the blocker is now preoccupied with making sure his roommate will be able to upload that play to youtube before the game even ends. This is how I earned the nickname “Speed Bump” back in high school. I would try to hang on to the running back for dear life until somebody with a 50-something number on their jersey caught up to us to finish the job. Anyway, I’ve now taken out the blocker, when in strolls Mr. Right Place Right Time to get the guy’s flag for a 2-yard gain. And all I can hear as I’m lying on the ground checking my internal organs for unnatural shifting is “Nice flag, Jamie.” Yes Jamie, great job. Now how many fingers is the ref holding up?
I take the Marc train back home every once in a while when I have shit to do in DC and don’t feel like figuring out where I’m allowed to park and how the hell to pay for it. I’ve now been told on 3 separate occasions while putting my feet up on the seats that by order of policy, A) I had to take my shoes off, B) I had to leave my shoes on, and C) I wasn’t allowed to put my feet on the seats at all. I’m starting to think they don’t really have a policy at all. Or if they do, it states “Tell the patrons to do whatever the fuck you want” or something to that effect. This is why people own cars and drive to work.
So I need to revisit this Tony Reali situation and I’m bringing you all with me. Since my original website (blog) post yesterday about our random encounter (and accompanying twitter tweets), I’ve somehow earned the respect of His Hornness, or at least his interest in 140-character increments. It’s amazing how far you can get when you compliment a guy’s sweater and publicly admit to stalking him. It earned me a shout out to over 72,000 twitter folk. Which is approximately equivalent to 5 ½ actual people. Which is still more people than visit my website (blog). So that is my newest brush with fame and by far my best usage of my twitter account.
Also, Tony Reali seems like a real stand up guy and I’m very excited our relationship has gone to the next level. This will test my ability to act appropriately around a celebrity. Even given the guise of the internet and an almost infinite amount of time to contemplate each response, I still feel this feeling that I used to get around Katie McAllister back in high school (Why not? That cat’s probably been out of the bag long enough anyway). Maybe I should just get drunk before I log onto twitter now. That seems reasonable.
Anyway, my childhood dream of getting on ESPN has a much better chance of coming true in the form of a tweet than in the Eagles defensive backfield now, so this is what I’m relegated to. Odds are long. Wish me luck.
Last night was a pretty average night that ended in a Tony Reali sighting. I’m not the kind of guy that gets 
starstruck, or at least I’m not the kind of guy who admits to getting starstruck, but I don’t even know how to act around hot bartenders and still get strangely intimidated by high school athletes at age 35, let alone real live famous people. I don’t necessarily feel that I’m inferior to these celebrities, or at least I don’t admit to it, but I just don’t know how to act around these celeb folk.
We sponsored a weight lifting competition a few weeks back with guest judge Brenden Ayanbadejo and I didn’t know how to act around him either. My goal was not to treat him like he was any different than anyone else in order to make him feel more welcome. So I treated him like I’d have treated anyone else and pretty much didn’t talk to him at all. But in this case, I was aware of it. Which makes it ignoring rather than indifference. So I’m apparently a dick to celebrities. But at least just a passive, flaccid dick. Not a… well, you get the point.
So last night, it all happened kind of fast. I was downstairs in this bar after the Speakeasy show with apparently a bunch of guys and girls who don’t watch nearly as much sports television as I do, which is pretty much going to always be the case unless Kevin, Russ or a professional sports writer is there. I saw him and he actually said something to somebody either in our group or to our waitress, who was part of our group by now. My brain searched the database of faces and voices and put it all together about 4 seconds after transmission who it was. He was already gone and up the stairs by the time I knew who he was and honestly, that’s probably the best scenario because I still haven’t thought of anything witty to say and I’ve had a night to sleep on it.
Tony apparently goes in there a lot and the waitress, seeing the vague look of recognition in my face as he walked by and disappeared up the stairs, tried to curb my enthusiasm as to not chase away any of his future business. The interaction went like this. “[confused look on my face]” “Shh.” “Hey –” “Shhhh.” “But… who –” “SHHHHH!” “That was Tony Reali!” “OK. Chill.” “I follow him on twitter. I FOLLOW YOU ON TWITTER.” I said this loud enough so that I doubt he really heard me but there was a small possibility that he did. So in 3 weeks, I’ve graduated from passive dick to passive aggressive dick. I’ll refrain from using a euphemism for that.
How close are you supposed to be to somebody before you say hi to them? Physically, that is. Emotionally is a topic probably best covered by a therapist with credentials on an individual basis. When walking down a long street, recognizing someone from a distance, at what point should I acknowledge their existence? I know you’re supposed to wait until you see the whites of their eyes before you try to shoot them in battle, but what of the people who have sunglasses or abnormally large pupils? I don’t feel that these people deserve any more or less attention. And really, I don’t think almost any of them deserve to get shot.
Let’s just talk specifically about two people walking at each other from a distance on the same side of the street, because walking perpendicular to one another or crossing on opposite sides of the street or being on the teacups at Six Flags carry too many variables to discuss. OK. You see him or her. All that is really required of your relationship at this point in time is maybe a little hello and some colorful “Ah. Went with the brown belt today, I see” type of bullshit comment with an appropriate bullshit reply. This interaction takes a maximum of 7 seconds if performed properly. However, engaged too late and you’ll find yourself turning around or stopping to finish a stupid reply like “I wouldn’t know. I shower with my bathing suit on.” Engaged too early and you’ll find yourself having to repeat phrases like “I SAID ‘YOU MISSED MUFFIN MONDAY AT PARADISE PASTRIES!’” While a decent ice-breaker, it’s completely lost all meaning when repeated over and over again, scrutinized for usable content.
There is a necessary half second that should be reserved for facial expression recognition. This is important to understand that your comment was taken in the context in which it was supposed to be taken. If there is any confusion over a phrase like “That’s why I beat my girlfriend,” some extra time may need to be taken to clear up your comment. Almost any comment can be stricken from the record with a little “Well, you know what I mean” or “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
So what is the correct distance for this transaction? As most people walk at a pace of about 7 miles/hour, they cover 616 feet/minute and 71.667 feet/7 seconds. So I’d recommend engaging at about 80 feet, or whenever you think you can get a good shot off, depending on how much ammo you have available.
Apparently the Arizona government has passed a law allowing racism in their state. Forgive my knowledge of specifics as I get all of my news from SportsCenter, but there’s something in this bill that says police are allowed to ask people to see their citizenship papers without any other just cause other than just cause you’re Latino. This is a reaction to the increasing amount of illegals in their state. That’s really as much as I know and much of it could be wrong because my fantasy stats were scrolling at the bottom of the screen when John Anderson was talking about why the Phoenix Suns were wearing “Los Suns” on their jerseys last night.
Anyway, this is a blatant example of the kind of stereotyping that this country needs to do away with. Unless of course you’re a white guy in the security line at an airplane. Don’t pretend you haven’t had that thought. That one that says “Do I look like a terrorist?” Of course not. Odds are against anyone being a terrorist really. But if there’s gonna be one, I know where I’m placing my chips. And if you want to pretend that stereotyping isn’t a rational way to generalize information we simply don’t have available to us and cannot acquire in a reasonable amount of time, I’ll invite you to take your nightly stroll through North Philly. I’ll be in Bryn Mawr if you need me.
Do I think all Latino people in Arizona are there illegally? Of course not. But do I think that any white people are? From where, first of all? And no, I’m not against Latinos or any race. I’m not even sure that I’m against illegal aliens in the country. I haven’t thought too much about it. But here's something I have thought about. Stereotyping is just another way of playing the odds with information from previous experiences. And to deny we have them is ignorant to ourselves, however romantically idealistic it may be. If you want to try to get somewhere faster in the right lane or play a 3-6 off suit, be my guest. Just understand that you’re a card racist.
Yes, I’m exaggerating. Calm down. But I have a point. I don’t run to the other side of the street when two young black guys in baseball caps walk toward me on South Street, but I feel less comfortable than if an elderly Asian couple in pajamas was walking that same path. Feel free to try to hook up with the brunette in the pant suit with the laptop at the bar. I’m going after the bleach blond in the miniskirt with the yard-long fuzzy navel hanging from her neck. I’m just sayin.
Where I think the governor went wrong was in being a politician. You can think whatever you want to without persecution in the non-Orwellian world we actually live in, but you can’t go out and say stuff like I just did and expect to get away with it. There’s a game that you need to play, an accepted politician dance that they all do in unison like the Electric Slide at a wedding. You can think whatever you want, but you can’t actually say this stuff. Just smile and pretend that all races, genders, ages and sexual orientations are treated equally by the law and give yourself plausible deniability when shit goes south. Oh, and you’re a Christian. Because the world isn’t ready for that yet, no matter how ridiculous that part of the dance is. As a country, we’d rather stand behind a man of faith than a man of logic. But what do I know? I get all my news from SportsCenter.
Just making sure you’re still thinkin out there.
Policy changes in the NFL because of an incident is not unprecedented. In 1999, Cleveland offensive lineman Orl
ando Brown was blinded in one eye when struck with a penalty flag weighted with metal pellets. This act unfortunately did not negate the 10-yard holding penalty for which the flag was originally thrown. Nor the 15-yard penalty and $130,000 fine for striking the official who through the flag. The following year, the league got rid of the metal pellets and went to goose feathers. Unfortunately, this caused an unprecedented reaction. Literally. A similar incident happened in Seattle when Jackson White was hit in the eye with one of the new goose feather flags. Jackson had an allergy to down and suffered an eye infection. He took a page out of Orlando’s book and punched an official. But this was two months later.
“What are you doing?!” his wife shouted.
“I’m getting this bastard back!” he replied.
“But this isn’t the same guy!” she pleaded.
“Sure it is!” he countered, squinting out of his good eye.
“But we’re at a basketball game!” she cried.
“Don’t care.”
(Part of this story may have been exaggerated or fabricated completely)
This is the group photo we decided to use for our 2010 Capital Fringe Festival show, Logic, Luck and Love, scheduled at Goethe Institut on the dates listed on the right column of this very web page. Kevin plays the gay guy, Jenn plays the straight gal, Molly plays the gay gal and I've been typecast as the straight guy. And in DC, that was the toughest role to cast. We were all supposed to dress like our characters and apparently my character is an unshaven, unkempt visor-wearer who doesn't read e-mails all the way through to find out why he's supposed to come to rehearsal dressed in his stage attire. So this was my first ever professional photo shoot and I hadn't even showered in 2 days. Thankfully it wasn't one of those cameras that picks up scent. Anyway, I certainly expect you all to come to one of our showings, especially because I know only Tom and my girlfriend read this. Tom, please bring a date. Thanks.
In trying to remember what I was like and what my life philosophies were at different times in my life for the Logic, Luck and Love Fringe Show in July, I came to the realization that I had no idea what I was doing in high school. I didn’t know who I was or even what I liked to do. I kinda had friends but I was more like the electron of the group. I wasn’t really part of the nucleus but they still needed me to, you know, make the atom. Because if I left, one of the protons would have to leave, and that would ruin the whole group chemistry (pause for laughter).
