Dantrums

Thanksgiving was excellent. As usual. I love all my friends, I love them. I like my friends' new girlfriends. Good choices. Way to pick 'em. I've seen one of you do much worse. The one with the funny name and teeth. You know who I mean.

Peyton Manning is possibly the most exciting athlete I have ever watched. He's more exciting to me than Jordan because I don't like basketball as much as football. He's more exciting than any hitter in baseball can ever hope to be because he is on the field so often. He is more exciting than any pitcher because pitchers throw to leather mitts as opposed to hurtling men decked out in body armor. Manning gives me the feeling I have when David Ortiz is at bat: Something huge is about to happen. And, sorry to add, but he is so fucking cute it's ridiculous. The smashed nose makes him even better. That commercial where he chants "D- Caff!" in the diner--- is that some fucking acting or what! In interviews he is engaging yet humble, a pigskin Abe Lincoln. I know what certain people reading this are thinking. Most of you are Pat fans and claim to hate him for football reasons, but the facts, my friends, are otherwise. In your tragic hetero-repressed brain you want to fuck him and feel guilty for it. Therefore you turn that guilt into hatred and focus it externally at the man himself. It's like PJ Harvey said: "Shame Shame Shame/Shame is the shadow of love."

I had my first day of real work in a while today at Indigo restuarant in Needham. I have only one thing to say: Real work is for suckers. I'm not being cheeky. I mean it. I'm not talking about a job you like. I've had jobs I really liked. But if it feels like work, get out while the getting is good, unless you're broke. And I, sadly, am broke. One thing the nice waitress who trained me said got me thinking. She was telling me how late the obscene amount of sidework kept her at the restaurant and how many shifts she had to work, but that since she was going to be moving to the west coast and was now saving so much money, "I sort of don't mind not having a life." I wondered for a moment whether that was sort of noble. The answer, I guess, is that there has to be a happy medium between work and play. I have trouble finding my happy mediums lately, but I know I could never say "I sort of don't mind not having a life" and mean it.

I love quotes and how they can distill a world of ideas into a single sentence. A good quote simplifies everything. Life seems manageable. And someone else did the thinking for you. Isn't that nice. A good quote reinforces you. Every time I read Goethe's line, "A talent is formed in stillness, a character in the stream of the world," I sigh and tell myself 'More stillness, that's all I need!' And suddenly lying in bed and not moving for the better part of a day feels like a job well done. Other quotes cause ambivalence. Stygian writes, "How tragic, how brutal and short life is. How sinful people are. The immutable heart of what we are that bleeds through whatever we might become. All else is vanity." When I read this I want to cry, but I am also inspired, because the last two lines say that no matter what you pretend to be, you can never kill who you really are. In other words, Truth wins....even if it destroys you. Then again, if truth is too painful, turn and embrace "Ignorance is bliss." Every good quote has some truth to it, even if it trashes truth itself. Anyway, I'm inspired, after reading Stygian's words, to be as true to myself as I possibly can.

Some of my friends have asked me recently why I hate the New England Patriots so much. How can I hate such a likable team? The short answer: I’m a hateful person. The long answer? I’m glad you asked.
When I first moved to Boston from San Francisco I hated all the Boston teams on point of order. I thought, in that indignant ten year-old way, that there could be no better demonstration of loyalty to San Francisco than outright rejection of all that was Boston. I hated the John Hancock building because it was not the Transamerica Pyramid; I hated the New England Aquarium because it wasn’t in Golden Gate Park; I hated the Freedom Trail because walking on sidewalks isn’t a fucking trail even if strategically placed bricks point you in the right direction. I hated every bridge in Boston because they were so goddamn pathetic next to the Golden Gate. You get the point. I wasn’t about to change loyalties. I did sort of admire that people loved the Sox so much. But I also thought they were idiots. Who cheers so hard for losers who have been losers for so long? Apparently these idiot Boston fans.
The Patriots I mostly ignored because they were the worst team in the NFL. From 1989 through 1993, they never won more than six games in a season. It was pointless, really, to hate either team in the early 90’s. Meanwhile the Niners won another Superbowl in ’94. Since I was a smug little piece of shit, I enjoyed gloating over how bad the Pats were. Yet whenever I said something like ‘Steve Young is the best quarterback in the league,’ Pats fans would honestly try to rebut me--- with Drew fucking Bledsoe! And they would say things like ‘Next year the Pats are going to be better than the 49ers.’ What the fuck?! See, Sox fans were realistic. They loved their guys but they could admit when they sucked, and even take solace in that. Pats fans were incapable of this. Healthy Boston cynicism evaporated when it came to the Pats. Everyone turned into these hopeful, doe-eyed nonsensical shmucks. You really think the Pats are good? Fine, fine. Fuck you. I hate you and your pathetic team.
But then along came Parcells. The Pats improved. The Niners slid. And in 2001, on the heels of September 11th, another shocking disaster: The Pats win the Superbowl. They became the toast of the city. The Sox were improving, but now the Pats had actually won something. Hurrah! Now everyone in New England was suddenly a rabid Pats fan. I’ve never seen such a screaming rush to jump on a bandwagon in all my life. It was disgusting. Many of these new fans were women. ‘Oh, I love the Patriots so much! TomBradyTomBradyTomBrady!!!!’ I don’t find women cute, and I didn’t find this cute either. You like football, bitch? Explain third and ten. What? ‘Tom BradyTomBradyTomBrady!!!!’
Not only were the Pats New England’s favorite, the whole fucking country seemed to love them. How could they not? What lovable underdogs! What a handsome quarterback! They are all team players! And they wear red, white, and blue! America’s colors! They represent everything that is good!
I know I sound merely bitter, but my hatred for the Patriots is actually quite complex. Friends often accuse me of being jealous. In 2004 the Niners were 2-14, the Pats 14-2. Is there something to that? If I can be jealous in life, I suppose I can be jealous in sport. If the Niners were very good, would I take less delight in watching the Pats lose? Probably. In fact I take more delight in a Patriot loss these days than I do in a Niner win. A lot of that is due to Pat fans. I’m afraid I cannot forgive what I was hearing when the Pats were genuinely bad. I couldn’t get certain people to admit Steve Young was better than Bledsoe.
And all these Brady-Montana comparisons! Gah! Listen, I agree Brady’s great, but he has never had a quarterback rating of over 100 for a season. Montana did it three times. Brady’s highest completion percentage for a season is 63%. That is Montana’s career average. Brady has only twice thrown for more than 25 TDs in a season, and he is not on track to do it this year. Montana did it six times. And there were a few seasons where Montana missed a few games and still put up these numbers, while Brady hasn’t missed a game since he took Bledsoe’s place in 2001. I understand Brady is young, he has time to accomplish all these things, and he has won as many Superbowls as Joe already. However, as of now, he hasn’t put up the individual stats to be his equal. Does Brady warrant comparison? Sure. But ask Brady himself, he’ll tell you. He’s no Joe Montana.
There is another aspect to the Patriots, something beyond stats, beyond my jealousy and sadism, which unsettles me, something that I cannot quite articulate. What I loved about the Red Sox were, a) the players, b) the never-to-be-pleased fans, so unlike their cheery Pat counterparts, and c) the fact that when the Sox were getting crushed, there was always the possibility of a remarkable comeback, and that when they were kicking ass, there was always the chance of a catastrophic implosion. What I mean to say is the Sox were unpredictable, undependable, maddening, exhilarating, explosive. Loving them is like entering into an unstable relationship. Are there hard times? Sure, but the sex is incredible. The Pats, however, were so fucking proficient, methodical, dependable, and steady I wanted to kick them. They never beat the crap out of teams; they always won by a nose, by just picking away. In 2003, only two of their fourteen wins were by more than two touchdowns. They beat teams like the Texans and Jets by the same margins they beat teams like the Colts and the Eagles. It didn’t so much seem that they had talent, but that they were good at suppressing other teams’ talent. They didn’t beat teams so much as frustrate them. They were the athletic equivalent of a swarm of mosquitoes. Bill Belichick was clearly a genius, but watching the Pats stirred no excitement in me. They were like a good marriage. Sure, they came home every night, but they gave lousy head.
The same friend who thinks I’m bitter and jealous also thinks I hate the Patriots merely because I’m trying to be different. This friend, a champion of irrational hatred in his own right (he loathes Hillary Swank, wicker furniture, and every driver but himself), thinks I hate the Pats because everyone likes them. He points to my aggression against “The Family Guy,” which I told him I hated because it’s so popular right now. When something becomes popular, he thinks, I immediately align myself against it because, to a hate-monger like me, the only way to be cool is to mock that which everyone else enjoys. Only the uncool can be cool in my twisted world--- as if I work at a record store!
Standing out from the crowd has always been important to me, but in this case, my friend is reaching. On the surface I hate the Pats and “The Family Guy” for the same reasons: Everyone around me loves them and they usurped things I love--- the 49ers and “The Simpsons,” respectively. I do hate it when people say the Pats dynasty is more impressive than the Niners’, or that “The Family Guy” is funnier than “The Simpsons.” But there is a crucial difference. I don’t hate “The Family Guy.” I think it’s overrated. I make it a point to groan whenever anybody mentions “The Family Guy” because I feel it’s my duty to remind people “The Simpsons” was first, and better. With “Family Guy,” I am a crotchety old man proclaiming, ‘They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to.’
The Pats have earned my hatred mostly independent of the 49ers or Pat fans. Their uniforms irritate me. Their playing style irritates me. The way they play as a team, their seeming lack of ego, the way they chip away at opponents, the way they play their hardest until the clock runs out, the ease with which they are able to pull themselves together at the appropriate time…the Patriots are the most responsible team in football, the most mature, the most adult. They are so unblemished and respectable. It may be I’m just a sadistic motherfucker who takes pleasure in the pain of others. Yet I never rooted against the Red Sox like this. Something about the New England Patriots disturbs me to my very core, and I think if I completely understood it, or if I could even counter it, I might be a happier person, I might be able to get over my ridiculous, delusional nostalgia, the apparent trauma of leaving my childhood behind in San Francisco a month shy of fourth grade, the resentment I’m forced to mask whenever someone I love succeeds. Yes, the Patriots may just hold the key to my ability to be happy in life and to finally grow up. But I’m 25. I feel like I’m 18. I have always made it a point to hate adults and their world of responsibility and chores and errands. Growing up it seemed every adult was present to suck joy from the lives of others. Incapable of true happiness, they brainwashed the next generation into accepting and working within the boundaries of this shitty world they created for us. All they know is what they have been taught. Adults go by the rules. Adults go by the playbook. Adults always manage to stay afloat. If weakened, they will never show it. They trudge blindly on. Genuine adults, depleted of their own dreams after lives of service, are no longer alive. Instead they frustrate the lives of others. The Patriots are the adults of the NFL.

When I was in high school, a stoner kid and I ----I wasn’t yet one---- were talking about which drug was better, alcohol or weed. We agreed it was weed. He said, what’s great about weed is smoking it and then going snowboarding. I said, what’s great about weed is that you never get sick from it. Oh no, he said, I’ve gotten cases of the munchies so bad that I just kept eating until I puked. At first I thought he was joking. How the fuck can you allow yourself to do that (more than once anyway)? It sounded ridiculous to me at the time, but now that I’m turning into something of a pot addict, I understand it completely. Because if you smoke great weed a few times in one day, the appetite eventually cannot be appeased, and in his stupor the stoner will keep eating. His brain is fried. This is all he can do now. I have once vomited, but in all fairness to me, I was at an upscale restaurant and the steaks there were just too good to waste. Mostly, I give myself stomach aches and, on rare occasions, diarrhea, and every next morning when I awake unwell I cannot believe how stupid I was, how this will never happen again, I’m only going to smoke once today anyway….even with addictions to low-grade drugs like weed, apparently, every morning comes with New Year’s-like resolutions. Oh, I promise I’m going to turn over a new leaf--- and not the smokeable kind! I’m going to just finish this bag and then I’ll take a break, a two-week break at least. I’m just going to finish this bag. Really. I am. Fuck you shut up.