So last night was the reason I just don’t watch sports. Whenever I get an actual emotional attachment to one of the participating teams, either for nationalist, sexual or drunken reasons, and they suck – like the Oilers sucked last night, sucked like I sucked when I played soccer as a nine year old – it really fucking annoys me. J*Fish looked actually physically upset at the end, though. And wow, it made me remember the last game of the 1994 World Cup, the tie-breaking shots at the end of the final when Roberto Baggio punked out and Italy lost to Brazil – my heart in my mouth and then my world in pieces for a few moments, having to watch and yell what was happening to my mum, who doesn’t like soccer at all but who was just too on edge to either watch or ignore the game, and my dad, my poor dad . . . but then I also remember watching Reggina qualify for the A Series in a bar in Aspromonte, where people were cuddling, kissing, and hugging complete strangers (well, me – I think they all knew each other), crying with happiness. And I cried with them.
And my question is, what the fuck? Why can’t we bring that level of passion and engagement to more parts of our lives? Is it the strange combination of possibilities, probabilities, emotions and idolatry that televised sport serves us up in a sterile and safe way? Is it because yelling “you’re fucking killing me!” or “I fucking love that motherfucker!” at a television causes fewer problems than yelling it at a spouse, even if they are or you do? Ah, who the fuck cares anyways. I just think it’s funny that a huge group of men who act like soulless goons 85% of the time can emotionally jizz all over themselves when it comes to sports, especially in Canada; I mean, Italian men get excited about at least five other things I can think of right off the cuff, besides soccer. I’m not saying Canadian men should be more like Italian men, hells hells hells no. I guess what I’m saying is that I understand sports is an important way to blow off steam and express emotions that might not be office-appropriate, but I don’t think we’re hitting a happy medium right now.
Not much else happening in my brain this morning. My proposal is clarifying like granulated honey in a warm bath. Otherwise, my head is full of annoyance. I think people are getting shittier at thinking. I had a conversation with a music critic yesterday at lunchtime that left me wanting to – beat him? Nah, not him specifically. It’s just that when I read critical articles, what I want to know is pretty simple – is this album good or bad, melodic or dissonant, et cetera . . . is this show quiet or loud, engaging or boring . . . in short, I don’t really want criticism, I want information from an educated source. I don’t want, say, a critique of a live show with King Khan & the Shrines reading “well, this is good, but I don’t think this energy would carry over into an album because of the reediness of the lead singer’s voice . . .”, which may be true but is a profoundly unhelpful statement when I’m making a decision about whether or not to see one of their shows. I guess I’m just afraid of the quality music scene getting rarefied and perverted by snots who think studio and stage skills are both pre-requisites to greatness, and who let their mood influence their judgement. The fine art industry has already been buggered; I don't want them buggering music.
Ah, onwards and upwards.