I Am The Happiest Man Alive
I am the happiest man alive.
California drivers? Don't piss me off any more.
Something about the prospect of four more years of Bush? Doesn't piss me off any more. To be fair, this is probably because I still can't bring myself to actually believe this one happened. But still, even if I repeat it a couple times to myself I don't get that angry about it. I'm just pretty blissful. Even thinking about the sheer number of people that obviously valued the appearance of a "down home on the ranch" style (a style probably cultivated with the help of gobs and gobs of oil money, which, I suppose, is consistent... in some way or another... give me a lot of oil money to try and figure that one out, and I'll let you know) leader over a sophisticated and educated one that knew his place in the world. All right, I'm starting to get the slightest niggling twitch in my right eyelid, so I'll stop there on this one. There's no use jabbing yourself repeatedly with sharp objects just because it feels better when you stop. When did they hold this election, anyway? Man, I must have missed it.
I've had a lingering cold for almost a week and a half. Not too bothered by it. In fact, I relish the fact that I get to chow down on mentholated cough drops without feeling guilty that I haven't really got a sore throat for those things to treat. And I get to sleep a lot without feeling bad. And I get out of having to clean the house! And I get babied a bit. Sure, it's worn off a little bit, as you'd expect with a week and a half cold, but it's still something.
The New England Patriots lost for the first time in thirty seven years, allowing a western Pennsylvania town to gloat about breaking some sort of streak. No big deal. Bill Belichick probably lost on purpose, anyway, to set them up for later in the season.
I am like a Buddha wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a tea pot.
I just got a summons for jury duty at the end of the month. Well, all right, this one did rile me a little. But now? Now I'm in a state of bliss again. Calm, collected. Not a care in the world. Hell, it might be entertaining. I'll wear my Sox hat and get on the stand and claim that I'm not biased, it's just that, occasionally, very occasionally, I hate Californians. If it doesn't get me off at least I'll have material to roll into a book or two. And if I'm jailed at any point in time I'll not only not have to clean the house for a while, but I'll also probably have a lot of time to write.
Someone has the television in the lobby turned to Fox, and I'm still O-K. After all, these guys delivered us the World Series. All right, so they did it with possibly the most vexing man alive and his dopey sidekick Tim the Wonder Muppet (an early Henson prototype that they rejected for being entirely too annoying... and people suspected he might be on drugs... or forgetting to take some very important ones). But it's okay. I forgive you, Fox, is what I'm thinking right now, with a beatific smile on my face. Actually, I had to take the smile off my face to type that last sentence. I was concentrating too much on the face to type effectively.
People are beginning to worry. They pass me in the halls, and I've got a dopey grin on my face. "Dear God! Tim McCarver's gotten to him!" people will say, and recoil in horror. The braver souls will try and comfort me. I feel like I'm flying, and they can't reach me. Flapping my arms helps, as no one wants to get too close to someone flapping their arms unless you're in the employ of the hospital and you've just got to get that guy his shots, your job depends on it.
I'll dissect commercials at home. Not the ones playing on the television at the time of comment, mind you. The Disneyworld commercials, the one where Pedro dances at the end and sings "We're going to Disneyworld, we're going to Disneyworld!" in the middle of Busch Stadium. I'll do the dance. The Nike one. The one that counts up from 1919 to 2004. And stops there. The one that almost, all right, I'll admit it, makes me cry. Man tears, of course. And almost, I said almost.
And L will sit there, patient, for the most part. She'll smile at me, I think, at least I see her smiling at me. She could, for all I know, be shushing me, asking me to keep quiet during a program. She could be contemplating a very, very long lifetime together, dealing with... well, this. She might be thanking her lucky stars the Bruins aren't playing, with a shot to win the Stanley Cup.
I don't even mind, so much, that it looks like I'm never ever going to see another decent hockey game unless we move back to New England and catch the Beanpot Tournament.
Whoa, backing up a sec, now that I think of it, this may be why L has decided to run a marathon in a couple months. Not the lack of hockey, but this. My present state. Of course, she's a part of why I'm the happiest man alive. And I'm not just saying that because I know she's going to read this and realize I hadn't heard a word she said when she was asking me about something just after I was telling her about the Disneyland commercial for the fifteenth time. Just give me a couple more weeks, babe. And beware around the time spring training comes up again. And Opening Day. And possibly most Octobers from here on out.
The Boston Red Sox are the 2004 World Series Champions.
disclaimer:
My deepest apologies for taking over the last few weeks with a variety of almost op-ed style pieces on the Red Sox that are probably far too grounded in reality for anyone who's a regular reader of this here site.
And, since I'm now deliriously happy and not full of the bile that leads to biting sarcasm, I'm going to have to take a back seat for the next few months, let a few other writers do the talking on Sane Magazine for a little while. Sit back. Relax. Finish that damn chicklit novel I have in me (well, the bile's gone, what do you want? God Coffee?). Maybe take up hunting. Or bocce. Whatever it takes.
And it looks like I might not have to worry about the country's prospects any longer, anyway. John Henry has an idea: Red Sox Nation, Literally.
Leigh Montville, if you like this sort of rubbish, also is feeling like joy has no bounds.
Good night, see you next week.
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