As Promised ...

Saturday Mornings

A few weeks ago I woke up early on a Saturday. Horrible thing that. Since I was awake I made a pot of coffee and thought about what I needed to get done that day ... laundry, dishes, a trip to the grocery store. But I just wasn't motivated to get much of anything done. So I figured I would do what I did for so many Saturday mornings when I was a child ... watch cartoons! Yup ... just lay around in my underwear wrapped in a blanket and watch some cartoons. Awesome!

So ... uhm ... what the hell happened to Saturday morning cartoons? After flipping through the crap on the networks I switched over to Cartoon Network and was astonished to find that even with over eighty channels, there wasn't a halfway decent cartoon on TV on a Saturday morning. Not one. What happened?

Sometimes I realize just how much one’s mid-thirties suck. I wonder if my old man saw the cartoons I watched as a kid and felt like this. No wonder he slept late each and every Saturday morning.

I guess tastes change with the times. Saturday mornings for me were about Bugs Bunny and the Superfriends. Ironically, there was more violence in the old Looney Tunes shorts than when Superman was trying to save the Earth from evil humanoid aliens from another galaxy. I still remember how all the action on the Superfriends always took place off-camera. You would see Aquaman saying, "Look, Batman has captured the Riddler" and then we’d see Batman standing next to the Riddler all tied up in Batrope.

I always wanted to see Superman punch Lex Luthor's face off, but it never happened. Saturday morning violence just wasn't cool in the '70's.

There would also be staggering animation mistakes. Batman’s insignia would change or disappear. Robin would suddenly not have a cape. Superman’s legs would be painted flesh colored so that it looked like he was running around in red Fruit-of-the-Looms. My favorite animation error was when the Green Lantern grew a third arm. I understand animation mistakes, but c’mon. The guy had three arms! How do you miss that?

Dysfunction

By definition (gotta love dictionary.com!): Abnormal or impaired functioning, especially of a bodily system or social group. The Los Angeles Times once reported that 63% of American families are dysfunctional. That means we’re the majority. That means that more than half the people you know are either screwed up or come from a screwed up upbringing. Next time you’re sitting in a movie theater, just remember that chances are the person on your left or the person on your right is dysfunctional. I wish I had known this earlier in life.

I guess many of us go through life thinking or feeling that we’re the outsiders. That we’re not normal. We feel isolated and different, mocked and weird, unable to be loved and unable to love. We feel ugly and undesired and wish we were that handsome guy on TV or belonged to that family on the Disney World brochure. But we don’t. We’re varying degrees of unstable and we’re just going to have to deal with it.

I find more and more, as I tell friends and colleagues about the experiences of my near thirty-six years, that I may very well be from the far end of the dysfunctional spectrum. I’m estranged from my family, screwed up at least two good relationships (not to mention really screwing up one bad one), have dealt with death to a degree that it’s lost it’s mystique, derive humor from others who are even more pathetic than me, find myself behaving childishly and realize that I can be as petty as any person on the planet. I fluctuate from being overly sensitive to frankly not giving a damn about much of anything. I’m a terrible father, a lousy friend and a barely adequate employee. My feelings are easily hurt yet I never realize when I’ve hurt the feelings of another. I'm frequently an a$$hole.

I’ve screwed up every good thing in my life for so long that my unspoken response to happiness is, "how can I f*ck this up?" Happiness? Joy? They must be destroyed ... lest they destroy me! It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there and I want my Meaty Bone. At least then, once I’ve totally blown it with the key to eternal happiness, I have something to repair, something to work on. I can try to be Mr. Fix-It. And once it’s fixed ... I can f*ck it up again! Problem is, I genuinely try to be a decent guy. I rage against injustice, hate prejudice and am appalled at the darkest sides of our human condition. I try to, want to, ache to do the right thing ... just doesn’t seem to ever happen.

I’m just like you.

Spring Training

Pitchers and catchers reported this week. To all of you non-baseball fans, this means nothing. To me, it means the world. Having spent much of my childhood (and young adulthood) enraptured by every moment I was on a diamond, I still find sheer glory as the season comes upon us.

I’m too old and lazy to ever cross the line again, outside of a good beer-league softball tournament, but I still adore the game. There’s something almost spiritual about walking into a stadium. Much more so the smaller stadiums used in the minor league system. Although I love my Mets and even love that dump Shea, there’s still nothing quite as thrilling, relaxing and beautiful as a small minor league stadium. One of the reasons I am sure I will retire to the state of North Carolina is the sheer volume of minor league teams in the state. Single A, Double A ... it doesn’t matter.

The smell of freshly cut grass, the sound of a fastball popping into the catchers mitt, the crack of a bat and true art and science of the game ... they are all beautiful things to me. In the spring, hope springs eternal. The season is ahead. Summer is almost here. Beer and hotdogs. Rally caps in the bottom of the ninth. Tradition. America. Wonderful.