Are You Ready For Some Football (fields)??!

Americans love football. This is no secret. We spend TONS of money on football merchandise, paid streaming services, game tickets, gambling (the various methods would astound you), ugly interior decorating choices, and old fashioned general idolization of football teams and players. That dollar amount is only rising each year, and it makes me wonder how our ecominny can be so bad, when we’ve clearly got that dizzough to spizzend.

FIFTEEN BILLION DOLLARS.

That’s how much was spent on super bowl weekend last year. That’s a $6 BILLION increase over the course of the previous 10 years. Money that we claim to need, but are willing to throw away, for the sake of entertainment. That’s not to say I don’t have my share of frivolous spending, but FIFTEEN BILLION DOLLARS. 

Just to give you a little bit of a basis for comparison, I’ll give you some examples of what $15B could otherwise pay for (as referenced in an article I read, regarding the $15B requested for our dumb president’s Dumb Wall of Manliness and Big Dick Swinging Power):

  • 7,500 miles of new roads (from New York to Seattle, two and a half times). Are we in the early 1900s? Do we have to still negotiate paving some fucking roads to drive on?
  • 388,600 college degrees (for 4-year students). I mean, or we could just relieve student loan debt, and stimulate the shit outta this economy. That’s something else, though.
  • 21,500 families of 4, eating $180 in groceries per week, for 75 years. As much as I would love to see this as a benefit, I can’t help being torn over the fact that we have a disgusting amount of food waste in the US each year, and more food certainly can’t be our solution.
  • 150,000,000 ounces (or nearly 5 tons) of dank bud from my medicine man. It should go without saying that I won’t disclose his name, but rest assured, we get the diggity-dankest cannabis there is. We’re only known for a few things here, other than the Patriots, and we’re just as successful in the flower field as we are on the football field.
  • 10 years of police force in Chicago, or roughly 3 years in New York. Of course, this could also buy 5 billion boxes of hot cocoa, which would be much more valuable to our current president.
  • 45 new VA (veterans’) hospitals. Then again, the government would have to start giving a fuck about veterans first, and we know that’s not something, so that will never happen.
  • 27 years of Planned Parenthood funding. Hahahahaha, oh man, we must have entered the “jokes” section of this list, because that was a good one.

Oh, here’s something that Americans can get behind: $15B would pay for 12 Big Macs for every American!

As stupid as that whole thing sounds, it’s not even what I consider to be the dumbest part. The most embarrassingly “oh shit, I’m the same species as them” moment I can think of, is when someone tells you the length of something… and then follows it up with “That’s equivalent to the length of thirteen football fields!”

Kah?

Why are we turning things into football measurements, as if they’re a baby that’s 72 months old?

First of all, can you even picture in your mind what thirteen football fields looks like?? I’m pretty sure you can’t, because even taking into consideration that it’s an abstract idea, you’re not going to come back with, “Oh, wow, that does end up being quite long; I see what you mean about the extreme length of that mass grave you were talking about, now that you’ve put it into a perspective I can understand.”

And that comparison is thrown around, willy nilly, in mathematics, science, and a host of other statistics – AKA, things we should be taking seriously. And while we’re on the topic of official scientific methods and terminology, I’d like to sidetrack, and demand to know who gets to say if the length of the end zones even counts, when considering the length of “a football field”? Why is it even a question? The end zone is technically a part of the field, as it aids directly in the scoring of points. Big part of the game, right there.

Or maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know the specifics, and I secretly don’t give a shit. My point is, why are we perpetuating this cycle by dumbing things down, putting them into terms that “the lay-person” can understand? Why can’t the lay-person just try to think a little bit harder about what is being explained to them, instead of expecting that it will be turned into a football analogy later on?

Seems reasonable enough, but this is America: Land of the Foot, Home of the Ball, and sports trump everything else. We have to cater to the masses (them asses) with our comparisons, and Americans overwhelmingly want to use football fields as the standard of measurement. America is so big, it’s 47,168 football fields wide, from coast to coast! It would take 80 of us, lining up our Big Macs from end to end, to make up a football field, and another 16 of us in the end zones! That’s a lot of people on our team!

Our team.

That’s another thing I can’t fuckin’ stand, and I hear it every single time someone talks about football (which, around here, is the Patriots, because we’re in New England, and we only have one football team for all of us, but it’s the only one that matters, isn’t it buddy? Sidebar: this thought is much funnier, when read in the voice of the slack-jawed turds that live around here). They want to tell you who “we’re” playing this week, and what “we” have to do to reach “our” goal, and who “we” have that’s strong, and how far “we’re” gonna go!

Stop it. You’re not part of the team. You’re part of the fanbase, which means all you have to do to reach your goal is spend your money on football shit so players can get paid, and spend your time watching the games so networks can get paid. You’re not playing anyone but yourself, if you think otherwise.

Over 100 million people (ahem, I mean, “team members”) watch the Super Bowl now, and for many of those viewers, the measurements on the football field are the extent of their exposure to measurements, period.

But it’s never used in the opposite way: nobody ever says “That football field was huge! It was like, if you lined up 11 London buses!”

And so, I am here to offer you some alternative uses for the football field standard of measurement. Here goes.

“That football field was so long, if you stood it up, it would be the height of 8 and 1/2 telephone poles”

“… it was like 6 and 1/2 semi trailers long”

“… it was 5 bowling lanes long”

“… it was like, if you let the statue of liberty lay down, with the torch arm stretched out”

“… it was like, if a giant sequoia grew to its full potential, and then fell over, right next to another sequoia that only grew to about 20% of its full potential, and they ended up laying end to end. It was like that.”

“… it’s like… you know the Chicago Water Tower?”  “Yeah, I know it. why?”  “Well, it’s like two of those, stacked up, but sideways.”

“That football field was long.”   “How long was the football field?”   “Picture this: 9 brachiosaurs, laying down, sleeping.”

Next time you hear someone tell you “The runner then finished the race, limping a distance of 6 football fields, despite her broken leg,” you will have your choice of comparative imagery to choose from.

You’re welcome.

-jg

 

 

What Was I Theenking??

You know what I was thinking? Of course you don’t. That would be ridiculous. I’d know if you were reading my mind, anyway, so don’t try anything funny. I’ve been thinking about way too much stuff lately, and I can’t have people mis-reading things. So here’s the scoop on what I’ve been thinking about during my recovery.

One thing I thought – and laughed – about, often, is celebrities. Sometimes I’ll be reading a magazine, and it’ll say in big letters: “Kim and Kanye go to BlahBlahFuck Island for the holidays” and underneath it’ll have a picture of them on a yacht or on the beach, and there’s the little inset picture that sits at the foot of that picture, and it shows them at the hotel pool, relaxing and being waited on. Sounds great, right?

But what is the fucking point?

That’s what I’d like to know. You’re just soooo tired of your gorgeous house that’s loaded with amenities, and servants, and a nice pool, and a bar, and private beach access… so you go to a gorgeous beach house that’s loaded with amenities, and servants, and a nice pool, and a bar, and private beach access. How is that a vacation, you rich asshole? Some joker is going to pay $2.99 to read about your fake-cation, on their unpaid lunch break at their menial job, or in the waiting room at a shitty dentist somewhere. But please, by all means, get away from your tired life for awhile.

That would be like if I rented a shitty apartment in the poor section of some small cold town in northern Europe, and my car stranded me in the middle of nowhere, miles from where anyone can hear me scream. But how can you scream anyway, when you’ve been starving for days, because the local cuisine consists of cabbage, and meat that is much too dark for your liking?? It’s not a vacation. It’s simply existing somewhere else.

I read this “Shower Thoughts” entry online (jah help me, for passing this shit along) and it said, “Have you ever gone along with last minute plans, and it turned out to be one of the greatest times of your life?” Which, no, but also, just about everything I do is a last minute plan. Even the planned stuff… cancelled at the last minute. I shake things up. Especially if it’s something that requires me to shower. I have to shower in order to motivate, and if I have to motivate in order to hang out with you, you’re asking a lot. I need to be easy, not scheduled. I don’t want to be your tense friend.

Matt tells me, “I hate showering before work, because showers make me want to relax.” I can see where he was going with that, because I also tend to become relaxed after a long steam, and that’s where last minute cancellations become real. They’re born in the fog of the shower, and mature in the coziness of the bathrobe. Sure, things start out promising, but they take a turn for the less-promising once the showering process begins.

Specifically, if I decide to look down at the drain, and I see there’s some hair on it. I have rather thick hair, and it tends to grow very quickly, and falls out just as fast. And that’s just me. When I say there’s always hair in the drain, it’s an understatement. And when it comes to pulling hair out of the drain, there’s a severely limited number of options you’re presented with, when considering a proper place of disposition for the drain hair.

I’d like to pause, and say that I know of at least one person out there, who is obsessed with shower drain hair, because I saw the guy on one of those Strange Addiction shows, so I hope that if he’s reading this, I hope he isn’t.

Option One: this option consists of a quickie little ineffective tip-toe-run-of-weirdness across the bathroom, to drop the hair spider (that’s what I call them) into the garbage or toilet. This exercise in futility is generally employed “before you get too wet,” which, let’s be honest, isn’t a real thing. The floor is going to be wet. It’s worse than option two.

Option Two: this option is technically split into two categories of its own (Temporary, and Started As Temporary) and can only be distinguished by how long you can live with the choices you’ve made. This temporary solution is meant to be just that: a brief fix until it becomes more feasible to throw the hair away. You swipe the hair out of the drain, and *ka-pow* you fling it at the wall, or in the corner, where the water stream won’t reach it. You let it sit there until you’re done showering, or if you’re smart, you wait until the hair dries on the wall of the shower, and you grab it and throw it away. Or if you’re dumb like me, you let the hair dry on the wall of the shower, and then never do anything about it, and then it falls back into the shower, only to be washed into the drain by the water, and that’s why it’s called Started As Temporary.

I pulled the hair spider out, and Started As Temporary. But then I had this slime on my hand, where I had touched the drain, and I’m sure it could be shampoo or soap, but I know that 50% of my house’s population is of the male gender, and I’m not taking any chances with hair in the drain of the shower. So I rinse my hand under the shower water. That should be okay, right? It’ll be super clean once I shampoo my hair.

Won’t it?

Or will I be rubbing the drain slime into my hair, massaging it deeper into the strands as I lather, rinse, and possibly repeat?

Well, if you think about it, my hair is going to end up in there anyway, right? No big deal, could be worse. Someone once told me that a co-worker of hers got a moldy infection on her scalp, because she always put her hair up in a bun without drying it first, and that’s something I have done my whole life. I don’t want to dry my hair. It’s enough that I even do anything with it at all. When I get out of the shower, I’m good for sitting around, for about 45 minutes to 2 hours… right about the time it takes for a towel to officially become an outfit. It’s coincidentally the same amount of time it takes my hair to dry in the weirdest position possible. I can’t have that happening.

But I also can’t deal with the whole blow-drying/ flat-ironing thing either. I mean, props to those women who put in the conditioner, then the leave-in treatment, then the vitamin oil, and then torch it with an iron. They’re taking their hair into their own hands. I couldn’t think of any other way to word that, but I’ll bet there are some pretty literal instances of that happening.

Another thing I’ve been thinking about, is the fact that my birthday just went by, and it was my first one since quitting the ‘book. I figured it would be interesting to see how people handled it. Even more interesting, it turned out, was how  handled it. For over a decade of my life, I was personally celebrated by those near and far, whenever my birthday came around. The people I went to high school with, those I have worked with in the past, friends who are exes of my siblings, and family I don’t get to visit often, were all given the chance to tell me how awesome I am, and how happy they were that I was born, and that they hope this next year is kickass in every sense, and that it’s one of the most important dates in history because it’s the day I was bestowed upon you all. It’s nice to feel like your existence has somehow made people happy, even if for a day, and facebook helps facilitate those good feelings.

When you’re not on facebook, there is no birthday reminder. People don’t know it’s your birthday, because the robot isn’t telling them, and the robot isn’t telling them, because the robot doesn’t know, because you (or, in this instance I) didn’t want to interact with the robot. To the robot, I don’t exist. But, to the family and friends, I think I still very much physically exist. Before I decided interacting with the robot was an exercise in futility, I told them how they could reach me, without the assistance of the robot. Imagine my surprise, when practically nobody wished me a happy birthday this year.

Clearly I wasn’t worth remembering. 

I’m sure there is a host of other reasons why practically nobody remembered that I exist, but that’s the reason I default to, because nobody remembered, except for the members of my family and friends who barely interacted with me through the robot to begin with. I noticed a lot of my family didn’t say anything at all, despite their timely birthday wishes of the past decade. Did they only care about me when the robot told them to? Ten times of repeatedly doing something always at the same time, sounds like enough conditioning to be able to do it on your own… eventually? Well we don’t have to do that anymore, because the robot is here! And if the robot doesn’t know about it, you don’t need to know about it either. Save your dwindling fucking brain power. You might need it for a buzzfeed quiz.

The thing that is sadly ironic about social media, is that it’s your fault if you miss something, due to not having facebook. Say your brother gets engaged, and receives 180 “likes” on the post, and everyone says congratulations and posts emojis and shit to show how happy they are, but you didn’t see it, because you don’t have facebook. A month or so goes by, and you hear about it from a family member or a friend, and you say “Heyyyy! Why am I just now finding out about this?” It’s your fault. You should have been on facebook. A phone call, letter, or text isn’t applicable anymore, so if you’re waiting for someone to share their important news with you specifically, you’re just being selfish. They’ve already made a post about it, which is the new age equivalent of yelling through a megaphone, which people used to make a concerted effort to gather around.

I had surgery twice during “the holidays” 2018, and even though it was just a small area of my body, it affected so much of my life. I think about everything I do, everything I eat, every movement my body makes, the position I sleep in, the time I spend sitting down, it’s all part of my obsession with prevention. The days of prevention are here, people. You could say I think too much about the worst case scenario, but I see it more as priming for future possibilities. How will you know what to do when some weird-ass drives up onto the sidewalk, unless you’ve envisioned it in your mind 267 times? Will you know where is a safe place to jump to? Will you be able to defuse the situation somehow? I would, because I’m planning my escape route everywhere I go, even safe places. Maybe that specific example doesn’t work for you. It’s morbid, but that’s the point: rarely are we afforded the luxury of being surprised by wonderful things. Take it from me, for I am a master at predicting tragedy, and have not yet been able to manifest the whole “I’ve got a golden ticket” thing.

This is already nearing 2000 words, and I’ve barely said anything. I’m hoping to be able to write more in 2019, and get back on the cycle of posting things that are interesting. It’s sad to know that you possess a talent you are unable to use, and embarrassing to publish something you’re not proud of. While I’m not proud of the quality of this content, I’m proud of myself for finally finishing one of the 4 posts I’d started. I’ve always lived with the mantra of “Stop starting, and start finishing” because I’m terrible with follow-through, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts. But the hope is very much alive, that I will continue this stream of consciousness that I call my blog. Thanks for sticking around. Don’t forget to tell your friends. About the blog, not about you sticking around. Nobody cares about that.

-jg