ARTS

  /  

February 14, 2003

Dear Diary

WE ARE back with an all-new m├ętier with which one might use the cow's head to navigate this bitch. First, some bad stand-up comedy. Ah, crap, the producer is giving me the speed-it-up sign. First, some trite observations:

o The weather here in the winter is terrible! I did not see this coming at all.

o Girls are crazy! Sometimes you hurt people you love!

o Pots on the stove are capable of burning your hand!

o I love my pets!

o LeBron James is only 18. He'll be a millionaire next year! I'm not a millionaire! Amateur athletes sometimes receive compensation as a result of their talents, thus jeopardizing their amateur status. What would Jim Thorpe say about this entirely new phenomenon that has obviously never blotted the American sports landscape before? What would he say? Would it be in some zombie language of the dead?

o When people die, you don't get to see them anymore, because they are dead, unless you work at the morgue. This is a tragedy.

o Some beer ads are sexist. That's terrible. Beer is for everybody, and the same goes for beer culture. True fact: Women are, pending legislation currently in committee, legally permitted to drink beer and should have a voice in the creation and production of beer ads. Take that to your bank and cash it, Beer Jerks!

o The name "U.S. Cellular Field" is not the same as Comiskey Park! Change is always bad. Wrigley Field isn't named after something crass like cell phones or god forbid, a chewing gum company. That would immediately kill baseball, if Wrigley Field had one of those terrible corporate names. Corporate culture will never darken the skies of America, or at least not until the reign of the much-feared Third Roosevelt. And besides, Comiskey Field is a fortress of the incorruptible American pastime. The WHITE Sox play there, not the Off-White Sox.

o Michael Jordan is a basketball player, but he's also, when not selling underpants, hot dogs, shoes, cologne and off-brand batteries, the Lamb of God.

A close reading of selections from "Hero" by Mariah Carey, chanteuse, as performed at halftime of the late NBA All-Star Game, in tribute to Michael Jordan, NBA player.

Hmm (Yeah. I like where this is going.)

There's a hero (OK, this seems normal enough.)

If you look inside your heart (My heart, or Michael Jordan's heart?)

You don't have to be afraid (Of what?)

Of what you are (Oh. A basketball player? A college kid?)

There's an answer (To what question?)

If you reach into your soul (How do I do that? Is it covered later in the song?)

And the sorrow that you know (Why would Michael Jordan be sad? Because he is an asswipe? He's obviously unrepentant on that score.)

Will melt away (Poetic license?)

And then a hero comes along (Someone who is not me, right?)

With the strength to carry on (What are we carrying on through?)

And you cast your fears aside (Fears of what?)

And you know you can survive (The fears?)

So when you feel like hope is gone (Again, I'm confused about the timeline.)

Look inside you and be strong (But I am filled with fear/sorrow/lack of hope)

And you'll finally see the truth (In what sense?)

That a hero lies in you (I thought the hero already came along.)

It's a long road (To where?)

When you face the world alone (When is that?)

No one reaches out a hand (Well, the road is a bit impersonal, I suppose.)

For you to hold (You are facing the world alone. It's dumb to expect someone to hold your hand. You're not facing the world with buddies.)

You can find love (Is this about heroes or love?)

If you search within yourself (Now I'm getting a creepy auto-erotic vibe.)

And the emptiness you felt (But I am filled with one or more heroes. How much room is there inside me? Don't answer that.)

Will disappear (I felt the emptiness, I didn't see it. Maybe it will dissipate? That works.)

[Chorus]

Oh oooh (Sing it!)

Lord knows (I am uncomfortable with this faith-based generalization.)

Dreams are hard to follow (Where are the dreams going? Are they my dreams, writ large, or do you mean "dreams" in the sense that "last night I dreamt I was wearing a jogging suit made out of proscuitto and there were wolfmen/dead babies attacking me and and and the BABIES HAD FANGS! AND GIANT BOOBS!"? Because those dreams really are hard to follow.)

But don't let anyone tear them away, hey yeah (Other basketball players? The Homeland Security people? THE BABIES?)

Hold on, there will be tomorrow (This is true, if very, very trite.)

In time, you'll find the way (Because of the hero that is inside me but isn't me?)

[Chorus]

Here's what it all means, kids: IT WAS A PUSH-OFF. EHLO REMAINS MINT!