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11/16/04: Less Than Minimum Effort
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11/17/04: Taking Stock In any life, whether great or insignificant, there comes a time when we look back on events and decisions and evaluate how we turned out. We think about what we could have done differently. We recall our triumphs, both public and secret, with a satisfied grin. We curse the people who tried, often successfully, to shame us and bring us down. We think about what's left and wonder if it's too late to turn things around. We get antsy, thinking about how wonderful it all could be if we just changed this or that. And we make empty promises to ourselves to only worry about what's important from now on, because life's too short. This would be a good time for Evander Holyfield to enter such
a period of reflection. What he's done in his chosen field has been
remarkable. There is really nothing left to prove for him as a boxer, and
if there were, he is no longer capable of proving it. When I came across the
headline today, I have never heard of this before. It makes sense in a brutal sport like boxing, where a diminished fighter can do himself grave harm by hanging on too long. But why not apply this rule to all sports?* Wouldn't you have liked to see Fred McGriff quit a little bit sooner than he did? How about Patrick Ewing? Dan Marino**? Perhaps we should have a permanent Red Card that can be assigned judiciously by each sport's governing body, maybe five a year. Fuck it, why not extend this into every profession? How great would it be to see Rod Stewart or Sammy Hagar get the Red Card? How about Kevin Smith or Kevin Costner? Who would you like to see get the Red Card? It could come with a kind message inscribed, like, "Thank you for your tremendous contribution to (insert chosen field here). We all have fond memories of the time you (insert career highlight here), and who can forget (insert another highlight here)? We at the International Red Card Council feel strongly that your best days are behind you, and any further efforts on your part will only serve to embarrass you and taint our collective memory. We hereby order you to never participate in the field of (insert chosen field here) again. Thank you again, and feel free to enjoy the rest of your days in obscurity." The Red Card is necessary for those who refuse or are unable to look inward. Not me. I question my own worthiness all the time. And when I take stock of my life, there are a number of things I would do differently, some of which I will always wonder about. But I still have a tremendous, uncrushable hope for the future. What am I proud of? I'm proud that I've always been able to enjoy myself, that I can take delight when it's there for the taking. That I've surrounded myself with entertaining people who like good times and fart jokes***. That I roll up my pants in the bowling alley so my socks glow majestically in the black light of rock and roll. And that my boss does the same. Not much, I guess. But, oddly, it's enough. Sure, there are regrets. Most of which are buried deep inside for only me to worry about. But a big one I don't mind discussing is discipline. I have none. I promise things and I don't follow through. I start and I don't finish. I stay up late and regret it in the morning. I piss and moan about my place in the universe, and then I silently return to that very place the next day. I quit drinking soda, and then I relapse. Soda is my crack, you see. And for most of this year, I have been crack-free. But I never forgot just how much I love that stuff. For many years, I loved it so much I didn't even acknowledge it was a problem. In my old department, it was a mantra: Adults can drink as much soda as they please. It was a celebration of our independence, like wearing an earring or doing a chicken dance. Of course, once I knew it was killing me, I promised to stop. Which, as I mentioned, I did for much of this year. But I got thirsty. Then I'd look at that old post-it, and I'd be like, Nobody's gonna tell me what to do. Time for a 20 oz. Dr. Pepper, mofo****. So for the past few weeks, I have been slipping up and drinking a soda here and there. Today was an example of just how undisciplined I am. I wanted a soda, a good old fashioned Coca-cola out of the vending machine. But when I got to the break room, I knew I shouldn't do it. I knew I should drink the Diet Coke***** instead. I was torn. So I put in my money and pressed both buttons at the same time, to let the Gods of Carbonated Beverages choose my path. A Diet Coke came tumbling down. And it wasn't bad at all. I will take this as a message. The meaning of this message will be determined at a later date. You'd tell me if it was time for verbungle.com to get the Red Card, right? *** Thanks to Pete B. for restoring the credibility of the google image search game. Let us never doubt it again.****** And you can all assume from now on that I am doing unsafe searches. I don't care if you're at work, you gotta come strong if you want to win. HERE IS TODAY'S IMAGE. Answers accepted at noon eastern. *** Oh, and keep the new name suggestions coming. * Of course, I don't really feel this way -- I think every
person should have the right to do whatever it is they do for as long as
someone's willing to pay them to do it. Think about Sampras's last couple of
years. We all gave up on his ass and then he dusted it off for that one
last glorious afternoon.
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