Friday, December 12, 2003
It was like a shot to the gut. You know, like when someone walks up to you, looks you square in the eye, and then sneaks a shot down low. No, crotch enthusiasts, not that low, but right in the belly. You don't even know you've been hit until they walk away, and that low, slow creeping pain comes up into your gut and all you can do is bend over and breathe.
It was like a shot to the gut.
But I digress. First a disclaimer.
This story involves a very close friend of mine whom my wife and I love dearly. It involves something happening to her, and the pain I derived from it, so it is really about how selfish I am.
I won't use her real name, but she knows who she is and this entry is dedicated to her.
I'll call her 'Charlotte'.
My wife and I were talking- chatting, really- during the commercial break of a later broadcast of the Oprah show, about this very close friend of ours, 'Charlotte'. She had recently taken a part in a touring show, which is a fantastic thing. And earlier reports had told that although she would be leaving town for an extended period of time, she would be able to go on a 'leave of absence' from her day job here in New York. This was a grand thing, an excellent deal for her in both the short term and the long.
And when I mentioned as much to my wife, she told me that, actually, the aforementioned leave of absence wasn't going to happen, and 'Charlotte' had decided to leave her job.
Now, to my credit, my first thought was for my friend. For a good 4 minutes the wife and I commiserated for her, but both agreed that she did the right thing. She'll have no problem finding a job if she wants when she returns. She's very smart and very talented. She just won't work there anymore.
Then my brain slowly put it together. My friend was losing her job at...
A little aside here:
I have a confession.
I am addict.
I am addicted to sports. Football, mainly. Basketball, too. Baseball, even, if it means something. Hockey live is great, but on TV, I confess it makes me drowsy. World Cup soccer (football!) is riveting- really- to me. I can even zone out for hours watching golf if Tiger is involved, and I don't even play.
But mainly it's football. Been hook'ed since I was 13. I'm functional, though. I don't let it affect my job or my wife or my political affiliation. I have a career in the arts. But know this: I gotta have it.
Where I grew up, The south, it's everywhere. You can play it, watch it, talk it, fight it, drink it, eat it, kick it, shit it, hate it or love it just about anytime any place. Old women would yell at 19 year old boys things that would make you blush. And I did. And I loved it.
But when I moved to New York, my sources dried up. It's up here, sure. But it's expensive and bitter and just isn't as available. The College variety- my preferred strain- is all but non-existent. There is the professional type, which I dearly love, but this was the home of the hated football Giants, rivals of my beloved Cowboys- the rightful holders of the crown. And the only good news was this:
my Cowboys played here once a year. Every year.
That simple fact has given me a level of happiness and hope that I really never understood. Until now.
The 'Cowboys Game', as it would be known, was marked our first year here by my wife-then-girlfriend giving me an expensive and hard to obtain ticket to the game, completely unexpectedly (as we could afford milk OR cereal at that time). This gesture was so moving that I proposed to her on the spot- in front of everyone at the bar! Our lasting marriage is a testament to that golden night and my need for the game.* But that was a once in a lifetime thing. Those tickets are rare and hard to come by. But New York is a funny place.
One by one, many of our close friends from school began to move to New York. We're all actors, so it isn't that surprising, but it was great for the then-girlfriend and me. We started forming our posse, and quite certainly 'Charlotte' was among the crew.
The longer you live in a place like New York, the better you do. And eventually, some people find a cool job in an interesting place. 'Charlotte' got a job at a major network in the sports department. This was probably far more interesting to me than to her, overall. But my involvement with 'Charlotte's' employment status was cemented when she revealed she could get Cowboys tickets. For me. And it was a beautiful thing.
I'm a brokeass actor-guy, but for three wonderful, magical afternoons and evenings, I got to see my team. Shit, I couldn't even afford to see them live in Texas! But there I was, there when they were- every game.
'Charlotte' was good for even more than that: she got me basketball tickets, too. Just the other night even. I must of known on some level already though, because I reveled in the evening like a 17 year old with courtside seats and a fake ID. Luckily, no one was injured (except my pride).
So it all boils down to this: 'Charlotte' was my dealer.
And that is what hit me in the gut. The kindness of my friend had given me a golden age. I could revel in my addiction. Flail in my feeble faults. I could pretend to be rich and look down on the poor folk in their $75 seats and sneer. But no more.
Thank God for Direct TV. You'll never leave me, will you? Will you?
*some sources contradict this version of events.
It was like a shot to the gut.
But I digress. First a disclaimer.
This story involves a very close friend of mine whom my wife and I love dearly. It involves something happening to her, and the pain I derived from it, so it is really about how selfish I am.
I won't use her real name, but she knows who she is and this entry is dedicated to her.
I'll call her 'Charlotte'.
My wife and I were talking- chatting, really- during the commercial break of a later broadcast of the Oprah show, about this very close friend of ours, 'Charlotte'. She had recently taken a part in a touring show, which is a fantastic thing. And earlier reports had told that although she would be leaving town for an extended period of time, she would be able to go on a 'leave of absence' from her day job here in New York. This was a grand thing, an excellent deal for her in both the short term and the long.
And when I mentioned as much to my wife, she told me that, actually, the aforementioned leave of absence wasn't going to happen, and 'Charlotte' had decided to leave her job.
Now, to my credit, my first thought was for my friend. For a good 4 minutes the wife and I commiserated for her, but both agreed that she did the right thing. She'll have no problem finding a job if she wants when she returns. She's very smart and very talented. She just won't work there anymore.
Then my brain slowly put it together. My friend was losing her job at...
A little aside here:
I have a confession.
I am addict.
I am addicted to sports. Football, mainly. Basketball, too. Baseball, even, if it means something. Hockey live is great, but on TV, I confess it makes me drowsy. World Cup soccer (football!) is riveting- really- to me. I can even zone out for hours watching golf if Tiger is involved, and I don't even play.
But mainly it's football. Been hook'ed since I was 13. I'm functional, though. I don't let it affect my job or my wife or my political affiliation. I have a career in the arts. But know this: I gotta have it.
Where I grew up, The south, it's everywhere. You can play it, watch it, talk it, fight it, drink it, eat it, kick it, shit it, hate it or love it just about anytime any place. Old women would yell at 19 year old boys things that would make you blush. And I did. And I loved it.
But when I moved to New York, my sources dried up. It's up here, sure. But it's expensive and bitter and just isn't as available. The College variety- my preferred strain- is all but non-existent. There is the professional type, which I dearly love, but this was the home of the hated football Giants, rivals of my beloved Cowboys- the rightful holders of the crown. And the only good news was this:
my Cowboys played here once a year. Every year.
That simple fact has given me a level of happiness and hope that I really never understood. Until now.
The 'Cowboys Game', as it would be known, was marked our first year here by my wife-then-girlfriend giving me an expensive and hard to obtain ticket to the game, completely unexpectedly (as we could afford milk OR cereal at that time). This gesture was so moving that I proposed to her on the spot- in front of everyone at the bar! Our lasting marriage is a testament to that golden night and my need for the game.* But that was a once in a lifetime thing. Those tickets are rare and hard to come by. But New York is a funny place.
One by one, many of our close friends from school began to move to New York. We're all actors, so it isn't that surprising, but it was great for the then-girlfriend and me. We started forming our posse, and quite certainly 'Charlotte' was among the crew.
The longer you live in a place like New York, the better you do. And eventually, some people find a cool job in an interesting place. 'Charlotte' got a job at a major network in the sports department. This was probably far more interesting to me than to her, overall. But my involvement with 'Charlotte's' employment status was cemented when she revealed she could get Cowboys tickets. For me. And it was a beautiful thing.
I'm a brokeass actor-guy, but for three wonderful, magical afternoons and evenings, I got to see my team. Shit, I couldn't even afford to see them live in Texas! But there I was, there when they were- every game.
'Charlotte' was good for even more than that: she got me basketball tickets, too. Just the other night even. I must of known on some level already though, because I reveled in the evening like a 17 year old with courtside seats and a fake ID. Luckily, no one was injured (except my pride).
So it all boils down to this: 'Charlotte' was my dealer.
And that is what hit me in the gut. The kindness of my friend had given me a golden age. I could revel in my addiction. Flail in my feeble faults. I could pretend to be rich and look down on the poor folk in their $75 seats and sneer. But no more.
Thank God for Direct TV. You'll never leave me, will you? Will you?
*some sources contradict this version of events.
