Rant#13: I'll Be "Dancing" With Myself

Though I live in the Boston area, I’m not going to the NCAA Tourney games at The Garden. Why? For one, if you’ve never been to Boston, it’s much like NYC, but without all the easy-to-find parking spots. Beantown used to have plenty of parking – in 1776. So yeah, there’s an abundance of on-street parking assuming that your mode of transportation is an Appaloosa.

I guess I’d go if I got great seats. Something in the rafters would be perfect. Well, not actually “in” the rafters– but harnessed to the rafters and dangling down, hovering above the court. Like that scene from Mission Impossible. Except instead of Tom Cruise, it’d be me – a guy with a somewhat erratic bladder.

I could also be convinced to take a seat at center court. I mean dead center, in the middle of the actual court. Yes, that seat would be worth the parking hassle. I figure they already have advertising on the court, why not spectators? Or more specifically, just one spectator - me. It’d really allow me to promote this site. You know, like those boxers with their temporary tattoos. Just rather than having Golden Palace.com across my back, I’d have DaveBarendsColegeHoopHumor.blogspot.com. Yeah, I’m going to have to get a bigger back.

Honestly, I will be more than content watching the games Macualay Caulkin style – home alone. I truly prefer to remain in complete solitude during March Madness. I don’t even want to take a phone call. In 3 weeks the message on my answering machine will say: “Hi. You’ve reached the Barend residence. It’s March. The Tournament is on. What the hell are you thinking? Hang up the phone, turn on your TV, and call back in April.”

There are really so many positives about watching the games alone, like:

*When I order pizza there’s no worry that someone else is going to get that extra big slice.

*Belching is not only accepted, it’s encouraged.

*When I yell, “Come on, I could have made that shot”, there’s nobody sitting nearby with knowledge that that is definitely not true.

*I don’t have to fear ridicule if I want to quickly change the channel to see what’s going on with The Gilmore Girls.

*I never have to hear anyone say, “For the love of God, please put your shoes back on.”

*There’s no compulsion to wear underwear.

*Nobody knows if the coaching moves I blurt out are actually dumber than Boeheim’s.

*Deodorant, shaving, showering – all optional.

*I never have to share the remote. The Freudian phallic extension is all mine.


There are actually a few people with whom I wouldn’t mind watching the Tournament:

1.Elvis: Yes, I’d gladly allow the King to watch hoop with me. This may prove to be unlikely, you know, given that he’s dead. But I still hold out hope as evidenced by my EBay purchase of a recording made last year of a conversation between him and Jim Morrison.

2.My Dad – But only if he has money on the games. There are few things I enjoy more than watching my 70-year old father come to the brink of a coronary when bad coaching costs him some dough. See, my dad’s not just Old-School. He’s “Old Nun Smashing Knuckles With Ruler-School”. He still thinks everyone should know how to shoot a hook shot. He actually taught me the hook shot before I could make a lay-up. All right, that’s not completely true. I never learned how to make a lay up.

3.The Hooters Girls – Gorgeous women who are skilled at serving – yeah, they are more than welcome. They may, however, have a problem getting past the bouncer – a.k.a. my wife.

I thought about putting President Obama on the list. He seems pretty knowledgeable about hoops. But if there’s one thing everybody can agree on about #44, he likes to talk. And talk and talk. So, I’d feel pretty bad if I had to say, “Mr. President, any chance you could shut the hell up?” I’d feel bad not just ‘cause I would have insulted the President of The United States, but because some secret service guy would probably be dragging me out by my nostrils.

There is one person who I have little choice but to watch the games with – my wife. After many years, I’ve finally figured out how to convince her to let me watch the Big Dance in peace. Below is an example of the interchange during our conversations:

Wife: I can’t believe this game isn’t over.
Wife: I thought we were going to watch “27 Dresses” tonight.
Wife: Why is it called charging? He’s not purchasing anything.
Wife: It says 5 minutes is left. That means a half hour, doesn’t it?
Wife: Let’s just change the channel. I know you want to see what’s happening with the Gilmore Girls.
Wife: Wait a second. They just called time out. Why would they call another one?
Wife: Aren’t foul shots supposed to be easy?
Wife: Why did the announcer say “With the Kiss”?
Wife: Oh geez, there’s the cheerleaders. Why do they even need them?
Wife: You know those boobs are fake.
Wife: I can tell what you’re thinking, “Who cares.” You’re disgusting.
Wife: He said it again, “The Kiss”. Oh, we should kiss every time he says that.
Wife: Ewww. What smells?
Wife: Oh my God, did you – that just stinks - I’m out of here.

Ahhh. Time to pull out a stogie and cue up that Mission Impossible theme song. Or better yet, a little Billy Idol, cause I’m going to be “Dancing with Myself.”

Take it easy,
Dave

Next set of Rankings and Irrelevant Comments coming Thursday.