Sports Help Men Avoid Feelings

As featured on Click2Houston.com:

This time of year is difficult for a man; there's nothing good on television.

What I mean by that, of course, is that there isn't much to watch in the way of sports. For many men, sports is the only thing worth watching.

The football season is months away, baseball is at its tedious early-season stage, most people's knowledge of hockey begins and ends with the film "Miracle," and the only ones paying attention to soccer are us Anti-American Europhiles who are hell-bent on having the U.N. take over your town.

"What about basketball?" I hear you say. "It's playoffs, baby!"

Exactly. There's nothing good on television. I question the legitimacy of a sport when the players haven't figured out how to dress properly.

As a side note, due to my lack of interest, I had to check the official NBA Web site to ensure that it really is time for playoffs. I discovered there that the NBA has something called a "D-League."

Apparently the "D" stands for "development," but think of all the other words that start with "D:" deficient, dull, dumb and dunderheaded. Who's going to go watch a load of D-League players? Give me C-League, at least. Do D-Leaguers have to repeat the season?

Most amusingly, there is a team in the D-League known as the Fort Wayne Mad Ants. Really? Mad ants? That's the best they could come up with?

What do their fans say? "Go Mad Ants! Get angry, you ants! Play like someone's taken all your sugar!"

But the thing is, if there were a Mad Ants game on TV tonight, I would watch it. I am male and I have to watch sports. If I don't, the terrorists win.

Actually, I think a man's seemingly constant need to watch sports runs a bit deeper. Watching sport is a kind of emotional opiate.

The common perception by women is that men are emotionally D-League -- we don't quite get it. In truth, though, we do get it. We just don't like it. Feelings are hurty and troublesome. Feelings are the Bo and Luke Duke of our souls, upsetting our happy Enos Strate status quo.

I've never bought into the idea that men feel particularly differently than women. I think we just respond to feelings differently. Also, we generally don't seek out particularly emotional experiences. I know women who watch films that they know will make them cry. How does this make sense?

"Sometimes it's good to cry," my wife insists.

Sometimes it's good to get a colonoscopy; neither event, however, is really my idea of a good evening in. So, I watch sports.

I can sit there comfortable in the knowledge that at no point will I be introduced to some cute and quirky female character whom I will fall in love with, only to watch her make an idiot decision or die of a horrible disease. At no point will I be confronted with my own prejudices. At no point will I be forced to question my moral foundation.

There are moments of high emotion in sport. I will always remember the way the whole of Cardiff seemed to jump when Wales won the Grand Slam. A particularly important rugby achievement in this part of the world, it was met by rapturous celebration in Wales' capital city. My lasting memory is of all of us in the Maltster's Arms in midair as the final whistle blew.

But that kind of thing is rare. Generally all you get from watching sports is a handful of people you don't know running around for a few hours. If you are watching basketball or soccer, you get the added feature of watching people you don't know pretend they are injured.

Watching sports is easy on the soul. It settles all the frustrating things that might be dwelling there. In my case, watching sports helps me to take my mind off the paralyzing fear of exams I'm facing next month. I know I can trust Manchester United star Cristiano Ronaldo to do nothing more than run around like a sprite and pout.

Somehow that puts the world at right.

The Ghostly Ice Cream Van

I have fallen out of habit of directing to my columns, but I am still writing them. Here's my latest one, which I am sort of pleased with simply because of the imagery, e.g., "dairy-treat-bearing land shark."

To that end, I'm pretty sure that Bomb Pops to the Malevolent is a good name for a band.

I Need Miss Texas' Help

My latest column is out. It contains an edit that makes no sense to me.

In talking about my university experience it says: "Consequently, I am struggling. Despite my ability to start a sentence with la-dee-da words like 'consequently,' I feel I'm just not good enough to be here."

But "consequently" is not the word I had there. Originally I had "hitherto."

"Hitherto" means "up to this point," whereas "consequently" means "as a result of;" so the meaning of the sentence is changed and it makes me seem like a person who thinks "consequently" is an obscure word.

Ah, well. I'm not arsed.

How The Super Bowl Looks Abroad

My latest column is out. If you read my blogging of the Super Bowl, the themes will be familiar but they are better fleshed out.

My favourite part is the observation that: "rugby... is what football used to be before being taken over by figure skaters. American football is so laden with rules and technicality that is at times more performance than sport. Yes, I realize you need to be fit to run really fast and catch a ball, but is it a real test of mental and physical capacity when you're allowed to stop every 15 seconds and do the Charleston?"

Who Sits and Watches Trains?

My latest column is out. Actually, it's been out since Tuesday, but I wanted to give more time on top to the story of my being attacked by a crazy woman.

That's life, innit? You start to think things are getting too dull, and then someone comes at you with an axe and Samurai sword.

I've only just noticed that the link I put in the column isn't working properly, so here's the link again. I'm not sure it's worth it for me to ask someone to fix in the story -- I get the feeling sometimes there aren't a whole lot of people reading that column. Not a whole lot beyond those of you who already read this blog, at least.

To that extent, I've been carrying on an internal debate about whether I want to put the fiddle on the roof in terms of my column. "Rhoi'r ffidl yn y to" is a Welsh metaphor that means you've decided to call it quits on something. The fact that it's "yn y to" instead of "ar y to" suggests the fiddle being placed in the attic, but I have always preferred to translate it as putting the fiddle on the roof:

"Right. We've had just about enough of that singin' an' dancin' now. This fiddle's goin' on the roof, it is. With the donkey" (a).

However it's said, I've been questioning whether I want to carry on writing a column for the fine folks at Internet Broadcasting. My dilemma is totally within myself. IB has been very kind in giving me a huge platform, and I have no real complaints apart from the occasional harrumph when I'm told to remove references to sex.

That big platform is my primary reason for wanting to stay on. Well, that and the fact that I do enjoy writing the column.

I also enjoy writing my blog, though (b). Seemingly anything I wanted to say in a column can be said here and I can use as much mature language as I deem fit. But, a blog doesn't carry the same feeling of legitimacy. The column is part of what helped me to get noticed when I was trying to find an agent for my novel. And once I'm done with this little university adventure and again trying to write seriously, it could be an asset.

But the column doesn't pay and it diverges somewhat from what I'm focused on at the moment. The Welsh-language column I write each month for Barn delivers a bit of cash (only enough for a night in the pub, but some is more than none). I am hoping this summer to write a book in the Welsh language, and I also have a few ideas for Welsh-language novels. At the moment, my focus is on a path where an English-language internet column targeted to a U.S. audience doesn't really add much to my CV.

With the exception of this week's column (my favourite line: "If I were a trainspotter, I would put whisky in my tea and draw pictures of breasts in my notebook"), I haven't really been happy with the stuff I've been producing lately for IB. I don't want to turn in crap. I know that everyone in a media company sees him- or herself as a writer, so I don't want to be occupying a spot that someone else might be eager to fill if I don't feel I'm producing something entertaining.

But if I let go of the column, I will never get it back. Opportunities to write on 70-site networks aren't the sort of things that come along every day. IB hits some 16 million people a month. More than five times the population of Wales, every month. Fair enough, 15,999,920 of them aren't reading my column, but it's not the sort of thing you just throw away, is it?

I am plagued by indecision. If you've got any advice, I'd like to hear it.

(a) There is a Welsh children's song about a hat-wearing donkey with two wooden legs who sits on a roof.

(b) Sometimes. From about July to December I was considering deleting all my blogs.

Christmas Without Robots

If you haven't had enough Christmas spirit, my latest column is out.

My Post-Quarter-Life Crisis

My latest column is out. And contains a sentiment that I will save for when I'm famous and asked to speak at high school graduations: Older people are not superior, they've simply had more time to formulate arguments that they are.

Tossing My Brain Overboard

My latest column is out, complete with family-friendly edit. My editor (who loves the Longhorns, by the way) felt that I would be less likely to receive grumpy e-mails if he changed, "I was singularly focused on getting her to take off her shirt," to, "... singularly focused on getting her alone."

It defeats the point of the joke, which was to finish off a navel-gazing statement about my sub-conscious with a crass reference to sex, but almost certainly Adam is right. American news consumers are desperate to be offended and a reference to my fondness for certain parts of the female anatomy would give them too easy a target.

Amusingly, I had already self-censored an entire paragraph.

It is said that when Custer got his ass handed to him at Little Bighorn, some of his men went into such an idiotic panic that they simply fired straight into the air, unable to control their fear enough to aim at anything. I was going to point out that I respond to stress similarly, and likely would have run out of ammo before ever actually spotting a Lakota. But I scrapped the line because I could imagine someone getting so angry with my reference to a 131-year-old military blunder that they would write to me IN A FIT OF MISPELED CAPSLOCK HISTEREA.

The fear-the-reader nature of modern American news media means I can't really accumulate too many complaint letters. Managers in the fine company that hosts my column wouldn't have any problem dropping the thing if any of the complaints were to appear on their radar. So Adam is simply protecting my ass because I am too dumb to protect it on my own.

Although, obviously, he's not protecting my ass, because that, too, would be offensive -- both for its language and homosexual connotations. But it would be typical of the kind of thing we've come to expect from the liberal media: a Jew watching out for his sex-deviant European pal.

Wishing for Hard Labor

My latest column is out Actually, it's been out since Tuesday, but I haven't really had time to get at the computer until today.

I am busy reading Welsh-language novels. There appears to be an unwritten rule that in every single fucking Welsh-language novel the English must be nefarious, arrogant and ignorant/spiteful of the Welsh language.

I'm a bit disappointed in this week's column because I wasn't able to come up with a way to directly reference the Triple Lindy.

Half the Fun of Not Travelling

My latest column is out. My favourite part is when I refer to myself as a "wistful girl's blouse."

Also, I claim in this column that I am not being forced to sign statements of allegiance to Len Goodman. You'll note, however, that I conveniently left out the fact that I so totally would. Len Goodman should be king.

What Does Running So Far Prove?

My latest column is out. My dad's favourite line is: "I love me some Powerade."

Unfortunately that line is a lie. They gave us Lucozade, but I felt it would slow the pace of the column to reference Lucozade and then have to explain that is a sports drink that is apparently for people who like to eat candy while running. Cripes that stuff is sweet.

I also didn't mention my time in the column, which was around 1:54. That's a few seconds more than I ran in Fargo a few years ago, but I'm not particularly bothered because I had been suffering a pretty bad cold in the week before. At the starting line I was still coughing like someone's granddad.

The run itself was enjoyable, winding from City Centre down to the Bay and then up into Bute Park. In my column, I make a bit more of Butetown than was actually the case. The boy I referenced in the column followed up his taunt with: "All day, my old son! All day!"

My guess is that he was simply shouting things for the sake of shouting.

Going up through Pontcanna was the best part, because there were people cheering us on in Welsh. My favourite supporter was a curly-haired girl who looked to be about 4 years old. She was jumping up and down and shouting, "Da iawn! Da iawn!" at the top of her lungs.

Unfortunately, the race was "organised" by retarded people, so the moments before and after the race were filled with frustration. I'll bet cash money that any one of the regular readers of this blog could have done a better job on just a day's notice than the mental midgets who apparently have been putting on this run for several years in a row.

Here's a question for you: If you had an event that some 10,000 people were attending, how many portable toilets would you have at the start line? If your answer is "more than 10" you are better qualified than the Cardiff Half Marathon fuckwits. All of the men simply pissed in the street. I saw several blokes making no effort to stand near a wall or bush or behind any sort of barrier. They were pissing in disdain.

The race ended within the walls of Cardiff Castle. There's a certain romanticism to that, but take a look at this aerial view of the castle grounds and tell me how many gates you see. That's right, two. Two gates.

So, here's another question: If you were using one of those gates to allow the thousands of people to stream into the castle grounds, that would leave you with how many exits? If one exit for 10,000 people sounds a bit silly to you, you are WAY ahead of the incompetent ass-hats that charged me £21 ($42) to take part in their clusterfuck. They were trying to use the other gate -- a space that is only about 8 feet wide -- to allow people both in and out.

Oh, but that's not all. They didn't ask the police to block off the road that runs in front of the castle. That left only the pavement as the method of dispersal. The pavement is probably 4 feet wide and on any given weekend (like this one) is usually crowded with tourists and shoppers.

Things came to a standstill inside the castle walls. Those of us who had finished the race found ourselves trapped -- exhausted, dehydrated, cold and not at all prepared to stand in a crowd for 40 fucking minutes. The child bride was close to fainting.

The organisers insist they'll learn from their mistakes, but these mistakes are so basic that they shouldn't have occurred. It's the sort of thing that may very well drive me to write a sternly worded letter to the Western Mail.

Over The Falls In A Barrel

My latest column is out. Despite its headline, it is not about Britney Spears' career. However, it does contain a line that I'm sure Elisa can relate to: "Facebook is my chocolate pie."

Female Army Lays Siege

My latest column is out and it's a pretty easy guess that I was going to write about my sisters-in-law. My favourite line this week is: "Westerners are bulls in a china shop where all the china has a little picture of a matador on it."

You Want Dessert, Don't You?

My latest column is out. My favourite line is: "Personally, I haven't trusted those nefarious soft-servistas since they renamed 'Mr. Misty' as 'Misty Slush.'"

Missing Idiocy of Storms

I have slightly mixed feelings about my latest column, which is out today. I'm happy with it -- especially lines like, "...they throw themselves at it like Britney Spears to a bucket full of crazy," -- but what I'm saying isn't true, you see. I don't really miss TV news at all.

The Ghost of the Ice Cream Van

My latest column is out. Actually, it's been out since Tuesday, but I wasn't near a computer to post it. Random line from the column: "In Britain it is more acceptable to kick an old lady in the shins than design straight roads that are easy to navigate."

War Story Shows American Way

My latest column is out. It walks a little close to patriotism, but I think it works OK. Yes, I did learn about the story from "Coast." Neil Oliver is my hero.

I'm trying to guess which angry e-mail I'll get first: someone upset at my jab at Texas public education, or someone from the Navy upset at my believing the British.

Eight Is Not Enough

My latest column is out and features the line: "Darling, your love is like the fine men and women of the United States armed forces."

Something else that happened on 12 June 1999: GW Bush officially announced he would run for president. It's a factoid that my mother-in-law, a hardcore Republican, can take solace in -- at least the day wasn't a total loss.

Learning From Swedish YouTube Clips

Exams are Ivan "I must break you" Drago at the moment. It's yet to be determined whether I am Rocky or Apollo Creed. In the meantime, here's a bit more insight into what's going on in my head at the moment: My latest column is out.

Europe's Dirty Little Secret

In all the fun of having a TV programme about me (you can now catch it online, and it will run again with English subtitles at 21:15 on Saturday), a major European event went unnoticed on this blog.

Fortunately, I have made up for this by writing about it in my latest column.