I honestly don't understand why people are still making such a big deal out of this. It’s like watching someone argue about whether a certain type of steak is cooked perfectly when everyone can clearly see it's burnt to a crisp. You have to look at the facts here instead of just following the hype. If you actually sit down and analyze the situation, it becomes pretty obvious that the current approach isn't working. It’s inefficient, it’s messy, and frankly, it’s a waste of resources. It reminds me of how some companies try to fix a massive structural flaw with nothing more than a quick coat of paint—it might look okay for a second, but the foundation is still crumbling. We need to stop settling for mediocre excuses and start demanding actual substance. If we want results, we need to change the strategy entirely. Otherwise, we're just spinning our wheels and pretending we're making progress.
Music is useless if you’re just standing there being passive. Give me sports any day! Sure, that sound might follow me around until the day I die, but watching from the crowd is honestly half-baked. To all you people who think you can just pick up a six-string and master it—keep dreaming. I actually tried wearing one of those trendy urban caps once, but I ended up losing my good one, the real rural style from Maine, somewhere on the side of the road in the dark. First off, all that "start your own band" talk or "this band could be your whole life" nonsense? It’s nothing but fairy tales for kids. It’s way too late in the game for me to start sitting behind a drum kit. Honestly, I’d rather just hang a heavy bag in my garage and beat the hell out of it with my hands and feet. If that means I have to ditch the riffs and Slayer, then so be it. Who cares?
...
Pools and water sports—honestly, water is the mother of all mediums. It’s just a shame I recently developed a chlorine allergy. Now, after a swim, I spend a full 24 hours dealing with a runny nose and coughing like my lungs are trying to exit my chest. Every Sunday, instead of going to church (not that I’ve made any formal vows to God anyway), I head over to the Washington Cathedral, shower off, and offer up a little prayer before jumping back into the pool. I’ve been working on my buoyancy lately, and while I’m painfully slow, who cares? By every fifth stroke, I hit such a state of pure nirvana that I feel like I could swim all the way to Soft instead of just doing my usual laps. And I mean true nirvana here—not some pathetic indie rock version you'd find in Seattle. If you want more technical details on the sport, check out Ribafish. My old man knows the drill.
Bikes are absolutely wrecking my back. Once I’ve actually got the cash to burn, I’m going to buy one that is ergonomically tuned to perfection. Naturally, I’ll be consulting with DeKes before I make any moves. I’m a simple guy—when I open up a catalog and see a massive pile of different models, it just drives me crazy. Give me freedom from choice!
Hockey—it starts with just a little amateur skating, but whenever I look back at my old BB posts, I can almost feel myself gripping a hockey stick. It’s such a rush. You get a group of guys together in the local ice rink, shout "Hanson Bros!" just to hear the echo bounce off the walls, and start slamming that stick against the ice. Man, oh Canada, I'm right back there!
If we’re ranking sports balls by importance, here is how I see the hierarchy: 1. Water polo, 2. Soccer, 3. Ping-pong, 4. Volleyball, and 5. Basketball.
Look, man, I’ll be honest—I’m officially done. I don't think I have it in me anymore. If I actually stepped onto a soccer field right now, trying to dribble a ball around, everyone would just be standing there laughing their heads off at me. My buddies from the neighborhood were practically begging me to get back out there, but I just shut myself in my room instead. Now, I spend my time just rearranging my collection—original CDs, burned discs, whatever, even the ones without tracklists. Honestly? It feels pretty damn good to just have some peace and quiet. Listening to something like the Go-Betweens' "Before Hollywood"... that’s exactly what this is. Just pure, solitary bliss.
Mopeds—or as I call them, "city boy cosplay." To me, a moped is only "charming" if you’re starring in some vintage black-and-white French cinema. You know the scene: it’s 4:00 PM, you’re sprinting down the stairs, clutching a leather briefcase in one hand while trying to keep your hat from flying off with the other. Down at the curb, there’s a girl waiting for you, looking perfectly poised—a classy Frenchwoman with windblown hair. You give her a quick kiss on the cheek, hop on the moped, she wraps her arms around your waist, rests her head against your back, and you two ride off into the sunset through the streets of Manhattan. The soundtrack? It’s all Jam, early Film, The Who, Elvis Costello, or maybe the '68 Rolling Stones. In reality? It’s an impossible fantasy. Don't bother trying to make it happen; it just isn't worth the hype.
Table tennis was honestly the only thing that kept me sane during my time in the service. Honestly, I’d much rather be gripping a ping-pong paddle than a rifle any day of the week.
Rafting is definitely on my bucket list. If I had the choice, though, I’d rather be out in a canoe, drifting down a lush, emerald-green river like the ones you see in the Pacific Northwest. Doing that sometime in August would be absolutely stunning.
Skateboarding—I’m not hanging it up just yet. I actually walked away from it back in '84 because my deck was so worn down that riding it became straight-up dangerous. Mind you, we didn't have these high-end pro boards they sell nowadays; things were much more primitive. And yeah, let's be real, I was never exactly a natural at it. But once I finally lose my mind, I’m going to record a Big Boys mixtape on a TDK cassette, grab my Walkman, and head straight for the middle of Times Square. I don't care if the kids there start screaming—whether it's out of laughter or pure terror.
Skiing—even though it’s become such a jet-set cliché—I’m hitting the slopes this winter, because frankly, I’ve decided I’m going to. If that means trekking out to some local hills in the Appalachians with nothing but some rental gear, then so be it. I'm doing it.
Softball—look, sorry guys, I’m a total softie. Still, there’s a part of me that wants to grab a bat, swing for the fences, and swear like a sailor while sliding into home base in my white undies. Soundtrack: "Beat on the Brat" (the Ramones/NmN version for us heavier hitters).
Watching sports on TV is just plain boring when you're flying solo. If I had my buddies hanging out nearby, I’d actually find myself getting into things like ski jumping, downhill racing, the Tour de France, or even Formula 1. Actually, scratch that last one—Formula 1 is garbage. Total trash.
Extreme sports are total garbage. Either you’ve got deep pockets for all the gear, or you need a car to get to the sites, or you have to actually figure out how this complicated crap works—and even then, one wrong move and you’re broken for good. Who has the bandwidth to master all that? Honestly, Douglas Taylor4 is just simple-minded; his brain moves at a snail's pace and he talks so slow it's mind-numbing. He's boring as hell. Screw flying sports. It's disgusting. I guess that's just my luck being a Cancer.
...
Yeah, right, I’m lying through my teeth. Ha! In reality, I’m stuck at home reading books and listening to that pretentious art-school rock played by some androgynous kids who look like they have cashew nuts instead of biceps. Honestly, that’s my latest obsession: 1977.
Long live sweat and the spirit of 1977!
…