How to Tell the Difference Between a Black Boxer and a White Boxer
When you watch boxing on TV, they always tell you which guy is wearing which color shorts. Even if one boxer is a black guy and the other is a white guy. Are shorts supposed to be a better indicator of race than skin color?
If the purpose is to tell you who is who, why not just say their skin color? Do you really need to say "Roy Jones Jr. is in the red shorts, and John Ruiz is in black?" I'm sure most people will get the point if you say "See that big, slow Puerto Rican motherfucker who's getting his ass kicked? That's John Ruiz."
Sure, I'm a boxing fan, and yes, boxing entails looking at sweaty, half-naked men up to 48 minutes at a time. But that doesn't necessarily mean I feel the need to study the quality of the boxers' buttocks. I'm more than happy to differentiate two men by identifying their skin tone before it gets covered with bruises and blood.
Are we so afraid of race that we can't even acknowledge it in a boxing ring, let alone in an airport?
HBO's Disappointing Ring Card Girl Policy
I don't understand why HBO never shows the ring card girls. Do they have to be so serious about two guys beating the fuck out of each other that they can't show a little T&A once in a while?
In fact, just once I'd like to hear Larry Merchant and George Foreman get into an argument about a pair of breasts, instead of the usual topics like whether a boxer's corner is giving him the right advice.
Sure, boxing is an exciting sport. But let's try to keep things in perspective. We're talking about ring card girls, here. Ring card girls.
Miscellaneous Thoughts on Age and Aging
As you get older, age becomes less important in a certain respect. The older you get, the less you care how old your friends are. I have friends who are five or six years older and five or six years younger than me. This could never have happened when I was a kid.
For example, if I had a friend five years younger than me when I was a sophomore in high school, I could never say anything like, "I'd like to fuck her" without getting a response like "That's great. Do you want to play tag?" Unless, for some reason, my friend had bypassed the freeze tag stage and went directly to puberty.
Our taste in girls would also be different. While things like breasts were rising in value to me, my friend would still be using the "ponytail" method of evaluation. Actually, there is no ponytail method that I'm aware of, but when you're in fifth grade, you tend not to put breasts too high up on your list of positive, female, sexual characteristics, for fear of unnecessarily limiting the size of your playing field.
I've recently learned that I'm the same age as Snoop Dog. This is one of those facts that feels like it should be important in some way, but actually has no importance whatsoever. A couple years ago, I wrote a few articles for High Times magazine. I wonder if Snoop Dog read any of them. It would be interesting if my articles influenced his choice of rap lyrics. Maybe he even considers me a mentor.
As I age, I don't feel any older. The percentage of dopey kids in the population just seems to rise.
Tennis Announcers
Against my better judgment, I sat in front of the TV today on my day off and watched André Agassi lose against an Argentinean kid named Coria. Now, I've never professed to have any respect for Mary Carillo, but I wouldn't mind, occasionally, to see some sort of sign why this woman's voice needs to be coming out of my television set. Actually, my problem isn't even just with her. There's too many announcers, John McEnroe notwithstanding, who feel the need to infer players' psychological states rather than analyze the actual tennis match.
"Look at his furrowed brow. He really wants this."
"Look at his furrowed brow. He must be shitting in his pants."
"If he gets down early in this set, he's really going to have to rethink his approach. In other words, he's gonna have to stop fucking up so goddamn much."
"Does she have what it takes to win this? Or are Venus' tits just too fucking big?"
Instead of pretending to be armchair Freuds, how about a few simple comments like:
"He didn't put enough topspin on that shot."
"That was the right idea, but she didn't hit it deep enough into the corner."
"If he keeps hitting the ball into the bleachers, my expert opinion is that his coach is most likely going to shove an entire racket stringer up his asshole."
Or, if you have nothing to say, say nothing. That's my advice.
My Visit to Berkeley
I pulled my rental car into the parking lot of the office I was visiting for the week. On my left was a car with a bumper sticker reading, "Stop Bush". On my right was a car with a bumper sticker reading, "No blood for oil." Jesus Christ, in this city, even the sprouts are fucking communists. Even the goddamn avocados are red.
It's a beautiful city, from a vegetation standpoint. It's unfortunate, though, that you actually have to speak to some of the vegetation, and some it speaks back to you.
The coolest part of the trip was my visit to The Raider Image, an entire store devoted to Oakland Raiders paraphernalia. I passed on the Raiders wine glasses, though did pick up a Raiders shot glass to add to my collection. (My collection of shot glasses, that is.) And what the hell, I shelled out the $65 for a Charlie Garner jersey. I figure the period of mourning since the Super Bowl has lasted long enough that we Raiders fans can show our faces in public again.
Porn Preferences
Isn't it funny that your own preferences for porn seem perfectly normal, but everyone else's seem totally perverted? If you're into bisexual, lesbian, Siamese-twin midgets, it's no big deal. But if someone else likes watching albino Filipinos with KKK breasts, then holy fucking shit! That guy is fucked up!
