For the annual music festival at my school, an event called May Day, the headlining band was Eve 6. That's a joke in itself, I know. You should have seen the reaction of the Indie music hippies. I think they would have been happier with a show from Miley Circus, or whatever the fuck that girl's name is. Anyway, you may remember Eve 6 from the days of 5th grade, when their single "Inside Out" (I would swallow my pride/I would choke on the rinds...) was at the top of modern rock charts. They also remained in the spotlight at many an 8th grade graduation with their hit "Here's to the Night" (Here's to the niiights we felt alive/here's to the tears you knew you'd cry...) After those two classics, where did they go? They released their last popular song 8 years ago.
I wonder how it made Eve 6 feel, to play in front of (maybe) 100 college students. Most people, like myself, simply stood, arms crossed, tapping a foot to the beat. Those few who were really rocking out had been drinking since 11 AM. Surely the lead singer recognized all of this as he recounted the group's struggles between songs. They broke up in 2004 and two of the three original members reunited in 2007.
I had no idea Eve 6 ever broke up, nor got back together.
It was sort of like hearing about a distant relative that got divorced, and then remarried, one of those random family updates that may be interesting to your parents, but means nothing to you.
I thought Eve 6 just fell off the face of the earth. Yet, in reality, the band faced some tough challenges that led them out of the public sphere and into a split. During that time, they probably grew in a number of ways, both as musicians and friends.
I would like you, dear readers, to think of Shmuz Weekly in terms of Eve 6. Like that band, we took a long hiatus, but we never truly left, and now we're back to fill that nostalgic soft spot left in your heart. (One for my tender, heart in a blender, watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion!)
I think that part of my problem is that I feel the need to come up with entries that only explore one subject or idea. This leads me to not write something until I'm sure I can write ENOUGH about it. I realize now that both focused and rambling pieces have their respective merit. Such a realization should enable me to produce more, and we can start with some random things that I've been pondering the last month or so:
How funny is the culture of youth sports? When I say "youth," I suppose that means ages 5-12. I'm talking about the glory days. Tee Ball, baby.
Remember suiting up in your officially sponsored uniform? I swear to God, none of those businesses actually existed. They were always so random. On the front of my Little League shirts, it said "Narberth Baseball." On the back, it said anything from "Bob's Stamps and Collectibles" to "Odd Jobs, Etc." There is more uniform advertising in youth Tee Ball and baseball than in Major League Baseball. Just imagine Jimmy Rollins wearing a jersey emblazoned with "John Kennedy Ford of Feasterville." Wait a minute...
Are these small, walking billboards really effective? Do businesses look to Little League to attract new customers? Have you ever filled out a survey that looked like this?:
"How did you hear about us?"
a. Through a friend.
b. Yellow pages.
c. I saw you on the back of some kid's Tee Ball uniform.
No. People don't go to a place as a result of its local playground exposure.
In addition to advertising on the backs of children, youth sports forces parents to become friends. Why? Parents need connections for the carpool. I would argue that the carpool creates unnecessary stress for young athletes, because I cannot be the only one who had trouble giving directions to his own house at age 9. Sometimes, after a game, I piled into a mini van full of teammates with one kid's mom at the wheel. We usually ran into this little roadblock:
"Hey Thomas, what street do you live on, honey?"
"Uh... the one with the really big stop sign?"
Goddamn that was embarrassing. It was a moment in which no one really knew what to do, similar to when the coach's fat son stepped up to the tee. I'm not sure you can say you truly experienced youth sports unless you played on a team with the coach's fat son. Coach would either treat this goofball like a prodigy, or critique him like a Celtics fan on Doc Rivers.
A Tee Ball at bat for the coach's fat son could go in two different directions. If the coach favored his kid, everyone just stood there waiting as he hacked at the plastic black tube. The ball fell off, he reached down a chubby hand, put it back on the tee, and it fell off again before he even took a swing. The frustration set in. Sweat pouring beneath a tightly buttoned cap turned hot tears into streaks on his round face. The other ballplayers knelt down and plucked grass. "Come on, boy!" Coach cheered. "Good cut! You got it!" As everyone wondered when it would end, the tee fell forward and the ball rolled a foot in front of home plate. Everyone agreed it was not a foul ball, but rather a solid hit, and watched gratefully as the coach's fat son waddled to first base.
If the coach was an overbearing Dad trying to have an athletic career vicariously through his child, then the at bat went much quicker. After wincing at a few whiffs, the coach went up to his juicebox-guzzling boy, grabbed the bat, and "helped" him put the ball in play. No one challenged this practice. Sometimes it even seemed fair.
I'll tell you what's unfair though: the fact that I missed the boat on developing a signature. Yes, I switched topics just like that, and yes, I'm talking about a John Hancock. Will someone please explain to me at what age you simply make up the signature that you will use for the rest of your life? I know some people *COUGH steven yacobs END COUGH* who used to spend entire classes perfecting the unnecessary loops and swoops that indicated their seal of approval.
Given that I tragically overlooked this important stage of development, I now resort to an alternative method that makes me appear even more like a twelve year old. When I sign an important document, such as a Spring Garden I.D., I write my name in print, only sloppier. This takes longer than the average scribble, and prompts a raised eyebrow from any witnesses. Cashiers, for example, must wonder whether or not I can write in cursive. Let's just say I do that about as fast as I eat. Do schools even still force kids to learn that antiquated script? Do you still have to sign an honor code statement on the SAT using longhand? That section took me longer than the reading comprehension, and I almost asked the girl next to me if I could borrow a fucking quill.
I hope that by the time I'm 30, I have found an appropriate way to sign my name. I'm open to any and all suggestions in that department. In the mean time, I will leave you with a few conclusions:
- Happy Memorial Day. I hope you saw some amusing people get out of their cars in the standstill traffic on the way to the Shore.
- Digital clocks are replacing analog clocks faster than you think. The other day, I was in Blockbuster, and the only way I could find out the time was to ask an employee, who checked on the computer.
- My phone was M.I.A. that day, which made me realize that without my cell phone, I have no clue what time it is.
- New forms of media will not replace older forms because when you're taking a shit, a newspaper is easier to manage than a laptop.
- High gas prices currently enjoy official small talk status. Feel free to use them like you might use the weather.
- Learning a friend's middle name usually indicates a new level of closeness in your relationship with him or her.
- If you know mine, save some of that chuckle for next time.
