Thank God It's Monday

You want to know why I'm a loser?

I'll lay it out for you. Just straight up. No efforts to write eloquently or anything. I'd probably suck at that, too. Just a timeline. And to suck this bad requires quite a bit of information:

FRIDAY

5:36 p.m.: I leave the office not having finished my week's work. Why didn't I finish? Because I forgot. I tell myself I will do it over the weekend, email it to work. Friday is the deadline, but that's just because my bosses need to have it first thing Monday morning, and I rarely make it to work early.

5:57 p.m.: I call into a sports radio show for the first time ever, only because it's my friend's show and he's been doing it for a week and needs people to call as he tries to get rolling. I'm given the name "E From Simpsonville" (and now I've officially been assigned a name for my weekend-loser status).

Host: And now we bring in E From Simpsonville. What's up, E?

E From Simpsonville: Not much. How about you?

Host: Looking forward to the weekend. Hoping the rain holds off.

E From Simpsonville: Yeah, I'm hoping it holds off at least until 7. My little boy's got a baseball game tonight.

Host: Let's just hope he has his mother's athletic ability.

E From Simpsonville: That's wrooooong, man.

And that's the best I can come up with.

The topic of the day?

"What bothers you the most about the media?"

Oh, I have an answer.

Yeah, I have something to say. And it's simple. Just one ... (silence)... well ... just ... just ... stop complaining. Everybody ... you know ... hates the media and all. Everybody hates their local newspaper. They hate ESPN. It's annoying. Like ... just ... stop. You know? So how do you think the Suns will do against the Spurs?

6:12 p.m.: I get dressed in my church basketball uniform. It's the last game of the regular season. We're undefeated. In fact, this team has never lost in this league. It's my first year trying to help them win another championship.

We're playing one of the worst teams in the league tonight. A good opportunity to top the 27 points I scored a couple of games ago. If I feel like playing hard. Like a teammate told some guys in the lockeroom yesterday after a pick-up game, "E's Superman without his cape when he's out here playing, but when he puts on that gold jersey ..."

I like the sound of that. I can just hear the Krypton theme.

7:03 p.m.: My son is late to his baseball game. Again.



7:59 p.m.: He hits the ball hard and fields the ball well, but the Astros lose to the Red Sox 23-6. Actually, that's when they stopped keeping score. Now it's time to head to Daddy's game. All will be made well.

8:36 p.m.: We go up 14-2 in the first quarter. Two 3-pointers for me. I put it on cruise control.

9:25 p.m.: We're losing by 7 with a few minutes to go. I'm leading the team in scoring, but only because I've shot the ball way too many times. Now, I'm shooting even more to get us back in it.

9:31 p.m.: We lose by 9. To one of the worst teams in the league. I'm largely to blame for playing lazy defense and not passing. I have enough hubris that I honestly have no doubt I'll make my next shot.

"Superman."

More like a "Superman Complex."

10:01 p.m.: I drink heavily.


SATURDAY

9:57 a.m.: I wake up to find it cold and raining. But not to fear. Today is national "Free Comic Book Day." And "Spider-Man 3" is in the theaters. And Burger King -- true to "Star Wars" and "Superman Returns" form -- has the toys for the coolest summer movie.



All of this can be done indoors. And it's that classic, father-son sort of day out that also happens to be the antithesis of a father and son watching or playing sports all day and feeding off of each other's respective competitive neurosis.

12:53 p.m.: Head to the landfill to throw out the garbage. The work for the day is done.

1:03 p.m.: Burger King is bringing it correct. First toy? A Spider-Man that changes from red to black when you put it in cold water. And the chicken sandwiches, as always, are good.

2:17 p.m.: Free Comic Book Day. My son wears his Spider-Man web shirt and takes a picture with Darth Vader outside the comic book store. The line is out the door. What a geek convention. You get three free comic books, a "Transformers" movie poster and a Batman figurine.



It'll only take about 20 minutes, and we can head on out to the 3 p.m. showing afterward.

2:35 p.m.: We finally get in the door. The store is extremely small. The line has filled in behind with people still out the door. The line isn't moving very fast. I ask anyone if they've seen "Spider-Man 3."

An uber-geek answers. "Yeah, it sucked. They didn't do Venom like they should have, where he's talking in the third person and all. And Peter Parker walks around with his collar up. I'll never forgive them for that."

Another geek retorts: "I didn't think it was bad."

And on and on it goes ... from the movie to the split up of Cable and Deadpool ... to how Captain America's chest is drawn too big ... to how Brian Michael Bendis writes too "secular" (which, by the way, has nothing to do with religion, so I'm still at a loss on that one).

It's getting hot in here, and these people had better not take off their clothes.

2:55 p.m.: We're only halfway through. I'd give up, but we've already logged so much time. It would be beyond frustrating to leave with nothing when it's free.

3:12 p.m.: Apparently, the problem is that there's a sketch artist drawing free pictures for everyone. So, everyone in line just wanting a couple of comic books is waiting behind those who wanted the comic books and a drawing.

Something about comic book geeks (or at least these comic book geeks):

They don't like confrontation. And there's no leadership. Two guys in line ahead of us have not complained or questioned once why it's taking so long. I think they actually like the opportunity to be somewhere doing something even if it's standing in a line that's not moving or judging everything they like by how much they don't hate it.

3:20 p.m.: I mention to people around me that I think the problem is that we're waiting behind people waiting for a sketch to be drawn. No one acknowledges.

3:25 p.m.: I announce to anyone with ears to hear that "this place is driving me crazy." No one acknowledges. I figure we might be able to make the 4 p.m. showing at the theater down the street that featuers the only digital screen in town. That would be cool.

3:27 p.m.: The store owner announces that everyone who wants a picture with their comic books should form a line to the right. Everyone who wants just a book should fall in to the left (even though the comic books are on the right side). A woman with her whining kid plows through on the left side, not realizing that most people by now don't want a picture.

3:29 p.m.: I tell her she cut all these people in line behind her. She tells me she's just doing what the guy told her to do. I tell her she still cut all these people. She just shrugs her shoulders.

4:05 p.m.: We've rounded the bend. The comic books are within sight.

(It's too late to make the 4 p.m. show. That whole George Lucas digital theater thing. A cool way to witness a visual spectacle. Oh, well).

I try to lean in to see what all comics they have available. Fat guys in the right side of the line who don't understand the problem refuse to offer the slightest bit of space. I step on their feet and bump into them to see what I want.

The guy behind the counter catches a glimpse of someone with life in his eyes. Someone who actually wants to be helped.

Guy: What can I help you with, sir?

E From Simpsonville: Yeah. Thanks, man. Give me that "Spider-Man," that "Transformers" and that "Star Wars" over there. And let me get an Optimus Prime poster and we're all set.

Guy: You want the Batman figure?

E From Simpsonville: Sure.

Guy: There you go.

E From Simpsonville: Appreciate it. OK, excuse me. Just need to get by. Excuse me. Thanks.

4:06 p.m.: Outside. Freedom.

E From Simpsonville: Wow, son, that sure was worth it, wasn't it?

Son: What, Daddy?

E From Simpsonville: Nevermind. Why don't you read a little bit of one of those books to me? You know how to read now and all.

Son: I don't feel like it.

4:36 p.m.: We make it to the movie theater. It's raining and the theater is full. I run into one of my friends who plays on an opposing basketball team.

E From Simpsonville: We lost last night.

Friend: WHAT?!

He says the movie's good, but that we might want to go ahead and get our tickets. There is a showing every 30 minutes, but the next available one that isn't sold out is at 6:45 p.m.

Two hours from now.

5:10 p.m.: We go to the grocery store. Might as well get something done. Go home with the groceries. Drink a beer or two and head right back out to make sure we're 20 minutes early so we don't get a bad seat.

The cashier sees my son's shirt.

Cashier: Have you seen "Spider-Man" yet?

E From Simpsonville: We will in about an hour. Is it any good?

Cashier: Oh, it's great.

E From Simpsonville: Really? I hadn't heard good things. But then again, I don't really trust the sources.

Cashier: Did you like "Spider-Man 1" or "Spider-Man 2" better?

E From Simpsonville: I liked them both. Maybe #1, but it's not like there's any real huge gap.

Cashier: You'll love it.

E From Simpsonville: Good.

Interesting logic.

6:27 p.m.: We get the last two good seats in the theater and watch as others struggle to figure out where to sit. I explain to my son that we're awesome for getting here at the exact moment we did. He supposes that's true.

6:55 p.m.: "Spider-Man 3" starts. I tell my son to be prepared because it's almost three hours long. I ask him if he thinks he can handle it. If he wants to go home. He's not having any of it. He's awesome.

7:31 p.m.: This movie looks to be pretty good.

8:31 p.m.: My son wants to go home.

9:47 p.m.: I don't know about villains speaking in third person or collars turned up, but "Spider-Man 3" sucks. At least for how good it could be.

The first act shows promise, but there's ultimately too many plot lines. Characters disappear for an eternity, then pop up again randomly. Visuals are fantastic.

The whole black-suit/Spider-Man-goes-bad thing comes too late and lacks any real emotional punch. Wrapping up, it has a nice, inspirational twist of redemption until it ends with a puzzling, too-neat resolution that makes me suck my teeth.

It's not like "Superman IV" bad, but it definitely registers on the "Superman III" scale, where all you remember is Superman fighting himself. It's not "Rocky V," but it's certainly "Rocky IV." Entertaining, but only because of the fight scenes. If they make a "Spider-Man 4," I'll go see it. But I'll hate myself for it.

10:31 p.m.: We turn on "Spider-Man 2."

10:32 p.m.: I drink heavily.


SUNDAY

8:21 a.m.: After a night of waking up and thinking about how we lost that game and how I almost went on a geek killing spree and how disappointed I was that a movie that could have been so good failed to meet expectation ... I have to go to church. It's my morning to stand up there and read from the Bible (we call it Lay Reading in the Episcopal Church).

9:07 a.m.: First reading. I stand up to read and my contacts are blurry. I've tried to wear them close to a month so I can save money. The words are focusing in and out. I wipe my eyes and get through it.

9:10 a.m.: Second reading. The congregation can hear a barely audible "Oh, man" through the microphone as I start. I'm rubbing my eyes. I think they all think I'm crying.

12:36 p.m.: My son and I head out to the baseball park to go see our 14-year-old neighbor play in a traveling league. Each day, the neighbor teaches my son something new about baseball. His dad is the coach. He teaches him stuff, too. He had offered to let my son be the bat-boy. I wanted him to be in a real dugout to see what baseball is really like and how the big boys conduct themselves.

They give him a helmet and put some eye black on him.





1:23 p.m.: My son is bored. And he has to go to the bathroom.

2:32 p.m.: He does the bat-boy thing a little more, then he tells me he gets bored when they take the field and he's in the dugout alone.

2:48 p.m.: We go to the batting cages. My pitches are bad. He gets hold of a few.

3:27 p.m.: I get him to throw a few to me. I whiff through about five pitches as adults look on.

3:45 p.m.: We're throwing near the dugout. I'm using my son's black glove. It used to be black and silver, but every kid on his team had the same glove, and when the coach would say, "Everybody get your glove," all the kids spent all this time trying to find the right one. Then the coach is yelling at them to hustle faster.

So I used a red Sharpie to paint the silver red. The red faded.



The neighbor turns around in the dugout and says, "Nice pink glove."

I'm so dunking another basketball in that kid's face on an eight-foot goal.

4:10 p.m.: We leave the park.

E From Simpsonville: Are you glad we came to Zack's game?

Son: I don't want to talk about it, Daddy.

4:25 p.m.: We're home and I decide to go downtown to play basketball at 4:30 to both exercise and exorcise. My son doesn't want to come with me, but he has to because no one's home.

4:48 p.m.: We arrive. The teams are divided unevenly.

5:25 p.m.: Our team has lost four in a row.

5:38 p.m.: We're one basket away from winning our first one. I turn the ball over.

10 seconds later: We lost. Again.

2 seconds later: I throw the ball into the wall and my bad shoulder pops again with ligaments crunching and grinding. It burns bad. I sit down and succumb to the intense pain. Guys come by and ask if I'm OK. I don't say anything. I'm grabbing my shoulder and rocking back and forth.

My son pats me on the back.

6:13 p.m.: I explain to my wife that I hurt my shoulder again. Still, me and my son are going out into the front yard to throw.

6:14 p.m.: I use a green Sharpie to cover the pink on the glove.

6:25 p.m.: The glove's done. My son likes it. We head outside.

6:27 p.m.: I put on another glove. He throws me the ball. It pops out.

5 seconds later: I throw, and my shoulder ligaments crunch and grind. The ball flies over his head.

6:29 p.m.: He goes into the house and finds a left-handed glove so I can throw left-handed.

6:31 p.m.: Cars go by as I throw left-handed. I look like a 7-year-old girl wearing a pink t-shirt with "Princess" printed across it.

6:32 to 7:01 p.m.: The ball sails over my son's head repeatedly.

9:49 p.m.: I rub shaving cream on the black-and-green glove. I read on the internet that it works to loosen up the leather. I put an oversized toy tennis ball in the glove and wrap my belt around it to create a pocket.

9:53 p.m.: The glove smells like Barbasol.

9:59 p.m.: It's not any looser.

10 p.m.: I drink heavily.

10:01 p.m.: My wife comes home and asks me what I'm doing. I tell her I just rubbed shaving cream all over our son's glove. I tell her I'm going to do something right before the weekend is over.

She hugs me.

MONDAY

8:35 a.m.: Thank God it's Monday.

All I've done this morning is run over a puppy, slap an elderly woman and smoke crack on the way into work.

At least it's an improvement.

Now, if I can just finish the work I left undone ...