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Seeing Red at Seeing Red

You know what sucks? Red chalk. Allow me to explain.

Tonight, I worked late at the office. I had an opportunity, though, to take a little ‘breather’. A buddy and I met at a pool hall/bar near my office, for a couple of beers and a friendly match of eight-ball. A nice break, amid the midnight oil I was burning.

Now, those of you familiar with the barroom style of billiards will know that there are, at most, two types of chalk available. In the poolier places — yes, I just made up that word, let it frigging go, would you? — you’ll see a block of ‘hand chalk’. This chalk is white, usually comes in a sort of gutted pineapple shape, and is meant to keep the cue stick from dragging along your thumb or finger skin. It’s generally pretty unobtrusive, though it can be a bit embarrassing if you happen to absent-mindedly wipe your nose while ‘wearing’ the chalk. At best, you’ll end up with that milkstachy look; at worse, you’ll seem crack-fiendish. Neither of which is going to help you when you’re trying to impress a potential mate with your ‘two-rail three-ball no-look billy baroo‘ combo shot. Just for future reference, there, Romeo.

The other kind of chalk, of course, is ‘cue chalk’. This comes in little paper-wrapped cubes on the table, and goes on the end of your cue stick. It’s important stuff, because it keeps the cue tip soft and true, improving your accuracy. You wouldn’t want to try the old ‘billy baroo‘ without a soft, true tip, now would you? Oh, billy billy billy billy billy.

It’s also important to note that cue chalk, while you’re busily engaged in your table snookering, has the tendency to end up eeeeeeverywhere. On your hands, on the floor, on your shirt, on your chair, all over your pants… on the ceiling, if you’re not careful. You might even want to wear a hairnet when you play, because chances are, the chalk will end up there, too. Also? A diaphragm, just to be safe. I’m just saying: eeeeverywhere.

Now, traditionally speaking, this ‘cue chalk’ is blue. Which is frankly not a poor choice for cue chalk color. Imagine you’re out at ye olde poole halle — taking a break from work on a Monday evening, maybe — and you play a few games of billiards. In the process, you end up covered in blue chalk. You look like Pigpen in a blueberry patch; you’re positively filthy with the stuff.

You know what? Fine. First of all, if you’re anything like me, you’re wearing jeans, anyway. They’re already blue — they can’t get much bluer. If you get chalk on your hands, for instance, then maybe hit the head, and get blueness smeared around your zipper area, it’s probably not even noticable. And if it is — so what? Unless you’re the type of guy known to solicit oral sex from smurfs, what’s the big deal? Clearly, it’s just chalk.

Ah. But now, imagine the chalk is red. And just suppose, theoretically, that you’ve just arrived home to your sweetie after a long day of work and a couple of games of pool. With a red crotch. Maybe even some red around the collar, or the neck, if you happened to reach up there. Suddenly, those smurf hummers are the least of your worries. You look like you’ve either spent the evening crotch-slapping Tammy Faye Bakker, or just finished up a sixty-nine session with a Ronald McDonald impersonator.

(‘Impersonator’, because we know the real Ronald would never engage in such shenanigans.

Clearly, it’s Grimace and the Hamburgler who are bumping purple uglies. Ron and his big fat clown shoes just look the other way. McPansy.)

At any rate — red chalk bad, is what I’m trying to say. Why the chalk can’t stay blue — or be green, or yellow, or McMuffin golden brown — is beyond me. Red just seems the most unfortunately, easily misconstrued choice of hue possible. If it doesn’t look like ‘lipstick’, it’s ‘blood’. If not ‘blood’, then it’s ‘ketchup’. And if not ‘ketchup’, then ‘chili powder’. And if there are four things you should not be wearing on your crotch when you come home and greet your wife, then those four are them.

(Okay, fine. I suppose you could come up with four worse things to be wearing on your crotch. Like, oh, say, ‘Vaseline’, ‘a tiara’, ‘Cool Whip’, and ‘a Hilton sister’, for instance.

But this is about chalk, dammit. Don’t be quibbling over crotch fouls with me.)

Actually, the easiest way to get around the red chalk problem is to do what I do — just rub it all over your whole body. As long as you’ve got chalk everywhere — on your back, on your legs, on your elbows, hands, and nose — then nobody’s really going to notice whether you’ve accidentally wiped some on a ‘danger zone’ like your crotch. From a distance, you may look like a raging axe murderer, sure — but if you’re anything like me, then is that really so much of a change? And just think how much faster the attendant will get your car out of the garage for you when you’re ready to go home.

Hey. Maybe this ‘red chalk’ thing isn’t so bad, after all.

I’m an Athletic Supporter!

If you’re a sports fan like me — and in North America, I suppose — this is a magical time of year. At least, it’s one of the magical times of year, when three of the four major U.S. sports are happening at once.

The four major U.S. sports being baseball, football, basketball, and — if we’re feeling charitable — hockey. Hockey’s had a rough decade or so of things, though, and hasn’t really kept up with the other kids in the class. They didn’t even play the games last season — some sort of strike, or boycott, or visa issue or something, I expect. I wasn’t really paying attention, honestly. If ‘major U.S. sports’ was a foot, hockey would be the pinky toe. Or maybe just the toenail. Or possibly a bunion. There’s a little bit of catching up to do there.

And yes, I’m aware that there are other sports out there. The (rest of the) civilized world is all about cricket, for instance, and “football which we call soccer, apparently just to reinforce all of those ‘arrogant difficult American bastard’ steroetypes” is popular, too. Past that, and the sports I mentioned above, I’m not sure what the world is into. Maybe the Patagonians watch nothing but jai alai. Or the Estonians love nothing more than a skeet shooting tournament. And for all I know, the Djibouti National Tiddlywinks Champion is a hero to millions. Anything’s possible.

I’m also well aware that other ‘sport crazes’ are sweeping the States these days. People tune in to watch auto racing, and figure skating, and dog grooming, and cow tipping, and nipple piercing, and — frankly, people will watch just about anything that smells and walks and quacks like a competition. Especially if there’s betting involved. But gambling doesn’t make somethig like ‘candlepin bowling’ a real sport, any more than me watching my wife undress makes her a stripper. But Lord knows I’ve tried.

Anyway, it’s nice — for some of us — to be able to turn on the TV at any hour of the day or night and be treated to a sporting match of some kind. There are some months when that’s just not the case. For instance, June. Baseball’s keeping the faith in June, but what else is going on, sporting-wise? Golf? Meh. Tennis? Yawn. Beach volleyball is nice — but that’s not a sport. Technically, that’s soft-core porn, so it doesn’t count.

November, though, is positively teeming with sports action. NFL football. NBA hoops. NHL hockey. And college versions of all three, too, as an extra bonus. Not that November is the ideal month for, say, college basketball. March is much better for that. November is the time when teams from big universities like Duke, Michigan, and Stanford play powerhouse schools like South Carolina A&T, St. Xavier Mary Catherine State U, and the Northeastern Idaho Barber College Extension School for Prematurely Balding Frenchmen. Ah, who can forget those Stanford-NIBCESPBF games? Instant classics, they are.

Still, hoops is being played. Lopsidedly and sadly at times, but there’s roundball on the hardwood, and that’s what counts. And the other sports are in full swing, too. It’s entirely possible to spend an entire waking November weekend on the couch, switching from college football to college hoops, from pro ball to the NHL, and then to NFL football — delicious football — to wrap things up. And I should know; that’s basically how I just spent my November weekend. Jealous much?

Of course, the problem now is tomorrow. After pressing my assprint into the cushions of the couch for the past thirty-six hours or so, now I’m expected to go be productive. Without TV, or sports, or beer, or even cheese doodles — all of the things that make the weekend warm, wild, and wonderful. Frankly, I’m not sure I’m up to the critical reasoning that work requires.

(This post so far should be ample proof of that. I haven’t seen this much incoherent babbling since we visited grandma in the Alzheimers ward. And at least she didn’t mention her bunions. I’m so sorry.)

Maybe a few hours of sleep will do the trick. Right now, all I can think about are yard-per-carry averages, power play percentages, and rebound-per-game stats. The work-capable bits of my brain shut off somewhere around halftime of the third game today. No telling when they’ll power back up — or whether I’ll find them some day, cold and limp and dead on my pillow.

(It wouldn’t be the first time; last March Madness, I watched twelve hours straight of NCAA basketball games. When I woke up the next morning, my pillow was soggy, and I couldn’t taste ‘salty’ any more. I think the neurons committed hari kiri somehow. Losers.)

Anyway, it’s pretty clearly time for bed, so I’m wrapping this train wreck up. Here’s hoping we have dreams tonight of third-down completions and five-hole slapshots, of pick-and-roll layups and tight nickel defenses. Cherish these times, sports fans — and remember them in June, when you’re stuck watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island at three in the afternoon because the baseball games haven’t started yet. Perish the thought.