Suckitude, Einstein and breasts
I realize I'm asking for trouble by tuning in to see sports highlights on ESPN. You know, it's just dangerous to expose yourself to a steady stream of jock-oriented moronification photons accentuated by fake laughs and careening flapdoodle. But I do enjoy seeing the highlight of a good shot or fine play on occasion, so I'll put on the crash helmet and give it a go.
That said, what's up exactly with ESPN's daily handwringing on behalf of the newly discovered suckitude of the L.A. Lakers? I mean, fercrissake, aren't the mighty Lakers allowed to suck once in a while? Jeez, every day, there's some new breathless update about the unholy wretchedness being suffered this season by the dear darling Lakers. Get over it, Espy. Let the Lakers suck already. It couldn't happen to a nicer hellhole. Amen.
A postscript to last week's screed on behalf of single folks. I forgot I wanted to include a comment on the pleasures of the bachelor life from none other than Einstein. And whenever you can whip up some Einstein to bolster your position, you roll with it, right? The guy still has quality cred, and he's been dead since '55.
Anyway, leave it to Einstein to come up with an original approach. In working out a deal with first wife, Maleva, to get a divorce so he could marry his sweetheart Elsa, Einstein informed Maleva that he wouldn't be actually living with his new bride. He, in fact, promised he would be living in his own apartment, saying “For I shall never give up the state of living alone, which has manifested itself as an indescribable blessing.” Einstein, capturing the eternal attitude of the happy single quite nicely, even as he begins to search for bakeries for his upcoming wedding cake!
Then again, perhaps it's understandable that the man who could envision light being both a particle and a wave could also embrace the merits of living alone while preparing for marriage numero dos.
For anyone interested in seeing a movie that contains no murders, no guns, no explosions, no cars, no superheroes, no gore, no loud music, no vampires, and no zombies, while substituting a reasonable facsimile of humanity and soul to take the place of these missing ingredients, I would highly recommend The Sessions, starring John Hawkes, Helen Hunt, and William Macy. One of the reasons I'm quite taken with the film is that after sexual surrogate Helen works with quadraplegic John, she actually lays in bed without resorting to the most phony move in movies, that of the actress who, just after having sex, pulls the sheets up over her breasts. In this performance, Ms. Hunt lays in the post-coital bed with her breasts fully exposed. You know, like a real woman! I was stunned, even amazed, by this daring and trail-blazing portrayal.