Dear Erika, This is Why I Love Football

Dear Erika, This is Why I Love Football

In the wake of the travesty that was the Tennessee Titan's 0-6 start to the 2009 season, my girlfriend asked me for the fifth time, "Why do you like football? I don't get it. Your team causes you nothing but pain. Here, give me the shotgun and the bottle of whiskey." The first thought that popped into my head was, "Aaaaagh!" But I love this woman, so I made an effort to put it into words. Again. I talked about the history of the game, the community of fans, my need for additional reasons to drink beer, etc. She was unimpressed. We agreed to disagree (in other words, I let her be wrong). But it occurred to me the other day that it goes a little deeper. So, dear, hear me out.

As you know, I have dreams. I have talent, too, but I don't know how much. I'm an actor, writer and scared shitless man-child scraping by in LA on hope and tips earned at a local seafood restaurant. Sometimes I wonder why I ever moved out to Los Angeles. Nothing I did before matters. No one knows who I am. The few chances I have gotten usually only make me doubt myself more. I was ready to admit I can't cut it out here, but then Vince Young shook off a 300-pound lineman and two years of doubt and negative expert analysis, threw a football through a wall and stood over the rubble with his head held high.

It was a Sunday afternoon in late November. Still wearing my waiter uniform, I made a beeline to the nearest sports bar. "Big Wangs," it's called. I guess they got big wangs. They definitely have a lot of flatscreen TVs. I ducked around drunken Forty-Niner, Jet, Raider and Steeler fans and found a stool facing the one TV in the joint tuned into the second half of the Titans vs. Cardinals game. Noone in LA is from LA, so Hollywood sports bars on a Sunday resemble the fanatic diversity of a Dick's Sporting Goods clearance bin. In an unrelated note, I've now referenced Wangs and Dicks in the same story, and this is only the second paragraph – and I've giggled each time – I told you I was a man-child. Where were we?

I took on the hunkered-down posture of a guy alone at a sports bar, clicking through the stats on my phone in an attempt to catch up on what I had missed so far. There was an obnoxious group of Eagles fans just to my right. In the pantheon of sports bar fan groups few are more loathsome than Eagles fans. They are loud, uneducated, rude and wear it as a badge of courage that they are reviled for being assholes the world over. In fact, their obnoxiousness is eclipsed only by your average Jets fan. Take your Eagles fan, knock off about twenty-five IQ points, add a faded Pennington jersey and a do-rag, and you get your basic Jets fan. This current group of Iggles fans, however, were really feeling it today. And they had a "Woo!" guy in their midst. Every time the Iggles got so much as a first down, the entire bar would be shaken with a shrill, ear-piercing "Woo!" I spilled my Budweiser at least twice. But I didn't dare make eye contact. It is dangerous, perhaps even suicidal, to engage an Iggle fan when he has a ten point lead and a belly full of beer. So I kept to myself and watched Chris Johnson take off down the left sideline for an eighty-five yard touchdown: 13-3. "Woo!" I hollered in my native Tennessee twang before I could stop myself. Now everyone knew there was a Titan fan in their midst. You can take the flame-head out of Nashville, but you can't take the Nashville out of the flame-head. I overheard a few guys talking about the impact of CJ's latest record breaking run on their fantasy teams. I smiled to myself. "You can have him on all your fantasy teams," I thought. "But he's on my real team." Unfortunately, so were the members of the Titans' special teams defense: 13-10. By the way, who the hell is LaRod Stephens-Howling? Before I can look him up, Leinart finally puts together a sustained drive and before I know it, we're down 17-13. No more "woo's" from me. I'm starting to get nervous. I've destroyed the cocktail napkin in front of me. I keep checking and rechecking my phone for facebook comments, emails, anything to distract me from curling up into a catatonic ball.

Then the Britt fumble. Vince, unlike me, is looking unflappable. There are only five minutes left, but he's calm, focused, delivering the ball on time. When he threw the deep ball to the rookie, I stood up out of my stool and raised my arms in the air. As Britt was scrambling up to run, I was already thinking, "But maybe we're leaving too much time for the Cardinals to come back." Then the strip by Rodgers-Cromartie. I was getting very tired of Cardinals players with hyphens in their last name. My heart sank. I've seen this movie before, but usually the bad guy is played by a guy in a purple jersey. Another key fumble to cap off a drive. Damn. Another game where we dominate in every category except turnovers, penalties and final score. Dang. Another long night on the message boards ranting, consoling and second guessing. Dang, crap, sumbitch.

But then something happened. The much maligned man-child with unlimited potential jogged out to the one-yard line, tightened his chinstrap and smiled. He knew something none of us knew yet. He knew this was his moment, the moment he had always known would come, even when he couldn't imagine how. 2:37 on the clock. Ninety-nine yards to go. A field goal won't do. You know what happened. Vince Young converted three fourth downs and used eighteen plays to march the Titans to victory, connecting with the rookie as time expired on a ten-yard touchdown throw. I stood for the entire drive, using the stool only as a stress-squeezer. I wavered back and forth between euphoria and despair at least ten times. Fans from other games started to drift over. Just before the first fourth down conversion, I formed a temporary but vital bond with a stranger after he said with complete confidence, "Vince has got this shit, man." I gave him a fist bump. By the end of the drive I was practically hugging him. When Vince found Britt and Britt found sweet redemption, the whole bar erupted. For a brief moment, everybody's second favorite team was the Titans. The Eagles fan let forth a mighty "Woo!" I might as well of been in the middle of the Wildhorse Saloon on 2^nd Avenue. Vince Young became an NFL quarterback right in front of everybody's eyes, and they knew it. He knew it, too, ninety-nine yards and two minutes and thirty-seven seconds ago.

I may never become a star in Hollywood. And I feel more like an undrafted free agent trying to make the practice squad than I do a former Rose Bowl champion overcoming his demons. But I feel a connection to Vince Young, and he gives me hope. He's so human and yet so special at the same time. I think that's why the other fans turn to watch. We all have a destiny. We all have talent. We all have potential, and, yes, we all have doubts and fears. We want Vince to succeed because we see a little of ourselves in him. And on November 29^th, 2009, my dear, he reminded me of why I love the game.

Hold the Cheese

Hold the Cheese

In college, I would drink milk straight from the jug. My roommate and I started each week with a gallon apiece and by Friday, we were usually out. We didn't think anything of it. It was college, and we were expected to binge drink. Excess was the rule, and I was into following rules. To satisfy my cravings when I wasn't in close proximity to the mini-fridge, I would chug a glass at the cafeteria or pound a milkshake between classes. A hamburger without cheese seemed unfinished, like shoes without socks. There was butter on my bread, cream in my coffee and cheese and sour cream on my taco. But this isn't a story about pasteurized cuisine. This is a tale of pain, denial and abuse.

I was addicted to dairy.

Over the last decade, I've tried to stop several times before. But it would always end the same way, with my lips wrapped around the sweet utter of a cow. Not literally (well, once, but not usually literally). Meantime, I suffered from chronic gas and nasal decongestion. I never made the connection between my dairy habit and the swamp-gasses that filled my bedroom nightly. It never occurred to me that the milk I drank could be causing the stink I stank. I certainly never pictured my four sinus infections per year and general inability to breath through my nose could be the result of my daily cheeseburgers.

But it was.

I was addicted to the very thing that was giving me the most pain. But I wasn't ready to admit it. I'm sure I knew in my heart of hearts that dairy was slowly killing me, but to say so would mean the unthinkable: no pizza, no ice cream, no cheeseburgers, no...happiness. And I needed happiness. So I ate more dairy just to silence the nagging fear. I drowned by dairy devil in a pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food ice cream and farted myself to sleep.

Like all addicts, getting off dairy took me hitting rock bottom. It was a Sunday and a Monday. I was writing until the wee hours with Raygan, trying to hit a screenplay contest deadline. In a strange choice caused by equal parts pressure, fatigue and poor snack planning, we consumed only coffee and a plate of cheese the entire marathon session. That was it. That was the moment my body drew a line in the sand. My body said, "Really? Really, Drew? What the hell are we supposed to do with this? Oh, right, survive and be creative. You're a douche, Drew." The following day at work, I was doubled over in the kind of gaseous pain that only hot air balloons and Takeru Kobayashi must know. I thought about going to the hospital (but who can afford that?). I broke down the symptoms and recent diet to Erika that night. In her um-hey-dumbass-but-I-love-you way, she said, "You think you might be lactose intolerant?" The truth stabbed me like a knife. I clenched my fists and cried, "Noooooo."

"No?" Erika was confused. "No, I mean, yes. Yes, I am. It was an ironic 'no'."

I've been off dairy now for two months. The change has been a salvation. I no longer have any sinus issues (or need for the tissues), the air in and around me has ceased to be toxic, my breath improved and I lost about eight pounds. I have discovered soy cheese, soy ice cream and self control. Sometimes I still slip up, but I pay for it. Well, I and everyone within three feet of me pays for it.

Open Bar, Insert Phone

Open Bar, Insert Phone

A riddle:  When is an open bar not free? (answer found in next sentence)  When you wake up the next morning and find your iPhone sticking out of your bedside glass of water.  That's when.  

So, we were in Boston for a wedding.  One of Erika's friends.  I'll skip all the nuptials and get right to the reception.  This was the full monty, by the way.  Tray pass hors d'oeuvres, four course dinner, midnight pizza, AND dueling open bars.  The scotch was Macallan 12 year.  This was gonna be good.  

There was a DJ spinning all the latest hits.  There was a floor.  And I had a fever.  Dancing fever.  

I didn't stay with the single malt.  I quickly made the "safe" move to red wine.  Like an athlete and his Gatorade, I was a dancing machine only taking breaks to rehydrate on J. Lohr Seven Oaks Cabernet.  By the end of the night, I had eliminated the breaks, but not the Cabernet.  Thinking I looked debonair, I swung my hips about the dance floor, snapping my fingers with one hand, balancing my glass of wine in the other.  I left a splattered trail of red wine droplets behind me, a Pollockian reminder to those who might follow.   

The night was over.  I had successfully brought sexy back, and to bed I went.  

Cut to:  6:30 am.  I woke up needing water.  My eyes opened, began to focus.  There was my glass of water on the night stand.  And there was my iPhone submerged within.  "Baby," I sleep-mumbled to Erika, "I put my iPhone in my water."  "Oh, Baby," she sleep-empathized back.  

The worst part was I don't remember doing it.  Somewhere in the night, I must have checked the time, then reached over and put the phone back, but somehow in the two and a half inch opening of my water glass.  

Right now, the phone is submerged in uncooked rice because that's what the iPhone chat room people all said to do to get the moisture out.  If that doesn't work (and I'm giving it a 2% chance that it will), it's back to the Genius Bar at the Apple Store.  Who's the genius now?

The Genius Bar

The Genius Bar

little geniuses

I went to the Apple Store today.  Had two questions about my iPhone.  "Why does my phone keep freezing up?" and "Why did my email stop working?"  

You know what they call their technical support division at the Apple Store?  The Genius Bar.  

Now if that's not setting us all up for disappointment, I don't know what is.  I see "Genius Bar," I'm expecting a lot.  I'm expecting insight, creative solutions, passionate thoroughness, bad hair cuts and zits.  But the blue polo shirted genius that helped me (after having to make an appointment and come back in two hours) brought none of that.  He had no insight, not a single solution and ultimately admitted that there was nothing he could do.  He did have three zits and a God-awful haircut.  The iPhone, you see, is like a pack rat of data.  It is a little computer that over time gets confused and too full of bits of information.   Like most computers, it needs to be defragmented.  But you can't defragment it.  It needs to be cleaned out, but the only way to do that is to wipe it completely clear of all information and start over as if it were a new phone.  In the meantime, it slowly devolves into frozen screens, inconsistent functions and the always entertaining phone calls where you can hear them but they can't hear you.

And I kept asking him if there was anything he knew to do about each problem.  The answer was always the same.  "Nah, not really.  I mean, you could wipe the memory completely and reinstall."

So, I finally said to the genius, "So, I guess I'm just realizing one of the drawbacks to the iPhone is that over time it slows down and starts performing poorly."  "You hit the nail right on the head," the genius replied.

"Thanks, genius," I said and made my way out past the $50 iPhone protector cases and into the crowded LA streets.

I thought to myself, "Would a real genius go get a job that pays $12 an hour?"

Probably not.

Moving Day

Moving Day

I could almost hear Alanis Morissette singing, "A broken elevator...on your moving day..."

Isn't it ironic?  Don'tcha think?  (Actually, no.  It's an inconvenient coincidence, or perhaps the result of an elevator built in 1927 trying to haul my friend, Potsch, myself and a solid wood wardrobe down four stories.  But it isn't very ironic.)

In any case, it sucked.  Moving is hard enough without running one hundred armloads of boxes down four flights of stairs.  Where did we get all this stuff?  Oh, right.  Craigslist and Ikea.  And the Craigslist stuff was undoubtedly previously purchased at Ikea.  Hey, we don't have a lot of money and we like faux birch wood.  What else is an LA couple gonna do?

Apparently, our now-former neighbors have the same aesthetic taste as we found them rooting through our stuff when we came down the stairs.  Actually, another tenant saw them first and alerted Erika thusly, "Hey, some Mexicans are going through your shit."  Ah, I'll miss the old hood. 

It's funny how moving day always goes.  There are five discernible stages.  (1) Unrealistic Optimism.  This is during the morning.  You're proud of yourself because you rented the U-haul, your friend showed up to help, you're sipping coffee, laughing, saying foolish things like, "I figure four hours - max."  You are generally wasting precious time you will desperately need later. (2) Focused Work.   This is during the afternoon.  You're quiet, diligent, communicating through short phrases like, "Turn left," "Lift," and "One, two, three, up!"  You are sweating, but it feels good.  You say things to your beloved like, "Baby, you need any help?" Or, "We work well together, don't we?"  (3) Oh, Shit.  This is late afternoon, just after the first disaster has struck.  In our case, the elevator broke.  It could be any number of problems such as a friend not showing up, the rental truck breaking down, or an injury.  The incident will always occur at the exact moment you realize you are going to run out of time.  It's 4pm and you haven't even emptied half of your apartment.  The truck is due back by seven and you haven't eaten in six hours.  You share the moment with your beloved by saying things like, "We're fucked," "What are you doing right now?" or "How the hell is it already four o'clock?" (4) Frenzied Panic.  It's dark outside.  The wheels have come off.  No more neat stacking.  Random shit is being thrown into Trader Joe's bags.  Tampons next to TV remotes.  Jar of capers on top of the toilet scrubber.  You can't sweat anymore because you are too dehydrated.  You scream at your beloved, "I told you we needed more boxes!" "This is a fucking disaster!" Or, "Leave the mayonnaise!  We'll get more!"  (5) Exhaustion.  Nighttime.  The truck has been returned with two minutes to spare.  You are sitting in the one spot of your new place that isn't covered in boxes.  Your body finally understands it can relax.  You want to eat, but you don't have the energy to forage for the food box.  You want to drink, but you can't find the wine opener.  You want to bathe, but you...just...can't.  You mumble something to your beloved like, "I love you, baby." 

I think my favorite part of the move was around 9pm when I collapsed my exhausted body into the cab of the U-haul for the final run to the new apartment only to find the battery had died.  We had been double-parked with the hazards on for the better part of two hours.  Oh, I get it.  We moved on April 1st.  Good one.  Fortunately, a very generous Hispanic guy from our building was standing there and gave me a jump.  I wanted to hug him.  I did.  He let go first.    

At the end of the day (read: night), we got it done.  Now comes the real work, turning a mountain of boxes, sacks and furniture into a home.  Hmm.  I think I'll start by setting up the Ikea bookcase next to the Ikea desk.  It will look perfect across from the Ikea couch which sits in front of the Ikea coffee table (that matches the Ikea TV stand).  

Exposed Brick, Episode 9: Hard Wood?

Exposed Brick

-Episode 9-

Hard Wood?

Before Erika and Drew can move into their new place, they have to rent out their old place.  No problem.  All they need is a Craig's List ad, a little salesmanship and a lot of charm.  Well, at least the apartment has charm.  

Join Erika and Drew as they begin the process of saying goodbye to exposed brick and hello to parking, dishwasher and garbage disposal.  The hilarious Kevin Brown guest stars in a very special episode.

And don't worry.  They are committed to continuing the series.  There is no exposed brick in the new place.  But there is plenty of hard-wood.

(Rated R for language, adult situations, probably not "work safe")

New Series: Drywall?

New Series: Drywall?

-Drew and Erika Move-

I'll tell it to you straight.  We are moving, and the new place has all of its bricks covered.  We agonized, but it was time to find a nicer neighborhood and improve our amenities, like parking, dishwasher, garbage disposal and climate controlled subterranean wine cellar.  You know, basic creature comforts.  

We will miss the old place, the exposed brick was charming.  But in the end, amenities trump charm.  Mind you, the new place will have its own aesthetic perks.  Huge balcony (put a little herb garden in.  You know, basil, mint, medicinal marijuana), bamboo hardwood floors, and a killer roof patio.  

As for the web series, we want to continue.  We have so much more of our private lives we want to expose to the world.  There will be a couple more Exposed  Brick episodes.  Then, we shall see.  "Drywall" doesn't have much a ring to it.  Maybe "Hard Wood."  Or "Parking and Dishwasher."  Feel free to offer your own suggestions.  

In the meantime, enjoy the upcoming final episodes of Exposed Brick.