Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Get Out of My Brain, Dave Eggers, Part Two: Generalities

Got that, Dave Eggers?  It stings, does it not!  It stings with the cruelty of irony, and the scourge of bitterness, and the awe-inspiring goad of a genius so towering that it cannot read a calendar.  That is my genius, my bitterness, my irony, and my half-downed beer, dude.  Hands off, Dave Eggers.  Don’t you have better things to do? 

Apparently not.  For even as I was writing up the story (posted below if you are late to the game, in which case, join the club) that I wrote to win a four-years-closed contest (and I woulda, too), DAVE EGGERS, a man clearly dedicated to rendering my work irrelevant and redundant (and irrelevant!), was ordering his McSweeney’s minions to post a “humorous" essay about Lebron James being courted by the Washington Generals, the world’s most hapless basketball team.  The Washington Generals!  What folly!  Such a parody would effectively write itself!  Why, who could even possibly take them seriously? 

Well, me, as it turns out.  I had taken them seriously some weeks earlier when I started writing a poem about them.  And you know what, Dave Egghead?  I didn’t let your dumb essay stop me.  I finished my poem and it turns out I rather like it.  And since I’m obviously scraping bottom here and not in a good way, I’ve posted it.  Maybe it’s not funny, or on a widely-read blog, or very good.  Why should this post be different than anything else on this site?  And with that pseudo-talmudic musing (the name, btw, of my next band, genre as yet undetermined but album cover clearly visualized already), I present to you:

Generalities

Knuckles and elbows ( ) clam pandowdie
a strong seventh man ( ) with a see-through smile
I majored in fitness ( ) and minored in faith
gave it all that I had ( ) but it still wanted more
Suited up daily ( ) for baselines and hoop drills
a solid eighth man ( ) on a squad with heart
I played out of love ( ) representing, defending
expected my fame ( ) to resound in the rafters
I shot for the world ( ) but kept hitting the rim
saw most of my court time ( ) when Jimbo got injured
or ran out of fouls ( ) or needed to detox
kept a spot on the team ( ) with my ass on the bench
we were proud in defeat ( ) but defeated regardless
My senior year record ( ) was 4 and 16
with a 1.8 average ( ) both game points and gradepoints
I had to believe ( ) that those numbers belonged
to some underperformer ( ) who wasn’t myself
I was better than that ( ) my name should mean something
there was more in my future ( ) than clapping from sidelines
junior high coaching ( ) or folk dance for seniors
my teammates took jobs ( ) in construction or sales
that wasn’t for me ( ) couldn’t live with myself
I need seams on my fingers ( ) and wood underfoot
I didn’t get drafted ( ) couldn’t even walk on
to a C-league expansion team ( ) playing outside
I was starting to wonder ( ) how long it would take
The obvious option ( ) occurred to me suddenly
Sweet Georgia Brown ( ) never sounded so sweet
the Clown Prince of Basketball ( ) that could be me
I googled and wikied them ( ) lay-z-boy research
drank up their legend ( ) inhaled their lore
the children adore them ( ) fans on five continents
dozen-year win streaks ( ) eight decades of joy
but of course the audition ( ) is where things got tricky
fate set a pick ( ) and I never got round it
They were polite ( ) but I wasn’t a Globetrotter
would I consider ( ) a generalship?
The Generals tour ( ) wherever the Globetrotters
need someone to beat ( ) and be awesome against
Their job: to inspire ( ) that Globetrotter greatness
can’t be too obvious ( ) have to keep losing
They wear matching jerseys ( ) so they are a team
but the symbol emblazoned ( ) on Generals’ chests
is a General getting ( ) his ass handed to him
by a graceful dark Globetrotter ( ) soaring in triumph
That was my destiny ( ) a General, I
suiting up every Sunday ( ) each game like the last one
It used to be galling ( ) to know what was coming
like living in replay ( ) heroically bested
a rotating door ( ) inescapable loss
I had grown up to honor ( ) traditional winning
the kind that evaded me ( ) each time I laced up
paid to be helpless ( ) flatfooted and slackjawed
A circus of sportsmanship ( ) not even basketball
magically circular ( ) Georgian Brown Sweetness
Introduced flatly ( ) just ushers applauding
a one-on-one defense ( ) that’s never succeeded
A General’s strategy ( ) tactical tragedy
footsteps like thunder ( ) come merciless at me
my spine is their ladder ( ) my ego their punching bag
Masses delight ( ) in our humiliation
Seconds tick down ( ) with the score leaning sideways
we remain in contention ( ) with hobble-kneed hopes
till the buzzer resounds ( ) to another defeat
And yet I continue ( ) invoking my failures
playing for the joy of losing
only salvaging my comfort
in this rationalization:

Any hero worthy of the name (...) has got to beat somebody.

Okay, I think I got that out of my system.  Dave Eggers, all is forgiven.  By me, anyway.  If you’re still mad, I’m willing to make it up to you by letting you do a guest-blog posting here at the Chucklehut.  For some of us, it’s the best we can hope for.  For others, hope is a luxury our budget can’t cover.  I’m man enough to let it go.  Now it’s your turn.  The ball’s in your court, Dave Eggers.  Sadly, I think I’m on the Generals’ squad on this one yet again.