A meeting of a Presbyterian conclave (actually a standing committee of the OPC General Assembly) back the capital of American Presbyterianism (actually a suburb) has afforded (all about) me the opportunity to catch up on the media. The flights from Detroit to Philadelphia were either too expensive or too long so I decided to drive. On the trip East I listened to a discussion of the papacy on On Point that gave voice to Roman Catholics in the U.S. seldom heard at the Callers. On the drive back I listened to a great interview with Scott Manetsch about his new book on the Company of Pastors in Geneva.
The trip tonight placed (all about) me in a town outside Cleveland. The Cavs’ game against the Heat was televised locally. This was a contest that gave the Cleveland franchise a chance to pay back Lebron James if the lowly Cavs could rise up and end the Heat’s winning streak. I don’t watch televised sports much anymore but I warmed up to the idea of watching an upset. When the Cavs went up by 27 in the first half, I thought my joy might be complete.
And then I saw Chris Anderson with all his tats and hair. He is to the NBA what Fawn Knudsen was to the Big Lebowski. He also represents a form of physical exhibitionism that must be comparable to what you — I guess — see at a strip club.
With the Division II season finished, that leaves March Madness with its own hype and all those commercials to fill the void. I am not sure it will ever be full for a guy who grew up with only sixteen teams making it to the tournament and who had to wait for the morning news to find out what happened to the Sweet Sixteen and the Elite Eight since none of the games were televised. This is the same guy who listens to podcasts on a Walkman (which I hear brings me up to date with the Second Iraq War).
Maybe the only remedy is the NIT.
Old Life 