28 September 2011
Game Time
By Jason Fresh
Bleachers are made of steel, pliable cold steel that require the use of foam-padded, fold out chairs marked with professional team insignia. People are foam-padded, sweet, and good; they require steel with just enough bend to allow the right ones in. We take our children to professional sporting events like the San Diego Padres game (Post-Tony Gwynn San Diego Padres – and is there any reason to go? Wade LeBlanc is pitching tonight. It should be delightful.) We take our children out into the world. We move into the world as if the one inside is not delightful, as if going to the fucking game will make it alright. We get to tell our friends about experiences that are more valid than others. We get to tell our friends how drunk we got in the bleachers because we’re that fucking cool. We get to put on team regalia and strut around like perfection, all the while ignoring perfection in the living room reading scriptures with grandma and grandpa. It is game time in San Diego – hot dogs, nachos, and titties that I will pretend not to look at. There will be fun times had for all. I will ingest toxins probably just by walking into the stadium. We’ll drive to the game for happiness. But we are happy already, right? As well are you. We are fused with power from King Solomon. We are at peace amongst chaos, agents of an alien race trying to uncover ourselves, trying to melt steel.
