Sometime last spring, I began to
have trouble falling asleep at night. It was a real downer until I discovered
baseball. What could be more soporific than a big screen filled with relaxed
looking people standing around on a field of soft green? Zzzz.
But baseball season doesn’t last
forever, and when the snow started flying I needed an alternative. On advice, I
bought DVDs of the collected speeches of George II and Sidekick Dick. Worked perfectly. But then
came the nightmares. I found myself running across a sandy landscape being
chased by a shotgun-wielding bald man carrying a water hose. Meanwhile, in the
real world, I started mangling sentences and using words like "exemplerary." I was told the Grammar Police had me on their “Ten Most Wanted” list.
I had to
change.
One night while surfing the flat panel
I came across opera. Just a few minutes of watching and…out. And that was with
the sound on. After some experiment, I discovered that I didn’t need the mute
button a la baseball. You just set the volume very low and the music compresses itself
to something akin to soothing freeway sounds—the thrum of heavy trucks
interrupted by occasional police sirens.
I wasn’t far into opera
season—never even got to the playoffs—when things started to go wrong. I woke
up one night—I swear I wasn’t dreaming—and baseball was on again. In December?
Sitting up to look closely, I noticed something strange. After the batter
protested a call, the visiting manager erupted out of the dugout as usual, but stopped
just short of the umpire and burst into song: Voi, che ne sapete.
(You ignorant fool!)
As he finished, the camera panned across
to where the visiting team, standing arms outstretched and somehow having changed
into Hells Angels costumes, sang: Der
Hölle Rache (Go to Hell, Umpire!).
Incensed, the tall umpire turned to
the manager and angrily whipped off mask and cap to reveal—a woman with long
blonde hair! (Why didn’t baseball think of this earlier?) Commanding the
attention of the entire stadium, she belted out the famous aria La donna no è mobile (I’ve got PMS and a handgun. Any questions?).
The home team’s manager didn’t like
the way things were going and, moving purposefully with his heavy breastplate
and horned hat, walked over to the visiting manager, embraced him and kissed
both cheeks. No one seemed surprised by this, perhaps because they knew he
would next sing the famous guy aria Il smoocho
di morte (no translation).
The ominous spell was broken when
the home team’s cheerleaders, dressed as Rhine Maidens, walked to the pitcher’s
mound and sang the brilliant, Non più andrai
(Get a life, you jerks!).
Things had really looked like they were
about to get ugly, but the Rhine Maidens broke the mood and suddenly the home
manager stopped, turned to the crowd and sang the well-loved: La
hababeera (It’s Miller Time!).
Vendors then rushed into the stands, the whoosh from opened pull-tab cans filled
the night, and the mood quickly changed. The PA system started playing the
soundtrack from Pinball Wizard and
the entire stadium rose to join in the largest opera-karaoke performance in
history (Rock Division).
I’ll admit that was fun, but it’s
back to insomnia and I’m getting desperate here. First, I need to clear my
brain. Maybe Cheney could water board me? Wash all that stuff out? Then,
somehow, I’ve got to find a show more vapid and insubstantial than baseball or
opera. Hmmm. Political talk shows? No, I’m not that desperate.
I mentioned my problem at a dinner
party and later someone anonymously stuck a note in my pocket saying golf was
easily the most boring subject in the world (I think it was a doctor’s wife). I
decided to try it.
The scenery is beautiful on the
Golf Channel And the announcers whisper! It’s…zzz. Huh? Wait a minute…do they
carry spears and shields at the fifth hole? Why are the caddies singing? And
the bald man with the shotgun and the t-shirt that reads “It’s Lawyer Season!”
Who’s he? Help!
Garrison
Walters is author of the political thriller, Killing Justice. He is currently living in a bunker, hiding out
from baseball buffs, opera fans, golf nuts and potential presidential
candidates.
