Last night's show was wunderbar. Thank you ,Tim, Wayne and Harold for inviting me to read at Telephone Bar's season opener.
If you’re lucky, you lose it all together. If you’re really lucky, you save it for one person, one particular thing, or in my case, one professional sports team.
If I hear the two words together, Dallas and Cowboys, my middle finger lifts to attention and
points at the speaker. I immediately hate the person and think they’re stupid. If that person is wearing a Cowboy jacket, I pray they were overcharged. It always thrills me when they also have a bad haircut.
For me, Schadenfreude heaven is the tangible pleasure I derive from watching the Anti-Christs from Dallas suffer.
This morning, I swooned over the NFC East Division standings, particularly, first and second place
Some background, two memories.
A long time ago, the Giants went 2-12. I wasn’t that sad because... That’s right they won 2 of 14 games. BUT, they beat the Texas Anti-Christs 14-6, and also beat the Kansas City Chiefs led by Hank Stram, who perfectly fit the response the kid in Annie Hall had for Joey Nickle, “What an Asshole.”
I sat on the church steps with the card solid against my thigh and put my calligraphy skill to work, writing out the name of the deceased in beautiful script.
In one story, I explored Yorkville's German butchers in 1962, and my Italian grandmother's shopping idiosyncrasies. My other story examined the schadenfreude pleasure I derive from savoring the Dallas Cowboys suffering, and how it played out one winter day in Yorkville in 1969.
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Thank you, to all my friends who came, and all my friends who sent me good wishes. It always feels good. be well, Tommy
ps hopefully, I'll put a video or audio up this week
Here's Schadenfreude ~ How Bout Those Boys? by trp
As you get older the word hate drifts from your conversation. It’s a bad word, and a silly emotion to hang onto. Life’s too short.
If you’re lucky, you lose it all together. If you’re really lucky, you save it for one person, one particular thing, or in my case, one professional sports team.
If I hear the two words together, Dallas and Cowboys, my middle finger lifts to attention and
points at the speaker. I immediately hate the person and think they’re stupid. If that person is wearing a Cowboy jacket, I pray they were overcharged. It always thrills me when they also have a bad haircut. For me, Schadenfreude heaven is the tangible pleasure I derive from watching the Anti-Christs from Dallas suffer.
This morning, I swooned over the NFC East Division standings, particularly, first and second place
New York Giants 11-2
Dallas Cowboys 8-5
I stared at the standings the way a GI in a swampy World War II trench stared at his wallet photo of Rita Hayworth in a nightie.
Some background, two memories.
A long time ago, the Giants went 2-12. I wasn’t that sad because... That’s right they won 2 of 14 games. BUT, they beat the Texas Anti-Christs 14-6, and also beat the Kansas City Chiefs led by Hank Stram, who perfectly fit the response the kid in Annie Hall had for Joey Nickle, “What an Asshole.”
Second memory… Robby Zimmel was the most obsessive Dallas fan in Yorkville. I’d be down Carl Schurz Park in June suffering abuse over how terrible the Yankees were, and Zimmel would come down the park and start busting my chops over the Giants stinking, a month before training camp opened, temporarily wiping out my hallucinations that the Giants were getting better. I always was close to putting a garbage can over his head. I went in a different direction.
As good as the Cowboys were in the late 60s & 70s they only won the championship twice, and got knocked out of the playoffs every other year.
As good as the Cowboys were in the late 60s & 70s they only won the championship twice, and got knocked out of the playoffs every other year.
On the day your team gets knocked out of the playoffs, no matter how well you did during the regular season, you feel horrible. Your world ends, it’s hard to eat, music sounds lousy, girls aren’t as pretty, and it’s raining in your soul.
It’s the perfect time to send that person a post.
Moments after the Cowboys got knocked out the playoffs by the Cleveland Browns on December 28, 1969, I went to St. Stephen’s rectory and bought a fancy $5 Mass Card. Not the cheap $2 card, the fancy card, with a glittering Jesus or Mary in raised relief on the front. In case you don’t know what a Mass Card is, here’s a definition.
Mass Card ~ In the Roman Catholic Church, a card sent to a bereaved person or family indicating that the sender has arranged for a Mass to be said in memory of the deceased.
There was a prim lady at the rectory desk with bouffant hair and a whiff of Jean Nate toilet water. She was massively proud of her penmanship, dying to write in the name of the deceased in big swirls. The conversation went like this.
Lady: “Son, the name of the departed?”
“Can’t tell you, Mam. Mom didn’t spell it for me. She told me, get the card and we’d learn the spelling at the funeral 
home off the board and after we find out, I’ll come back and tell you, so you can put the name in for the Mass.”
I sat on the church steps with the card solid against my thigh and put my calligraphy skill to work, writing out the name of the deceased in beautiful script.
Adding in block letters: May they rest in peace.
I mailed it to Zimmel, happily spending the extra postage on the fat envelope. My only regret, I wasn’t there when Zimmel opened it.
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