Have you ever watched a video of some British dude — or British lady — and think to yourself, Man, I wished I spoke like that? It’s not just the dialect to their words, but an entirely elevated language. Even if people with English accents say the most common, perfunctory things, somehow they sound remarkably more intelligent than people with an American accent. But maybe that’s saying I don’t think highly of Americans; not sure.
Lately I’ve been on a YouTube binge watching old lectures and debates from Christopher Hitchens, the now deceased Vanity Fair writer, so it’s basically been British British Bristish all the time. Since I haven’t read any novels for quite awhile, it no doubt affected my writing style, because I realized everything I was writing had a different tone to it, a slower roll, and it felt — at least in retrospect — like I was carrying out an argument the entire time. Whether that was a debate between myself and the audience, or myself and I, I don’t know, and I don’t particularly think it matters.
Basically, I don’t necessarily agree with all things Hitchens says — he dabbled mainly in politics and religion — but I’m pretty addicted to his persona; it appeals to my sensibilities. Most notably, he challenges people. He doesn’t say anything unless he firmly believes it, and he sticks to it. I believe, in my own reality at least, it’s those people who I’m most attracted to. And I think it’s those same people who are attracted back to me.
Of course I’m speaking more generally and not so much in a romantic sense, but you get the idea. I think I enjoy the nature of a challenge more than most people do, which could just be one gigantic excuse for reflecting the challenge back to most people. It’s probably the reason my best friend and I get along so well… because we’re honest. We challenge each other. Most meaningful friendships or relationships are built on that foundation, as cliché as that sounds, but, again. Honest. I could easily envision a scenario where I’m not married by the time I’m 35, or something, because I’m specific in what I want and I know for what I want it would have to take someone just as specific (or out of their mind) to be into someone like me.
Anyway, challenges. British people. They’re a good thing. Maybe the best of things.
‘Cause the chase is all you know, and she stopped running months ago.
During the 2013 baseball season, when I was editor for a Rangers blogging website, I was asked to write 30 articles a month. One a day. If I realized anything during the process, it’s probably just that it would be pretty fucking horrible to have to do that for a living. I mean, it was originally what I wanted to do with my life — sports journalism — and in a few years I’ll finally complete my writing degree (somehow), so it’s not like I’d be totally opposed to my dream job if I someday get there, but holy shit. Come on.
It gets annoying. Writing about something you love — in this case we’re talking about a stupid baseball team I love — can be special. You get to exercise your juices, tap into part of yourself that’s reserved. But what happens when you’re forced into that feeling? Where it’s not on your time anymore. Then it starts sucking, and quickly. Even watching the Rangers didn’t feel the same anymore. Each time I saw them on TV, or, as I gravitated to, listening to them on the radio — it was almost like the only reason I was participating in the experience was to look for writing material. I knew if nothing interesting was happening, I’d have to pull an article out of my ass, which is the complete opposite of why I generally get so much pleasure out of watching baseball over any other sport: Because I don’t anticipate anything noteworthy to happen; it just happens.
When writing about baseball became something I was expected to cover, where things needed to happen for me to portray something interesting going on, that’s when baseball got un-fun. Hopefully next season when I can write about them when I feel like it, I’ll enjoy it again. As for now, my team was eliminated a few weeks ago, so I don’t have to worry about baseball for another 6 months.
Blah, blah, blah. It’s the weekend.
ER
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