Boys Don't Cry

Okay, so, you are wondering how I have been able to see the glass as half full so quickly. What was your trick? Are you so dead inside that you are unable to have real, sustained emotions?

Okay, that last one is true, but not really a topic for the blog, and not the reason for my bright outlook post-Super Bowl. Two things combined to remind that this was no time to be upset, and that things could be alot worse.

First, I went to my IPod to listen to some music following the failed last drive that died at the Eagles' own goalline. I immediately went for those special selections reserved normally for breakups and other moments of a broken heart . From David Ruffin explaining to me "What Becomes of the Brokenhearted" to Jeff Buckley talking about "The Last Goodbye", the sadness of the day began to sweep over me, bringing the agony of defeat and the tears of loss.

But, then, who was this singing to me? This man seemed to have a message for me, one that resonated: "It's too late/And now there's nothing I can do." Okay, yeah, that is totally the way I feel. It's over, we lost, and I feel so helpless. I guess that there is nothing left to do but cry, right? Oh, no, Robert Smith says. "So I try to laugh about it/Cover it all up with lies/I try to laugh about it/Hiding the tears in my eyes/'cause boys don't cry." He was right, and I felt embarrassed. I got to act like a man in this situation, and pull it together. Quite simply, if this man thinks you are a pussy, then you got problems. Big problems. As Paul Wall and Chamillionaire said, "Get your mind correct". So I did, and I put the Eagles' loss behind me and focused on the fact that I will be single on Valentine's Day and all the real things to be miserable about. Alright, so maybe the glass is a quarter full.

Secondly, I was able to watch this program on HBO later that night, when sleep wouldn't come. In it, a prostitute described being paid $500 to defecate on a plate and urinate into a champagne glass. The gentleman then preceded to eat and drink to his heart's content. While this image has prevented me from ever falling asleep again or having a daughter, I realized that the Eagles' loss was not the worst thing in the world. There is nothing easier or more American than making yourself feel better with the misfortunes of others.

So, that's how I did it. I must thank Robert Smith, the Cure, the hookers of Atlantic City and fetishists, as I could not have done it without them.