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There’s always a bright side.

MOMENT OF SILENCE

The custom of observing a moment of silence before an athletic event to honor dead people strikes me as meaningless. And arbitrary. Because, if you’ll notice, only certain people get this special treatment. Its highly selective. Therefore I’ve decided that someday, when the time comes that every single person in the world who dies receives a moment of silence, I will begin paying attention. Until then, count me out. It’s ridiculous. Here’s what I mean.

Let’s say you live in Cleveland, and you decide to go to the Browns game. There you are in the football stadium, with a hot dog and a beer, ready to enjoy the action, and a somber-sounding public-address a

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we ask that you remove your hats and join us in observing a moment of silence for the forty-three unattractive, men

tally retarded, overweight Bolivian dance instructors who lost their lives this morning in a roller coaster accident at an amusement park near La Paz. Apparently, they all stood up on a sharp turn and went flying off, willy-nilly, into the cool, crisp, morning La Paz air. And, being heavier than air, crashed through the roof of the funhouse, landing on several clowns, killing them all and crushing their red noses beyond recognition.”

Snickering is heard in the crowd. The American a

“And, ladies and gentlemen, lest you think this amusing, lest you think this a time for laughter, I ask you pleasepleaseto put yourself in the place of a bereaved Bolivian who may be seated near you this afternoon. Try reversing places. Imagine yourself visiting Bolivia and taking in a soccer game. Imagine yourself seated in the stadium with a burrito and a cerveza, ready to enjoy the action, and a somber-sounding, Spanish public-address a

” ‘Senors y senoritas, we ask that you remove your sombreros and join us in observing un momento de silencio for the forty-three mentally retarded, overweight, unattractive American meat inspectors who lost their lives this morning in a Ferris wheel accident at a carnival near Ashtabula, Ohio.’

“The Spanish a

” Apparently, the huge wheel flew out of control, spi

“And let’s say, as you sit there in La Paz listening to this, you find yourself seated next to some Bolivian smart-ass who’s giggling and poking his friend in the ribs. May I suggest you’d be highly pissed at this lack of respect for Americans? And, might I add, rightly so.”

The American a

“And so, ladies and gentlemen, considering the many grieving Bolivians who may be seated among you today, and trying to keep in check that normal human impulse to laugh heartily when another person dies, let us try againreally hard this timeto observe a moment of silence for the forty-three unattractive, mentally retarded, overweight Bolivian dance instructors who went flying, willy-nilly, off the roller coaster in La Paz. Not to mention the poor, unsuspecting clowns who at the time were i

You can see the problem either a

But no. They offer no guidance, no instruction at all. I honestly don’t know what to do. Sometimes I resort to evil thoughts: I wish my seatmates ill fortune in days to come; I fantasize about standing naked in front of the Lincoln Memorial and becoming sexually aroused; I picture thousands of penguins being hacked to death by boatloads of graduate students. More often, though, I wind up bored silly, searching for something to occupy my thoughts.

One time I inventoried the pimples on the neck of the man in front of me, hoping to find one with a hair growing through it, so I could quietly pluck it out during the confusion of halftime. On a happier occasion, I once found myself staring at the huge but perfectly formed breasts of the woman to my left, her fleshy mounds rising and falling softly in the late October sun. And my thoughts turned tenderly romantic: