Written by Lars Hancock

---

Last Saturday, it was my friend Chris’ birthday, and after a morning workout, we had gone to lunch at a wonderful local burger joint, Hopdoddy. I had a burger with a fried egg, a Parmesan cheese crisp, some sun-dried tomato pesto, bacon, Sriracha, and maybe a kilo of pure Columbian yayo*(or at least it created the same ecstatic reaction as if said ingredient was included). On the side I had what was called a “skinny dip” which is a pimp goblet the size of a small fishbowl filled with beer and a heaping scoop of frozen margarita. So being full, tired, and with a cocktail in me, I desperately needed a nap.

I get home and find the kids are at the neighbor’s house playing. Bingo. Excitedly, I steal off to the bedroom, and create a little nest to escape the world for 20 minutes or so. Just as I get almost to sleep, though, I hear the door open and there’s crying. Great, no nap for Lars today.

Now there’s a lot of crying that happens in my house. Sure, some of it is my “courtship ritual” (hey, if I can’t get unbridled passion, I’ll settle for pity), and some of it is probably Mrs. Hancock lamenting the life-altering mistake of marrying someone like me. But for the most part, with three kids under 8, it’s a lot of attention-seeking drama from overtired, hungry, and/or bored kids, so I’m pretty numb to the waterworks. But when my wife came in with a glum look on her face, and informed me the oldest fell hard on his wrist during a spirited game of Sharks and Minnows, I knew something was up.

I look at the wrist in question, and he won’t even attempt to use it. It’s not swollen, which would ordinarily be a good sign, but it seems as if he has two wrist joints now. I’m no medical expert (although it wouldn’t stop me from answering questions as such in the column below), but my keen parental instincts tell me that two wrist joints is a bad thing, and it’s time for a trip to the ol’ ER.

When we get there, the diagnosis of a broken arm is quickly confirmed. My son is given codeine and we are moved to a room with a TV in it, where he can watch cartoons while we wait. And wait. At this point, I am taken back to my college experience, because it would not be atypical to find college sophmore Lars fighting ennui by watching cartoons on a Saturday night in a mind-altered state. Ah, college. But I digress.

The good news is the pain has subsided and my son is no longer upset or terrified, which is a relief to me as a parent. The bad news is that all kinds of medieval torture equipment is being wheeled into the room. It is at this point where the gap between my perception of the state of medicine in the world and the reality of it comes to a head. My perception is something out of Star Trek where you wave some sort of singing little doohickey over an injury and it magically heals, but in reality we’re a lot closer to the Civil War medical tent where you bite down on a stick while the “doctor” saws your leg off. I surmise from the draconian equipment being brought forth that there would be some serious muscle needed to reset the bones and eliminate the extra wrist from my son’s arm.

The procedure would involve something called “conscious sedation” where under the influence of ketamine the patient remains conscious, but completely unaware of his surroundings and with no memory of such afterward. Think “Par Shurmur on the sidelines”. The awful thing is that the pain is still there, but just not felt – think “hey, at least the offense looked really good for a change even though the Bungles destroyed the D, but Haden wasn’t there, so I feel pretty good about the loss”. As a parent, I was encouraged more than once not to be in the room. I told them I should be there just in case they need me, which is as ridiculous as Brad Childress being on the coaching staff even though he’s not calling the plays. In retrospect, I think they brought in a security guard disguised as a volunteer to ensure I wouldn’t get violent when I saw what they were doing to my son, as I refused to take a hint and clear the room.

The procedure itself was pretty horrible to watch, but as a parent, I had to know what my son was going through, and had to be there, if only to pray and provide moral support. They took his floppy apparently lifeless body, the sight of which crushed me, and yanked the arm until it set straight. Each yank produced a pain reaction from his body, as seen on the heart rate monitor, and a very real parallel one in my heart. In the end, his arm was set, and we returned home with a new trophy, a splint, after a mere five hours in the ER. I can’t wait to see my bill for that one…

The kid’s doing fine now, and acclimating to life with a balky wing nicely. He’s not in pain, and I think he kind of thinks the splint is cool, and he’s excited to get his cast tomorrow. For me as a parent, I got one horrifying evening out of it, and a healthy dose of fear in my blood. And if you see a kid on the playground wrapped in bubble wrap, that’s probably one of mine.

Anyway, off to the questions.

* No actual yayo was on the burger, to my knowledge. Maybe some spicy mayo though.

Lars, any advice for immobile, advanced age, Big 12 spread quarterbacks on how to slow this dangum' NFL game down a wee bit? For a friend of mine. Thanks pardner! –Brandon Weeden

Tell your friend that eventually all things slow down if you do them often enough, which is why consistent repetition is the key to success.

For example, if your friend was a rookie making his first NFL start,, he would want to play as often as possible in the preseason so he gets a handle on the advanced speed of the pro game. He needs those valuable reps in games otherwise considered a total waste, or he’s going to go out the first week of his NFL career and have a look of frozen horror about him like he’s a soon-to-be-extinguished-extra in a Friday the 13^th movie, and potentially waste a valiant effort by his defense. But only a ketamine-laced zombie of a head coach would do that to an incoming rookie.

Quarterbacking is like sex. If you have a big gun, you’ll get drafted highly, and a lot of teams will give you a shot to succeed. But if the game never slows down for you, you’ll find yourself being a free agent more often than not, and eventually you’ll develop a reputation which will make it impossible for you to find a new team. Completing your passes to the wrong team too often doesn’t help, especially if you never look them off.

My solution for you, er, your friend is a healthy dose of the Cincinnati Bengals. And think about elderly nuns when you’re on the field.

Lars, Can you please identify one solo Yoko Ono song that you'd be OK with hearing again? I have been looking since 1970, and well, I give up. –googleeph2

“Toilet Piece” was on her 1971 album Fly. It is a song emblematic of her musical stylings, those of a counter-cultural hipster before said was cool to be such. It speaks volumes of her musical trainings, and makes a statement that is as profound today as it was 40 years ago. I listen to that song pretty much every morning to get my day off on the right foot, as it inspires me and helps me to feel more fresh and vibrant. Mind you, I don’t listen to Yoko’s rendition necessarily, but it’s been covered many times and each time is as inspiring and refreshing as the original. And note the link is to the actual song from the album, no joke.

Technically, “Imagine” was written with inspiration from a Yoko Ono poem, and was co-produced by her, so that counts, right? Interesting note about that song which is largely misinterpreted: it isn’t an anti-God song as the subtle but key verse “no religion too” may indicate. That verse is actually one of the key messages of the song, and quite relevant today considering the inhuman attacks and murders propagated this week in response to a poorly made movie about Muhammad. The song is really about the power of prayer and dreaming, living in a world where people won’t kill each other over a religion. You see, there’s a key and important distinction between a “religion” and a “faith”, where the former is a construct of man, and the latter more divine. Militant atheists often point out the flaws of religion, of which there are many, as pointing to the problem with faith altogether. They let hate groups such as the Westboro Baptist Church and Hamas be willing strawmen for the failings of faith, as such organizations preach hate and division in a failed construct around what they (incorrectly) believe to be the word of God. In Lennon’s world where everyone adheres to a common faith, religion is unnecessary, and such failed constructs do not exist.

Of course, the poem Ono wrote to inspire “Imagine” was nowhere as deep. It was a piece of crap called “Cloud Piece” and it went as follows:

Seriously, Yoko, what the fuck? Everything about you sucks.

We are under a tyrannical dictatorship of which wants to appoint you G.M. for a 5 year stint of either the Browns or Indians, your choice. You get 5 million a year, and are guaranteed a payroll in the top 5 to work with. 

Here's the catch, you must win a championship in that period or you & your family are executed in the soccer stadium. You win, you can take your 25 million and do whatever, you lose....your execution goes viral. No time machines, no reincarnations, no extraterrestrial interventions, no plastic surgery, or James Bond escapes. Neither the 7th Fleet nor the SEALS can be involved. Oh, and no moving in a team from another city...no tricks.

You are large and in charge. Which team do you put the family's fate in and why? Feel free to expound on your 5 year plan. I am hoping the Browns/Tribe read it. -truck stop billionaire

If you’re giving me a top 5 payroll, it has to be the Indians I choose here. Sure, years of inept mismanagement and poor drafting have left the cupboard as bare as the Dutchess of Cambridge’s boobs on holiday. But in baseball, who cares? You can buy a contender in a single offseason, improve it during the season, and money is all that matters in that equation.

And consider that if I do spend all this money and show the city of Cleveland that I do, in fact, give a crap about whether we win or lose, the fans will return in droves to see my team. We set world records on attendance, heck, I could even expand the Jake and make money for the team while winning. Novel concept – build a winner, make people care, and make money that way, instead of through the raping and apathy Dolan seems to prefer.

In 2013, I lure Josh Hamilton, Zach Greinke, Ryan Dempster, Paul Maholm, and Adam LaRoche, adding to Asdrubal, Kipnis, Brantley, Choo (who I re-sign so he doesn’t leave in 2014), Santana, Chisenhall, and a few of the others we have. Would that cost a ton? Sure, but it wouldn’t even put us in the top 3 in payroll. In 2014 I add Phil Hughes and Roy Halladay, and maybe a Hunter Pence and/or a Corey Hart. Still not in the top 3 in payroll, and that team is a clear favorite to win the series. That leaves me four years to tinker with the strongest core in the majors. How could I lose?

The Browns, well, that’s a different story entirely. While I believe the personnel is on the right track, who’s to say how long it will take to gel? With a salary cap and the parity it drives, top 5 spending is worthless and doesn’t guarantee top 5 talent. Only a solid disciplined management structure over many years, like Pittsburgh and Baltimore have, will yield positive results. And we have to play Pittsburgh and Baltimore twice a year each! No, if you give me the Browns to turn around, I’m afraid my head will be on a pike, carried by Chris Pike, five years after I sign up for the job.

Why?  -Larvell

Because it beats the alternative.

Life is a struggle. I often consider what paradise would really be like. A world where I am the king, and my capricious whims are served with endless supplies of non-fattening bacon, beer, and ice cream sounds good on the surface, but if everyone had that, and if I didn’t struggle to get to that, would I appreciate that at all? Likely no, and the bacon, beer, and ice cream would be like the oxygen I breathe daily – poker stakes for life. What if the highs and lows we experience on a daily basis are mere ripples on the cosmic scale of good and bad, and these ripples are in the deep end of the pool? I’m penning this from the Admiral’s Club in LAX, which on the surface is luxury – it is an oasis where Miller Lite flows freely, away from the inhospitable din and hue of the central airport. It delivers me immense pleasure, but in reality it pretty much sucks. I’m held captive in a place, my flight is delayed, and the food and beer is quite lousy on an absolute scale. But I’m happy, because my pleasure is relative to the pain of LAX.

The good, the bad, and the ugly we live daily could indeed be the best of all possible worlds, as without pain, is there really pleasure?

Pain makes us stronger and makes us appreciate pleasure. The mindless pursuit of pleasure causes pain. Being a Cleveland fan uniquely qualifies us to live a happier existence, as it fortifies our souls and allows us to see true pleasure when it stumbles our way. The weekly beatings the Browns get, the daily humiliation of the Indians, and the Cavs, oh, the Cavs, they all afford us happiness in our daily lives which New York and Boston fans don’t have. Absent championships or any sort of return on our fandom, the simple things in life are richer to us – sunrises, puppies, and beer, are all so much pleasurable.

So why? Because the world is a wonderful playground full of rare riches, like beer, meant to be explored, tamed, enjoyed, fought against, and shared. And because there’s a title out there somewhere for us.

 I am a particularly bitter & tormented soul. Being 54 I am one of the oldest on the board & I was actually alive in "64", hence the rub.

I have NO RECOLLECTION of anything Browns that far back. I do recall "68" of course , and that's when the pain began. I have tried hypnotists, priests, Buddhists, Democrats, and Republicans and none have helped me, literally. 

 I am a lost soul. My Dad took me to two games a year from "63" on....but nothing in the memory banks till "68." Any advice? Sodium pentathol, Taoists, wormhole, abduction....name it, I'll try anything. I know there is a championship happy memory in there somewhere. I felt it back in "02" with the Buckeyes....it was as if I had that feeling before but in Browns garb. Please help. -pod

Ah, little innocent pod, going to the Browns games in 1964 as a six year old, probably with his his dad and maybe degenerate Libertarian uncle with a penchant for the Mary Jane. Such wonderful memories, enjoying winning football, championships every year, yes, you were lucky being born a Cleveland sports fan.

But wait, you’re only six, and your little forming mind isn’t capable of discerning good memories and bad memories yet. No, you’re just forming a baseline in your mind, and this baseline is all about happiness and winning. Your opinion of pleasure and pain will be versus this tare you establish, a tare which is necessarily and by design “zero” in your mind.

Little pod is like a kid born six years before Skynet becomes sentient. In his pre-apocalyptic world, everything is wonderful, yet he remembers so very precious little of it because when it all comes crumbling down around him, the pain, that fall from grace, the removal of glory, that paradise lost is all young pod remembers. Life becomes a struggle to survive, and you know it is supposed to be better than this, you just don’t know what better actually looks like anymore.

Now had your uncle the knowledge of the future that Sarah Connor had, he could have groomed you not only to cherish each and every memory your six-year old brain could hold, but hardened you to thrive in the post-apocalyptic world of Cleveland sports. Pod could be our John Connor, fighting the evil Modells and Dolans and Stepiens that formed the Cleveland sports Skynet of the next 50 years. Pod could have faded pictures of those days long destroyed that he carries with him as a reminder of why he struggles and why it is so important that he wins, that WE win again, and why the fight must go on. Pod Connor would provide the sunlight, puppies, and beer needed to carry on, and be a champion to the resistance and once and for all bring an end to the oppression of Skynet.

Your only hope lies in your past. You somehow need to invent a time machine, and travel back to 1964 and teach young pod these lessons, have him remember these times, and harden him against the future. The good news is that in 1964, people won’t think twice about you walking around naked when you first get there. You can assume an identity as young pod’s long lost degenerate uncle that has a penchance for the Mary Jane... and I think I may be in the process of blowing my own mind here.

I’ve long suspected your uncle may actually be you, but not future you here to protect past you from the future, part of which is the distant past to us now. A bunch of things are coming together now, including why you would inquire about how to best use a single shot time machine in a previous episode of OOB. The question is, how far in the future have you come from, and what are you trying to tell us, and what are we not ready to hear from you yet?

Or maybe I just had one too many of those free Miller Lites in the Admiral’s Club…

Please email questions to lars.hancock@yahoo.com, tweet them @ReasonsImADrunk, or DM them to me in the forae to LarsHancock. And remember, vote Lars for President in 2012.