Delirium sets in, along with college basketball


The abrupt changes in temperature and humidity last weekend caused the inside of my head to more or less explode, and I hunkered down with an array of hot liquids and over-the-counter medications, thick, boring books and some arcane DVDs for what must be the worst couple of days in recent memory.

This coincided with the availability of approximately 18 bazillion basketball games on cable television. College games, pro games, high school games. Men’s games, women’s games. From my couch, I blearily clicked through the cycle: basketball, basketball, basketball, Anna Nicole Smith’s baby, basketball, cop show, The Hitler Channel, basketball.

Here is the main thing I noticed about the first couple of rounds of the NCAA tournament: The sneakers are squeakier than ever. And LOUD. When you’re got a 100-pound head, the squeak of a sneaker on a hardwood floor might as well be a red-hot shish kebab skewer going right through the eyeball en route to the brain. Do they have a special squeaky sneaker microphone down at floor level?

And when there weren’t basketball games, there were men in ill-fitting suits with huge necktie knots and greasy stuff in their hair yelling about basketball games.

It got so bad I turned for relief from the squeaking shoes and pomaded idiots to "Alexander Nevsky," the 1938 film by Soviet director Sergei Eisenstein, about how the great Alexander routed the Teutonic Knights on a frozen lake outside Novgorod in 1242. To borrow from the translation style of the Soviet subtitle writers, "Weary was I, that basketball watched/ In sorrow great, and with pain of martyrs."

The fever and congestion has receded now, and with it the threat of televised basketball. At least until this weekend, but I’m ready for it this time: I’ve got Eisenstein’s "Battleship Potemkin," Pudovkin’s "Mother," and Vertov’s "Man With the Movie Camera" lined up.

These films, taken together, represent an artistic and historical blast of such staggering boringness that no sentient human being can help but sleep. Restful, quiet, health-restoring sleep. (Just as long as I wake up in time for the Final Four.)

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