An Existential Crisis, Burbank, CA (March 16th, 2014) – Well, fuck.

This is easily the hardest column I’ve had to write since taking on the unenviable task of covering the Missouri Waltz softball team. It might very well be the hardest thing I’ve had to write, ever, and that includes my grade school book report for the world’s most boring biography (on James Madison, the perpetually frail and dull “father” of the constitution). My teacher made me rewrite it DURING THE SUMMER.

Last Thursday’s rout at the hands of Vandelay Industries was one of the more stomach churning defeats I’ve faced in my life (and my formative baseball years came on a shitty little league team called the Jedi Knights). Judging by the muted atmosphere of my Waltz teammates (which still feels weird to say), I wasn’t alone. For just that reason, it’s a tough task to venture back into the belly of shame, and stumble out with a column that doesn’t make you sick and kill you. Plus, it’s rather difficult taking notes in between rape, and my notebook was practically bereft of details or anecdotes from the epic lambasting that occurred at the hallowed Olive #2 field. I think you can forgive me for wanting to forget the matchup.

After a weekend of heavy drinking, and drowning my sorrows in nauseating piles of meat, I hoped to wash away the throbbing pain of victory, and take solace in the carnal pleasures proffered by Los Angeles. But, I learned it’s difficult to get hard after such an emasculating defeat.

This column will ensure we never will forget, transmogrifying the faint memories we have of the game, that are akin to the light scratches of graphite from a pencil tip, into harsh strokes from a Sharpie, permanently etched across our frontal lobe like a cosmic “L” sign. Hopefully, rather than exacerbate the problem, this article serves as therapeutic, a tool for motivation, or represents the bottom before a triumphant upswing, leading the Waltz to an encouraging playoff performance.

Before first pitch, everything was awesome. It was such a sunny, beautiful day in Burbank, and for a few minutes, all was right in the universe. It seemed as if Vandelay Industries might even forfeit, which had been a very real possibility for the Waltz coming into the game. A few of the squad got in a productive and effective mini-practice beforehand. *SPOILERS* Even TRUE DETECTIVE got a happy ending. Why couldn’t we?

But, it turns out the universe was merely playing with us, chewing us up and spitting us out, like a dog would a shoe, or your girlfriend would during oral sex. We just got snowballed. We were tempted with that elusive feeling of glory, blinded by delusions of grandeur, of playing with a makeshift roster and still finally announcing our presence in the vaunted C division (it should be noted again, that it’s the third highest division…of four) by beating a team that the Waltz’s arch-rivals The Goodfellas had smeared the week prior.

Instead, we were the (pap) smear.

After coming through in a pinch a couple weeks prior, I was called on again, along with a couple other super subs (Stacy and Jack), to replace SS Dan Bence, SP/Coach Jim Wolfe Jr., Alicia Pharris and Bret Watkins, among others. Jack would take the mound and bless us with his Happy Gilmore-like swing (albeit with slightly better results), and Stacy played a rousing game at catcher, rounding out a brand new battery for the early evening game. Stacy also had a nose stud, and hit it out of the infield, which was a feat for this squad. We all proved inadequate band aids for the massive, gaping, cavernous holes in the roster left vacated by the Waltz veterans, who all had “real life” obligations to attend to. The result was like trying to waltz without your partner. Awkward, lonely, and worse, embarrassing.

The weather was a factor early. It was almost too sunny (sorry east coast), as the glowing orb in the sky attacked hitters in the batter’s box, lending a helping hand in sending Brandon Klaus to the pine with a backwards-K to lead off the game. We didn’t realize it at the time, but that one at bat set the tone for what was to come.

Other than that awful fucking omen, the game started out innocently enough. It was 2-1 after 2 innings, and 3-2 after three innings, Team Seinfeld staked to a slight lead. Wolfman Jack was dealing, showing no ill effects from months on the shelf, and the defense, aside from a certain right fielder (me), was humming. Collin was a vacuum in the infield, pulverizing every possible defensive metric in his path. Charlie had the pleasure of catching three pop ups at 1B, which is sad (for the Vandelay Industries). Brant continued his stellar run in LF.

Stephen Leggitt added another homer to his gaudy totals, though if I was keeping score, I would’ve called it a four base error, as the left fielder misplayed it so bad he should be in NBC’s BAD JUDGE pilot. Of course, I also had my chance to misplay a ball that almost reached the infield of the other diamond, leading to a round tripper for the bane of my existence, the lefty leadoff man who either hit it over my head, in front of me, or in the gap, every single time (save for a late at bat in which Graham made an awesome grab at 2B). In addition, I practically misjudged or misplayed every ball hit to me, so that was nice, a harsh reminder of why so few members of the press make the leap to the other side. It’s a lonely road for a reason.

But even so, we were hanging in there, the bats lying mostly dormant, but still keeping us in the game, merely a run or two behind. Then…the fourth inning happened. The less said about the fourth inning, the better. It will remain a stain on our careers. The Vandelay club started to hit everything hard (ripping the condom off), making even routine plays difficult, and along with a parade of gappers, the errors came in bunches, and we limped back into the dugout down 15-2, in danger of being mercy ruled.

That would happen after the 5^th inning, but the Vandelay Industries gave us the option to play on. I’d say they were being kind, but they clearly just wanted to continue to rub it in, taking solace in being on the other side of a rout this time around. If there’s one thing you can say about every member of the Missouri Waltz ballclub, is that each one of us/them is a glutton for punishment.

And so we played to the bitter end. It’d have been brave and honorable if it wasn’t so sad. Innings would be lucky to last more than a few batters over the minimum. Rallies had less of a chance for survival than a Blockbuster. I got to hit 3 times in 7 innings, a pathetic total. Everyone on the squad got a hit, but not many got more than one, and rarely did anyone ever score.

Even when we did, it was a chore, as evidenced by Collin’s innumerable adventures around the base paths. During some middle inning, when the game was well out of hand, Collin made the turn for home on a base hit. It was a relatively close play, but one made closer by Collin’s slide. Scoring standing up would’ve been more effective and safer. A straightforward slide might’ve been the best call, but Collin was wearing shorts that would make John Stockton blush, so instead, he dove head first, only managing to tap the special softball home plate diaper. The ball arrived around the same time, and he lurched again to grasp home, and did so, barely avoiding the tag. Considering Scruffy, the blind, deaf and incontinent umpire likely didn’t see any of it, the whole play likely didn’t matter. But it was one of the few successful and fun highlights of the game. In the final inning, Collin must have been hearing imaginary commands from Dustin Hoffman (“Run home Jack!”), as he turned a triple into a pickle between third and home. How you get a pickle in between 60 feet base paths is beyond me, but it didn’t end as happily this time around. He’s no Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez.

While the effort hasn’t lagged, it’s officially time to start worry about the Waltz offense. The Waltz were missing arguably their two best hitters (certainly their highest OBP men), but there is no excuse for scoring less than 10 runs in a softball game. Graham hit into 2 double plays, the pop ups came in droves, and everyone did their part in killing any momentum. We were like McLovin if we ever found a hole.

Nothing went our way, and even removing my defensive difficulties from the picture, the Vandelay Industries simply outhit us by miles, spraying lasers all over the field, taking advantage of our lack of a rover in the outfield. How do baseball teams play with three outfielders?

After the game, I was paid my fee, a crisp $20, which was less than what we lost by. I’ve never felt worse taking money in my life (but I did take it). The game hurt so bad, that no one wanted to stink up The Blue Room with our presence. The Blue Room is a place where 55 year olds make out with impunity. We were so bad, that we didn’t deserve Coors Light (and Coors Light sucks).

The Waltz went 5-0 in the D league. Now they’re 0-3, two games away from an absolute Jekyll and Hyde performance. It’s easy to get down after such a soul-crushing defeat, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Dan, Jim, Alicia, Bret and company, should return next week, and they have the ultimate motivator: the Goodfellas, and a chance at redemption and a sexy tale that even Hollywood couldn’t screw up. As Commander Peter Quincy Taggart once said (a lot): Never give up, never surrender.

It’s pretty much official: Robin Williams was the king of the 90’s, and his career is a perfect accompaniment to obnoxious amounts of beer. After doing HOOK and JUMANJI (with MRS. DOUBTFIRE, FERNGULLY and ALADDIN still to come), the next stop on the dizzying tour of Robin Williams’ ridiculous filmography, is, fittingly….

FLUBBER (1997).

When you watch a movie about a dumbass scientist (or Doc Brown wannabe) creating the world’s most mischievous and dangerous bouncy ball, his robot sidekick and Shooter fucking McGavin, I wouldn’t reprimand you for thinking Disney had come with a true American original.

But that’s false. 36 years previous, Hollywood luminary (actor, singer, stud) Fred MacMurray (THE APARTMENT, DOUBLE INDEMNITY, THE CAINE MUTINY) was Professor Ned Brainard, or THE ABSENT-MINDED PROFESSOR (1961). In that film and the sequel SON OF FLUBBER (1963), he created an anti-gravity substance, flew his date and his dog around in cars, and changed pigskin forever:

They also came up with the first werge (word merge) ever, because Flubber stands for…FLYING RUBBER. That’s bonafide history folks.

In FLUBBER, we get color (though a colorized version of SON OF FLUBBER came to VHS in 1997), Fred MacMurray’s replaced with Robin Williams who plays Professor Phillip Brainard (I prefer Ned as a name myself), and the dog sidekick is upgraded to a pain in the ass robot named Weebo (voiced by Jodi Benson, AKA Ariel from LITTLE MERMAID and Barbie from TOY STORY 3). Weebo is essentially Tinkerbell; she wants Peter/Phillip/Robin Williams, but is in the friend zone/a fairy/a miniature robot, and tries to sabotage Peter/Philip/Robin Williams’ relationships.

Football, an antiquated sport in 1997, is flipped to basketball, producing the greatest underdog story since SPACE JAM.

ENCINO MAN, BLUE STREAK and MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET director Les Mayfield also made the awful decision of casting Wil Wheaton as Billy Madison, or a dick-head character with rich parents, who flunks school because of Brainard.

He also added two goons, “cleverly” named Smith and Wesson, played by Clancy Brown (HIGHLANDER, SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS) and Ted Levine (THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS). The big bad is played by Raymond J. Barry, who you probably love on JUSTIFIED.

Les has also created the most unrealistic love story ever, as Marcia Gay Harden, who’s always a badass, no-nonsense chick from this role on, as if she promised to herself NEVER AGAIN, keeps going back to Robin Williams’ character after he’s forgotten her wedding MORE THAN ONCE. I think that’s a deal breaker. Especially when you have the sexy Christopher McDonald as the other asshole potential love interest.

Most of the genius likely came from co-screenwriter John Hughes, who you may have heard of. There’s compelling evidence to suggest that FLUBBER was John Hughes’ last and 7th finest achievement, unless you think DRILLBIT TAYLOR, HOME ALONE 3 or MAID IN MANHATTAN weren’t piles of shit.

FLUBBER DRINKING GAME RULES:

1. Drink whenever you want to punch Wil Wheaton in the mouth.

2. Take a sip whenever Professor Brainard touches or adjusts his glasses.

3. Drink whenever Brainard has changed his bowtie.

4. Have a drink whenever a character should be killed on camera, yet is completely fine. Example: Wesson (Ted Levine) gets hit by a bowling ball tainted with Flubber going hundreds of miles an hour, and barely gets a bruise.

5. Drink whenever Flubber dances.

6. “Drink for the Weebs”: Take a sip for every new video Weebo plays on her monitor. It should be noted that one of the only cats I’ve ever held affection for was named after Weebo. His name is Weebo.

7. Drink any time Robin Williams falls down.

9. Drink any time Flubber hits someone in the balls.

10. Take a sip every time someone utilizes their magical Flubber-fied shoes (see: the insane basketball scenes).

11. Finish your beer when you witness the illustrious “Flubber fart.” In SON OF FLUBBER, Professor Brainard created Flubbergas (SPOILERS: AKA the titular “Son of Flubber”), so this rule aligns with canon.

12. Drink every time there’s ridiculously fake science talk. I’d drink whenever I see a billboard filled with nonsense too, but I do that always.

13. Have a sip whenever that poor neighbor kid (who seemingly lives in every nearby house) gets terrified. Double if it comes right after his Dad tells him not to be scared.

EXPERT EDITION: Make your own Flubber, and play with these same rules with your friends. So, I’d anticipate you throwing your ghastly concoction at people’s balls. Be safe.

Robin Williams and JUMANJI have haunted our dreams since 1995, but the story began much earlier: 1982, in fact, when Chris Van Allsburg’s book won the National Book Award. For JUMANJI and THE POLAR EXPRESS, Allsburg is kind of the king of children’s fiction. And it’s easy to see why the movie version would be freaky/awesome:

Joe Johnston (CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE FIRST AVENGER), whose career began with the instant classic HONEY, I SHRUNK THE KIDS and cult fave THE ROCKETEER, followed it up with directing the “live action sequences” of THE PAGEMASTER. So, clearly, he could do no wrong, and was on a roll heading into helming the film adaptation of JUMANJI.

In the 90’s, you know who else could do no wrong (or enough coke)? Robin Williams. Well I can’t vouch for TOYS (not many can), but HOOK, FERNGULLY, ALADDIN and MRS. DOUBTFIRE permanently etched Robin Williams’ into every kids’ life history. Robin Williams meant greatness, and an eternity of (confusing) youth thanks to JACK, HOOK and JUMANJI, another movie that plays with his age and upbringing.

This time around, he plays the adult version of a bullied kid (Alan Parrish) who got stuck in a board game for 30 years and as such, gets a chance to showcase his world-renowned hair growing abilities. In many ways, he’s essentially playing a Lost Boy from HOOK, given a chance at redemption, and another chance at family, and to defeat his villainous Dad/Poacher.

Then you sprinkle in David Alan Grier, whose career never really took off, unless you count the TV movie ANGELS IN THE INFIELD (and maybe you should). He did manage to net a recurring role on LIFE WITH BONNIE, perhaps because he worked with Bonnie Hunt on JUMANJI, who was clearly added for her tremendous sex appeal.

Then there’s a prepubescent Kirsten Dunst and a monkey boy, and you have an instant classic on your hands.

JUMANJI so thoroughly terrified and enthralled me as a kid, that I had to have the Jumanji board game…but was too afraid to play it, lest I get stuck in the board. Forever. The idea of growing up instantaneously, and missing my life, losing my friends, family, and having my Dad run after me with a rifle in the forest, while having to wear a big ass leaf for a hat, is an unsettling one.

But the idea of going from creepy kid (below, who looked like an unholy combination of my childhood best friend, my Dad as a kid and a freckly wicked witch) to Robin Williams, with the ability to wrestle with alligators and Bonnie Hunt almost tipped the scale in the other direction.

The movie was such a phenomenon (was it? I’m making this up) that the following year, JUMANJI got an animated series that looks a lot like the Wild Thornberries.

Needless to say, it lasted just the one season.

But now it’s time to wet our whistles with this sure to be mediocre drinking game. That said, it certainly beats ZATHURA.

JUMANJI DRINKING GAME RULES

1. Every time they roll the dice (or there’s a new turn), drink!

2. Whenever the Jumanji theme plays, meaning the terrifying freaking drums, have a sip.

3. If monkeys are up to mischief…drink!

4. Drink whenever our fateful heroes read a new rule of the game, and double it if they’re confused by it.

5. When you see a lion, take a sip.

6. When someone kills a massive spider with a tennis racket, drink, since that’s the only time you’ll ever see such a monumental achievement.

7. Waterfall during a stampede!

8. If something genuinely scary occurs, drink.

9. Drink if you ever find yourself attracted to Bonnie Hunt.

GET SUCKED IN THE FLOOR EDITION: Drink whenever you’re attracted by 13 year old Kirsten Dunst, you sicko.

For many in my generation, HOOK is a seminal film, perhaps outstripping even Disney’s original animated tale PETER PAN (1953). To film experts, it’s mostly reviled, or a love/hate affair. When you grew up in the 90’s (or consuming its many delectable treats), it’s hard to fathom anyone ever having a negative word to say about HOOK, but like fairies, they do exist. It’s got a 31% on Rotten Tomatoes after all, and is considered one of Steven Spielberg’s biggest duds.

But for many of us, the Academy can keep SCHINDLER’S LIST; we’ll be too busy re-watching HOOK all over again, crowing and Ru-Fi-Oh-ing to care. The film was envisioned as a sequel to J.M. Barrie’s PETER AND WENDY, positing Peter Pan after he’s all grown up and forgotten the thrills of Neverland, and his most fearsome nemesis: Captain Hook. The script came from James V. Hart and Malia Scotch Marmo, which I originally only included because Malia Scotch Marmo is an awesome name. She also co-adapted Michael Crichton’s JURASSIC PARK with David Koepp, so clearly she has some chops. James V. Hart followed up HOOK with his own children’s book in 2005 called CAPT. HOOK: THE ADVENTURES OF A NOTORIOUS YOUTH, a prequel about the crocodile fearing Captain’s adolescence. He also wrote MUPPET TREASURE ISLAND, so clearly he loves pirates, and is a genius (SAHARA, AUGUST RUSH and EPIC not withstanding). I’d say that the world of Peter Pan is all he’s got, but he also wrote CONTACT and BRAM STOKER’S DRACULA and is far more successful than I’ll ever be.

HOOK is pretty ridiculous; and it only gets crazier the older the movie gets. Robin Williams, the hairiest man alive, plays a grown up Peter Pan. He’s no longer fun or a kid, so in many ways, the mission is for Peter to become a lot like the character in JACK, when Robin Williams is a 5th grader in a 40 year old Robin Williams body and banging Jennifer Lopez (no wonder that movie is so friggin’ disturbing). Dustin Hoffman as a Rollie Fingers-like mustachioed Hook (because David Bowie turned the role down) who says lines like “To a ten year old, I’m huge” (which is a. creepy and b. hilarious since Dustin Hoffman is about 4 feet tall)? Julie Roberts as Tink? Glenn Close foreshadowed her Oscar nominated role as Albert Knobbs (in the aptly titled film ALBERT KNOBBS) as the “pirate shut in the chest with a scorpion.” A heavily made up Maggie Smith was Granny Wendy…who now kinda looks like what Maggie Smith looks like today (if she was in GANGI). It even has (the) Phil Collins as Inspector Good, and he doesn’t even break out into song. For all of these reasons and more (there’s a reason every single pop song has a line longing to be “forever young”), HOOK is a perfect nostalgic drinking game. And, since we can’t prevent ourselves from getting older by following the second star on the right, straight on till morning, at least when we drink enough, we can revert back to being a stupid, helpless child for a night. It’s just what J.M. Barrie would’ve wanted.

DRINKING GAME RULES: “Drink At Home, Jack” Edition

1. Drink every time you see a watch or a clock. Each separate watch/clock counts. I’d double it for the Crocodile Clock Tower (or, Croctower).

2. Have a sip whenever someone screams “Bangarang”! This could include those in the audience cheering on the Lost Boys.

3. Drink if anyone in the room mistakenly thinks Robin Williams’ character is named Peter Panning (so I guess keep this rule a secret). No, it’s hilariously Peter Banning. Subtle.

4. “Looky looky, I got Hoochie”: Drink for every Rufio chant. If you’re not crying when he wishes Peter Pan was his father, you’re either stone-hearted, or realized Robin Williams was a terrible Dad throughout the entire film. Also, watch this if you wanna get sad about Dante Basco’s “career”:

5. Take a sip and exalt in happiness and glory whenever Raushan Hammond’s Thud Butt smiles. Thud Butt’s smile is one of the purest pleasures in life.

6. Waterfall for however long Thud Butt is in “bowling ball” mode.

7. Drink any time a character crows.

8. Finish your drink whenever a fairy dies.

9. Drink for every over-the-top (Peter’s afraid of flying!) to subtle (check out his immense shadow when he’s about to blow up at his kids) reference to Peter Pan and his Neverland origins.

10. Drink when you realize Gwyneth freaking Paltrow is young Wendy. There’s probably a joke in here somewhere in the fact that she plays a young Queen Elizabeth and Dame Maggie Smith…is British and not Dame Judi Dench.

11. Take a sip every time Robin Williams brandishes his super old and dated cell phone.

12. Drink every time Hook says “Run home, Jack.”

13. This isn’t a rule, but when we learn that Peter Pan’s origin story involves his parents leaving him in a bundle floating on the river…it’s clear that in an alternate universe, when Peter Pan grows up, he becomes THE PENGUIN!

Alright, that’s all for now. Until the inevitable RUFIO movie that absolutely needs to happen, and would break box office records if so (or at least it would if James Cameron was directing it in the ENTOURAGE movie).

LOSE YOUR MARBLES VERSION: Drink every time someone says Hook. Seriously, don’t try this at home, or anywhere, or you’ll be saying Toodles to your sanity, and the cleanliness of your carpet.

EXPERT VERSION: Don’t buy any beer at all, and just “imagine” there is booze in front of you. If you pull this off, you’re either God, or a psychopath. I want you at my party either way.