This is a weekly column from Leitch. It has words, and pictures. It's called Ten Humans Of The Week.
I'm about to hunker down in the bunker for the next book — out next Father's Day! If I finish in time! — so I'm trying to wean myself off excess, unnecessary Web usage. This used to be less difficult: I'd read Gawker and Slate and Baseball Prospectus a little less, maybe start doing more work on my old computer that doesn't connect to the Web. (This only goes so far: When you're writing something that big, you'll find any way you can to distract yourself. I found myself playing with that non-Web computer's internal clock. "I wonder what time it is in Monaco right now!")
Now, of course, there's a lot more to shut down from. There's my Twitter, there's my Tumblr, there's something called Foursquare, which I use for absolutely no reason at all. (I don't even like it, and its format — telling your friends what bars you're at when you arrive — is literally the opposite of the way I live my life. And still: I feel compelled to be on.) Realize, we are just about a year away, tops, from someone writing one of those gimmick books about staying away from the Internet for six months and seeing what happens, like that couple that had sex every day for a year or that guy who tried to live for a few months as if he were a Civil War general. (He must have been very hot.) It's going to be so much harder than it was the last time I slowed the Web usage for to work on a book, two years ago. I have a fear people will forget I'm alive. Not that being aware of it now is providing them much all that interesting.
(Thanks to Gourmet Spud, by the way, for filling in last week. Unfortunately, he ignored my pleas and wrote something much funnier than what you're about to read.)
(Oh, and I am absolutely not ready to talk about Ankiel yet. I hope you understand.)
Jim Courier. The "retired" tennis pro — I put retired in quotes because no tennis player is truly retired, not really — made a headline or two (but probably just one) for live-Twittering an exhibition match with John McEnroe over the weekend. In case you were wondering whether or not this is going to start some sort of trend, rest assured: It won't. Some highlights:
"I hit a rick-donk-u-lous slice angle pass to go up 2 minibreaks off of a sick mac approach. Yee haw."
"Gagged a fh sitter to lose serve 4-3 mac. Gotta refocus. Loose game there"
"3-2. Tight service game. Was down bp. Served out of it. Rushed that game 2 dbl flts. Relax!!!"
"They just reeled off winner after winner. 10-3 for them in the breaker...whew. I'm tired"
Technology at its finest. Will someone Twitter a marathon someday? (One would think someone already has.) I'd guess stuff like:
"feeling good! beautiful day!"
"look its that dude who pushes his son around in marathons. totally wasting that guy"
"startin to feeel sorrre"
"i think my nipples are starting to bleed"
"fuck you i dont want your water you fuck"
"i just shit myself"
"shit is running down my leg"
"please let me die"
John Danks. I had to feel for the White Sox lefthander, who was "caught" picking his nose during the ESPN Sunday Night game. (Stupid machines capable of capturing human movement for posterity!) I felt bad for him because, well, I'm one of those people who actually scratches and picks at his nose as a matter of fidgeting: I do it without realizing it, and I'm always getting caught. (On the subway the other day, an attractive woman was staring at me intently, which was intriguing until I realized my index finger was halfway to my eyesocket.) It's disgusting, and it's true, and it's happened to you and don't deny it. Thank God no one ever films me at my job. Anyway, I appreciated how Daulerio headlined the picture with different terminologies for nose picking. My dad's a fan of "Hey, Will, pick me out a Cadillac." Seriously, you don't want to see the bottom of my desk at home.