Benny Jay: Fit Me For A Straitjacket

I wanna try something different for game four of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series.

As you may recall, last time I didn't watch it. This time I'll watch it but I won't care. I'm serious. I'll be indifferent. I'll lie on the sofa and half watch while I read a book. Yeah, that's it. I'll catch up on "Clockers," Richard Price's novel. Every now and then I'll look up just to, you know, check on the score....

I get through exactly one paragraph as the Bulls race off to a strong start. I'm too excited to read. I'm on my feet, clapping and cheering and talking to the TV. I'm telling the Bulls to calm down, like they can hear me. Or like they would listen to me if they could. I'm working the refs, telling them to call it both ways -- "he hacked, ref -- he hacked" -- and not just against the Bulls....

I'm alone in the house. Just me and the dog. And she's sleeping....

Near the end of the first quarter, I call Milo. He says he's not watching, like he's got more important things to do. Ha! I know different. I bet he's watching. I bet he just wants me to think he's not watching. I bet he just wants me to think he doesn't care about the Bulls as much as I care about the Bulls because he doesn't want me to know that he's as big a loser as I am. But, I'm on to you, Milo. I know you're watching. Oh, yes, I know....

At the end of the first half, the Bulls, up by two, leave Ray Allen wide open -- and I mean, absolutely all alone -- behind the three-point line in the corner. He drains the three, and I throw up my hands. Ray Allen is simply one of the greatest three-point shooters in the game. Why oh, why, oh, why would you leave him -- of all people -- open for a three?

That's it. I can watch no longer. I walk to the video store. I tell the video store guy how much I love Roman Polanski. He tells me a good Roman Polanski movie to watch. I can see right away that he's one of those guys who doesn't care about sports. Probably thinks that anyone who cares about sports is weird. Which we are. Talking to him about Roman Polanski is my way of proving to myself that I'm really not some weird guy who's obsessed with the Bulls. Except, of course, I am....

On the way home, I duck into a corner bar to catch up on the score. Bulls up one. Good! On I walk, enjoying the foliage and the twittering birds. Cause that's what normal people do on a nice spring day. They don't sit inside and watch the Bulls on TV. They enjoy nature....

When I get home, I think -- I'll just take another peek. Bulls up by five. Oh, that's good. Then Boston scores a bunch in a row. Glen `Big Baby' Davis hits a basket. I used to like Big Baby -- cause he's fat. And, generally, I like fat basketball players. But now I curse him -- the big fat pig. What can I say -- it's the playoffs....

It's a back-and-forth affair: Bulls up one, down one, up two, down three. At commercials, I pretend I'm Derrick Rose and I've just intercepted a pass. I imagine that I score a bunch of points in a row and that we -- the Bulls -- are running away with the game. I know I need help. I'm sure there's a doctor I can talk to or pills I can take. Maybe I should try a different hobby....

Bulls up three. Seconds left in the fourth quarter. Rajon Rondo has the ball for Boston. He dribbles right. He passes back to Ray Allen, who -- no! -- is open. I mean, wide open. I mean, so freaking wide open that he has enough time to shower and shave before the closest Bull can run to him. He shoots. He hits. All net. What do you expect? He's open. Why would the Bulls leave Ray Allen open -- again? Noooooooo....

In the first overtime, Boston goes up. I can't bear to watch. I settle on a new strategy. I'll run out of the room when Boston has the ball and I'll come back when I think the Bulls have the ball. That way I minimize the bad things and maximize the good things that I see. Great idea. Can't believe I didn't think of this before. And so I go -- in the room, out of the room, in, out, in, out....

Bulls down three. Seconds left. John Salmons to Ben Gordon. He dribbles right. He fires up a three -- good! Yes! Yes! Yes! Double overtime....

The Bulls score first. They score again. There's a commercial. I pick up the clutter in the living room. I empty the dishwasher. I gather up newspapers and dump them in the recycling bin. If there were a Bulls game every day, the house would be spick-and-span....

Bulls up three. Seconds left. Paul Pierce shoots. John Salmons blocks the shot! Game over. Bulls win! Bulls win! In double overtime. Playoff series tied at two. Next game in Boston....

I jump up and down. I sing, "Go Bulls, go." A song, by the way, that I made up. A song that only I know. I call Norm. I call Milo. I call Johnny. I call Daddy Dee. I suddenly remember that after every Bulls home win the radio interviews a player on the court. I rush to the radio just as they're finishing their interview with Joakim Noah.

"Finally, Joakim," the announcer is saying, "what about these fans?"

"Off the hook," says Joakim. "Off the hook."

If he only knew -- lord, lord, lord, if he only knew....

Benny Jay: Snoring Through Horror

For our Saturday night movie, I rent "The Pianist," Roman Polanski's film about the Warsaw Ghetto. I didn't want to. I got this thing about unspeakable horror. I don't handle it well. I still haven't watched "Hotel Rwanda." Almost walked out of "The Killing Fields."

But with "The Pianist," my Wife insisted. She's been wanting to watch this movie for years. She says it's 'cause Polanski's such a great director. But I think it's cause she's had a thing for Adrian Brody ever since she saw him kiss Halle Barry at the Oscars.

Watching the movie with us is my good buddy Ed, who's in from out of town on business and is sleeping in the spare bedroom opened up when my Older Daughter went to college.

So the movie starts and within a few minutes I know why I didn't want to watch it. It's relentlessly disturbing -- thousands and thousands of people herded to death. There's no good guys rushing in to save them. Madmen rule the world. I close my eyes. I can't bear the sights and sounds. Oh, why, oh, why did I rent this?

In the midst of the carnage, Ed starts to snore. Not too loud. But you can't ignore it. I find it sort of reassuring -- a break from the slaughter. After about five minutes, he stops snoring.

Midway through the movie, its tone changes. The Adrian Brody character -- the pianist -- slips out of the Warsaw Ghetto. The parade of death stops. At least, we don't see it 'cause he doesn't see it. The movie, after all, is viewed from his perspective. It becomes less a tale about genocide and more a story about one man's heroic efforts to stay alive. I can handle that.

At the climax, when the central character's almost out of his mind with hunger, he finds, of all things, a piano. He starts to play. It's a moment of iconic heroism and triumph, a symbol of man's fierce determination to survive.

And right in the middle of it all, Ed -- my good buddy from out of town -- starts snoring. Only this time it's not a gentle buzz like before. Aw, hell no -- man sounds like a chain saw. Gzzachachazzzz -- like a parody of Curly in the Three Stooges. If you put a towel on his face, it would flutter up as he exhales.

"Ed, Ed," says my wife.

"Huh? Huh?" says Ed, lost in sleep.

"You're snoring...."

"Snoring?"

"Snoring....."

"Okay...."

He opens his eyes. Sees the pianist playing the piano. And falls back asleep. "I hear the TV," he says, "but I'm asleep....."

A few minutes later, he's snoring again.

When the movie ends, Ed wakes up long enough to go to bed. Pretty soon I'm the only one awake in the house. How the hell these people can sleep after watching the extermination of thousands of people is beyond me.

I look at the clock. It's two in the morning. I'm wide awake -- no sleep for me. I put on "Stony Island," Andrew Davis' classic flick about a soul band trying to make it big in Chicago in the 1970s. I love this movie -- takes me back to the time I moved here a billion years ago. Near the end they play "Ooh, Child, Things are Gonna Get Easier." Damn, I love that song. I sing along. I can't sing, but what the hell -- there's no one around but the dog. And the dog never complains: "Ooh, child, things are gonna get easier, ooh, oh, child things'll get brighter...."

By 4:30 I think I'm ready for sleep. I trudge up the stairs and climb into bed. I close my eyes. But I hear a noise. Sounds like a buzzing. Maybe an alarm clock. Or a rodent in the wall.

I get out of bed and walk toward the sound. It's coming from my daughter's bedroom. I walk closer. It's getting louder. I push open the door. It's Ed -- freaking Ed! He's snoring. Sounds like water rushing down an unclogged drain.

He's dead asleep. Oblivious to it all. Some guys have all the luck.