What Are We Gonna Do With All This Trash?: R.I.P. George Michael (aka Over-sized 'Play' Button Pushing Sports Machine Guy)

December 29, 2009

R.I.P. George Michael (aka Over-sized 'Play' Button Pushing Sports Machine Guy)

I just wanted to take a little time to remember George Michael, D.C.-area sportscaster and host of the Sports Machine, who passed away several days ago at the age of 70.

In the past, we have made fun of George Michael not only because of his pollyanna-ish views on all local pro sports teams, but also because of the way he stood in front of ridiculously gigantic A/V equipment (a 'sports machine', if you will) with equally gigantic play, stop, forward, and rewind buttons. Even as the technology advanced and video playback devices got smaller and smaller, those buttons always remained disproportionately big--prompting questions such as, "Does George Michael have poor motor skills?" and "Why can't the Sports Machine use free-range child labor instead of sweatshop child labor for all of its novelty button manufacturing needs?"

But perhaps we were too hasty with our relentless cajoling of George Michael and the Sports Machine. I was watching ESPN yesterday and somebody said that without the Sports Machine there wouldn't be any ESPN, there wouldn't be any SportsCenter. After the beer I was drinking shot out through my nose, I started to realize that this person had a pretty good point. While no ESPN would mean never having to experience the baneful Stuart Scott, I began to see that George Michael's overall contributions to the field of sports' highlights were, after all, pretty damn significant.

So... here's to you, George Michael.

P.S. Arch Campbell, don't think for a second that you'll be getting off this easy.

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A History Of Trash

Trash, at first, was a pretty cool guy. You know, he’d come over with some beers, and you’d hang out and have a couple of laughs. Maybe Trash brought some weed with him, and you guys tried to sync up Dark Side Of The Moon with The Wizard Of Oz until you remembered you lost your VHS copy of that movie sometime in college and that you fucking hate Pink Floyd. Good times were had, nonetheless.

But then, you don’t know what changed, but Trash started to overstay his welcome. He’d just linger for hours, never taking the hint you wanted him to leave, no matter how many times you yawned obnoxiously or mentioned how early you had to get up tomorrow. Trash just didn’t get it. You were getting older. You didn’t have the time anymore to stay up until 3 a.m. to talk about the Port season of “The Wire” or how much you miss Jawbox. Eventually, you just stopped taking Trash’s phone calls and no longer replied to his group e-mails about sneaking into abandoned mental hospitals.

Last time you saw Trash, he was smoking alone outside a local dive bar, looking down at his decaying and mismatched shoes. You hoped he had been doing well. You hoped he had not been hurt by the disintegration of your friendship. And if he had, you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to tell him that even though people move on with their lives, it doesn’t mean they stop caring. You wanted him to see in your eyes a sincere appreciation for the time you shared, because all the relationships in our lives help make us who we are, and even if you weren’t the best of friends anymore, you wanted him to know that there would always be a piece of Trash in your heart.

But instead, you looked away and crossed the street. You were with your new girlfriend, and you really didn’t want to have to explain Trash to her. She’d never understand.