After high school I've thought it would be impossible for me to ever
identify with a football player. I fear Tom Brady may have changed this.

Watching the game last night from a bar stool with 3 rabid Pats fans and a
bartender in a Giants jersey was a little surrreal. Though foggy, I recall
a smug feeling of satisfaction after seeing the Patriots walk off the
field.

In high school, guys like Tom Brady (pretty boy football stars and a surly
Balkan kid) were the reason I skipped to stay home and watch The Price is
Right and old episodes of Thirty Something.

Freshman year, guys like Tom Brady would steal copies of National Review I
brought from my uncle Edward's house for my girlfriend Flower (Her dad was
a hippie and not only shunned conservative ideology, but most forms of
print altogether. She made me quote Reagan whenever I wanted to get past
second base and liked me to call her Barbara).

Guys like Tom Brady were also the reason that I sat next to the Balkan kid who
didn't speak English in the cafeteria. Until they found out running from
gunfire while cradling a loaf of bread had made him a natural wide
receiver.

But this morning I saw the dejected look on Tom Brady's face everywhere.
This look is something I'm familiar with. It is the look of failure,
and nothing but time can change it. Sure, he gets to go home and attempt
to push the dark feelings from his heart while nards deep in model poon,
but that won't help. Even Gisele will leave when he refuses to stop
replaying the last minute of the game on the Tivo that's buried under all
those empty Miller Lites and Dorito bags. He can claim the best record in
the league this year, 18-1, but that doesn't matter. That one is THE one.

Tom realizes exactly what it's like to lose your neocon/hippie girlfriend
of four years. Half an hour before prom. While she's in the bathroom of
that nice Italian place in the strip mall and the Balkan kid's got three
fingers up in it. Then seeing them walk out of the ladies room from your
table next to her half-gone eggplant parm, and watching out the window as
they climb into the team limo. This is why I can identify. Hypothetically.

So, in the spirit of mutual self loathing, I've listed the top three
activities that Tom Brady shouldn't try to cope through. Tom, these are
for you:

1. Sweat pants in public. (Trust me. Not even a jock can pull it off when
they're covered in Dorito crumbs and mustard stains. Yes, they're
comfortable, and you probably can lose those inevitable extra fifteen
around the gut in pre-season, but come on man, I know you've got a
shit load of clean Dockers.)

2. Attempt to express your feelings in the form of song. (No matter how
much you think you sound like Morrisey nobody else ever will. Besides,
your shit is deep man, those guys totally didn't even get it. It had
layers. Fucking Layers! That awesome line about eternal dusk was allegory
for the pain that doesn't go away. Also, it has about dusk.)

And most importantly:

3. Buy a cactus. (Tom, I realize it seems as if a low maintinence house
plant will be an awesome form of companionship when you never want to
leave the house, but trust me, it's only a matter of time before the thing
has a name and you're telling anyone that calls, 'I can't go out because
Cacty has a little bout of fungus and I need to stay with him to provide
support.' Only to find out he starts to say you're smothering him, and
before you know it you're crying over broken pieces of terra cotta and dry
dirt on the floor of the living room screaming about how sorry you are.
This is why you must not buy a cactus. It's only heartbreak.)

If you can stay away from these issues it will save you from even more
sorrow and poorly written Smiths sound-a-likes. Instead, why not try
raspberry schnapps and a Patrick Swayze marathon. It helps.

And Barbara, if you're reading this. You still owe me $11.95 for that
eggplant parm. But if you want to, like, get together and talk about it
over coffee... I mean... we could probably work it out. I've been reading
The Weekly Standard.