Archive for day-dream

Another Day Dream – NBA Mediocrity

Posted in Humor Column, Memories with tags , , , , , , , , on May 16, 2012 by Joe Zimmerman

I’ve always had a recurring day-dream about playing in the NBA.  The strange thing is I don’t dream of being a great player, but having a freak growth spurt and being eight feet tall.  Then I get drafted as a project, not because I’m good, but just purely because I’m freakishly tall.

So there I am in my day-dream – suddenly eight feet tall, unable to fit on an airplane – and everyone is going, “Woh, what happened?!” and I’m like “Yeah, I’m huge right?!”  The doctors are saying that surely I’m going to die, and now I’m the guy  people gawk at  - little kids point and say, “look at the tall man!”  Japanese tourists want to take pictures with me, and they call me “White Giant,”  (spelled 白い巨大な of course) and my teammates call me “Legs,” –  not because I’m fast, but because my legs are so long and pale.

At eight feet, you can dunk without jumping.  It’s great!  I’m an entire foot taller than most other centers.  Meanwhile, the media rails me for being such a bad player, and I only come in and get garbage minutes, maybe commit some fouls.  The headlines say things like “Giant bust.”  After a few years of grinding it out as a bench warmer, I become a passing NBA player, and maybe even have a few double-doubles in the playoffs.  But that’s pretty much the extent of my success. No championships, or all-star games, or Nike commercials – just good enough to barely play at the NBA level. You’d think in my day-dream, where anything is possible, I would imagine up something more exciting than mediocrity, but apparently that’s all my brain needs to have a good time for five minutes.

I have one other NBA related recurring day-dream, and that is that suddenly I am given the gift of a 100% shooting percentage.  I suddenly can’t miss any shot, from anywhere on the floor, including half court.  I then try to figure out, given no other improvement in my skills, if I could actually help am NBA team.  Even at a 100% half court shooting percentage, my defense would still be nonexistent, and once you put a good NBA defender on me, I’d never be able to get the ball –  let alone get a shot off.  So, I’m running around, trying to get the ball, and then shooting mid court fade-aways.  This day dream is more of a riddle than an aspiration, and the answer to the riddle is that even with a 100% full court shooting percentage, I would still be a detriment to every NBA team, as I would  end up missing 90% of those shots due to the ball getting swatted out of bounds.

Related follow-up riddle: The average height of the NBA has grown at a steady clip.  In 1950 the average was 6’3″ (197 lbs), while today the average is 6’7′ (225 lbs).  If it continues at this rate, the average will be 6’9″ in 2032,  7 feet by 2062, and 7’5″ by 3012.   At what point, if ever, would you have the rim raised to eleven feet instead of ten?   I would say raise it by 3082 for sure, when the average player is eight feet tall (my day-dream height) and can dunk flat-footed.

Recurring Day Dream

Posted in Humor Column, Some sites I enjoy with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 23, 2010 by Joe Zimmerman

I’ve always been a big day-dreamer. It’s usually when I’m driving long distances, and suddenly I’ll be lost in an exciting brain plot. The recurring one lately has been that I’m framed for murder, and then sentenced to life in prison. Once in jail, I make an unlikely escape, and then go to New York City, where I become a street musician, and have coins tossed at me, while playing popular cover tunes on guitar at a barely passing level. Eventually, I become a great songwriter, and start putting out successful albums. I can’t tour of course, because I’m a fugitive, and my face is on America’s most wanted list.

It’s an odd day-dream, because why not just day-dream of being a successful musician, without the hassle of the prison escape and the fugitivery? Starting backwards, I suppose the street performer thing makes sense given I’m wanted for murder. You can’t exactly get a good day job, and New York City might be the best place in the world to hide. I’d just get a beanie with ear-flaps, grow the beard out, and wear some horn-rimmed thrift-store glasses.

On a side note, it makes me wonder how many actual street-performers are criminals who can’t get day jobs do to their record. All you need is three or four guitar chords. If you play “Country Roads” you’ll get a dollar from every John Denver fan, and a dollar from every West Virginian…so, not that many dollars actually. But I’m sure there are plenty of four-chord money-makers.

After several years of covers, my music becomes so good (obviously), that a big time manager takes a liking to me, and wants me to tour. But I can’t tour because I’m a fugitive! So, I just start producing great studio albums, under an alias (probably “Sandman”). By that point, I’d be a pretty odd bird, and I’m thinking my style would be kind of Tom Waits meets Lady GaGa. In other words, Bjork. Because I’m never seen, the media would obsess about whether I have some sort of social phobia, or obesity issue, or that I’m actually the guy from Coldplay taking on a different identity. No one ever guesses that I’m JOE ZIMMERMAN, from the top of America’s MOST wanted list!

Now, prison is one of my biggest phobias, so I think the initial day-dream stems from that basic fear, and then figuring out what to do in such a predicament. I’ve seen enough History channel prison shows to know about the Mexican, white supremacist, and black gangs that form, and I don’t think I’d fit into any of those groups. Furthermore, people do go to jail for crimes they didn’t commit, so it could happen. In a way, my brain is just planning for the worst, boy-scout style.

It’s weird that the escape plan I dream up is always the most meat-headed jail break possible. You’d think I would brainstorm some cool Shawshank escape. Nope, it’s always me just chilling in the yard, and then a shank-fight breaks out between two gangs. While the guards are breaking up the fight, I climb the wall, deal with the electrical shocks and barbwire (through sheer pain tolerance), and sprint to the nearest forest – somehow avoiding the rubber bullets that are being shot at me by marksmen? I then bury myself under some leaves and branches for a few days until the man-hunt simmers down. They can’t look in the same woods forever can they? I know, I’m pretty smart.

In some scenarios, the search dogs find me, but I win them over, and we become best friends. I think this is realistic, as I’m pretty good with dogs. A bloodhound comes at me with the bite-to-the-shoulder move, and I start rubbing his belly. Now I have a sweet search dog companion for my long hike to NYC. Granted if it was a German Shepherd search dog I’d be screwed – they hate me.

By the way, if David Blaine really wants to do something special, I think a prison escape would be the way to go – way more impressive than sitting in a box. He needs to rob a bank and then post the video to YouTube, with a note that says, “Hey Bank of America, it was me, David Blaine.” Then they’d have to take him to jail. At that point, he sneaks in a camera, and records his escape, again posting the whole thing to YouTube. Voilah! That would make me a true believer.

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