I’ve been remiss in not yet posting about this year’s Australian Open, but I’ve been remiss in all kinds of things lately — it’s been a long last few weeks when it comes to sleeplessness and annoying YOPD problems.* An AO post is hopefully coming on either Friday or Saturday, and a new telefilm review should be ready on Thursday or Friday.
My reason for this post is that Best Friend sent me a link to a Chris Fowler Instagram reel overnight that finally got me to re-engage with the app after mostly ignoring it for the last several months. And now I’m faced with a ridiculous quandary because I know he’d get a kick out of seeing what I wrote to Fowler and how he replied to it, but I’m not yet ready to sacrifice my anonymity here or at Cranky.**
For anyone who doesn’t follow sports, Fowler’s an NFL announcer and ESPN broadcaster who covers Grand Slam tennis with the McEnroe brothers. On Instagram, he recounts an awkward run-in with a man in a Speedo and explains how he changed his morning routine because of it. I made a gay joke and a tennis joke that caught his attention. The “board shorts, man” and goofy plausible deniability about park-cruising would delight my friend; it’s impossible not to read it in Fowler’s voice.
1/24 Update: Bonus audio below in which I talk tennis and explain why the YOPD’s probably worse at the moment.
* Last night, for example, I stayed up late to work on something, so my bedtime dose of levodopa was delayed. By the time I got upstairs, I could barely uncap the ZzzQuil bottle and Crankenstein was already asleep. Pouring it was difficult; my normally reliable right hand was throwing an unauthorized party, which also made it hard to bring the tiny plastic cup to my lips. Ultimately, I spilled the sticky sleep aid on myself, the floor and my nightstand. After mopping it up with a washrag, I went to bed with a mildly damp pajama shirt that smelled of mixed berry flavoring. It was frustrating and embarrassing and it would’ve been easy to feel maudlin about it, which is what I wanted to do at first. But that would’ve been a waste of time and emotional energy — I’ve always been clumsy and could’ve just as easily suffered the same mishap even without a movement disorder.
** If my friend ever sees this he’ll also want to ask about Kenny Rogers, RuPaul, an actor whose spouse messaged me about a review (fortunately, they were amused), incidents involving Gawker and The Advocate, and (unrelated) a former top 10 or 15 ATP player whose name I’m withholding for gay reasons.