weeping myna bird flu

My friends have an autistic five-year old daughter. I'm not talking about "slightly autistic," with air quotes, which modern parents so often use as code for "my kid's fucking stupid." I'm talking Autism. She has zero sense of personal danger. She's obsessive about being in control of her environment and everything being just so. When she can focus on you, which is rare, she understands little. She can mimic sentences but not form them. This is heartbreaking to watch, but one of its manifestations is actually pretty cute.

She will trip and fall down, banging her head. With tears streaming down her face the child will ask her hovering mother, "Are you okay? Are you okay? (sob) Are you okay?"

The child knows that's what's usually asked on this occasion. She just doesn't know why. Or by whom. She is a weeping myna bird.

• • •

Which brings us to Seattle sports fans. From my perspective, they have exactly the same affliction. Not autism—weeping myna bird flu. They kinda know the words, but they do not understand them.

I am not talking, of course, about all sports fans in Seattle. Take Katrina. She's been a long-suffering Seahawks fan since before we met. She's knowledgeable. She gets irrationally happy and depressed based on whether her millionaires outscored your millionaires. She doesn't give a crap about what you think of her fandom, because it simply is.

She is not who I'm writing about. No, I'm just wishing she had better fellow fans with whom to celebrate and commiserate.

220px-Baliespreeuw.jpgMy new neighbors and their friends—huge, huge, HUGE football fans—are much more typical of this area. They certainly cheer with enough exclamation points. They love the Washington Huskies! Boooo Washington State!! They hate them!!!

"We hate Wazzu!!!!" said one to me, as a confidential aside, as if I hadn't gathered from the booing and cursing of Wazzu's every mention.

I raised an eyebrow. I've lived in this state for 18 years, and Wazzu hasn't done a thing to me or for me. I rarely think about them. "What's to hate about Wazzu?"

"Well, she explained patiently to the philistine. "They're our big rivals!"

"Our? So you went to UW?" No. No one had. In fact, none of these people had even set foot in Washington until a couple years ago. They all have home states and alma maters. They couldn't have been less interested in what Stanford and Tennessee were doing, though.

They were too busy whooping and hollering and theatrically toasting one another in my living room. I twice asked what the down and distance was, and no one knew. I didn't ask, but I am certain none of them could have named three of "their" Husky players. They were too busy playing make-believe. They were too busy imitating beer commercials.

"We hate Wazzu!" she said.

"Are you okay?" I heard.