Pacers 128-124 Timberwolves

I felt Target Center's security guard was disconcertingly thorough in searching my pants last night. She didn't find anything, because the only thing I carry that causes pain and sorrow isn't in my pockets. When I got inside I really wondered why she even bothered checking me for weapons, since I would have had to cross over two sections to find anybody to fight with. If all three stages are going, I honestly think the Guthrie could draw bigger crowds this winter.

The Timberwolves players also greeted me with the same disturbing sort of misdirected enthusiasm. Apparently the gameplan for the evening was to beat the Pacers by creating opportunities for 20 foot jump shots and playing defense by fouling. With all these career 30% 3-point shooters eager to prove their (lack of) range I kept wondering why Pekovic wasn't more involved, since he's been billed as the first banger the Wolves have ever had at center... when I checked the box score I understood. Due to a mixture of work, apathy, and friendly waitresses I came a bit late, and I missed out on seeing Pekovic foul out in 10 minutes. Sadly he doesn't play defense either. And incomprehensibly the Pacers couldn't take advantage... this mess went to overtime!

Three Words That Should Exist

Just spreading the health, man

This Monday after declining to shake hands with an actor I was jokingly accused of having hypochondria, which I thought was doubly unfair. For one thing I was obviously sick and not just fretting over the possibility, but more importantly the reason I don't touch actors when I'm sick is for their health, not mine... these are people who can't muddle through work with sore throats and a ghastly post-nasal drip. So is it still hypochondria when it's confined to an irrational concern for the health of other people? And a really particular group of people at that. I can't possibly start telling people I have a crippling case of xenohypothespichondria and then explain the whole thing, but it seems like there has to be some succinct way of putting it.

And situations do arise where a brief, natural explanation is necessary, like when I was working the stage door while sick a couple years ago, and I greeted a black actor I'd met previously at a reading. He extended his hand warmly in friendship, and my white guilt made me really afraid of a clumsy excuse to not shake his hand. If I could just spit out "I have xenohespichonthi..." well whatever my condition is called, it'd be much easier and I'd worry less that people thought I didn't want to touch their dirty hands. What me, paranoid?