Eardrums and underwear

Here's a little-known fact about me - I have a bad ear.

As a Marching Jayhawk, I spent four years in the stands of Memorial Stadium, screaming like an idiot, waving my trumpet about.

I also spent those four years between the drumline, a bunch of highly-talented, arrogant noisemakers, and a friend, who liked to scream into my ear while also convulsing and waving his trumpet about, after each and every yard we gained.

My ear was accosted one hot Saturday afternoon by Scott, who lost his composure after something I probably couldn't even explain, despite the many years of Dad trying to teach me the rules of men senselessly beating on each other.

I don't think I will ever fully understand why he says it was "fun" to punch each other at the bottom of a tackle pile.

Beyond that, I still don't understand the rules and my ear has never been the same since Scott's girlish squeal bounced off my eardrum- football has done me no good.

And yet, I watch it on television every year, enduring the confusion and trying to enjoy the spirit. But that bad ear haunts me.

The camera cuts to the "talking heads" and then to a commercial, so Dad and I will begin discussing a play someone just screwed up, badmouthing a player or two, until we're at the point of yelling and Mom has to bang on a pot to get our attention.

Meanwhile, I can feel this strange frustration slowly creep upon me. I'm starting to get a headache and I can feel my neck tense at the strain in my voice.

What could it be, you ask?

The commercials.

Everything is fine until the commercials come on. We're having a jolly time discussing plays, I'm learning things, it's all good.

Then all of a sudden, the dog runs from the room with his tail between his legs. I'm not surprised - Cuba Gooding Jr. is yelling at him about how he's wearing Michael Jordan's underwear.

He won't be coming back because now people obviously afflicted with Tourette's syndrome are yelling, "It's my money and I want it now!"

The truth of the matter is, they don't even have to be yelling in the commercial. The commercial itself is so loud, I can hear the silence - it's buzzing at me.

Conversation has gone from discussing plays to complaining about how loud the commercials are when the plays are over.

The worst thing is, we don't realize how loud we are talking until the game is almost back on.

There we are, sitting three feet apart, practically yelling over Cuba's voice. It's as frustrating as if he were jumping around in the room, waving his hand in my face and singing, "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you!"

I just feel like slapping him and shouting, "Shut up!" until I realize he's on the TV.

Sure, we can turn the volume down, but that requires a lot of planning ahead. Otherwise, we'll be blasted as soon as the green field disappears from the screen.

These days, we can't just enjoy the game. We have to be on guard.

Dad sits upright - remote in hand - ready to hit the mute button.

I watch intently, knowing the commercial is approaching, ready to cover my poor ear that's too sensitive to stand the decibels at which cavemen complain about their various injustices.

To make matters worse, it seems the television companies always pile on commercials near the end of a show, especially movies. For every 5 minutes of The Matrix, there are 20 minutes of loud commercials.

And why do the guys get all the good commercials? During 50 First Dates, you know you'll see at least one during every commercial break where a woman jumps into a lake because she's got the perfect tampon.

But for commercial breaks during testosterone-charged movies like The Matrix, there are action-packed, inventive commercials with tricked-out Mustangs recklessly engaged in off road, high-speed chases, and shower robots that meticulously shave your face.

I know that my boyfriend is praying there isn't an Axe commercial with gorgeous, half-naked women in it, or he'll feel my icy glare pierce his flesh from across the room as he watches blonde, busty well-groomed heathens tramp about.

So not only do I hate how loud the commercials are, but now I'm jealous, too.

What with commercial envy and Cuba constantly going on about those underwear, I can only think of one nagging, ever present complaint while watching television: "Loud noises!"

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Katy Blair is a Globe reporter and Effingham native. She can be reached at 376-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.