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The Real Reality Show

My dad used to cuss the television. Well, more precisely, he used to cuss what was on the television, and that only when it was football or hockey. He'd hurl invective at players, coaches, referees for bad plays and bad calls. These were no mild outbursts; they were wild-eyed tantrums, and deeply personal. If "his" receiver dropped a pass, he'd let loose a stream of expletives that could cut boilerplate. If the referee took "his" left-winger off the ice for a minor infraction, he'd tell the official to relocate to the nether regions.

I grew up disdaining the man for such childish behavior. What grown-up acts this way?

Well, let me think.

See, there's this thing I do: I pantomime, quite involuntarily, any action movie I watch. A movie's a kinetic experience for me. It's visceral.

Watching Matt Damon do a take-down, I'm in there with him, dodging blows, raining them down.

Watching the latest Roman legionnaire hew and hack his way through a band ...

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