Admittedly, I'm running on fumes lately. Today is no different.
The following is from my buddy's former blog, revisiting the first time we got drunk in high school. I specify "in high school" because I got drunk once by mistake, by myself, when I drank an entire pitcher of margarita left in the freezer when my parents weren't home. At the time, I didn't really comprehend everything that went into and could possibly come out of consuming alcohol. Probably because I was 9 or 10. I do remember trying to stand up, however, and not being able to. I passed out on the couch and pretended to be sick when my mother came home. She figured it out, however, and I got mine.
"It was a crisp but not unbearably cold New Year's Eve in 1997. DJ Slam wasn't even a twinkle in my eye, as this alter-ego had not yet been invented (that's a story for another time), Romberg had just sprouted his first pube, and I was flirting with the all-time record for beating off. I was a junior at Wheaton-Warrenville South High School, and like many sheltered Wheatonites, I had not yet been exposed to the temptation of the drink. Oh, I'd heard stories, but they were mostly cautionary tales designed to scare me away from what would later become one of my closest relationships. The fellas and I had no plans on that particular New Year's save for the usual Mario Cart tournament / circle jerk we had become accustomed to. Well, as luck would have it, we were out of cookies to bukake, so we had to think of something else to occupy our adolescent minds. As we sat in Romberg’s basement, we decided right then and there to throw caution to the wind and try our luck with drinking. Hell, we had abided by the athletic code long enough and we weren’t going to sit idly by while everyone else got f’ed up and felt girls’ jugs.
There were a couple problems originally with this scenario. Number one, we had no alcohol. Number two, we had no jugs. Being the wicked smart kids we were, we figured out a solution to our alcohol problem pretty quickly. We raided the Romberg’s storage space and gathered together every 20-year old bottle of half drunk booze we could find. Gin, Rum, Whiskey, Vodka – all circa approximately 1974. I now call this combination the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. None of us had any idea how to drink or what to mix or how much to mix or really any of the rules pertaining to alcohol consumption. However, being the enormous fans of West Coast gansta rap that most rich, white, suburban kids are, we remembered an old standby courtesy of Snoop Dogg – Gin and Juice. Fortunately, the Romberg’s had a full carton of Minute Maid Fruit Punch, so we were set with at least one drink. As for the others, I seem to recall making Whiskey sno-cones and O’Connell chugging Whiskey out of the bottle like the Irish drunk he was destined to become (quick sidenote: O'Connell used to hide a bottle of Whiskey under his bed and drink alone at night…I hope this behavior has since stopped).
Well, after some time went by, we decided to make our way into the hot tub. Romberg and I drank our Gin and Juice and waxed philosophical on such topics as what it might feel like if a girl actually touched our penises. I entertained myself by repeatedly slapping myself in the face and laughing about how I couldn’t feel it. Hmm, this doesn’t sound like it’s going anywhere good. This was intermittently interrupted by Coulter rushing outside to let us know how the Mario Cart tourney was coming along. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know why we didn’t have any tits to feel.
Anyway, this lasted a while longer, and then we decided to call it quits on the hot tub and hit the sack. I tried to be the sober one and made sure everyone slept on their stomach so we didn’t choke on our own vomit and die like Jimi Hendrix. Well, my plan worked to perfection. We were all awoken to find Romberg sitting up from his position on the floor mumbling something unintelligible. We told him to shut the F up and go back to sleep, and then passed back out. The next morning, we realized what really woke us up. The place stank like Satan’s asshole after a Los Tres Super Burrito and Romberg was passed out in last night’s half-digested lasagna. It was caked all over his face, stuck in his hair; I think some of it was even in his ears. Nasty. Fortunately, his parents hadn’t come down yet, and he had time to get the Resolve and clean up the carpet. After that the basement just smelled like Satan’s asshole mixed with Resolve, but it was at least a little better than before.
After about an hour went by, and we had gotten relatively comfortable curled up in the fetal position, Mrs. Romberg decided that we needed to help her put away the Christmas decorations for the year. Well, actually, she decided that Eric needed to help her, but being the prick he is, he decided I needed to help too. I warned him, “Romberg, I can’t move. Don’t make me do this.” But, he wouldn’t let it go. “Come on man, just carry one box. You’ll be fine.” This is what’s known as foreshadowing.
I finally agreed, and carried one tiny box down to the storage space where just hours before we had pilfered the Four Horsemen. I stood in that storage space and felt my face grow hot. I started to sweat, I got dizzy, the room started spinning. This could only mean one thing…
BLAAAHHHHAHHHAHAHHHHAAAAH…Right onto the concrete floor. There was nothing I could do. I had warned him, but he wouldn’t listen. Anyway, I told Romberg about this mishap, and we decided it really wasn’t that bad. It was confined to a small area in the back of the storage space where we could clean it easily later. But, nothing’s ever that easy, is it? As I settled back into the couch to recover, Mrs. Romberg made her way downstairs carrying a rather large box. The box’s size obstructed her view in front of her, but she knew this basement well enough to navigate. She made her way into the storage space to put the large box away, and with her bare feet, stepped right in my vomit.
Romberg blamed it on the dog, Mrs. Romberg yelled at him, and Mr. Romberg laughed at us, seeing right through our bullshit. Eventually, I made my way home, sat down in the shower and pissed all over myself. To this day, I have never been more hungover. I could do nothing but lie in bed all day and beg any god who would listen for mercy. Oh, and still I can’t even smell Minute Maid Fruit Punch."
And my comment, which DJ Slam was kind enough to post as well:
"I think you forgot something.
I believe we began the night at Eric Aister's lame boozeless party and left cause we were fed up with the general lameness and Coca Cola classic. Then it was back to Romberg's. I could be mistaken but I think we almost got girls to come with us.
Maybe I've supressed the truth, though, because my lack of "game" early on in high school is still embarrassing to this day.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
The Field
From my sister:
So I've had two days in the field!!!
The monkeys are awesome!!! They're really cute, really funny, and they're really interesting to watch. It does make for a very long, challenging day though. I'm dripping sweat the whole time and we are crashing through spiky plants and following monkeys up rocky hills and cliffs for 13 HOURS!!!!!!!!! I'm covered in mosquito bites. And I was actually attacked my Acacia ants today. You've probably read about them in a biology class; they are always used as examples of symbiosis. They live on this tree, called an acacia, that is EVERYWHERE here. As soon as anything touches any part of the tree, the ants swarm it and bite. So naturally, today, I had just climbed up this rocky cliff while doing a "monkey follow", and I'm all relieved I made it up alive. So I'm standing there catching my breath. After a few minutes, I notice my head itches, so I swat a branch away. It's an acacia. Acacia ants all in my hair! Bites all over my head and hands. I'm actually sorta glad it happened though, because I was really scared of those things, but now I know what to expect. It could have been/could be worse. There are plenty of other insects with worse stings and bites all over the place here.
Also, at another point today, I was standing atop a cliff watching the monkeys, and suddenly they all started FREAKING out, bouncing and shaking branches and screaming. Predator warning calls. It's so cool to watch; it's super intense. But then I got instantly fearful because we couldn't see what had prompted this behavior from our spot on the cliff... and one of my peers says, "Oh, maybe its the jaguar." So I'm thinking, "Oh great. The jaguar that killed the previous alpha male last week is now lurking and I'm going to die on my second day." Never did see what it was though, thankfully. The howler monkeys nearby were freaking out too so it must have been something fairly dangerous.
Regardless, or perhaps partly because of instances like this, our days are really awesome and I'm extremely happy I'm here. The forest is beautiful, even though it is difficult to navigate through during this time of year. The monkeys are fascinating. I've learned a few of them now, and can do "follows" on them to collect data. One of them has a tiny little baby named Pixie. We think we may have seen a penis on Pixie today actually. It is difficult to distinguish gender when they are so young. Sucks if it's a male, because he's stuck with the name "Pixie".
You had asked what software we use. Odd line of questioning. I don't know what programs are used yet. I learn tomorrow. We collect it all on handheld computers called PSIONs. The data is later dumped into the computer and copied to an external hard drive we call "The Brain".
Ok, I'm going to bed... Exhausted. Such an amazing, but long, last 2 days. My feet and shoulders are killing me. Hopefully my next day out I'll be better adjusted to it all.
So I've had two days in the field!!!
The monkeys are awesome!!! They're really cute, really funny, and they're really interesting to watch. It does make for a very long, challenging day though. I'm dripping sweat the whole time and we are crashing through spiky plants and following monkeys up rocky hills and cliffs for 13 HOURS!!!!!!!!! I'm covered in mosquito bites. And I was actually attacked my Acacia ants today. You've probably read about them in a biology class; they are always used as examples of symbiosis. They live on this tree, called an acacia, that is EVERYWHERE here. As soon as anything touches any part of the tree, the ants swarm it and bite. So naturally, today, I had just climbed up this rocky cliff while doing a "monkey follow", and I'm all relieved I made it up alive. So I'm standing there catching my breath. After a few minutes, I notice my head itches, so I swat a branch away. It's an acacia. Acacia ants all in my hair! Bites all over my head and hands. I'm actually sorta glad it happened though, because I was really scared of those things, but now I know what to expect. It could have been/could be worse. There are plenty of other insects with worse stings and bites all over the place here.
Also, at another point today, I was standing atop a cliff watching the monkeys, and suddenly they all started FREAKING out, bouncing and shaking branches and screaming. Predator warning calls. It's so cool to watch; it's super intense. But then I got instantly fearful because we couldn't see what had prompted this behavior from our spot on the cliff... and one of my peers says, "Oh, maybe its the jaguar." So I'm thinking, "Oh great. The jaguar that killed the previous alpha male last week is now lurking and I'm going to die on my second day." Never did see what it was though, thankfully. The howler monkeys nearby were freaking out too so it must have been something fairly dangerous.
Regardless, or perhaps partly because of instances like this, our days are really awesome and I'm extremely happy I'm here. The forest is beautiful, even though it is difficult to navigate through during this time of year. The monkeys are fascinating. I've learned a few of them now, and can do "follows" on them to collect data. One of them has a tiny little baby named Pixie. We think we may have seen a penis on Pixie today actually. It is difficult to distinguish gender when they are so young. Sucks if it's a male, because he's stuck with the name "Pixie".
You had asked what software we use. Odd line of questioning. I don't know what programs are used yet. I learn tomorrow. We collect it all on handheld computers called PSIONs. The data is later dumped into the computer and copied to an external hard drive we call "The Brain".
Ok, I'm going to bed... Exhausted. Such an amazing, but long, last 2 days. My feet and shoulders are killing me. Hopefully my next day out I'll be better adjusted to it all.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Inside Joke Ironically Played Out Mostly Outside
On my way to work recently, I had been having a reoccurring daydream. Frustrated with my current station in the post-modern life cycle, I was thinking of a way to parody the morning commute monotony.
The original purpose was to convey the apathetic frustration I have come to know well since college graduation. My original vision played out with Will Ferrell as its protagonist. At lunch today, however, I found a much more suitable star. And by "more suitable" I mean extremely well endowed.
You see, this friend of mine is renowned for the size of his member. We lovingly refer to it as The Baby's Arm. It has been likened to a french cruller holding a plum. This friend of mine takes the bus to work every day. This friend of mine also happens to be extremely forgetful. It's a perfect fit. It really is.
The scene:
Our mid to later 20's professional awakens in his apartment, ambivalently pounding the alarm clock off. He'd like to break the thing but then he'd have to buy a new one. The shot cuts to various morning pleasantries. Tooth brushing gives way to a shower, followed by a grapefruit breakfast (and hearty helping of vitamin C) in front of the television and SportsCenter. The alertness normally associated with the waking state is never fully attained. Actually, it's 3 hours and two cups of coffee down the road.
After getting dressed, he saunters out the front door and walks toward the bus stop. The camera shot never includes anything below the waist. Upon his arrival at the bus stop, he leans up against a telephone pole and groggily casts his face upward toward the sun. A pathetic attempt to soak up some of the rays he'll undoubtedly miss as he withers away in his capitalist dungeon. Those around him either stare in disbelief or simply take a handful of steps away to distances they perceive as safe.
The camera shifts its gaze to the bus as it decelerates, gradually lurching to a complete stop. Only just before this takes place, we hear the terrified screams of our young professional. It is the first time he's made a sound. The camera angle changes so that we can see him no longer standing up against the pole, but at attention, bent at the knee, and in excruciating pain. He has no pants on. His phallus, though blurred out, has been run over by the bus that was to take him to work.
And....scene!!!
The original purpose was to convey the apathetic frustration I have come to know well since college graduation. My original vision played out with Will Ferrell as its protagonist. At lunch today, however, I found a much more suitable star. And by "more suitable" I mean extremely well endowed.
You see, this friend of mine is renowned for the size of his member. We lovingly refer to it as The Baby's Arm. It has been likened to a french cruller holding a plum. This friend of mine takes the bus to work every day. This friend of mine also happens to be extremely forgetful. It's a perfect fit. It really is.
The scene:
Our mid to later 20's professional awakens in his apartment, ambivalently pounding the alarm clock off. He'd like to break the thing but then he'd have to buy a new one. The shot cuts to various morning pleasantries. Tooth brushing gives way to a shower, followed by a grapefruit breakfast (and hearty helping of vitamin C) in front of the television and SportsCenter. The alertness normally associated with the waking state is never fully attained. Actually, it's 3 hours and two cups of coffee down the road.
After getting dressed, he saunters out the front door and walks toward the bus stop. The camera shot never includes anything below the waist. Upon his arrival at the bus stop, he leans up against a telephone pole and groggily casts his face upward toward the sun. A pathetic attempt to soak up some of the rays he'll undoubtedly miss as he withers away in his capitalist dungeon. Those around him either stare in disbelief or simply take a handful of steps away to distances they perceive as safe.
The camera shifts its gaze to the bus as it decelerates, gradually lurching to a complete stop. Only just before this takes place, we hear the terrified screams of our young professional. It is the first time he's made a sound. The camera angle changes so that we can see him no longer standing up against the pole, but at attention, bent at the knee, and in excruciating pain. He has no pants on. His phallus, though blurred out, has been run over by the bus that was to take him to work.
And....scene!!!
Here's to Adventure
Ultimately, it is in a fit of jealousy that I post the following. My sister officially began her Central American adventure yesterday. For the next year, she'll be studying capuchin monkeys in the jungles of Costa Rica. She'll be under the supervision of a well respected evolutionary biologist (or maybe evolutionary anthropologist) from UCLA through a project that is funded by a research foundation in Germany. My brother and I teased her about being pegged by monkey poop for a year but apparently monkeys only throw their feces when in captivity. :( Regardless, my "My sister is part of the Lomas Barbudal Monkey Project" bumper sticker is on order as we speak.
"I'm here and safe. Flights were fine. I have my own room. The people I've met so far are really nice. More have not come home from the field yet.
The house is very basic, and dirty, in a third world sort of way...that made it sound awful, when its not....just not like home obviously.
I go into the field tomorrow, and it should be cool. Lots to learn. I'm really tired. I'm all unpacked. I really have to work on my Spanish. One guy here only speaks Spanish, so I can barely talk to him, but he's really nice. I went to a few grocery stores too, and again, was afraid to use my bad Spanish, but need to get over that. Costa Ricans are very friendly though."
She went on to mention something about how I am the greatest older brother one could ever ask for. How she'd taken me for granted for so long (22 years to be exact), etc. I didn't want to bore my faithful readers with that stuff though.
*For those with the inclination, a detailed description of the project can be navigated by clicking on the title of this blog entry.
"I'm here and safe. Flights were fine. I have my own room. The people I've met so far are really nice. More have not come home from the field yet.
The house is very basic, and dirty, in a third world sort of way...that made it sound awful, when its not....just not like home obviously.
I go into the field tomorrow, and it should be cool. Lots to learn. I'm really tired. I'm all unpacked. I really have to work on my Spanish. One guy here only speaks Spanish, so I can barely talk to him, but he's really nice. I went to a few grocery stores too, and again, was afraid to use my bad Spanish, but need to get over that. Costa Ricans are very friendly though."
She went on to mention something about how I am the greatest older brother one could ever ask for. How she'd taken me for granted for so long (22 years to be exact), etc. I didn't want to bore my faithful readers with that stuff though.
*For those with the inclination, a detailed description of the project can be navigated by clicking on the title of this blog entry.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
My [first] 4
As I am rendered speechless when faced with the daunting task of creating a list of the 25 greatest stories in sports of the last 25 years, I'm going to take a path of least resistance and try to make a list of 10 moments that, for one reason or another, I remember here and now at this moment. Funny how easily and eagerly I berated USA Today's list, yet admittedly struggle at the thought of conjuring up my own. Even still, whatever dickhead wrote that crappy list does this sort of thing all day every day and for a living. I am afforded no such luxury.
I'm not going to even try to put them in any order.
1. In 1992, the Penn State Nittany Lions went to South Bend to take on the Fighting Irish. At the time, I wore Adidas Samba Classics not because I was remotely interested in playing indoor soccer, but because they resembled the Adidas cleats Rick Mirer wore that year. This made pretending I was Notre Dame's signal caller for countless hours in my front yard exponentially more authentic. I even looked the part... or so I thought. But I digress. With no time left, the Irish scored a touchdown to come within a point of Penn State. I believe, though I could be mistaken, it came on a 10 yard scamper from Jerome Bettis. As the snow continued to fall in South Bend, it became apparent Notre Dame would be going for the two point conversion and the win...
Rick Mirer dropped back to pass. The pocket collapsed almost immediately. Flushed out, Mirer ran to his right, toward the sideline, but also away from the line of scrimmage. I was young, but I recognized broken plays. This was a broken play. My heart sank as Mirer threw a purposeful wobbler toward the back of the end zone. Reggie Brooks, who had been streaking along the back of the end zone in the same direction as his quarterback, dove, fully extended, and caught the pass.... And the crowd roared...and the band played...and so it goes
2. In the 2001 MLB playoffs, Derek Jeter came out of no where to intercept and flip to Jorge Posada to get Jeremy Giambi out at the plate. This was quite possibly the singular most spectacular baseball play I have ever seen. It had it all; the perfect combination of context, anomaly, timing, and pure athleticism.
3. In 2003 Derek Jeter's momentum brought him crashing into the stands after catching a foul ball down the third baseline. The play was amazing. Complete disregard for his own well-being. What makes this play memorable enough for my top 10, however, is the ensuing battle royale. I was at Mussolini's apartment watching the game with Mussolini, one of her roommates, and one of my best friends (who happens to date said roommate). Although Mussolini does not care at all for the Red Sox, or sports in general, she likes to pretend she's a fan when it suits her purpose/to piss me off. With the help and support of her friend, she started in on me by way of Jeter. "Oh my god! Oh my god! What a pussy?! He could have stopped! He didn't have to dive into the stands. He wasn't even running that fast!" she raved with a disgusted look on her face. Having already weathered the usual shit storm of BS Red Sox fans usually spew- throughout the game up until that point- I was at wits end... I snapped.
I started by screaming about how she and her friend couldn't comprehend how difficult a catch like that was because they, as girls, had never pulled off anything remotely athletic before. I could see the fear in her sidekicks eyes. She knew they'd pushed me too far. As I turned angrily to my loving girlfriend, however, my gaze was met not by fear or remorse but an equal and opposite fury instead. It got ugly. It went on and on. She touched upon the fact that I only played high school football. I responded by reminding her, and everyone within ten blocks for that matter, that playing women's college lacrosse for one season doesn't constitute a sport because women are, by nature, inferior to men in terms of athletic ability. I'm pretty sure I referred not to "women" so much as I referred to "broads".
This episode ended when I stormed down the hallway and out the door of her apartment, slamming the door behind me. We reconciled two days later.
4. The Giants second Superbowl victory in 1991 (1990 football season) left an indelible mark. I remember watching the game at the home of a family friend with my father and his buddy (who would later become my confirmation sponsor...I renounced Catholicism at the dinner directly following the ceremony). This family friend actually wore Giants' colored tiger print pants. Phenomenal. Remember those things? I remember Mark Ingram's huge third down reception, having caught the ball yards short of the marker, the way he danced back and forth to allude defenders. I remember with how pain Bruce Smith swiped the ball out of Jeff Hostetler's hand and out of bounds for a safety. I remember how Thurman Thomas couldn't find his helmet after the national anthem. How OJ Anderson's knee pads were drooping out the bottom of his pants en route to his MVP performance. I remember sitting on the edge of my seat in a silent room with two grown men who'd been drinking for hours yet managed to remain absolutely silent in the moments leading up to the Bills' final field goal attempt. As the Giants' joined hands on the sideline and Scott Norwood and the Buffalo Bills set up for that historic kick. What I remember most, though, is the smiling, laughing, the screaming and the excessive high fiving that followed that field goal attempt sailing wide right. I remember running downstairs into the basement where my siblings and a bunch of other little kids played hide and go seek in blissful ignorance.
Maybe I'll get to some more later. I need something to eat.
I'm not going to even try to put them in any order.
1. In 1992, the Penn State Nittany Lions went to South Bend to take on the Fighting Irish. At the time, I wore Adidas Samba Classics not because I was remotely interested in playing indoor soccer, but because they resembled the Adidas cleats Rick Mirer wore that year. This made pretending I was Notre Dame's signal caller for countless hours in my front yard exponentially more authentic. I even looked the part... or so I thought. But I digress. With no time left, the Irish scored a touchdown to come within a point of Penn State. I believe, though I could be mistaken, it came on a 10 yard scamper from Jerome Bettis. As the snow continued to fall in South Bend, it became apparent Notre Dame would be going for the two point conversion and the win...
Rick Mirer dropped back to pass. The pocket collapsed almost immediately. Flushed out, Mirer ran to his right, toward the sideline, but also away from the line of scrimmage. I was young, but I recognized broken plays. This was a broken play. My heart sank as Mirer threw a purposeful wobbler toward the back of the end zone. Reggie Brooks, who had been streaking along the back of the end zone in the same direction as his quarterback, dove, fully extended, and caught the pass.... And the crowd roared...and the band played...and so it goes
2. In the 2001 MLB playoffs, Derek Jeter came out of no where to intercept and flip to Jorge Posada to get Jeremy Giambi out at the plate. This was quite possibly the singular most spectacular baseball play I have ever seen. It had it all; the perfect combination of context, anomaly, timing, and pure athleticism.
3. In 2003 Derek Jeter's momentum brought him crashing into the stands after catching a foul ball down the third baseline. The play was amazing. Complete disregard for his own well-being. What makes this play memorable enough for my top 10, however, is the ensuing battle royale. I was at Mussolini's apartment watching the game with Mussolini, one of her roommates, and one of my best friends (who happens to date said roommate). Although Mussolini does not care at all for the Red Sox, or sports in general, she likes to pretend she's a fan when it suits her purpose/to piss me off. With the help and support of her friend, she started in on me by way of Jeter. "Oh my god! Oh my god! What a pussy?! He could have stopped! He didn't have to dive into the stands. He wasn't even running that fast!" she raved with a disgusted look on her face. Having already weathered the usual shit storm of BS Red Sox fans usually spew- throughout the game up until that point- I was at wits end... I snapped.
I started by screaming about how she and her friend couldn't comprehend how difficult a catch like that was because they, as girls, had never pulled off anything remotely athletic before. I could see the fear in her sidekicks eyes. She knew they'd pushed me too far. As I turned angrily to my loving girlfriend, however, my gaze was met not by fear or remorse but an equal and opposite fury instead. It got ugly. It went on and on. She touched upon the fact that I only played high school football. I responded by reminding her, and everyone within ten blocks for that matter, that playing women's college lacrosse for one season doesn't constitute a sport because women are, by nature, inferior to men in terms of athletic ability. I'm pretty sure I referred not to "women" so much as I referred to "broads".
This episode ended when I stormed down the hallway and out the door of her apartment, slamming the door behind me. We reconciled two days later.
4. The Giants second Superbowl victory in 1991 (1990 football season) left an indelible mark. I remember watching the game at the home of a family friend with my father and his buddy (who would later become my confirmation sponsor...I renounced Catholicism at the dinner directly following the ceremony). This family friend actually wore Giants' colored tiger print pants. Phenomenal. Remember those things? I remember Mark Ingram's huge third down reception, having caught the ball yards short of the marker, the way he danced back and forth to allude defenders. I remember with how pain Bruce Smith swiped the ball out of Jeff Hostetler's hand and out of bounds for a safety. I remember how Thurman Thomas couldn't find his helmet after the national anthem. How OJ Anderson's knee pads were drooping out the bottom of his pants en route to his MVP performance. I remember sitting on the edge of my seat in a silent room with two grown men who'd been drinking for hours yet managed to remain absolutely silent in the moments leading up to the Bills' final field goal attempt. As the Giants' joined hands on the sideline and Scott Norwood and the Buffalo Bills set up for that historic kick. What I remember most, though, is the smiling, laughing, the screaming and the excessive high fiving that followed that field goal attempt sailing wide right. I remember running downstairs into the basement where my siblings and a bunch of other little kids played hide and go seek in blissful ignorance.
Maybe I'll get to some more later. I need something to eat.
Monday, July 16, 2007
The 4th of July
I'm afraid mine wasn't too eventful. I was at the shore hanging out with my family. Went to a barbeque held by my parents' friends, then back to Lavalette for the fireworks and continued drinking. The only thing worth mentioning actually took place well after the fireworks, after I had consumed my body weight in vodka and Newman's Own Lemonade.
Four of us went to the beach to praise Jah.... Having gone from a frame of mind that craved fart jokes and loud music to an intoxicaded, transcendent experience moments later, I soon found myself standing with my feet in the surf, waxing philosophical. And by "waxing philosophical", a phrase I use loosely, I mean I called the others down to stand with their feet in the surf with me.
It went a little something like this, "Guys, you guys, you guys, guys." Once they had joined me I continued. "There are very few things in this world you will encounter over which you have absolutely no control." Then, waiving my left arm as if to reveal to them the presence of the ocean for the very first time, I continued, "The ocean is one of them."
Everyone was enthralled with my insight... Which speaks volumes of our state of mind. We stood there in silence for a good 10 minutes to 3 hours until my brother's buddy fell to the ground for no apparent reason. The reason, we later agreed, was that the waves crashing at our feet threw our already disturbed equilibriums even further off. For the subsequent twenty minutes or so, every time any one of us attempted to take a step in any direction, we fell helplessly to the sand.
I don't remember going home though I'm told I went reluctantly, almost requiring the use of force, in fact. The next thing I knew, I woke up in my bed accompanied by all the sand in the world and a savage hangover. It looked like I had fallen asleep in a fucking sandbox. Needless to say, when my mother woke me up for breakfast she was unimpressed. Neither was I.
Four of us went to the beach to praise Jah.... Having gone from a frame of mind that craved fart jokes and loud music to an intoxicaded, transcendent experience moments later, I soon found myself standing with my feet in the surf, waxing philosophical. And by "waxing philosophical", a phrase I use loosely, I mean I called the others down to stand with their feet in the surf with me.
It went a little something like this, "Guys, you guys, you guys, guys." Once they had joined me I continued. "There are very few things in this world you will encounter over which you have absolutely no control." Then, waiving my left arm as if to reveal to them the presence of the ocean for the very first time, I continued, "The ocean is one of them."
Everyone was enthralled with my insight... Which speaks volumes of our state of mind. We stood there in silence for a good 10 minutes to 3 hours until my brother's buddy fell to the ground for no apparent reason. The reason, we later agreed, was that the waves crashing at our feet threw our already disturbed equilibriums even further off. For the subsequent twenty minutes or so, every time any one of us attempted to take a step in any direction, we fell helplessly to the sand.
I don't remember going home though I'm told I went reluctantly, almost requiring the use of force, in fact. The next thing I knew, I woke up in my bed accompanied by all the sand in the world and a savage hangover. It looked like I had fallen asleep in a fucking sandbox. Needless to say, when my mother woke me up for breakfast she was unimpressed. Neither was I.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Barry Bonds & Baseball...Sitting in a Tree
In the court of public opinion, Barry Bonds is guilty. Or is he? He got a lot of votes to get into that game last night. A combination of little kids and morons I presume. Not sure though. That's a lot of little kids and morons with internet access and/or knowledge of the United States postal system (if you even still can mail in ballots).
Baseball should be embarrassed for allowing the All Star game, which was conveniently played in San Francisco, to shine such a bright spotlight on Barry Bonds as if he's done anything for the game that transcends money. Though I suppose I just talked my way through this little paradox. The almighty dollar. Funnier still, however, when you consider that the MLB is simultaneously waging war against the steroids epidemic and holding up its most notorious offender. Bud Selig can ask that an injurred (making baseball no money), and ultimately insignificant to the history of the game, Jason Giambi cooperate with investigators based largely on leaked grand jury testimony but he can't do the same thing with a player on the verge of baseball's fomerly most sacred record. $$$$. Maybe they have less control over Fox's coverage than one would think? Maybe they have none at all. Though I doubt it.
A pregame interview featured Derek Jeter and Ken Griffey Jr., true ambassadors of the game, paired with the "Say Hey Kid". Mays earnestly offered up his admiration for the two of them. How then, does he reconcile these sentiments for two of baseball's modern day icons with his unconditional support of Barry Bonds? My guess: pity and a sense of duty and responsibility. Pity for the inadequate fathering Barry received at the hands of his father, Bobby Bonds, and the enormous asshole that inadequacy created. Duty and responsibility bestowed upon him by his role as surrogate father/ godfather.
Interesting that Willie Mays seems to, judging by the interview with Griffey and Jeter, value things that would combine to create the antithesis of his godson. I can't help but wonder, as he is someone who shared an All-Star outfield with Aaron and garnered a similar multitude of accolades, if this is a subject they've ever stumbled upon over the course of conversation. And if not, why no sportswriter has thrust this conversation upon them. Where's Jim Grey when you need him? He was more than willing to ask uncomfortable questions to players at the All-Star game a few years ago as the Pete Rose scandal sweltered in the mid-summer sun. What's changed? Oh yeah. Pete Rose wasn't raking in money for baseball (he was likely pissing it away at a table in Vegas). He just wanted to get into the hall of fame.
Maybe Barry's right. Perhaps Major League Baseball players really are the fraternity he so eloquently described in his mid-game dugout interview. Judging by last night's festivities, they're more aptly described mutual admiration society.
Baseball should be embarrassed for allowing the All Star game, which was conveniently played in San Francisco, to shine such a bright spotlight on Barry Bonds as if he's done anything for the game that transcends money. Though I suppose I just talked my way through this little paradox. The almighty dollar. Funnier still, however, when you consider that the MLB is simultaneously waging war against the steroids epidemic and holding up its most notorious offender. Bud Selig can ask that an injurred (making baseball no money), and ultimately insignificant to the history of the game, Jason Giambi cooperate with investigators based largely on leaked grand jury testimony but he can't do the same thing with a player on the verge of baseball's fomerly most sacred record. $$$$. Maybe they have less control over Fox's coverage than one would think? Maybe they have none at all. Though I doubt it.
A pregame interview featured Derek Jeter and Ken Griffey Jr., true ambassadors of the game, paired with the "Say Hey Kid". Mays earnestly offered up his admiration for the two of them. How then, does he reconcile these sentiments for two of baseball's modern day icons with his unconditional support of Barry Bonds? My guess: pity and a sense of duty and responsibility. Pity for the inadequate fathering Barry received at the hands of his father, Bobby Bonds, and the enormous asshole that inadequacy created. Duty and responsibility bestowed upon him by his role as surrogate father/ godfather.
Interesting that Willie Mays seems to, judging by the interview with Griffey and Jeter, value things that would combine to create the antithesis of his godson. I can't help but wonder, as he is someone who shared an All-Star outfield with Aaron and garnered a similar multitude of accolades, if this is a subject they've ever stumbled upon over the course of conversation. And if not, why no sportswriter has thrust this conversation upon them. Where's Jim Grey when you need him? He was more than willing to ask uncomfortable questions to players at the All-Star game a few years ago as the Pete Rose scandal sweltered in the mid-summer sun. What's changed? Oh yeah. Pete Rose wasn't raking in money for baseball (he was likely pissing it away at a table in Vegas). He just wanted to get into the hall of fame.
Maybe Barry's right. Perhaps Major League Baseball players really are the fraternity he so eloquently described in his mid-game dugout interview. Judging by last night's festivities, they're more aptly described mutual admiration society.
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