I think this is tough to do, since I went the whole day without writing down or noting what I ate. And now it's tomorrow, and I am thinking how I want to hike after all this rain and see how the waterfalls are doing in the backwoods.
Breakfast - English muffin with Alpine Lace swiss and Thuman's turkey breast, toasted. Boy, if you have neither discovered nor rediscovered the english muffin, it is time to do so. Carb diets be damned.
Lunch - Ultra-lean chicken breast halves (about one breast) with half an onion and some peas and carrots.
In Between - A pear and an apple.
Dinner(s) - The other half of lunch, plus the rest of Debbie's shrimp scampi (one shrimp, 1/2 cup spaghetti).
After dinner - Tradition peanuts while watching The Aviator (three stars), and then I blew it with half-a-bag of cheese doodles that I was supposed to put away after she was done with a quick snack.
I feel like I might have missed something in there. I have to take better care to not only do this, but also do something about the fact that I am turning into the blog version of Super-Size Me. Fuh-huuuck.
I had my traditional Dunkin' Donuts large french vanilla decaf with skim, very light somewhere in all of this, and vacuumed out the continuing trickles of water into the basement five times, as well. Also, picked up a whole bunch of baby-prep crap and some prescriptions at CVS.
I am fat.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Thursday, October 13, 2005
No More Special Day
Dinner was the other half of Deb's hamburger from lunch, replete with lettuce and tomato. It was a very thick and good burger. Tacked on some salad with a can of tuna (albacore in water). Topped it with oil @ vinegar, salt & peppa.
The customary peanuts followed during Survivor (goodbye Golden Boy Blake), and I had a single peanut M&M (red). Treated myself to another chocolate donut (with the freezer treatment, yum-yum).
God, I eat a lot. But if I was working out, like at all, I probably would be dropping weight. I guess right now I am leaving room to dream. I really want to hike and check out the waterfalls now that there has been flooding and just a lot of rain. It must be breathtaking.
Time to retire to the upstairs, first grabbing the sheets outta the dryer, grabbing the Bendryl pills, taking another Aleve, and checking the basement for more water, in preparation for putting lotion on my bride, as we begin the next nine years of our blissful marriage. This nine years will be featuring triplets, though. And at the end of them, I'll be like 45 or something. I hope I am in better shape then than I am now. I have plenty of time to get there.
Keep thinking about Vanishing James, and how tough his day must have been, and hoping he feels like tomorrow will be better.
The customary peanuts followed during Survivor (goodbye Golden Boy Blake), and I had a single peanut M&M (red). Treated myself to another chocolate donut (with the freezer treatment, yum-yum).
God, I eat a lot. But if I was working out, like at all, I probably would be dropping weight. I guess right now I am leaving room to dream. I really want to hike and check out the waterfalls now that there has been flooding and just a lot of rain. It must be breathtaking.
Time to retire to the upstairs, first grabbing the sheets outta the dryer, grabbing the Bendryl pills, taking another Aleve, and checking the basement for more water, in preparation for putting lotion on my bride, as we begin the next nine years of our blissful marriage. This nine years will be featuring triplets, though. And at the end of them, I'll be like 45 or something. I hope I am in better shape then than I am now. I have plenty of time to get there.
Keep thinking about Vanishing James, and how tough his day must have been, and hoping he feels like tomorrow will be better.
Fat Thurdsay?
Yeah, it's turning out to be Fat Thursday, one of those so called "exception" days where you just eat whatever the hell you want because it's your ninth wedding anniversary. Except I am not also feeding three kids with what I am eating.
So ... we agreed to a double non-exchange of gifts, considering she could not get anywhere outside of the Internet and did not much feel up to trying to order something. I had to agree to the plan, and I did.
This morning it was a pancake breakfast, which is a treat, since I cook them pretty well. She had her share and I had mine, and then I finished off the three eggs that were left in the package, seemingly for no other reasons than I wanted to get rid of the package. But I responsibly(?) placed a slice of Alpine Lace swiss cheese on there. I also responsibly eschewed (GodBlessYou) the english muffin.
Late lunch was a driveby to the pancake house, and I brought back a garden burger, fruit and cottage cheese. Damn, that garden burger was good, and it had been such a long time, for some reason, since I had one.
More important stuff today - it was a year ago that I got a very early morning call from VanishingJames, who broke the God-awful news that he lost his sister. I thought, "Wow, this is a nice touch - getting a call this early on my anniversary. How did he remember?"
Instead, my buddy was beginning a suffering that will last a lifetime. I know he has some good days now, 365 days later, but there are still a lot of rough patches. It will be a long while (and maybe the time will never come) before he will go a day without thinking of her. But somehow time makes things a little bit better. I am sure he is a lot better with it today than he was a year ago, 11 months ago, or six months ago.
Sorry for the downer, but it's just the reality of things. OK, time to go clean the mini-flood out of the basement.
So ... we agreed to a double non-exchange of gifts, considering she could not get anywhere outside of the Internet and did not much feel up to trying to order something. I had to agree to the plan, and I did.
This morning it was a pancake breakfast, which is a treat, since I cook them pretty well. She had her share and I had mine, and then I finished off the three eggs that were left in the package, seemingly for no other reasons than I wanted to get rid of the package. But I responsibly(?) placed a slice of Alpine Lace swiss cheese on there. I also responsibly eschewed (GodBlessYou) the english muffin.
Late lunch was a driveby to the pancake house, and I brought back a garden burger, fruit and cottage cheese. Damn, that garden burger was good, and it had been such a long time, for some reason, since I had one.
More important stuff today - it was a year ago that I got a very early morning call from VanishingJames, who broke the God-awful news that he lost his sister. I thought, "Wow, this is a nice touch - getting a call this early on my anniversary. How did he remember?"
Instead, my buddy was beginning a suffering that will last a lifetime. I know he has some good days now, 365 days later, but there are still a lot of rough patches. It will be a long while (and maybe the time will never come) before he will go a day without thinking of her. But somehow time makes things a little bit better. I am sure he is a lot better with it today than he was a year ago, 11 months ago, or six months ago.
Sorry for the downer, but it's just the reality of things. OK, time to go clean the mini-flood out of the basement.
PITA
OK, this was a PITA - pain in the ass. But it had to be done, so my pregnant wife suffers, literally itching for me to come upstairs and apply lotion to her body.
Made it from lunch to dinner without eating, but I went to ShopRite and it seemed to work out well. Stocked up on a lot of stuff.
For dinner, had a spicy tuna roll and spicy salmon roll, then a double-english muffin (those things are really awesome) toasted with a small covering Alpine Lace Swiss and Thuman's turkey breast. Very nice.
Followed with green grapes and the customary peanuts and then treated myself to a late-night chocolate donut. Thanks Entenmenn's.
Time to sleep, wake up and do it again. Happy anniversary to us. Nine years, since we passed midnight.
Wow. Nine years and no kids. Pretty soon we'll catch up, all in one shot. Three-run homer. Nice. Earl Weaver Baseball.
Made it from lunch to dinner without eating, but I went to ShopRite and it seemed to work out well. Stocked up on a lot of stuff.
For dinner, had a spicy tuna roll and spicy salmon roll, then a double-english muffin (those things are really awesome) toasted with a small covering Alpine Lace Swiss and Thuman's turkey breast. Very nice.
Followed with green grapes and the customary peanuts and then treated myself to a late-night chocolate donut. Thanks Entenmenn's.
Time to sleep, wake up and do it again. Happy anniversary to us. Nine years, since we passed midnight.
Wow. Nine years and no kids. Pretty soon we'll catch up, all in one shot. Three-run homer. Nice. Earl Weaver Baseball.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Apple
Apple is the name of Gwyneth Paltrow's kid and what I had between lunch and this posting. I also just ate a little BabyBell cheese wheel - the light kind.
So there.
So there.
adding...
Add a pomagranate to last night's tally.
Let's start today with another skipped breakfast, and then a 5 oz. piece of steak, and an english muffin (damnit, those things are good) with roasted peppers. Another pomagranate (God, I hope I am spelling that correctly) to cap off lunch (about to happen).
I might take out the arc with Noah in a little bit and get my coffee. I was supposed to possibly meet my friend Noel for coffee, but the day got past me as I am not used to being off from work!
Let's start today with another skipped breakfast, and then a 5 oz. piece of steak, and an english muffin (damnit, those things are good) with roasted peppers. Another pomagranate (God, I hope I am spelling that correctly) to cap off lunch (about to happen).
I might take out the arc with Noah in a little bit and get my coffee. I was supposed to possibly meet my friend Noel for coffee, but the day got past me as I am not used to being off from work!
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Food for Thought
OBJZS. The food update. This is going to spike readership.
Lemme see. Breakfast blown off. Early lunch (11:24 am) was the remaining lean chicken with zucchini and onions. To make up for the missed breakfast, it was time for some of mom's famous eggplant parm, a couple of healthy wedges' worth. Oooh fah. Let's not forget the english muffin, too. At least it was plain. Those things are so damned good, though, especially if you have not had then for a long while.
After lunch I ate a bosc pear and an apple.
It think I did not eat thereafter for a while, then it was a late-afternoon trip to the doc (everything's copasetic). Then we stopped at Wild Noodles, and I scored the thai noodles with chicken and broccoli. I also are a small piece of focaccia break with a scoop of sauce. This happened at the unusually early eating hour of 5:45.
Later on, I had a nice compliment of green grapes, then pushed across the evening visit with the peanut gallery (more than a handful) while watching The Amazing Race. The annoying yet somehow loveable New York family remained alive.
For the day, I had a couple of glasses of diet green iced tea (the Arizona kind) and the usual large Dunkin' Donuts decaf french vanilla with skim, very light.
I just had to get up a second ago and look in the fridge to see if I missed something I ate. I might have to chart this thing a little more closely so I am not sitting here trying to recount it and thus miss some important things, like eating 20 cookies or wicked sugar-loaded crapola.
I might have some final freedom the next couple of days, thanks to getting some work done. I am dying to work out, and I might do just that. Anything that makes my pants fit better, my blood pressure and cholesterol go down and my thyroid production and metabolish up, that's gotta be good.
Not much of a further comment on the post-Yankees fallout. I guess I have so much other crap on my mind and was not expecting then to win in the first round that there is some perspective on it. Nice entertainment, helps me sometimes get a supplemental paycheck, but does not change my life in the grand scheme of things.
Maybe one quick comment/thought: Stop the freakin' A-Rod bashing. My goodness, the guy was off for five games with his bat, and everyone is lopping this whole loss on him. Whatever happened to, "We win as a team, we lose as a team"? They lost, and they're a team. He is one guy. His defense was good, with one big mistake. But in five games they had enough chances to win that he could not take the full brunt of the blame. If he was not "on" then his boys should have picked him up. End of story.
Maybe if they had managed to win the series, A-Rod would have dismantled the White Sox by himself and Jeter would have struggled. Even my father thinks A-Rod is overrated. I do not. I do not think there is a better player in the game. Maybe there are some who are as good or as valuable, but no one better. People used to lop the same crap on John Elway.
That's all it is: crap. Glad I did not eat much of it today.
Lemme see. Breakfast blown off. Early lunch (11:24 am) was the remaining lean chicken with zucchini and onions. To make up for the missed breakfast, it was time for some of mom's famous eggplant parm, a couple of healthy wedges' worth. Oooh fah. Let's not forget the english muffin, too. At least it was plain. Those things are so damned good, though, especially if you have not had then for a long while.
After lunch I ate a bosc pear and an apple.
It think I did not eat thereafter for a while, then it was a late-afternoon trip to the doc (everything's copasetic). Then we stopped at Wild Noodles, and I scored the thai noodles with chicken and broccoli. I also are a small piece of focaccia break with a scoop of sauce. This happened at the unusually early eating hour of 5:45.
Later on, I had a nice compliment of green grapes, then pushed across the evening visit with the peanut gallery (more than a handful) while watching The Amazing Race. The annoying yet somehow loveable New York family remained alive.
For the day, I had a couple of glasses of diet green iced tea (the Arizona kind) and the usual large Dunkin' Donuts decaf french vanilla with skim, very light.
I just had to get up a second ago and look in the fridge to see if I missed something I ate. I might have to chart this thing a little more closely so I am not sitting here trying to recount it and thus miss some important things, like eating 20 cookies or wicked sugar-loaded crapola.
I might have some final freedom the next couple of days, thanks to getting some work done. I am dying to work out, and I might do just that. Anything that makes my pants fit better, my blood pressure and cholesterol go down and my thyroid production and metabolish up, that's gotta be good.
Not much of a further comment on the post-Yankees fallout. I guess I have so much other crap on my mind and was not expecting then to win in the first round that there is some perspective on it. Nice entertainment, helps me sometimes get a supplemental paycheck, but does not change my life in the grand scheme of things.
Maybe one quick comment/thought: Stop the freakin' A-Rod bashing. My goodness, the guy was off for five games with his bat, and everyone is lopping this whole loss on him. Whatever happened to, "We win as a team, we lose as a team"? They lost, and they're a team. He is one guy. His defense was good, with one big mistake. But in five games they had enough chances to win that he could not take the full brunt of the blame. If he was not "on" then his boys should have picked him up. End of story.
Maybe if they had managed to win the series, A-Rod would have dismantled the White Sox by himself and Jeter would have struggled. Even my father thinks A-Rod is overrated. I do not. I do not think there is a better player in the game. Maybe there are some who are as good or as valuable, but no one better. People used to lop the same crap on John Elway.
That's all it is: crap. Glad I did not eat much of it today.
Grapes - Sour and Otherwise
Finished off the night with half a piece of chicken and some onions/zucchini, three pieces of sushi and some fried rice (with only egg and nothing else in it), plus a couple of piece of steamed broccoli for dinner.
Afterward, popped some grapes and peanuts while the Angels popped the Yankees out of the damned playoffs. Thanks to home plate umpire Joe West, the Yankees can go into the offseason knowing they were severly victimized by one of the worst and misguided calls I have ever seen.
Maybe those grapes I ate were sour. Now that the Yanks are done, it's Go Devils, Go Giants, Go Nets until springtime.
Trying to feel out the day's menu. I can say this: Knowing I have to post the results here made me curb things late-night last night. Maybe there is something to this after all. To steal a though from VanishingJames, "Thanks for being there, Internet."
Afterward, popped some grapes and peanuts while the Angels popped the Yankees out of the damned playoffs. Thanks to home plate umpire Joe West, the Yankees can go into the offseason knowing they were severly victimized by one of the worst and misguided calls I have ever seen.
Maybe those grapes I ate were sour. Now that the Yanks are done, it's Go Devils, Go Giants, Go Nets until springtime.
Trying to feel out the day's menu. I can say this: Knowing I have to post the results here made me curb things late-night last night. Maybe there is something to this after all. To steal a though from VanishingJames, "Thanks for being there, Internet."
Monday, October 10, 2005
And counting...
Rarely can one make such a statement:
I am going to become a father sometime in the next 17 days. Not just that, but three in my first shot.
It's coming, and it's down to less than three weeks, which seems surreal. This whole thing seems surreal, in fact. Yet at the same time, it seems just right. Seems like it was supposed to happen this way. That we can put a finger on it and narrow it down to only a scant few days? That's downright insane.
We have been trying to expect the unexpected, to foresee the unforeseen. And what we did not see was the possibility that this thing would be going the distance. Not even remotely. And now that it's in sight, we almost cannot see it going any other way.
Three babies? Are we ready? We'll never be ready. And yet we'll never be more ready.
People commonly ask how we can do it, or how we're going to be able to do it. I think the trick is the more you think about it, realize what is coming, the worse off you are. I really do not think about the overwhelming parts too much, save for the fact I realize I am going to be overwhelmed, tired, clueless, nervous and all those other things.
Consequently, I have not allowed myself to think too much about the wonderful things that come along with this whole deal - three times the work, but three times the love. Three times the responsibility, but three times the payoff. Everything will cost three times as much, but give me three times the experience.
All at once.
It's all in sight right now. Scary, yet calming. Like getting ready for the biggest test you know you will ever take in your life. Yes, the test is scheduled for 17 days from now, but you have to be ready, because the proctor can call you anytime before. And the proctor could have called pretty much anytime since August, and you would have to be ready for a different test.
The kids? I think and hope they'll be fine, although you never know what you have until you have it. I might be a little more worried about myself. I have not done the best job of taking care of myself while caring for the mamma of those babies. If I can't take care of myself in that situation, then how am I going to do it when there are three little ones around?
My friend Brooke told me a while back that she had success with a food diary. I love the idea, and for some reason I never did one. I forced myself onto the blog world, trying to take that first little step, figuring I could, maybe, somehow, turn this blog into a food diary. Track the workings. Feel some responsibility to anyone who might read this to keep on the straight and narrow, because I have not been feeling enough of the guilt, or responsibility or will power or whatever I need to feel to halt me from buying that ice cream and then having it late at night while I am trying to work on my freelance projects.
So, today for breakfast I had two eggs, with two pieces of Ezekiel bread with part-skim mozzarella.
For lunch it was 1 1/2 pieces of chicken breast with onion and zucchini, cooked with olive oil and seasoned with salt and pepper. The plan is to eat the rest for dinner. That would amount to two zucchini, two white onions and three lean chicken breasts.
Then I sneaked in a cup of Edy's chocolate chips (they spell it C-H-I-P-S, not singular). The full-fat dealio. That has been the evil. I buy it when it's on sale, initially under the guise that it's for the pregnant lady, who only wants soft-serve these days. It's a big lie to myself. The freakin' slow-churned is better, anyhow.
I also managed to eat a bosc pear in there somewhere. There is a pomegranate in my future tonight, as well. I think. There is no ice cream left in the house.
Oh wait, I also had my Dunkin' Donuts large french vanilla decaf with skim, very light.
Wow. When you put it down in print (electronic or otherwise) you can see how much it is. No wonder I am fat. Without working out, I already have eaten enough today to keep alive an African village for about 20 weeks.
OK, I am out there now, exposed for the food fraud I really am. Time to go eat.
I am going to become a father sometime in the next 17 days. Not just that, but three in my first shot.
It's coming, and it's down to less than three weeks, which seems surreal. This whole thing seems surreal, in fact. Yet at the same time, it seems just right. Seems like it was supposed to happen this way. That we can put a finger on it and narrow it down to only a scant few days? That's downright insane.
We have been trying to expect the unexpected, to foresee the unforeseen. And what we did not see was the possibility that this thing would be going the distance. Not even remotely. And now that it's in sight, we almost cannot see it going any other way.
Three babies? Are we ready? We'll never be ready. And yet we'll never be more ready.
People commonly ask how we can do it, or how we're going to be able to do it. I think the trick is the more you think about it, realize what is coming, the worse off you are. I really do not think about the overwhelming parts too much, save for the fact I realize I am going to be overwhelmed, tired, clueless, nervous and all those other things.
Consequently, I have not allowed myself to think too much about the wonderful things that come along with this whole deal - three times the work, but three times the love. Three times the responsibility, but three times the payoff. Everything will cost three times as much, but give me three times the experience.
All at once.
It's all in sight right now. Scary, yet calming. Like getting ready for the biggest test you know you will ever take in your life. Yes, the test is scheduled for 17 days from now, but you have to be ready, because the proctor can call you anytime before. And the proctor could have called pretty much anytime since August, and you would have to be ready for a different test.
The kids? I think and hope they'll be fine, although you never know what you have until you have it. I might be a little more worried about myself. I have not done the best job of taking care of myself while caring for the mamma of those babies. If I can't take care of myself in that situation, then how am I going to do it when there are three little ones around?
My friend Brooke told me a while back that she had success with a food diary. I love the idea, and for some reason I never did one. I forced myself onto the blog world, trying to take that first little step, figuring I could, maybe, somehow, turn this blog into a food diary. Track the workings. Feel some responsibility to anyone who might read this to keep on the straight and narrow, because I have not been feeling enough of the guilt, or responsibility or will power or whatever I need to feel to halt me from buying that ice cream and then having it late at night while I am trying to work on my freelance projects.
So, today for breakfast I had two eggs, with two pieces of Ezekiel bread with part-skim mozzarella.
For lunch it was 1 1/2 pieces of chicken breast with onion and zucchini, cooked with olive oil and seasoned with salt and pepper. The plan is to eat the rest for dinner. That would amount to two zucchini, two white onions and three lean chicken breasts.
Then I sneaked in a cup of Edy's chocolate chips (they spell it C-H-I-P-S, not singular). The full-fat dealio. That has been the evil. I buy it when it's on sale, initially under the guise that it's for the pregnant lady, who only wants soft-serve these days. It's a big lie to myself. The freakin' slow-churned is better, anyhow.
I also managed to eat a bosc pear in there somewhere. There is a pomegranate in my future tonight, as well. I think. There is no ice cream left in the house.
Oh wait, I also had my Dunkin' Donuts large french vanilla decaf with skim, very light.
Wow. When you put it down in print (electronic or otherwise) you can see how much it is. No wonder I am fat. Without working out, I already have eaten enough today to keep alive an African village for about 20 weeks.
OK, I am out there now, exposed for the food fraud I really am. Time to go eat.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Lance Won
Lance won.
He closed out his career with eight straight high-profile victories: One over cancer, and seven over the field in Le Tour de France.
Go Lance. U rock. I'mOut.
He closed out his career with eight straight high-profile victories: One over cancer, and seven over the field in Le Tour de France.
Go Lance. U rock. I'mOut.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
The Steal Sign
I have stooped to stealing from another blog, without permission, to fill this space.
But it's Vanishing James, so no biggie. Right?
I took the title and first few mini-paragraphs from his most recent post, went to the Babelfish web translator, plugged in the words, translated them to Russian, then went from Russian back to English.
This is not a joke, and I had no clue it would end up this way. I swear. This is what came out:
"Gear here.... Alrighty! Mho erect MG15CD and my PODxt shown upward today."
It makes it sound like he was doing "The Penis Monologues" or something, right? His Mho is erect and the PODtx is shown upward today. Freakin' stealth perv. I have this guy all figured out.
Gotta go watch the last 2 1/2 innings of Yankees-Angels now.
Go Lance! I'mOut.
But it's Vanishing James, so no biggie. Right?
I took the title and first few mini-paragraphs from his most recent post, went to the Babelfish web translator, plugged in the words, translated them to Russian, then went from Russian back to English.
This is not a joke, and I had no clue it would end up this way. I swear. This is what came out:
"Gear here.... Alrighty! Mho erect MG15CD and my PODxt shown upward today."
It makes it sound like he was doing "The Penis Monologues" or something, right? His Mho is erect and the PODtx is shown upward today. Freakin' stealth perv. I have this guy all figured out.
Gotta go watch the last 2 1/2 innings of Yankees-Angels now.
Go Lance! I'mOut.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Difficulties with YES
The YES Network had some technical difficulties with its picture as the Yankees closed out the Rangers tonight.
It kind of brought me back to the days when it was commonplace to see a still picture on TV and every 30 seconds or so hear that guy's voice:
"We are experiencing operating difficulties. Please stand by."
The Yankees' victory moved them into first place, alone, for the first time since the very beginning of the season. It's amazing how many pitching injuries and overall underperformances they have needed to make themselves and underdog. But they are.
In a completely unrelated subject, I think the only reason I am posting was because I wanted to type Claude Lemieux's name. Claude Lemieux. There, I did it.
I thought about making his name a single post. But I got a little excited with the Yankees and the YES operating difficulties and I just caught up on Vanishing James and the wife sacked out and I just started typing.
Speaking of Vanishing James, the dude can really write. Like all of us -- but in a unique way -- he has a lot on his mind. VJ is mad (miffed?) at me right now because I have gone hiking with my brother-in-law without telling him. What he does not know is that I actually went three times over the last two weekends. It's a secret. SHHHHH!!!
Frank Viola. *17. If the Monarch is reading this, he is laughing hysterically right now.
Speaking of the whole hiking thing, I have been using it as part of the regimen en route to getting back into some kind of shape. I hiked the "Tiki Run" on Sunday in the rain and heat. The "Tiki Run" is this run in the mountains that Tiki Barber does to increase his fitness level. While I did not run it, I made it through with no problem, save for the mosquitos that literally swarmed me numberous times.
The hike we did goes from about 200 feet elevation to over 1,100 feet, which is not bad for New Jersey. Ayers Rock in the Australian Outback clocks in at around 1,043 feet, and I climbed (hiked) that in 1996. This was a lot different.
YES, I did not experience any operating difficulties. I'mOut.
It kind of brought me back to the days when it was commonplace to see a still picture on TV and every 30 seconds or so hear that guy's voice:
"We are experiencing operating difficulties. Please stand by."
The Yankees' victory moved them into first place, alone, for the first time since the very beginning of the season. It's amazing how many pitching injuries and overall underperformances they have needed to make themselves and underdog. But they are.
In a completely unrelated subject, I think the only reason I am posting was because I wanted to type Claude Lemieux's name. Claude Lemieux. There, I did it.
I thought about making his name a single post. But I got a little excited with the Yankees and the YES operating difficulties and I just caught up on Vanishing James and the wife sacked out and I just started typing.
Speaking of Vanishing James, the dude can really write. Like all of us -- but in a unique way -- he has a lot on his mind. VJ is mad (miffed?) at me right now because I have gone hiking with my brother-in-law without telling him. What he does not know is that I actually went three times over the last two weekends. It's a secret. SHHHHH!!!
Frank Viola. *17. If the Monarch is reading this, he is laughing hysterically right now.
Speaking of the whole hiking thing, I have been using it as part of the regimen en route to getting back into some kind of shape. I hiked the "Tiki Run" on Sunday in the rain and heat. The "Tiki Run" is this run in the mountains that Tiki Barber does to increase his fitness level. While I did not run it, I made it through with no problem, save for the mosquitos that literally swarmed me numberous times.
The hike we did goes from about 200 feet elevation to over 1,100 feet, which is not bad for New Jersey. Ayers Rock in the Australian Outback clocks in at around 1,043 feet, and I climbed (hiked) that in 1996. This was a lot different.
YES, I did not experience any operating difficulties. I'mOut.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Who Loves You, Jane?
Hey Jane, Gerard loves you. December 28, 2004 apparently will be a day that will be remembered forever.
Gerard is my 15-year-old nephew and Jane is his girlfriend. She is an older woman for him, although he is so much bigger than she that he looks like the one robbing the cradle.
The pair are so in love (or at least he with her), that when I IM him and he is away, the following message appears: "jane i love u so0o much babe* 12.28.04 - 4everr"
I swear he is a very intelligent kid, even though it seems he has little in the way of spelling skills.
What this all means is that he is becoming a man now. I'll only have my ShopRite buddy around for a few more years, then I'll have to rely on others to take his place or (dread the thought) actually go to the food store alone (ughhh! - are you getting the hives, like I am?).
I finally made it back to pilates today. I figured it had been more than a month since the last time I was there, since my friend, Brooke (the instructor), told me her birthday was June 6, and I knew I had not wished her a happy birthday. That means I have not been working out nearly as much as I should.
Rather than watching the diet and getting into a good fitness routine, it seems the route I have taken has been to periodically complain about my inertia via this blog.
Thanks for listening.
Nutrition problems can work in myriad ways. Most of the time (like me) we eat way too much. Sometimes we eat the right amount of stuff, but not the right stuff. Sometimes we eat too little, and other times we just do not have the right idea what we're doing.
It can cause all sorts of different problems, but the one that seems to tie them together is unhappiness. When we have these issues -- long term or short term, it makes us feel worse about ourselves.
I do not think it's superficial. I think it has to do with the way the body chemistry is working in response to the nutrition.
That being said, I cannot seem to keep myself on the wagon forever. I am always looking for the next thing. I can hang my hat on the fact that I have done well with some plans in the past. The 8-Week Cholesterol Cure was tremendous, as was the South Bech Diet. Live Right 4 Your Type made the most sense of all, but I just could never get on a roll with it.
I recently looked for a new version of The 8-Week Cholesterol Cure, but the update came out in 2001. I was really looking for something that has come out more recently.
Damnit, I need to get this part right, and then get into shape and feel good. Like Gerard does. And he loves Jane.
Gerard is my 15-year-old nephew and Jane is his girlfriend. She is an older woman for him, although he is so much bigger than she that he looks like the one robbing the cradle.
The pair are so in love (or at least he with her), that when I IM him and he is away, the following message appears: "jane i love u so0o much babe* 12.28.04 - 4everr"
I swear he is a very intelligent kid, even though it seems he has little in the way of spelling skills.
What this all means is that he is becoming a man now. I'll only have my ShopRite buddy around for a few more years, then I'll have to rely on others to take his place or (dread the thought) actually go to the food store alone (ughhh! - are you getting the hives, like I am?).
I finally made it back to pilates today. I figured it had been more than a month since the last time I was there, since my friend, Brooke (the instructor), told me her birthday was June 6, and I knew I had not wished her a happy birthday. That means I have not been working out nearly as much as I should.
Rather than watching the diet and getting into a good fitness routine, it seems the route I have taken has been to periodically complain about my inertia via this blog.
Thanks for listening.
Nutrition problems can work in myriad ways. Most of the time (like me) we eat way too much. Sometimes we eat the right amount of stuff, but not the right stuff. Sometimes we eat too little, and other times we just do not have the right idea what we're doing.
It can cause all sorts of different problems, but the one that seems to tie them together is unhappiness. When we have these issues -- long term or short term, it makes us feel worse about ourselves.
I do not think it's superficial. I think it has to do with the way the body chemistry is working in response to the nutrition.
That being said, I cannot seem to keep myself on the wagon forever. I am always looking for the next thing. I can hang my hat on the fact that I have done well with some plans in the past. The 8-Week Cholesterol Cure was tremendous, as was the South Bech Diet. Live Right 4 Your Type made the most sense of all, but I just could never get on a roll with it.
I recently looked for a new version of The 8-Week Cholesterol Cure, but the update came out in 2001. I was really looking for something that has come out more recently.
Damnit, I need to get this part right, and then get into shape and feel good. Like Gerard does. And he loves Jane.
Monday, July 04, 2005
The Fourth
July 4th was cool.
We went to the local parade and the sirens from the many, many rescue-type vehicles scared the bejesus out of my unborn children.
We had a nice visit with my father-in-law, who has a broken foot but has lost the cast and is feeling much better.
Our neighbors, who we sat with at the parade, invited us over for an afternoon barbecue, but first my buddy, Ray, stopped by and we went to the beer garden and I saw my friend Paul, his wife and dad, and my friend and former colleague, Nick.
I was away for about an hour and 45 minutes while the wife sacked out. I got home, Ray hung for a while, and then I booted him out so we could go to our neighbors' house to feed the pregnant lady.
What a spread! The Italian was being spoken, the kids were in the mini-pool, and there was food all over the place. I even had a couple more beers, which was nice, since I only had to walk about 13 feet to get home.
Got back home, took a nap, took out the garbage, then did Six Feet Under. ("Hiilariously funny. The feel-good hit of the summer." That's what they're saying about Six Feet Under.)
Jumped around and caught AI and Jermaine O'Neal getting Punk'd, then took on The Andy Milonakis Show. Andy is, I believe, the former Man Show Kid. He is, at times, side-splittingly funny and at other times sorta stupid and stale. But I am tuning in every week, especially until Da Ali G Show season three commences.
Also, it should be noted that Surreal Life 5 is supposed to start Sunday night.
Giambi: Two homers, both off lefties. Nice.
I'm out.
We went to the local parade and the sirens from the many, many rescue-type vehicles scared the bejesus out of my unborn children.
We had a nice visit with my father-in-law, who has a broken foot but has lost the cast and is feeling much better.
Our neighbors, who we sat with at the parade, invited us over for an afternoon barbecue, but first my buddy, Ray, stopped by and we went to the beer garden and I saw my friend Paul, his wife and dad, and my friend and former colleague, Nick.
I was away for about an hour and 45 minutes while the wife sacked out. I got home, Ray hung for a while, and then I booted him out so we could go to our neighbors' house to feed the pregnant lady.
What a spread! The Italian was being spoken, the kids were in the mini-pool, and there was food all over the place. I even had a couple more beers, which was nice, since I only had to walk about 13 feet to get home.
Got back home, took a nap, took out the garbage, then did Six Feet Under. ("Hiilariously funny. The feel-good hit of the summer." That's what they're saying about Six Feet Under.)
Jumped around and caught AI and Jermaine O'Neal getting Punk'd, then took on The Andy Milonakis Show. Andy is, I believe, the former Man Show Kid. He is, at times, side-splittingly funny and at other times sorta stupid and stale. But I am tuning in every week, especially until Da Ali G Show season three commences.
Also, it should be noted that Surreal Life 5 is supposed to start Sunday night.
Giambi: Two homers, both off lefties. Nice.
I'm out.
Bunny
If I was a rabbit, I would have no arms. But I would still be able to swim, I think.
It's nice to be human. I do not think I want to be a rabbit. At least not right now.
It's nice to be human. I do not think I want to be a rabbit. At least not right now.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Independence Day
Some 365 days ago, life was just so different. It seemed like a grind for so many days, and then you look up -- BOOM, the Fourth of July fireworks are going off again.
Just a year ago, I was on the railroad. I had a perfectly fine job and was making my way through a delightful career when, little did I know it, I was being backstabbed by an insecure boss who was pretending to be my friend but was scared that I was going to make him obsolete.
The situation collected more and more misery over the ensuing few months as I was working harder and continuing to get excellent results while my demise was being plotted out in back rooms and dark dungeons by an evil troll.
When that job unceremoniously ended amid more broken promises and insincerities on September 13, it thrust me on a downward spiral laced with bitterness and venom I thought myself incapable of feeling.
It took a while to come to terms with all of it -- the ego blow, the unnecessary feelings of failure, self-doubt, self-loathing and lack of confidence. Then there was the kick in the eye of not finding a new job and going on the government dole.
Here's how the scenario kicked out.
Stage-setter: I narrowed in on two jobs for which I had interviewed and from whom I was expecting to get offers. I decided to push them along in an effort to get them to yield their offers at roughly the same time.
I found out at the beginning of the week that the offer for the job I really liked and wanted was not coming; they were putting the position on hold. And I could not get any information from the completely disorganized people at the other place, which was my second choice.
Then I realized I had exhausted the last of my unemployment benefits, so now the money was going to be air-tight, thus increasing the strain on everything in life.
Then I find out my wife is pregnant.
With triplets.
I am not making this up. That stuff all happened within a span of four days.
I did not know whether to jump for joy of jump off a bridge. I went for the joy jump, though, because I could not be more excited. Except that if there ever was a time to not have triplets, this would be the one. Which, of course, makes it the perfect time. Because if there is ever a time to have triplets, now is the best time.
Are my feelings clear?
Well, I kept plugging along and finally got myself back into a situation in which I am doing well work-wise and, in fact, have much more flexibility for freelance projects. In addition, the long-term prospects of the new job (and my sanity and happiness) are a lot better than they were with the old one.
Turn a negative into a positive. It's always darkest before dawn. Just stay within yourself. All of the clichés are there to describe the time since last July 4.
Here's another: The best is yet to come.
Just a year ago, I was on the railroad. I had a perfectly fine job and was making my way through a delightful career when, little did I know it, I was being backstabbed by an insecure boss who was pretending to be my friend but was scared that I was going to make him obsolete.
The situation collected more and more misery over the ensuing few months as I was working harder and continuing to get excellent results while my demise was being plotted out in back rooms and dark dungeons by an evil troll.
When that job unceremoniously ended amid more broken promises and insincerities on September 13, it thrust me on a downward spiral laced with bitterness and venom I thought myself incapable of feeling.
It took a while to come to terms with all of it -- the ego blow, the unnecessary feelings of failure, self-doubt, self-loathing and lack of confidence. Then there was the kick in the eye of not finding a new job and going on the government dole.
Here's how the scenario kicked out.
Stage-setter: I narrowed in on two jobs for which I had interviewed and from whom I was expecting to get offers. I decided to push them along in an effort to get them to yield their offers at roughly the same time.
I found out at the beginning of the week that the offer for the job I really liked and wanted was not coming; they were putting the position on hold. And I could not get any information from the completely disorganized people at the other place, which was my second choice.
Then I realized I had exhausted the last of my unemployment benefits, so now the money was going to be air-tight, thus increasing the strain on everything in life.
Then I find out my wife is pregnant.
With triplets.
I am not making this up. That stuff all happened within a span of four days.
I did not know whether to jump for joy of jump off a bridge. I went for the joy jump, though, because I could not be more excited. Except that if there ever was a time to not have triplets, this would be the one. Which, of course, makes it the perfect time. Because if there is ever a time to have triplets, now is the best time.
Are my feelings clear?
Well, I kept plugging along and finally got myself back into a situation in which I am doing well work-wise and, in fact, have much more flexibility for freelance projects. In addition, the long-term prospects of the new job (and my sanity and happiness) are a lot better than they were with the old one.
Turn a negative into a positive. It's always darkest before dawn. Just stay within yourself. All of the clichés are there to describe the time since last July 4.
Here's another: The best is yet to come.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Neglect
There is nothing like neglect.
My neglect of updating this blog for more than a month is not hurting anyone (I think), but it certainly makes no good showing of the blogger, does it?
Saving the big philosophical discussion of how neglect can be deadly, here is a true tale about neglect.
A while back, my buddy Neil sold my friend Chris (they are lifelong friends) a lot of land next to the former's childhood home in Westchester. Chris took the tract of land, used his developer skills and carved out a very nice home for his family of four.
Next door remains Neil's old house. Following the death of Neil's father, Neil and his mother opted to sell their Westchester abode and move full-time to Florida. Florida is where Neil and I met and became friends.
Fast-forward to 2005. Neil comes up a couple of weeks ago for a rare visit, and I have the pleasure of his time. We are walking around Chris' pristine new place, but our focus is on the house where Neil spent his formative years.
They sold it to a couple, both doctors from Korea. It is painfully obvious that anyone who saw their house would refuse treatment from these doctors, since the house has remained untouched on the outside since the sale.
In 1985.
So we celebrate the 20th anniversary this year of neglectful neighbors in Westchester. If those doctors were looking for a way to stand out, they sure found it.
When Neil provides a story from closing day, some of the other events (or lack of them) do not seem so strange.
During the hours before the closing took place, the buyers began to make an unnecessary stink about blowing up the deal unless Neil included the ping pong table that was the centerpiece of the upstairs entertainment room.
Always thinking on his feet, Neil finally gave reluctant approval. He then went back to the house, opened wide the double-windows, and launched his ping pong table onto the side lawn.
"Here ya go. You wanna play some ping pong?"
After he told me the story, I informed Neil that we should cross the property line and take a look over there, since there was a good chance some of the table might still be sitting on the lawn. Right next to the random pieces of rusted, broken iron benching installed by Neil's father in 1960, but neglected for the last 20 years.
Neglect, in all forms of the word, has a bad connotation. You might not have thought that if you neglected to read this.
My neglect of updating this blog for more than a month is not hurting anyone (I think), but it certainly makes no good showing of the blogger, does it?
Saving the big philosophical discussion of how neglect can be deadly, here is a true tale about neglect.
A while back, my buddy Neil sold my friend Chris (they are lifelong friends) a lot of land next to the former's childhood home in Westchester. Chris took the tract of land, used his developer skills and carved out a very nice home for his family of four.
Next door remains Neil's old house. Following the death of Neil's father, Neil and his mother opted to sell their Westchester abode and move full-time to Florida. Florida is where Neil and I met and became friends.
Fast-forward to 2005. Neil comes up a couple of weeks ago for a rare visit, and I have the pleasure of his time. We are walking around Chris' pristine new place, but our focus is on the house where Neil spent his formative years.
They sold it to a couple, both doctors from Korea. It is painfully obvious that anyone who saw their house would refuse treatment from these doctors, since the house has remained untouched on the outside since the sale.
In 1985.
So we celebrate the 20th anniversary this year of neglectful neighbors in Westchester. If those doctors were looking for a way to stand out, they sure found it.
When Neil provides a story from closing day, some of the other events (or lack of them) do not seem so strange.
During the hours before the closing took place, the buyers began to make an unnecessary stink about blowing up the deal unless Neil included the ping pong table that was the centerpiece of the upstairs entertainment room.
Always thinking on his feet, Neil finally gave reluctant approval. He then went back to the house, opened wide the double-windows, and launched his ping pong table onto the side lawn.
"Here ya go. You wanna play some ping pong?"
After he told me the story, I informed Neil that we should cross the property line and take a look over there, since there was a good chance some of the table might still be sitting on the lawn. Right next to the random pieces of rusted, broken iron benching installed by Neil's father in 1960, but neglected for the last 20 years.
Neglect, in all forms of the word, has a bad connotation. You might not have thought that if you neglected to read this.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Trouble
Was there a better song ever written than Trouble Me by 10,000 Maniacs?
Not for the mood I was in today when I heard it. And then when I replayed it thrice.
As the search for the right job continues, today marks the six-month anniversary of the passing of Vanishing James' sister. It's not one of those banner days for him, ya know? There have not been many banner days around here lately, either. Feels like walking on eggshells half the time, never knowing if the thing around the corner is going to be the back-breaker.
But today I heard Natalie Merchant's voice, and it just somehow gave me some much-needed strength - from somewhere.
Here's what she said (she wrote it, too):
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries.
Trouble me on the days when you feel spent.
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Trouble me.
Speak to me, don't mislead me, the calm I feel means a storm is swelling;
there's no telling where it starts or how it ends.
Speak to me, why are you building this thick brick wall to defend me when your silence is my greatest fear?
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Speak to me.
Let me have a look inside these eyes while I'm learning.
Please don't hide them just because of tears.
Let me send you off to sleep with a "There, there, now stop your turning and tossing."
Let me know where the hurt is and how to heal.
Spare me? Don't spare me anything troubling.
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries.
Speak to me and let our words build a shelter from the storm.
Lastly, let me know what I can mend.
There's more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Trust is what I'm offering if you trouble me.
I always want to be the one who can be troubled, and yet sometimes when I need to trouble others, it makes me feel weak for some reason. With the Fordham crew I always feel like the go-to guy, and that is the greatest feeling in the world. But when you feel it in one place, you feel that same responsibilty to the others in your life.
That's why it's so hard to cry.
One of these days, I'm sure the cry will happen and my stress level will probably decrease and I'll be a tremendously more happy and genuine person. But until then, I'll continue to plug away and not be a sissy and feel sorry for having a great life that has happened to hit a few minor bumps along the way.
Thanks for letting me trouble you. It made me feel great.
There's more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Trust is what I'm offering if you trouble me.
Not for the mood I was in today when I heard it. And then when I replayed it thrice.
As the search for the right job continues, today marks the six-month anniversary of the passing of Vanishing James' sister. It's not one of those banner days for him, ya know? There have not been many banner days around here lately, either. Feels like walking on eggshells half the time, never knowing if the thing around the corner is going to be the back-breaker.
But today I heard Natalie Merchant's voice, and it just somehow gave me some much-needed strength - from somewhere.
Here's what she said (she wrote it, too):
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries.
Trouble me on the days when you feel spent.
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Trouble me.
Speak to me, don't mislead me, the calm I feel means a storm is swelling;
there's no telling where it starts or how it ends.
Speak to me, why are you building this thick brick wall to defend me when your silence is my greatest fear?
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong?
Speak to me.
Let me have a look inside these eyes while I'm learning.
Please don't hide them just because of tears.
Let me send you off to sleep with a "There, there, now stop your turning and tossing."
Let me know where the hurt is and how to heal.
Spare me? Don't spare me anything troubling.
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries.
Speak to me and let our words build a shelter from the storm.
Lastly, let me know what I can mend.
There's more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Trust is what I'm offering if you trouble me.
I always want to be the one who can be troubled, and yet sometimes when I need to trouble others, it makes me feel weak for some reason. With the Fordham crew I always feel like the go-to guy, and that is the greatest feeling in the world. But when you feel it in one place, you feel that same responsibilty to the others in your life.
That's why it's so hard to cry.
One of these days, I'm sure the cry will happen and my stress level will probably decrease and I'll be a tremendously more happy and genuine person. But until then, I'll continue to plug away and not be a sissy and feel sorry for having a great life that has happened to hit a few minor bumps along the way.
Thanks for letting me trouble you. It made me feel great.
There's more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Trust is what I'm offering if you trouble me.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
People Sighting
Plaxico Burress was at the Nets game tonight. When I went back to the press box after halftime, we made quick eye contact. I think he wanted one of the Bavarian Dutch-Style pretzels I had brought back from the press room.
Burress is the newest New York Giant. He looks like he could be a basketballer, though, since he is really tall and thin. He used to play wide receiver for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but became a free agent and came to the Giants for a whole crap-load of money.
The dude was pretty mellow throughout the game. He had in his dreads and was wearing a white skullcap under his sideways Yankees hat. Buress is supposed to meet the local media on Thursday for the first time, but I will not be there. I shall be working on the continuing disappearance of Fat Riz during that time.
So far, it is moving along. I have been running fairly regularly, but not spinning as much as I should. The pilates thing seems to be working well, also. The more I do it, the more I seem to get it. It is kind of addicting, as well, this whole learning-how-to-control-your-core thing.
Last week I made my return to kickboxing. Quincey asked to partner up with me, and that girl can really punch and kick. She is one of the best partners with whom I have worked. The others - well, you know who you are ;-).
I am wondering to myself, Are you supposed to punctuate the end of a sentence that includes a winking smiley? I put the period there just in case, although it makes the winker look like he has a zit or something.
The Strat season continues on Thursday, also. I have not written much about Strat because it bores all but maybe two of the people who might read this log. It should be noted that Vanishing James is my partner in this new Strat League. We went 3-4 in our inaugural series.
Enough about that.
Vince Carter and Jason Kidd were both in a really good mood after the Nets' easy win tonight over the Clippers.
In the first quarter, Kidd was on a fast break when he laid the ball off the glass for Carter, who caught it mid-flight and threw down a sick jam. Carter made a similar pass to himself for a wicked jam in the All-Star Game, but when he tried it Monday night in Charlotte, he was thrawrted.
The beat writers were joking with Kidd, since I guess they have been egging him on to make the same play, but from HALF COURT! Carter said he is sure Kidd could do it, because Kidd is so great, and Carter is confident in his own ability to be able to catch it and throw it down. Kidd joked he would try it one day and would blame the writers for forcing him to do it if it did not work.
I really have grown to like the NBA players this season, covering a significant amount of pro hoop on-site for the first time. Most of them are pretty pleasant, although always having to go to the winners' locker room helps. Carter and Kidd are very accomodating. I have to rank Pau Gasol from Memphis as the nicest guy, though. Kevin Garnett from Minnesota seemed pretty cool, and Paul Pierce of the Celtics was not my favorite (I talked to him after his team lost).
Hockey games are the ones I have covered the most. Thanks to the lockout, there were none for me to cover this year, however. Cest la vie, I guess (sic?). I usually do not use French words when writing.
Martin Brodeur is always a good interview after the game. He listens to your questions and is not afraid to give you a real answer. Bobby Holik does it almost to a fault. He is not afraid to call out his teammates (not individually, though) if he thinks someone is not putting out a maximum effort. But a good journalist can usually figure out who he means.
Ken Daneyko was always a stand-up guy for the Devils, making himself available after every game, regardless of the outcome. He also was forthright during the times where he was battling personal demons. He is the genuine article.
I am venturing back into baseball coverage in a week or so, hitting Yankee Stadium as a professional for the first time. It should be interesting. I heard the Yankee Stadium press box has gone wireless! That is a big thing. At the Meadowlands, you have to connect via a phone line, so if you do not have AOL or some posting system, then you're out of luck. I would have thought the Meadowlands would be an easy place for wireless access, especially since some NBA and NHL arenas have it for the fans.
Easy or not, they do not yet have it.
Oh yeah, so Fat Riz has slowly been going away. I have my good days and my bad days. The carb battle is hurting me right now. If I went South Beach Stage I and kept up with my workouts, Fat Riz would just vanish right away. Maybe I just do not have the balls to do it. But I might.
The pants had gotten a little more loose the other day, but today they were a little too snug for my liking. I think sneaking some cookies, ice cream, pasta and other sweets at my sister's house on Easter and Tuesday knocked me back a notch, although I did run a personal-record 7 1/2 miles Monday. Just need some more focus and discipline.
I have not been having much coffee lately. The beans I have been using in the Grind-and-Brew have not been making me want java, but at the Nets games the coffee tastes so good. I knocked back a couple of big cups tonight (decaf, almost always), the first was used to wash down a little piece of cake (another no-no).
Chicken. Why do I always eat chicken for lunch on the day I am covering a Nets game? They always have it there for the dinner spread. And it is always good. The pre-game food for the Nets, while not spectacular, is always a solid bet.
It's a good experience to cover their games. Seeing people in person, working, that you normally see on television or hear on the radio is an experience most people never get. I actually take time to appreciate the work people are putting in and to assess the dynamics that are at work among the media hordes in the locker room or media room.
Speaking of the media hordes, among them is the Yes Network reporter Leslie Boghosian. I have not said Word One to her at any of the games, but for some reason she seems very familiar to me (not from a being-on-TV perspective).
I might have somehow known her from back in the day, but I just cannot remember. If anyone can figure out how I might know her, please tell me. Maybe there is some Armenian connection via Ted. Of course, Ted cannot remember a name to save his life, but sometimes he surprises me.
To rehash: Plaxico at Nets game, Fat Riz too many carbs, NBA players are pretty cool, NHL guys are cool when they're around, where in the world is Leslie Boghosian from?
I'm out.
Burress is the newest New York Giant. He looks like he could be a basketballer, though, since he is really tall and thin. He used to play wide receiver for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but became a free agent and came to the Giants for a whole crap-load of money.
The dude was pretty mellow throughout the game. He had in his dreads and was wearing a white skullcap under his sideways Yankees hat. Buress is supposed to meet the local media on Thursday for the first time, but I will not be there. I shall be working on the continuing disappearance of Fat Riz during that time.
So far, it is moving along. I have been running fairly regularly, but not spinning as much as I should. The pilates thing seems to be working well, also. The more I do it, the more I seem to get it. It is kind of addicting, as well, this whole learning-how-to-control-your-core thing.
Last week I made my return to kickboxing. Quincey asked to partner up with me, and that girl can really punch and kick. She is one of the best partners with whom I have worked. The others - well, you know who you are ;-).
I am wondering to myself, Are you supposed to punctuate the end of a sentence that includes a winking smiley? I put the period there just in case, although it makes the winker look like he has a zit or something.
The Strat season continues on Thursday, also. I have not written much about Strat because it bores all but maybe two of the people who might read this log. It should be noted that Vanishing James is my partner in this new Strat League. We went 3-4 in our inaugural series.
Enough about that.
Vince Carter and Jason Kidd were both in a really good mood after the Nets' easy win tonight over the Clippers.
In the first quarter, Kidd was on a fast break when he laid the ball off the glass for Carter, who caught it mid-flight and threw down a sick jam. Carter made a similar pass to himself for a wicked jam in the All-Star Game, but when he tried it Monday night in Charlotte, he was thrawrted.
The beat writers were joking with Kidd, since I guess they have been egging him on to make the same play, but from HALF COURT! Carter said he is sure Kidd could do it, because Kidd is so great, and Carter is confident in his own ability to be able to catch it and throw it down. Kidd joked he would try it one day and would blame the writers for forcing him to do it if it did not work.
I really have grown to like the NBA players this season, covering a significant amount of pro hoop on-site for the first time. Most of them are pretty pleasant, although always having to go to the winners' locker room helps. Carter and Kidd are very accomodating. I have to rank Pau Gasol from Memphis as the nicest guy, though. Kevin Garnett from Minnesota seemed pretty cool, and Paul Pierce of the Celtics was not my favorite (I talked to him after his team lost).
Hockey games are the ones I have covered the most. Thanks to the lockout, there were none for me to cover this year, however. Cest la vie, I guess (sic?). I usually do not use French words when writing.
Martin Brodeur is always a good interview after the game. He listens to your questions and is not afraid to give you a real answer. Bobby Holik does it almost to a fault. He is not afraid to call out his teammates (not individually, though) if he thinks someone is not putting out a maximum effort. But a good journalist can usually figure out who he means.
Ken Daneyko was always a stand-up guy for the Devils, making himself available after every game, regardless of the outcome. He also was forthright during the times where he was battling personal demons. He is the genuine article.
I am venturing back into baseball coverage in a week or so, hitting Yankee Stadium as a professional for the first time. It should be interesting. I heard the Yankee Stadium press box has gone wireless! That is a big thing. At the Meadowlands, you have to connect via a phone line, so if you do not have AOL or some posting system, then you're out of luck. I would have thought the Meadowlands would be an easy place for wireless access, especially since some NBA and NHL arenas have it for the fans.
Easy or not, they do not yet have it.
Oh yeah, so Fat Riz has slowly been going away. I have my good days and my bad days. The carb battle is hurting me right now. If I went South Beach Stage I and kept up with my workouts, Fat Riz would just vanish right away. Maybe I just do not have the balls to do it. But I might.
The pants had gotten a little more loose the other day, but today they were a little too snug for my liking. I think sneaking some cookies, ice cream, pasta and other sweets at my sister's house on Easter and Tuesday knocked me back a notch, although I did run a personal-record 7 1/2 miles Monday. Just need some more focus and discipline.
I have not been having much coffee lately. The beans I have been using in the Grind-and-Brew have not been making me want java, but at the Nets games the coffee tastes so good. I knocked back a couple of big cups tonight (decaf, almost always), the first was used to wash down a little piece of cake (another no-no).
Chicken. Why do I always eat chicken for lunch on the day I am covering a Nets game? They always have it there for the dinner spread. And it is always good. The pre-game food for the Nets, while not spectacular, is always a solid bet.
It's a good experience to cover their games. Seeing people in person, working, that you normally see on television or hear on the radio is an experience most people never get. I actually take time to appreciate the work people are putting in and to assess the dynamics that are at work among the media hordes in the locker room or media room.
Speaking of the media hordes, among them is the Yes Network reporter Leslie Boghosian. I have not said Word One to her at any of the games, but for some reason she seems very familiar to me (not from a being-on-TV perspective).
I might have somehow known her from back in the day, but I just cannot remember. If anyone can figure out how I might know her, please tell me. Maybe there is some Armenian connection via Ted. Of course, Ted cannot remember a name to save his life, but sometimes he surprises me.
To rehash: Plaxico at Nets game, Fat Riz too many carbs, NBA players are pretty cool, NHL guys are cool when they're around, where in the world is Leslie Boghosian from?
I'm out.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Things Are Working Out
I have no scale, and I have not been watching the food intake too critically. But I have worked out four straight days and have sights on continuing just about every day in the near future.
We're talking about a running-driven mini boot camp, but not nearly that serious. The goal is to get back into shape, shed some poundage, and be able to run some 5K races. I ran a couple last year and enjoyed it. The Draft Day 5K at Giants Stadium is a definite on my schedule, and I would recommend it.
Fat Riz is still around, but I have taken the initial step toward putting him into hibernation. Results are not yet visible in these few days, but pilates felt different today. I think I'm starting to get it. The running comes and goes. Sometimes it's hard to get through the miles on the treadmill.
The big move was getting back into the top-level spinning routine. Spinning can really drive you into shape, if it is done right. For all the workouts I do -- kickboxing, running -- I never get the body working as much as I do when I spin. I am on that bike and turning over the pedals and the sweat just pours down.
The reward for a good workout on a Wednesday night first was Survivor, and now King of Queens, with Yes, Dear to follow. It's hard to pay attention and appreciate the full comedic genius when you're blogging while it's on.
Commercial. Doug just won the chicken wing eating contest. He received a replica of the championship belt and told us the real belt resides in Cleveland. Simply, I am riveted.
Doug also made a Kirby Puckett reference. That drew from me a guffaw. When watching my favorite comedies, I tend to guffaw more than the average person. I'm not sure why, but I think sometimes I do it just to get my wife's attention. Actually, I think most of the things I do all day are designed to get her attention.
She looks like she is falling asleep on the couch next to me right now. I think I am going to just say fuck in a normal voice and see if it makes her open her eyes.
I said it twice, and it worked neither time. She is beginning to the sleep breathing, so I guess I am too late to the party.
On Yes, Dear, I like the Jean Louisa Kelly chick (the one with the curly hair who plays Kim). I think it's funny that I never knew her name but always thought she reminded me of Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Those names are similar.
Weird.
Syria fouled Julius. Loyal seal junkie.
More weird. Those are anagrams for Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Jean Louisa Kelly.
"Oh, there they are."
"What's that, Joe?"
"The straws for which I have been grasping over the last few paragraphs."
Yeah, this entry sucks. I was dying to post late last night, but the blogspot was down or something and I could not get on. I was going to do a stream of consciousness thing, and I thought I could do it tonight, but it just is not there. Maybe if I kept banging away at the keys, something would come.
However, I have to be up and out very early tomorrow, so bedtime is coming soon. Before hitting the sack, I have to take out the damn garbage. I swear, that is like the one chore that never seems to be anything less than sucky. It's probably the easiest and most mindless thing that is continuously repeated, but it seems a lot harder than it is.
Time for NCAA predictions: I am going out on a limb and picking North Carolina, although it is completely without conviction. I put two sheets into the pool at my old office, and have North Carolina winning on both. My respective Final Fours are North Carolina, Duke, Oklahoma State and Wake Forest (I have Oklahoma State in the finals); and North Carolina, Oklahoma, Illinois and Gonzaga, with North Carolina beating Illinois.
During his postgame press conference tonight, Nets coach Lawrence Frank did not break stride in his remarks when he said "Bless you" to one of the writers that sneezed. Nice. Next week, it could be me sneezing in front of him as my next run of freelance assignments is coming up.
Ah, I have denigrated into sports, and my wife (still asleep) keeps scratching her nose. I am going to wake her up now and bring her upstairs into bed.
I'mOut.
We're talking about a running-driven mini boot camp, but not nearly that serious. The goal is to get back into shape, shed some poundage, and be able to run some 5K races. I ran a couple last year and enjoyed it. The Draft Day 5K at Giants Stadium is a definite on my schedule, and I would recommend it.
Fat Riz is still around, but I have taken the initial step toward putting him into hibernation. Results are not yet visible in these few days, but pilates felt different today. I think I'm starting to get it. The running comes and goes. Sometimes it's hard to get through the miles on the treadmill.
The big move was getting back into the top-level spinning routine. Spinning can really drive you into shape, if it is done right. For all the workouts I do -- kickboxing, running -- I never get the body working as much as I do when I spin. I am on that bike and turning over the pedals and the sweat just pours down.
The reward for a good workout on a Wednesday night first was Survivor, and now King of Queens, with Yes, Dear to follow. It's hard to pay attention and appreciate the full comedic genius when you're blogging while it's on.
Commercial. Doug just won the chicken wing eating contest. He received a replica of the championship belt and told us the real belt resides in Cleveland. Simply, I am riveted.
Doug also made a Kirby Puckett reference. That drew from me a guffaw. When watching my favorite comedies, I tend to guffaw more than the average person. I'm not sure why, but I think sometimes I do it just to get my wife's attention. Actually, I think most of the things I do all day are designed to get her attention.
She looks like she is falling asleep on the couch next to me right now. I think I am going to just say fuck in a normal voice and see if it makes her open her eyes.
I said it twice, and it worked neither time. She is beginning to the sleep breathing, so I guess I am too late to the party.
On Yes, Dear, I like the Jean Louisa Kelly chick (the one with the curly hair who plays Kim). I think it's funny that I never knew her name but always thought she reminded me of Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Those names are similar.
Weird.
Syria fouled Julius. Loyal seal junkie.
More weird. Those are anagrams for Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Jean Louisa Kelly.
"Oh, there they are."
"What's that, Joe?"
"The straws for which I have been grasping over the last few paragraphs."
Yeah, this entry sucks. I was dying to post late last night, but the blogspot was down or something and I could not get on. I was going to do a stream of consciousness thing, and I thought I could do it tonight, but it just is not there. Maybe if I kept banging away at the keys, something would come.
However, I have to be up and out very early tomorrow, so bedtime is coming soon. Before hitting the sack, I have to take out the damn garbage. I swear, that is like the one chore that never seems to be anything less than sucky. It's probably the easiest and most mindless thing that is continuously repeated, but it seems a lot harder than it is.
Time for NCAA predictions: I am going out on a limb and picking North Carolina, although it is completely without conviction. I put two sheets into the pool at my old office, and have North Carolina winning on both. My respective Final Fours are North Carolina, Duke, Oklahoma State and Wake Forest (I have Oklahoma State in the finals); and North Carolina, Oklahoma, Illinois and Gonzaga, with North Carolina beating Illinois.
During his postgame press conference tonight, Nets coach Lawrence Frank did not break stride in his remarks when he said "Bless you" to one of the writers that sneezed. Nice. Next week, it could be me sneezing in front of him as my next run of freelance assignments is coming up.
Ah, I have denigrated into sports, and my wife (still asleep) keeps scratching her nose. I am going to wake her up now and bring her upstairs into bed.
I'mOut.
Friday, March 04, 2005
[Thou art] as fat as butter
[Thou art] as fat as butter.
(Taken from: Henry IV, part I, courtesy of http://www.pangloss.com/seidel/Shaker/index.html)
Yes, right now I feel as fat as butter. It is a weird thing for a guy to admit, but Fat Riz has been back for a while. He needs to go away now.
So the last week I have been trying to watch the eating, especially during the day. But it gets hard when freakin' Yahoo! decides to just give away ice cream one day. Yeah, that happens.
(Taken from: Henry IV, part I, courtesy of http://www.pangloss.com/seidel/Shaker/index.html)
Yes, right now I feel as fat as butter. It is a weird thing for a guy to admit, but Fat Riz has been back for a while. He needs to go away now.
So the last week I have been trying to watch the eating, especially during the day. But it gets hard when freakin' Yahoo! decides to just give away ice cream one day. Yeah, that happens.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Brothel on My Block
The fuzz busted a brothel near my house this week.
What the hell is my nice, little neighborhood coming to? How could these people do this? This sort of thing belongs in Nevada, where it's legal, and in the Clinton White House. Not here.
Slutville was owned by a funeral home, too! The people who own the funeral home next door apparently leased out the house to the brothel people and had no idea what was going. Yeah, right.
Of course, most similar landlords are violating trust like crazy, keying their way into renters' lairs while no one is around. But the peeps taking care of the dead either looked the other way or are, like their normal clientele, a little dead in the head.
I expect more from those who bring commerce into my oversized hamlet. They're responsible for having a clue what goes on. They should have not rented or leased their secondary house to people who were going to run a brothel. Period. Can't happen. End of story.
A brothel, for God's sake! I have six nieces a nephews in this town! This is no joke.
Not only that, but they also did the old trick of painting the door red, apparently a classic sign for a house of ill repute. A few years ago we painted our front door, of course, red. But my wife says it's actually wineberry and not red, so we're OK.
Maybe not. Maybe the neighbors who knew that red door meant brothel have been laughing at us (or very curious about us) for some time. A red door in the seedy part of town in the Old West? I am thinking whorehouse. A red door a few blocks away from where I live? I am thinking they have the same taste as us.
Remind me to never judge.
What the hell is my nice, little neighborhood coming to? How could these people do this? This sort of thing belongs in Nevada, where it's legal, and in the Clinton White House. Not here.
Slutville was owned by a funeral home, too! The people who own the funeral home next door apparently leased out the house to the brothel people and had no idea what was going. Yeah, right.
Of course, most similar landlords are violating trust like crazy, keying their way into renters' lairs while no one is around. But the peeps taking care of the dead either looked the other way or are, like their normal clientele, a little dead in the head.
I expect more from those who bring commerce into my oversized hamlet. They're responsible for having a clue what goes on. They should have not rented or leased their secondary house to people who were going to run a brothel. Period. Can't happen. End of story.
A brothel, for God's sake! I have six nieces a nephews in this town! This is no joke.
Not only that, but they also did the old trick of painting the door red, apparently a classic sign for a house of ill repute. A few years ago we painted our front door, of course, red. But my wife says it's actually wineberry and not red, so we're OK.
Maybe not. Maybe the neighbors who knew that red door meant brothel have been laughing at us (or very curious about us) for some time. A red door in the seedy part of town in the Old West? I am thinking whorehouse. A red door a few blocks away from where I live? I am thinking they have the same taste as us.
Remind me to never judge.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
All About BJ's
"I like BJ's!"
You're never supposed to begin a story with a quote, but who cares, when we're talking about the BlogWorld, right?
The quote has nothing to do with porn. My little nephew, James (not Vanishing James), a few years ago. You see, my brother and sister-in-law are (were?) frequent shoppers at a place called BJ's Wholesale Club.
The wife and I went there this morning. A little low on water, we bought six cases of 2.5-liter thingies (2 per case, so 5 gallons x 6 cases = 30 gallons). That'll last us a few weeks, for sure. It's not like we're in the middle of the desert; we just like to remain hydrated.
We got some other crap there, like Skippy and canola oil.
Did you know the B and the J in BJ's stand, respectively, for Berkley and Jensen? (I don't give a sh!t, either.)
Speaking of sh!t, I always remember that time in kindergarten when David Isaac sh!t his pants. Mrs. Halpern was so diplomatic about it.
"David had a little accident, and he had to go home," she said after we wondered why he got to tip out after a potty stop.
After that, everyone wanted to sh!t their pants, if they wanted to go home. Not me, though. I had some great kindergarten friends, especially Keith Blumenstock. He was cool, and I think I had like a 5-year-old's crush on his sister, Karen, who was a year behind us.
The Blumenstocks lived right near the school -- much closer than me, in terms of a kindergartener's view of the world map -- and had the forest leading to the fields right behind their house. Back then, you were allowed to play in the woods, and I fondly recall going through their backyard gate, walking the path, and hanging out at the field and talking about how David Isaac sh!t his pants.
That was the one year of my life spent in public school. The next year, I was in Catholic grammar school, and I subsequently went to an all-boys Catholic high school and a Jesuit university. I still love Jesus to this day. He is (was) an extremely cool dude. We should forget about Berkley and Jensen and have BJ's stand for Big Jesus' or something. Actually, that might be a little over the top.
Oh yeah. So Keith Blumenstock remained in public school. As such, even in our small town, we rarely saw one another, although we always recognized each other. To my amazement, he appeared later in life, I think in college for a time. But I just checked the records and he did not graduate with me at any level post-kindergarten. Weird how the memory just does not seem to work as well after time passes. Maybe I just imagined the whole thing.
In checking said records, I took a few moments to check through my college yearbook. It was the total opposite of my high school yearbook in that there are next-to-no pictures of me. In the college yearbook, there is my graduation photo, of course, and only one other -- of the top of my graduation cap.
How, you are wondering, can I tell the top of my cap from everyone else's? Well, I used white tape and spelled "It's Done!" on the top of mine to be unique (sort of), stealing the idea from something contemporary to the times. I am pretty sure I still have that cap there.
"It's Done!" came from a saying that we had back in the day. The San Francisco Giants were storming the National League with the 3-4 combo of Will Clark and Kevin Mitchell. With the game at an important juncture, Mitchell would engage Clark before the later would head to the batter's box.
"Let's do it," Mitchell would say.
"It's done!" was Clark's response.
Being testosterone-driven, Strat-O-Matic-crazed 21-year-olds at the time, these words were like the gold standard for us. They might come up at any time, like when it was time to chug a pitcher at the Lantern or to approach a cute girl. If you needed that extra boost of confidence or adrenaline, you hoped one of the boys would give you a "Let's do it," so you could go into battle with an "It's done!"
The Bachelor of Arts in Communications, of course, was secondary.
Speaking of secondary, it recently was the Second of February, which is Groundhog's Day. That made it the 14-year anniversary of Jerry M's cockblock of my efforts to woo the H-Bomb, Heather Donlon.
I had the worst crush on this girl; maybe I was a little star-struck. She was on the basketball team but she was short, and if you saw her you would never mistake her for a baller. Well, Jerry used his Sports Information Department hook to get her and some of the other ballers, who happened to be an especially good-looking bunch for basketball players, to come to our Groundhog's Day bash.
There I am, sitting on our couch, and I have the H-Bomb as my captive audience. It's starting to go well. I am thinking this could be it. It continues to get better.
Then, out of nowhere, Jerry pops over, sits right between us, and just dominates the conversation.
Of course, he knew her very well. I knew her only a little, just from going to the games all the time and doing their radio broadcasts. See, although I am generally an outgoing person, I am shy when it comes to these things. My moment had passed. I was never able to get myself in the right position ever again. My life was changed.
I remind Jerry about it every year, although now I thank him for helping my life take this course.
By the way, the H-Bomb earned her nickname because she was a great 3-point shooter. In her freshman season of 1989-90, she set the NCAA Division I single-season 3-point shooting percentage record (57.5). It still stands today.
As more than a PR stunt, Jerry, who was the SID for the women's team, got us to go to the games with pictures of bombs (the ones that look like bowling balls with a fuse attached) drawn up by Russ, the artist and future priest.
Everytime Heather hit a 3-pointer, the Bomb Squad would get up and raucously cheer, then hang a bomb for all to see. Considering there usually were a couple of hundred people attending the games, we stood out. It helped her get some local and even national exposure.
I, of course, wanted to do more, since I was smitten. I'm pretty sure he had a crush on her, too, but we always just laugh when we talk about it now. I never actually have asked him.
Like a little kid, I cannot let a Groundhog's Day pass without somehow bringing up the story to Jerry, the same way that when my nephew James is old enough to understand, he'll be reminded of his most famous quote everytime he passes BJ's.
You're never supposed to begin a story with a quote, but who cares, when we're talking about the BlogWorld, right?
The quote has nothing to do with porn. My little nephew, James (not Vanishing James), a few years ago. You see, my brother and sister-in-law are (were?) frequent shoppers at a place called BJ's Wholesale Club.
The wife and I went there this morning. A little low on water, we bought six cases of 2.5-liter thingies (2 per case, so 5 gallons x 6 cases = 30 gallons). That'll last us a few weeks, for sure. It's not like we're in the middle of the desert; we just like to remain hydrated.
We got some other crap there, like Skippy and canola oil.
Did you know the B and the J in BJ's stand, respectively, for Berkley and Jensen? (I don't give a sh!t, either.)
Speaking of sh!t, I always remember that time in kindergarten when David Isaac sh!t his pants. Mrs. Halpern was so diplomatic about it.
"David had a little accident, and he had to go home," she said after we wondered why he got to tip out after a potty stop.
After that, everyone wanted to sh!t their pants, if they wanted to go home. Not me, though. I had some great kindergarten friends, especially Keith Blumenstock. He was cool, and I think I had like a 5-year-old's crush on his sister, Karen, who was a year behind us.
The Blumenstocks lived right near the school -- much closer than me, in terms of a kindergartener's view of the world map -- and had the forest leading to the fields right behind their house. Back then, you were allowed to play in the woods, and I fondly recall going through their backyard gate, walking the path, and hanging out at the field and talking about how David Isaac sh!t his pants.
That was the one year of my life spent in public school. The next year, I was in Catholic grammar school, and I subsequently went to an all-boys Catholic high school and a Jesuit university. I still love Jesus to this day. He is (was) an extremely cool dude. We should forget about Berkley and Jensen and have BJ's stand for Big Jesus' or something. Actually, that might be a little over the top.
Oh yeah. So Keith Blumenstock remained in public school. As such, even in our small town, we rarely saw one another, although we always recognized each other. To my amazement, he appeared later in life, I think in college for a time. But I just checked the records and he did not graduate with me at any level post-kindergarten. Weird how the memory just does not seem to work as well after time passes. Maybe I just imagined the whole thing.
In checking said records, I took a few moments to check through my college yearbook. It was the total opposite of my high school yearbook in that there are next-to-no pictures of me. In the college yearbook, there is my graduation photo, of course, and only one other -- of the top of my graduation cap.
How, you are wondering, can I tell the top of my cap from everyone else's? Well, I used white tape and spelled "It's Done!" on the top of mine to be unique (sort of), stealing the idea from something contemporary to the times. I am pretty sure I still have that cap there.
"It's Done!" came from a saying that we had back in the day. The San Francisco Giants were storming the National League with the 3-4 combo of Will Clark and Kevin Mitchell. With the game at an important juncture, Mitchell would engage Clark before the later would head to the batter's box.
"Let's do it," Mitchell would say.
"It's done!" was Clark's response.
Being testosterone-driven, Strat-O-Matic-crazed 21-year-olds at the time, these words were like the gold standard for us. They might come up at any time, like when it was time to chug a pitcher at the Lantern or to approach a cute girl. If you needed that extra boost of confidence or adrenaline, you hoped one of the boys would give you a "Let's do it," so you could go into battle with an "It's done!"
The Bachelor of Arts in Communications, of course, was secondary.
Speaking of secondary, it recently was the Second of February, which is Groundhog's Day. That made it the 14-year anniversary of Jerry M's cockblock of my efforts to woo the H-Bomb, Heather Donlon.
I had the worst crush on this girl; maybe I was a little star-struck. She was on the basketball team but she was short, and if you saw her you would never mistake her for a baller. Well, Jerry used his Sports Information Department hook to get her and some of the other ballers, who happened to be an especially good-looking bunch for basketball players, to come to our Groundhog's Day bash.
There I am, sitting on our couch, and I have the H-Bomb as my captive audience. It's starting to go well. I am thinking this could be it. It continues to get better.
Then, out of nowhere, Jerry pops over, sits right between us, and just dominates the conversation.
Of course, he knew her very well. I knew her only a little, just from going to the games all the time and doing their radio broadcasts. See, although I am generally an outgoing person, I am shy when it comes to these things. My moment had passed. I was never able to get myself in the right position ever again. My life was changed.
I remind Jerry about it every year, although now I thank him for helping my life take this course.
By the way, the H-Bomb earned her nickname because she was a great 3-point shooter. In her freshman season of 1989-90, she set the NCAA Division I single-season 3-point shooting percentage record (57.5). It still stands today.
As more than a PR stunt, Jerry, who was the SID for the women's team, got us to go to the games with pictures of bombs (the ones that look like bowling balls with a fuse attached) drawn up by Russ, the artist and future priest.
Everytime Heather hit a 3-pointer, the Bomb Squad would get up and raucously cheer, then hang a bomb for all to see. Considering there usually were a couple of hundred people attending the games, we stood out. It helped her get some local and even national exposure.
I, of course, wanted to do more, since I was smitten. I'm pretty sure he had a crush on her, too, but we always just laugh when we talk about it now. I never actually have asked him.
Like a little kid, I cannot let a Groundhog's Day pass without somehow bringing up the story to Jerry, the same way that when my nephew James is old enough to understand, he'll be reminded of his most famous quote everytime he passes BJ's.
Friday, February 18, 2005
For Richer or ... Muller?
What a shock. Another story that involves Vanishing James (VJ).
So there we were, at the Meadowlands Arena sometime in the early 1990s for a Devils-Canadiens game.
I had on my usual game attire, the Christmassy-style away Devils jersey of Kirk Muller, number 9. VJ came equipped with the Candiens No. 44 away jersey of Stephane Richer.
Well, just days before, in what was a pretty earth-shattering deal at that time, Muller and Richer were dealt for one another.
In the first period, VJ and I wore our own clothes. For the second period, we switched jerseys. We swapped back for the third period.
A few years later, when I was covering a Devils game, I was talking to Richer in the locker room. He was in a good mood after an easy New Jersey victory, and there was no one around. I told him the story about the jerseys and the swap. We actually got a good laugh out of the whole deal.
Umm, the end.
So there we were, at the Meadowlands Arena sometime in the early 1990s for a Devils-Canadiens game.
I had on my usual game attire, the Christmassy-style away Devils jersey of Kirk Muller, number 9. VJ came equipped with the Candiens No. 44 away jersey of Stephane Richer.
Well, just days before, in what was a pretty earth-shattering deal at that time, Muller and Richer were dealt for one another.
In the first period, VJ and I wore our own clothes. For the second period, we switched jerseys. We swapped back for the third period.
A few years later, when I was covering a Devils game, I was talking to Richer in the locker room. He was in a good mood after an easy New Jersey victory, and there was no one around. I told him the story about the jerseys and the swap. We actually got a good laugh out of the whole deal.
Umm, the end.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Fake Reporter Should Cover Wiffle Ball
It does not take politics or religion to make a great friend. It takes Wiffle Ball.
The Beltway buzz is about a so-called "fake" reporter in the White House. Somehow, this made me wonder how I have such a great friend who is on the opposite side of the political fence. Then I figured it out.
Many years ago, on a beautiful spring afternoon in Poughkeepsie, left-hander Vanishing James threw a meatball to yours truly. The rest is history.
A lifelong Yankees fan and right-handed hitter, on this day I happened to be imitating the swing of the Mets' biggest gun at the time, Darryl Strawberry. Straw had the look of one of the great left-handed sluggers of all time (and his 1988 Strat-O-Matic card was an absolute home-run monster).
There we were, Vanishing James and I, on the front lawn of his parents' house on Van Siclen Drive. I stood at the far end of the house in my lefty Straw stance, Van Siclen in front of me if I pointed the Wiffle bat toward the imagined right-handed batters box. My butt was pointing at his house.
About 30 feet away, in pitching position on the imaginary mound, was Vanishing James, a lefty throwing with his left hand, the trees lining Van Siclen at his back during delivery.
The hurler winds up and grooves the Wiffle Ball toward me; actually, in my mind I was Strawberry. I (Straw) have the left elbow up, and the right elbow pointing down and sitting just near my lowest rib.
As the pitch comes in, the left elbow cocks up, the right elbow thrusts down, and the bat instantly wags from its straight-up position toward the incoming ball and in front of my left ear.
Then the right knee kicks up to the belt line (which was significantly more visible back then).
As the ball sails closer, the right leg uncoils, the left leg stiffens and the left foot pivots; the right foot finds terra firma. Next, the hips begin to turn, but the right shoulder remains intact. The hands, gripping the plastic bat that looks like a super-duper-sized McDonald's french fry, begin their journey toward the hitting zone.
Looking more and more like a beach ball, the white Wiffle moves closer.
The wrists begin their turn; the hands dart toward the zone. The shoulders are square to the imaginary plate. Everything is perfect.
The Wiffle Ball arrives and is greeted by the smoothest, most powerful and balanced stroke possible without ruining the plastic bat. At the moment of impact, bat meets ball on the solid end -- a Wiffle Ball has air holes through one side.
A new journey begins.
Rocketing on a parabola that mocks a power alley in right-center field, the violent whack has changed the direction of the Wiffle Ball -- and our lives -- in a most spectacular way.
First, it finds its way through some of the branches that hang most near to the house, facing the sun and away from Van Siclen. Next, the ball makes its way further up and out of the shadows of the house. The two players' visual hammerlocks are set dead on the ball.
The next milestone to clear is the driveway, and that is done with ease. As the plastic missile continues its ascent, pitcher and batter realize they are witnesses to history, and their respective places in it.
Will it clear the roof gutter of the next-door-neighbors' house? Affirmative. And still rising. This is a plastic Wiffle Ball, for God's sake!
How about the break in the roof? Done.
There is little time for descent. The ball touches down just past the halfway point of the roof, pitcher and batter gawking in stunned disbelief.
"Was that the furthest shot ever," I asked Vanishing James, after a pregnant pause and large gulp.
His look told me that nothing remotely like this had ever happened in his many years of Wiffle Balling parallel to Van Siclen.
Our place in history was firmly secure, even if it was just the two of us bearing witness. We might as well have seen a UFO together, because if anyone saw the setup, they simply would not believe it was possible.
To this day, we still hark back to that magical moment. Whenever opinions about the world we live in and life in general go awry, we can always go back to that place, to that moment on Van Siclen, and it makes everything right.
"Can you believe this stuff about the fake reporter in the White House?" Vanishing James said. And, of course, two strongly opinionated blokes began to spew about their differences in philosophy.
But, like always, we found our way back to the happy place.
"Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck,"he said, to which I replied, "right there with the Darryl Strawberry Wiffle Ball."
The Beltway buzz is about a so-called "fake" reporter in the White House. Somehow, this made me wonder how I have such a great friend who is on the opposite side of the political fence. Then I figured it out.
Many years ago, on a beautiful spring afternoon in Poughkeepsie, left-hander Vanishing James threw a meatball to yours truly. The rest is history.
A lifelong Yankees fan and right-handed hitter, on this day I happened to be imitating the swing of the Mets' biggest gun at the time, Darryl Strawberry. Straw had the look of one of the great left-handed sluggers of all time (and his 1988 Strat-O-Matic card was an absolute home-run monster).
There we were, Vanishing James and I, on the front lawn of his parents' house on Van Siclen Drive. I stood at the far end of the house in my lefty Straw stance, Van Siclen in front of me if I pointed the Wiffle bat toward the imagined right-handed batters box. My butt was pointing at his house.
About 30 feet away, in pitching position on the imaginary mound, was Vanishing James, a lefty throwing with his left hand, the trees lining Van Siclen at his back during delivery.
The hurler winds up and grooves the Wiffle Ball toward me; actually, in my mind I was Strawberry. I (Straw) have the left elbow up, and the right elbow pointing down and sitting just near my lowest rib.
As the pitch comes in, the left elbow cocks up, the right elbow thrusts down, and the bat instantly wags from its straight-up position toward the incoming ball and in front of my left ear.
Then the right knee kicks up to the belt line (which was significantly more visible back then).
As the ball sails closer, the right leg uncoils, the left leg stiffens and the left foot pivots; the right foot finds terra firma. Next, the hips begin to turn, but the right shoulder remains intact. The hands, gripping the plastic bat that looks like a super-duper-sized McDonald's french fry, begin their journey toward the hitting zone.
Looking more and more like a beach ball, the white Wiffle moves closer.
The wrists begin their turn; the hands dart toward the zone. The shoulders are square to the imaginary plate. Everything is perfect.
The Wiffle Ball arrives and is greeted by the smoothest, most powerful and balanced stroke possible without ruining the plastic bat. At the moment of impact, bat meets ball on the solid end -- a Wiffle Ball has air holes through one side.
A new journey begins.
Rocketing on a parabola that mocks a power alley in right-center field, the violent whack has changed the direction of the Wiffle Ball -- and our lives -- in a most spectacular way.
First, it finds its way through some of the branches that hang most near to the house, facing the sun and away from Van Siclen. Next, the ball makes its way further up and out of the shadows of the house. The two players' visual hammerlocks are set dead on the ball.
The next milestone to clear is the driveway, and that is done with ease. As the plastic missile continues its ascent, pitcher and batter realize they are witnesses to history, and their respective places in it.
Will it clear the roof gutter of the next-door-neighbors' house? Affirmative. And still rising. This is a plastic Wiffle Ball, for God's sake!
How about the break in the roof? Done.
There is little time for descent. The ball touches down just past the halfway point of the roof, pitcher and batter gawking in stunned disbelief.
"Was that the furthest shot ever," I asked Vanishing James, after a pregnant pause and large gulp.
His look told me that nothing remotely like this had ever happened in his many years of Wiffle Balling parallel to Van Siclen.
Our place in history was firmly secure, even if it was just the two of us bearing witness. We might as well have seen a UFO together, because if anyone saw the setup, they simply would not believe it was possible.
To this day, we still hark back to that magical moment. Whenever opinions about the world we live in and life in general go awry, we can always go back to that place, to that moment on Van Siclen, and it makes everything right.
"Can you believe this stuff about the fake reporter in the White House?" Vanishing James said. And, of course, two strongly opinionated blokes began to spew about their differences in philosophy.
But, like always, we found our way back to the happy place.
"Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck,"he said, to which I replied, "right there with the Darryl Strawberry Wiffle Ball."
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