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.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
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."
Monday, December 20, 2004
Doing the Guy Thing
I'm doing a guy thing this year for Christmas.
Check the date, and you'll see that there are less than four shopping days left until Christmas. As of this moment, the number of people for whom I have to shop (as opposed to those for whom I shopped while with my wife) remains at four: my godson, my mother, my father, and the aforementioned wife.
Usually I take pride in doing the opposite of what is expected or taking the road less traveled. Some examples might be listening to rap as a white kid in 1984 (it was like me and the Beastie Boys back then, in terms of listening), or rocking to deep alternative music in the 80s. Yet at the same time, I did not have the wigger talk or clothes, nor did I shave my head, grow a mohawk or take on tattoos or piercings.
I still humor myself when I am in a riding in my car with a suit on and calmly listening to System of a Down or some other tremendously hard metal.
It goes a step further with taking the road less traveled. I simply do not like to take the popular route, thinking I have found some special treasure in a back road or a radio station like the deposed WLIR/WDRE (it was a big deal to be a cult follower of the Long Island station and being a New Jersey resident).
Let's circle back to the original point. I actually am going the popular route with regard to Christmas and waiting until the last second to shop. Yet at the same time, I love to go out and buy the gifts (not just leave it up to my wife) because I want to put some thought into it. I also like being able to shop quickly while the rest of the world struggles in the quest for expedience.
What appears to be a totally selfless act is, in reality, the exact opposite. It is an ego boost to unexpectedly give someone something they love and enjoy. Why not take the nice-guy credit if they're offering it? Sure, it's better to give than to receive.
It is most noble, however, to be able to accept a gift and find the appreciation in it. That is why I rarely fret when someone wants to pick up the tab; I'm flattered and honored to accept it when someone thinks I am worth it.
Then it becomes cool to pay it forward. A karma thing, I suppose.
At Christmastime, I am trying parlay the karma thing to set up the girl who cuts my hair with one of my former charges and friends. Someone was accusing me of playing matchmaker, and I do not see that as a negative. When you know two people you think might hit it off, it's just like a networking relationship -- hooking up people with common interests.
In this case, both are great sports fans, Irish and seem cut from the same cloth in terms of outlook. She says she hates to go to football games so early (meaning 1 o'clock kickoffs) because it does not give her enough recovery time from the late night out before. While he might not worry as much about popping open a beer at 9:46 a.m. in a frigid parking lot, I see their common ground as this: Why would you want to go to a football game without tailgating?
I like tailgating, but for me, the game is more important. I almost never imbibe when I am out there, certainly not to the inebriation point. Additionally, when my wife and I go to a sporting event, rarely do we tailgate. Thus is the basis for a wonderful relationship.
My better half also does a lot of other things to "complete" me, as Jerry Maguire would say. One came tonight, when she helped me put the (for now) finishing touches on my revamped resume. I need a resume to help me get more jobs, or at least a single job.
Right now I have forged back into sportswriting. You can catch me at Jets-Patriots this Sunday at the Meadowlands. My un-retirement came Dec. 4, when I covered a Nets-Hawks game. It was nice to get a taste of sports again, and the money will not hurt, either. I even have links to the stories on my resume and in this blog.
The next thing on which to work is a personal web site on which I can house live samples of my work and my resume. I just hope I am not pigeon-holing myself back into sports and scaring away those who think writing about other things is too boring that I would lose interest and not do a good job. (For more on pigeons, check out this and that)
Even the eternal optimist gains a modicum of pessimism after reaching 35. At least I have time to write a blog, no matter how long the layoff or how few fans will hit the page.
Just doing a guy thing. Is that a bad thing?
Check the date, and you'll see that there are less than four shopping days left until Christmas. As of this moment, the number of people for whom I have to shop (as opposed to those for whom I shopped while with my wife) remains at four: my godson, my mother, my father, and the aforementioned wife.
Usually I take pride in doing the opposite of what is expected or taking the road less traveled. Some examples might be listening to rap as a white kid in 1984 (it was like me and the Beastie Boys back then, in terms of listening), or rocking to deep alternative music in the 80s. Yet at the same time, I did not have the wigger talk or clothes, nor did I shave my head, grow a mohawk or take on tattoos or piercings.
I still humor myself when I am in a riding in my car with a suit on and calmly listening to System of a Down or some other tremendously hard metal.
It goes a step further with taking the road less traveled. I simply do not like to take the popular route, thinking I have found some special treasure in a back road or a radio station like the deposed WLIR/WDRE (it was a big deal to be a cult follower of the Long Island station and being a New Jersey resident).
Let's circle back to the original point. I actually am going the popular route with regard to Christmas and waiting until the last second to shop. Yet at the same time, I love to go out and buy the gifts (not just leave it up to my wife) because I want to put some thought into it. I also like being able to shop quickly while the rest of the world struggles in the quest for expedience.
What appears to be a totally selfless act is, in reality, the exact opposite. It is an ego boost to unexpectedly give someone something they love and enjoy. Why not take the nice-guy credit if they're offering it? Sure, it's better to give than to receive.
It is most noble, however, to be able to accept a gift and find the appreciation in it. That is why I rarely fret when someone wants to pick up the tab; I'm flattered and honored to accept it when someone thinks I am worth it.
Then it becomes cool to pay it forward. A karma thing, I suppose.
At Christmastime, I am trying parlay the karma thing to set up the girl who cuts my hair with one of my former charges and friends. Someone was accusing me of playing matchmaker, and I do not see that as a negative. When you know two people you think might hit it off, it's just like a networking relationship -- hooking up people with common interests.
In this case, both are great sports fans, Irish and seem cut from the same cloth in terms of outlook. She says she hates to go to football games so early (meaning 1 o'clock kickoffs) because it does not give her enough recovery time from the late night out before. While he might not worry as much about popping open a beer at 9:46 a.m. in a frigid parking lot, I see their common ground as this: Why would you want to go to a football game without tailgating?
I like tailgating, but for me, the game is more important. I almost never imbibe when I am out there, certainly not to the inebriation point. Additionally, when my wife and I go to a sporting event, rarely do we tailgate. Thus is the basis for a wonderful relationship.
My better half also does a lot of other things to "complete" me, as Jerry Maguire would say. One came tonight, when she helped me put the (for now) finishing touches on my revamped resume. I need a resume to help me get more jobs, or at least a single job.
Right now I have forged back into sportswriting. You can catch me at Jets-Patriots this Sunday at the Meadowlands. My un-retirement came Dec. 4, when I covered a Nets-Hawks game. It was nice to get a taste of sports again, and the money will not hurt, either. I even have links to the stories on my resume and in this blog.
The next thing on which to work is a personal web site on which I can house live samples of my work and my resume. I just hope I am not pigeon-holing myself back into sports and scaring away those who think writing about other things is too boring that I would lose interest and not do a good job. (For more on pigeons, check out this and that)
Even the eternal optimist gains a modicum of pessimism after reaching 35. At least I have time to write a blog, no matter how long the layoff or how few fans will hit the page.
Just doing a guy thing. Is that a bad thing?
Friday, November 12, 2004
Art of the Chicken
H: We're going to Chili's on Friday night for margaritas.
T: Oh, I love the margaritas there. But the boneless buffalo wings are the absolute best! In fact, my (spouse) and I went there like every weekend last winter, and that's how I got this (points to a long-invisible spare tire on waistline).
H: Ew! I hate chicken wings, but I just love regular chicken.
T: These are good wings, though.
H: I hate the wings with the bones and the hair and everything. I never feel like I know what kind of meat I'm getting in them.
T: These are individual pieces of white meat with no bones or hair, and they're fried (said with a reverence usually reserved for Mets fans reminiscing about 1986).
This is a fair synopsis of an actual conversation yesterday between two of my friends. Their names were shortened to initials to protect the innocent, even though a chat at the gym about Chili's chicken wings is about as innocent as you can get.
Thing is, these two people are females. And their total combined body fat is like negative-64 percent, if there is such a measurement. And here they are, talking about their boozin' and their, well, wingin' and I'm like, When I think about the wrong food I might as well just switch to the next pants size. Or I would have to spend like 50 hours a week working out.
Wait! That's it! These two chicks do spend like 50 hours a week or so at the gym. Maybe there is something to this whole exercise thing. I am not sure what science tells us about it, but my guess is that judging by these two peeps of mine, that if you work out a lot, you have a little more liberty to eat and drink what you want and still be trim as a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
There is a lot more to the story, though. I am into this whole food-as-a-chemistry-experiment thing. Sure, you can work out a lot and get away with eating different stuff and looking good. But actually feeling good and being healthy is a totally different thing.
I read a book called Live Right for Your Type (by Dr. Peter D'Adamo). He is something called a naturopath (that is not someone who is crazy for nature, it is like a doctor of holistic medicine or something).
This book's theory is that your blood type has an awful lot to do with the foods you ought to be eating or those from which you should stay away. I have not followed this thing religiously, but there are many points in there that make a lot of sense, and he backs them up scientifically.
Then last night at happy hour (I had not a morsel of junk food and only two beers), I was speaking about these theories with my friend R. I was saying how things like wheat are supposed to be bad for me, as a blood type A person, and that when I eat some of the "forbidden" things, I usually wake up the next day with some kind of phlegm.
Since good friends can freely speak about their respective phlegm-ification, she revealed that she, too, had a similar phlegm issue on most mornings, leading me to speculate that she is blood type A. We had the same seemingly weird symptom: Phlegm when waking up, and no phlegm problem once the morning phlegm was gone.
*Official sidenote: I enjoy typing the word phlegm.
Anyway, I have noticed that the phlegm goes away when I am staying with the regimen Dr. D'Adamo recommends. While this book is not for everyone, those interested in health and nutrition should add it to their libraries. It's decent and powerful knowledge, and two of my sisters already are showing interest (I forced interest on one because I got her the book for her birthday).
Speaking of birthdays, happy 34th to one of our dedicated readers, former figure skating great Tonya Harding.
I'm out.
T: Oh, I love the margaritas there. But the boneless buffalo wings are the absolute best! In fact, my (spouse) and I went there like every weekend last winter, and that's how I got this (points to a long-invisible spare tire on waistline).
H: Ew! I hate chicken wings, but I just love regular chicken.
T: These are good wings, though.
H: I hate the wings with the bones and the hair and everything. I never feel like I know what kind of meat I'm getting in them.
T: These are individual pieces of white meat with no bones or hair, and they're fried (said with a reverence usually reserved for Mets fans reminiscing about 1986).
This is a fair synopsis of an actual conversation yesterday between two of my friends. Their names were shortened to initials to protect the innocent, even though a chat at the gym about Chili's chicken wings is about as innocent as you can get.
Thing is, these two people are females. And their total combined body fat is like negative-64 percent, if there is such a measurement. And here they are, talking about their boozin' and their, well, wingin' and I'm like, When I think about the wrong food I might as well just switch to the next pants size. Or I would have to spend like 50 hours a week working out.
Wait! That's it! These two chicks do spend like 50 hours a week or so at the gym. Maybe there is something to this whole exercise thing. I am not sure what science tells us about it, but my guess is that judging by these two peeps of mine, that if you work out a lot, you have a little more liberty to eat and drink what you want and still be trim as a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
There is a lot more to the story, though. I am into this whole food-as-a-chemistry-experiment thing. Sure, you can work out a lot and get away with eating different stuff and looking good. But actually feeling good and being healthy is a totally different thing.
I read a book called Live Right for Your Type (by Dr. Peter D'Adamo). He is something called a naturopath (that is not someone who is crazy for nature, it is like a doctor of holistic medicine or something).
This book's theory is that your blood type has an awful lot to do with the foods you ought to be eating or those from which you should stay away. I have not followed this thing religiously, but there are many points in there that make a lot of sense, and he backs them up scientifically.
Then last night at happy hour (I had not a morsel of junk food and only two beers), I was speaking about these theories with my friend R. I was saying how things like wheat are supposed to be bad for me, as a blood type A person, and that when I eat some of the "forbidden" things, I usually wake up the next day with some kind of phlegm.
Since good friends can freely speak about their respective phlegm-ification, she revealed that she, too, had a similar phlegm issue on most mornings, leading me to speculate that she is blood type A. We had the same seemingly weird symptom: Phlegm when waking up, and no phlegm problem once the morning phlegm was gone.
*Official sidenote: I enjoy typing the word phlegm.
Anyway, I have noticed that the phlegm goes away when I am staying with the regimen Dr. D'Adamo recommends. While this book is not for everyone, those interested in health and nutrition should add it to their libraries. It's decent and powerful knowledge, and two of my sisters already are showing interest (I forced interest on one because I got her the book for her birthday).
Speaking of birthdays, happy 34th to one of our dedicated readers, former figure skating great Tonya Harding.
I'm out.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
The Naked, Unemployed Writer
People are so opinionated.
I wrote my first blog last week and followed it with an email to a fair number of people (not just family members). Not only did they look, but they also flooded me with responses.
All I did was ask.
The quick lesson here is about expression. People express themselves in many different ways. They find comfort in it. The discomfort comes when their means of expression are stymied. What is more frustrating than not being able to get across your point?
I'm lucky (but you knew that, if you read the last entry here). I like to write. Writing is my avenue of expression. My expression expressway. But that's just an expression.
Wait. Huh?
There, I have done it! I have expressed my confusion by confusing the reader, thus putting us all on the same level. Now I am comfortable. As confusion abounds among the masses, I always think straight. You have a look on your face like you just lost your keys.
Now that I am thinking straight ... people are more interesting than things. Anything that happens in our own daily lives might become boring, but you need not look too far to find something to capture your interest or thoughts for the time you spend reading this blog.
Start with Michelle (spelled with two Ls, so as not to confuse my friend and former charge with my sister).
Last week, Michelle was rushing home from the gym on a dark, rainy night. Like yours truly, she is addicted to the reality show Survivor, so she needed to reach the house by eight o'clock.
But something happened on the way.
The white van that was in front of Michelle suddenly stopped. On a dark road with no one around. In Fair Lawn, a town with which she is not familiar.
The driver -- a shadowy, imposing figure – exited the van with his hands up in the air, as if to signal her to stop.
Panicked, Michelle did not know what to do, save for trying to keep her heart from exploding all over the dashboard.
She saw the monster come out. He grabbed her and hauled her into the van. Then he explained how he was going to chop her into little pieces and that her face was going to be plastered on fliers and milk cartons all over New Jersey.
Then she got back her senses, realizing those were just a few of the million frights going through her head.
"YIKES!" she shrieked, slamming the transmission into reverse and backing up the car with the alacrity of a Colombian in search of the perfect coffee bean.
As Michelle guided herself to safety, another zillion thoughts replaced those thrust into her head by the panic. Mainly guilt.
"What if this person needed help," she thought. "Why did he stop so suddenly? Should I have been a good Samaritan?"
Hell no.
Hell no, I will not write a sewing column for the Big Dog. Hell no, I am not going on rants about fantasy sports in this space, Rubble.
Elevator etiquitte, Jerry G.? I mean, go watch Jerry S. rave about it better than I can write about it. Reverse discrimination, Kristin? Just deal, and get over it (although I, too, would like to know why so many students claim to be Democrats).
I am going back to my fox hole, now (oh, I did not expect to see you in there, Corrado, but it is nice to know you're there). You now know the thoughts of The Naked, Unemployed Writer. Nothing to hide but my hide.
I wrote my first blog last week and followed it with an email to a fair number of people (not just family members). Not only did they look, but they also flooded me with responses.
All I did was ask.
The quick lesson here is about expression. People express themselves in many different ways. They find comfort in it. The discomfort comes when their means of expression are stymied. What is more frustrating than not being able to get across your point?
I'm lucky (but you knew that, if you read the last entry here). I like to write. Writing is my avenue of expression. My expression expressway. But that's just an expression.
Wait. Huh?
There, I have done it! I have expressed my confusion by confusing the reader, thus putting us all on the same level. Now I am comfortable. As confusion abounds among the masses, I always think straight. You have a look on your face like you just lost your keys.
Now that I am thinking straight ... people are more interesting than things. Anything that happens in our own daily lives might become boring, but you need not look too far to find something to capture your interest or thoughts for the time you spend reading this blog.
Start with Michelle (spelled with two Ls, so as not to confuse my friend and former charge with my sister).
Last week, Michelle was rushing home from the gym on a dark, rainy night. Like yours truly, she is addicted to the reality show Survivor, so she needed to reach the house by eight o'clock.
But something happened on the way.
The white van that was in front of Michelle suddenly stopped. On a dark road with no one around. In Fair Lawn, a town with which she is not familiar.
The driver -- a shadowy, imposing figure – exited the van with his hands up in the air, as if to signal her to stop.
Panicked, Michelle did not know what to do, save for trying to keep her heart from exploding all over the dashboard.
She saw the monster come out. He grabbed her and hauled her into the van. Then he explained how he was going to chop her into little pieces and that her face was going to be plastered on fliers and milk cartons all over New Jersey.
Then she got back her senses, realizing those were just a few of the million frights going through her head.
"YIKES!" she shrieked, slamming the transmission into reverse and backing up the car with the alacrity of a Colombian in search of the perfect coffee bean.
As Michelle guided herself to safety, another zillion thoughts replaced those thrust into her head by the panic. Mainly guilt.
"What if this person needed help," she thought. "Why did he stop so suddenly? Should I have been a good Samaritan?"
Hell no.
Hell no, I will not write a sewing column for the Big Dog. Hell no, I am not going on rants about fantasy sports in this space, Rubble.
Elevator etiquitte, Jerry G.? I mean, go watch Jerry S. rave about it better than I can write about it. Reverse discrimination, Kristin? Just deal, and get over it (although I, too, would like to know why so many students claim to be Democrats).
I am going back to my fox hole, now (oh, I did not expect to see you in there, Corrado, but it is nice to know you're there). You now know the thoughts of The Naked, Unemployed Writer. Nothing to hide but my hide.
Friday, November 05, 2004
The Kickstart
Ya do what ya gotta do, and ya don't worry about it.
Were more true words ever said? I cannot recall exactly how old I was when my father expounded that thought upon me in one of the many lectures that helped shape the person I have become. But with all the words that have been said from him to me, those are my favorite. Right now, it is time for me to start living by those words once again.
This year has not been banner in terms of my luck. Some of the less pleasant of life's challenges have come up. As we wind down 2004, the bad things must be put behind and in order to look ahead to the better things in life (like gainful employment).
There is so much for which to be thankful. The reminders are always thrown down at me. Sure, I was forced out of my job, but that is nothing compared to what happened to one of my best friends on my eighth wedding anniversary, when I got an early morning phone call and he explained that he suddenly lost his sister.
Talk about perspective.
When something like that happens, and you have to see someone you love break down in front of you, the mass of human emotions comes in tsunami form. But I think the thing I most felt was grateful.
I was grateful for what I had, grateful that my friend would call me and not be afraid to lean on me in his worst moments, grateful that six other guys with whom I went to college could be rounded up in a flash and be there for the one in need, even though we graduated almost 15 years ago.
Then you realize that being grateful is not enough. You have to take advantage of the good fortune and do right for yourself, your family, your friends and your fellow man. Part of that is not burying your talents. That's the part that drove me to Blogville, a Cyber "place" I guess.
I claim to be a writer. I used to get paid to write about sports, but I gave it up because the hours and the pay did not cut the muster. Then I went into Internet news content management, look-and-feel stuff. It was great to forge ahead in the frontier atmosphere of a start-up company, and I proudly remain in touch with my beloved charges. Then it was off to the unemployment line for longer than a while, before I became a production manager for this big, fat book with a lot of drug information.
Now I am supposed to be deciding how I am going to tie together all of this diverse experience into something worth while that will pay a lot. One of the things I need to do is to sharpen up on my writing, so I am soliciting critical comments from my audience. I take requests. Throw a subject at me and I'll give it a shot. If you don't, I'll just spout about my favorite subject: Sewing.
I always had a take. Now I have a forum.
Were more true words ever said? I cannot recall exactly how old I was when my father expounded that thought upon me in one of the many lectures that helped shape the person I have become. But with all the words that have been said from him to me, those are my favorite. Right now, it is time for me to start living by those words once again.
This year has not been banner in terms of my luck. Some of the less pleasant of life's challenges have come up. As we wind down 2004, the bad things must be put behind and in order to look ahead to the better things in life (like gainful employment).
There is so much for which to be thankful. The reminders are always thrown down at me. Sure, I was forced out of my job, but that is nothing compared to what happened to one of my best friends on my eighth wedding anniversary, when I got an early morning phone call and he explained that he suddenly lost his sister.
Talk about perspective.
When something like that happens, and you have to see someone you love break down in front of you, the mass of human emotions comes in tsunami form. But I think the thing I most felt was grateful.
I was grateful for what I had, grateful that my friend would call me and not be afraid to lean on me in his worst moments, grateful that six other guys with whom I went to college could be rounded up in a flash and be there for the one in need, even though we graduated almost 15 years ago.
Then you realize that being grateful is not enough. You have to take advantage of the good fortune and do right for yourself, your family, your friends and your fellow man. Part of that is not burying your talents. That's the part that drove me to Blogville, a Cyber "place" I guess.
I claim to be a writer. I used to get paid to write about sports, but I gave it up because the hours and the pay did not cut the muster. Then I went into Internet news content management, look-and-feel stuff. It was great to forge ahead in the frontier atmosphere of a start-up company, and I proudly remain in touch with my beloved charges. Then it was off to the unemployment line for longer than a while, before I became a production manager for this big, fat book with a lot of drug information.
Now I am supposed to be deciding how I am going to tie together all of this diverse experience into something worth while that will pay a lot. One of the things I need to do is to sharpen up on my writing, so I am soliciting critical comments from my audience. I take requests. Throw a subject at me and I'll give it a shot. If you don't, I'll just spout about my favorite subject: Sewing.
I always had a take. Now I have a forum.
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